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Original version (summary):
Once, about ten years ago, I went backpacking with a
friend of mine in the Catskills. I had just been recuperating from a long
bout with sciatica and I wanted not to push myself too much. We saw a way
that we could take a short-cut to the lake where we wanted to set up camp.
Unfortunately, the path seemed to go through someone's backyard....[See
expansion below.] So we knocked on this guy's door and asked
him if it would be OK if we hiked through. He said, quite flatly, no. But
we weren't deterred. We figured we'd hike back the way we'd come and
then when we were out of sight we'd take a back route and hook up with the
original trail. No sooner than we came over this rise near that trail,
however, than we heard a rifle shot. Needless to say we were scared
___less. We hightailed it out of there and started crossing to the road
when we saw a car cruising slowly. Then we realized the man was not
content to shoot a warning shot; he was still looking for us. We took
cover and waited. Finally we took another path, hoping that we could cross
the road when he had turned around. But we ran into dogs, which barked
furiously, so we had to cut down to the road before we wanted to. Luckily,
the man in the car wasn't there and we escaped, but my heart was still
pounding in my chest.
Expansion to scene, using details to create a
particular effect:
Unfortunately, the path seemed to go through someone's
backyard. We had been walking through a pleasant pastoral
scene--sheep in the fields surrounding small, modest homes. This house,
however, backed up against the forest and seemed darker than the others.
I knocked on the door. When the inner door opened, the screen door
remained between us and him. He stood back so that we couldn't
really see his face. I dimly saw his paunch through the screen.
"Hi," I said. "We were wondering if we could hike through to the trail
over the mountain."
His response was instant and blunt.
"That's my property all the back across the ridge," he said.
I still couldn't see his mouth. It was just a voice, a strangely
menacing voice that had not the slightest hint of human warmth.
"We wouldn't disturb anything," I suggested.
"Nope."
If I'd wanted to say more, I couldn't because he shut the door. We
backed up but soon shook off the strange sense of dread and became
irritated instead. We wouldn't be deterred. We figured we'd hike
back the way we'd come and then when we were out of sight we'd take a back
route and hook up with the original trail.
Notice how the details (see underlined phrases)
create a picture of the man who might be dangerous to the narrator and
that stir some sense of foreboding in the reader (hopefully). This
is very different from the effect that the summary has--which is not much
at all. Some readers may find the effects a bit overdone--and they
might have a point--but the principle should be clear.
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