Writing Craft
A character making tea can do a surprising amount of work.
If they measure it carefully, leave the bag in too long, forget the milk, make it twice and still not drink it, that tells you something useful. So does a desk that gets tidied instead of a speech about control, or a shop door checked again because the lock matters more than the person pretending it doesn’t.
Ordinary routines often carry the real shape of a life. The trick, I suppose, is noticing when the action is doing the exposition more cleanly than a paragraph ever could.
If they measure it carefully, leave the bag in too long, forget the milk, make it twice and still not drink it, that tells you something useful. So does a desk that gets tidied instead of a speech about control, or a shop door checked again because the lock matters more than the person pretending it doesn’t.
Ordinary routines often carry the real shape of a life. The trick, I suppose, is noticing when the action is doing the exposition more cleanly than a paragraph ever could.
Routine can do the work, but it can also be a trap. A character who keeps making tea may be telling you they’re anxious, or simply that the scene needs a bit of business because no one knows what to do with their hands. The trouble starts when the gesture gets asked to carry the whole novel. It won’t. It’s tea, not a verdict.
Routine can do that, though it can also lie. A character can be washing up because they’re avoiding a phone call, or because that’s just what they do at 11:15 on a Tuesday. The useful bit is when the action has pressure in it. Otherwise it’s just stage business with better manners.