They say you learn from your mistakes. But sometimes you learn from what you did right. You shake your head and you wonder what happened. And sometimes you can figure it out.

Like the time a tiny little girl taught me a great big lesson about making a story-or a play, or a movie, or even an essay-come to life.

Thirty-some-odd years ago, I sat in a bedroom at my grandparents' house with a tape recorder. Out in the living room, three or four generations of my father's family were enjoying themselves at the top of their lungs (Sanders parties are seldom quiet). From time to time a cousin or an uncle or aunt would come through the door to tell my sister the latest gossip, and to let her know they missed her.

It was the first Christmas my sister Diane had to spend away from home. My father had decided to tape-record the family parties for her. And as the only "artsy" Sanders (they've often wondered about me...), I had appointed myself emcee and narrator. So far I'd done pretty well, if I do say so myself. But now the bedroom door opened and my final exam slipped in.

Karron may have been the youngest of the grandchildren just then. She was certainly in the running for "shyest child in family history". But here she was, of her own free will, approaching the recorder as if it were a dragon that MIGHT be friendly. All ready to wish her cousin merry Christmas. And who was I to argue?

So I pressed "Play" and "Record" together. And-of course-she looked at the microphone, and looked at me, and closed her mouth tight.

It was the cutest case of mike-fright I ever saw. But the situation didn't call for "cute mike fright." And yet I've never cared much for the "What do you say, Karron? Karron said 'hi'! Isn't that cute?" method for getting around the problem.

So I tried to draw her out. And it ended up sounding something like this:

ME And here's Karron. Did you want to tell Diane something?
KARRON (silence)
ME She can't hear a smile.
KARRON (giggles)
ME That's better. So. What do you want to say to her?
KARRON (long pause, then) I...LOVE...H-I-I-M-M-M!

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When Dad had started taping, the kids were ready to grab their presents. I'd started my career as Tape Tyrant by insisting that we open them one at a time, and tell everybody (including Diane) what we'd gotten. I'd pretty much done it without thinking. And it had worked.

And now here was Karron, showing me why.

I got my share of presents that year, but this little story is the only thing I managed to keep. The story and the lesson.

Think about your audience.

Everybody says that, of course-know who your audience is, and what they want, and how they talk and think and feel. Speak their language, give them what they need.

But after you've thought about all that--or maybe before--think about them another way. Read-or watch-or listen to-your work the way they will.

Curl up on your sofa with the book in your hand.

Sit just below the projector.

Or row twenty-five, stage left.

Or lean back in your comfy chair, your hand resting next to the "play" button you just pressed. Your eyes closed. Listening.

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Let's stick with that last example for a moment-I've done a fair bit of radio drama. Our hero has ridden up to a cliff overlooking a lovely river valley. You can hear the horse nicker, the wind in the pines, the distant sound of running water.

What do you see?

Nothing.

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Let's go back to the movie theater. The hero is staring across a valley, his brow furrowed, his mind full of dark thoughts.

What are they?

You don't know.

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All right, let's watch the play. The heroine watches the hero stare out over the valley.

She turns away and bites her lip. There! Did you see it?

Not from the back row, you didn't.

-----

Pick up the book. The book they adapted to make the movie. And the play. And the radio show. He's still looking out over that valley.

What does it look like, exactly?

You'll have to guess. Unless they included a photo.

-----

And getting back to that party-what would Diane have heard?

Ripping sounds. Laughter. Shouts and squeals. Maybe an occasional "Thanks, Uncle Billy" or the like. And no clue what most of it meant.

Not acceptable. And if I'd just told her what was happening we might as well have written a letter. The trick was to tell her enough that the sounds she heard could tell her the rest.

If we'd had a video camera my job would have been very different. Not harder or easier--different.

Every medium is strong. Every medium is weak. Use the strengths. Work around the weaknesses. And to find those strengths, those weaknesses, take your place beside your audience. See what they see, hear what they hear, know what they know.

Or don't know.

And with every line of dialog, every paragraph of description, every stage direction or camera angle, remember the difference between what you see and what they see.

They can't follow a car chase on a dinner theater stage.

They can't read a movie character's mind.

They can't describe every leaf on that tree in Chapter Six.

And they can't hear a smile.

Karron's Law. Thanks, cousin.

Terry L. Sanders provides writing, editing, and advisory services to individuals and organizations from his office in Atlanta, Georgia.