I haven't been idle. Against my better judgement, I've started on another trilogy in the jesters universe. The Poisoned Past trilogy begins with a yet-unnamed first book. I'm 34,000 words into it and I haven't named it. Right now that doesn't seem like too bad of a problem. I'm having way too much fun, if there is such a thing.
So our hero Mark Seaton, aka Lark, rode into an ambush. I initially put him against four guys and a jester, and he won, so I rewrote the scene, threw in a few more guys and he managed to lose, which is what he needed to do for my nefarious purposes. I'm sure he'd like to get me back for that, but he's a bit busy trying to survive. Also, I've added Verai as a point of view character. I was a little worried that he might not hold his own as I swapped chapters with Mark/Lark, but Verai is proving to be a great deal of fun. Those big brown eyes hide a surprising amount of ruthlessness, and his supple spine makes him a lot stronger and more flexible than his ramrod straight enemies. Unfortunately (from his point of view) he's outnumbered, and he has only one functional ally. If he wants to win this war, he's going to have to fight pretty damned hard.
The human sense of smell is one of our most primitive. It's tied intimately with primitive parts of our brain and has only a few loose connections with more recent developments, like our language centers. For a fascinating overview about smell and research issues with the olfactory sense check out this article in The New York Times.
This is important for writers to know because we can use this important sense to help appropriate a reader's sensory experience and bring them closer to the character, setting, etc. There are a couple of hurdles, though. First, it's hard to describe odors. Second, as the writer pointed out in the Times article, eggs are going to smell a lot more appetizing after a long hike through the woods than they will the morning after a night of binge drinking and eating twinkies. You don't know when your reader is going to be reading about various scents, and you don't know whether they like the smell of chocolate, strawberries, wet hay, etc. Two people I know can't stand the scent of lilies. One is reminded too much of funerals. The other was raised near lily fields and spent the lily season cutting flowers. Her hair, clothes, shoes, even her sheets became stained with the scent of lilies, and it wouldn't wash out until the following spring. Because, as a writer, it's good to be a control freak, using scents to control a reader's mood can be complicated. But it's worth the effort. A classic country bar isn't the same without the scent of crushed peanuts underfoot along with the beer, sweat, and sharp, animal musk colognes with pine overtones. Likewise, a rave needs the suffocating, dry, powdery smoke from smoke machines, the sugary pop mixed with spiced rum, patchouli not-quite-covering pot, baby powder deodorant overcome by body heat, and boys with rotting sneakers wearing too much Axe.
Scent and taste are very closely tied. Folks who lose their sense of smell also lose a lot of their sense of taste, if not all of it. It's chemicals, baby, touching on sensors, and when those sensors go dead, people can't tell good meat from bad except by color, and color can be deceiving.
A long time ago now I read Perfume. I consider it required reading for writers who want to study the use of scent in fiction. The movie won't do you any good. You have to read it to understand the possibilities open to your writing when it comes to this under-utilized sense.
Sometimes it's good to go abstract with sense. 'He smelled good, like a tryst on a beach with a man too young to know better' will probably connect with more readers than specifying your favorite cologne because you don't know if the reader is drawn to that scent, hates it, or even recognizes it. The best you can hope for in some of these situations is that a brand name will say more about the character than how they smell. "She smelled expensive" can only become more evocative with the mention of a brand name if the reader recognizes the brand when you say, "she wore Clive Christian" unless you add more clues, like, "and the subtle vanilla, sandalwood and bergamot caressed my face with more sexual intensity than the ermine fur that tickled her earth-warm skin."
So, how many of you know how bergamot smells? Like Earl Grey tea? Sometime, if you get a chance, compare Earl Grey with double bergamot Earl Grey and the thing you get double of will be bergamot, which comes from a weird sort of orange. It doesn't smell very orange-y, much like orange blossoms don't smell like oranges, they smell more like jasmine, or coffee blossoms (which obviously don't smell like coffee.)
What all this means is that to use smells effectively in writing, you have to pay a lot more attention to them in your everyday life, and do some research. It's like learning to appreciate wine. Sometimes you have to have a list of things you're supposed to be able to smell in that perfume, or brand of coffee, or wine, or whiskey, or whatever, and line up a bunch of different ones and start comparing. You can only do it so long, though. Sniffers wear out fast.
It's worth it, though. Not only will it improve your writing, it will expand your world.
Violets, by the way, are fun to smell. They quickly numb your ability to smell them, so you can get a quick whiff, and then poof, it's gone. So like chasing a phantom light through the trees, you're not sure if you'll catch them or get lost in the effort, but you're sure to have fun on the way.