Not all Writing Wednesday posts can be original.
This one seemed relevant to my work, so here it is.
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https://open.substack.com/pub/badredheadmediallc/p/when-machines-dream-5-lessons-from
When Machines Dream: 5 Lessons from "Tales From The Loop" For Any Creator
Why every creator should watch this quiet science fiction masterpiece
PICTURE ABOVE: Inspired by Simon Stålenhag’s imaginative art, shaped by a haunting Philip Glass score, and brought to life by a cast of understated brilliance, I’m excited to share this wonderful series with you.
The real magic is in the writing (says the writer, I know, I know); regardless of your specialty (books, art, music), this series has it all. Even if you’re not a sci-fi or speculative fiction fan, you will still learn so much.
Listen with your eyes.
Shout-out to my exclusive advertising sponsor, the always-free Booklinker (universal book links—so helpful!), and the paid tool, GeniusLink. I love both (affiliate link).
Synopsis:
“In 1954, the Swedish government ordered the construction of the world’s largest particle accelerator. The facility was completed in 1969, located deep below the pastoral countryside of Mälaröarna.
The local population referred to this marvel of technology as The Loop. These are its strange tales.”
Watch: Tales from the Loop on Prime Video
Book: Simon Stålenhag’s original art book and website
Listen: Philip Glass / Paul Leonard‐Morgan score
Visual world: Tales From the Loop: Strange Machines (American Cinematographer), The American Society of Cinematographers
1. Let Mystery Be a Character
The Loop looms large, yet it rarely explains itself. It’s the point, and it’s beside the point. That absence becomes its own presence, which is a challenging feat to achieve as a writer and creator.
I love that the show trusts us, the viewer, to fill the gaps. This is storytelling through suggestion, not exposition.
If you remember the gentle robots in Silent Running, who tend their gardens in orbit without menace, or the little robot friends in the Bradbury Building in Blade Runner, you’ll feel these subtle homages as you watch.
As a writer, hold something back. Mystery invites intimacy.
The quietness of this show belies its many intricacies.
When you let readers imagine what is missing, they become collaborators by using their own imagery in conjunction with yours, which is the true joy of being a writer (and reader) - that melding.
Magic.
Try this: Identify one object or event in your story (fiction or nonfic). Don’t explain it. Let it hum in the reader’s mind, creating energy as you weave your work.
Examples:
1. The Matchbook in The Fifth Element
One match. That’s it. But it’s the match. It shows up early as a throwaway detail, tucked in Corben Dallas’s pocket, then lingers like a fuse waiting to be lit. By the climax, the world literally depends on that last flicker of fire.
What makes it brilliant is how unassuming it is; no character explains its importance. The object becomes a vessel for tension, hope, and everything that’s at stake.
2. The Spinning Top in Inception
It spins and spins, and with each turn, the weight of the entire film gathers around it. It doesn’t just measure dream versus reality; it is the question of what’s real.
By the final scene, that little spinning top holds more suspense than any explosion or chase ever could. No explanation. Just a slow, hypnotic hum.
3. The Piano in, well, The Piano
The central object serves as mute protagonist Ada McGrath’s voice and core emotional conduit, a surrogate for her identity, desire, loss, and transformation. She cannot speak, and so the piano becomes her speech.
In a key moment, Ada asks for her piano back, then later has it thrown overboard, symbolically releasing something of herself.
(Sidenote: I was so obsessed with the score, I picked out the melody on my own piano. In fact, the soundscore by Michael Nyman represents each character so beautifully.)
The Promise Michael Nyman |
4. The Red Coat in Schindler’s List
In a world drained of color, the red coat is a visual whisper that turns into a scream without a single line of dialogue. It anchors the audience to a single human life, making the unimaginable personal.
The coat is never explained. It doesn’t need to be. It haunts.
Still.
5. The Watch in Interstellar
A simple wristwatch becomes the thread between father and daughter, between two timelines, between despair and hope. It’s introduced quietly, almost casually.
Then, later, it becomes the channel through which time bends and love endures. By the end, that watch isn’t just ticking; it’s echoing. No exposition is needed to make it devastating. The music is also fantastic.
Interstellar (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) [Expanded Edition] Hans Zimmer Album |
2. Structure Stories Like an Album
Each episode of Tales from the Loop feels like a song track, distinct but echoing the same emotional landscape. Together, they compose a larger arc of tone and feeling.
Your manuscript (or creative project) can mirror that: chapters that stand alone yet echo each other thematically.
Try this: Pick a recurring image or phrase. Let it evolve, then weave it across three chapters, a long poem, or two essays. Read this long poem, Holiday, by Dr Alexandria Szeman. Gorgeous.
I also reviewed Station Eleven - I hope you’ll read it and watch! 
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3. Write with a Soundscore in Mind
The beautiful score by Philip Glass and Paul Leonard-Morgan repeats, shifts, and hesitates. It’s not background; it narrates.
Tales from the Loop (Original Soundtrack) Philip Glass, Paul Leonard-Morgan Album |
Words can do the same. Let metaphors or images reveal themselves with subtle variation. Poignant, lonely, and beautiful, I often listen to this soundscore when I write.
Try this: Choose one metaphor (water, shadow, music, or whatever has meaning to you). Reintroduce it with a shift that mirrors character change.
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4. Keep the Stakes Human
In most sci-fi, technology is never the point, though that’s the flashy, fun stuff. The connection (and disconnection) between humanity and tech, rather than the use of tech itself, is the point here.
The true conflict lies in small choices: a parent’s changing over time, a child’s longing, a memory straining under the weight of grief. Even when The Loop warps reality, the emotional anchor is still personal.
Try this: Rewrite your most dramatic confrontation instead as a tender scene between two people in one room. No distractions. No noise; solely the interaction.
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5. Let Silence Speak
This is not a loud, convo-laden series. The dialogue is sparse, and much is conveyed through gesture, silence, ambiance, music, and light. In your writing, let what is not spoken carry weight.
Perfect example: The visual below. Once you GET IT, you’ll never see it the same again.
Try this: Remove one line of dialogue per page. Replace with a sensory cue, gesture, or pause. Or write about the scene below before you watch and after.
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Example: Replace Explanation with Physical Reaction
Before:
“I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “It’s just been a long day.”
After:
She opened her mouth, then closed it quickly. Her hand stayed on the doorknob one beat too long.
That single pause of hesitation tells us she’s not fine without spelling it out. The silence becomes dialogue.
Okay, one more just because…
6. The Actors Who Keep the World Turning
Tales from the Loop rests on quiet performances, and this cast knows how to let silence do the talking.
Rebecca Hall gives Loretta a mind tuned to grief, measured, curious, and deeply human. Jonathan Pryce (always terrific), as her father Russ, carries the calm of a man who understands everything except the people he loves.
Even the children play wonder and loss with startling honesty. They do not act the emotions so much as listen to them.
The result feels like prose made visible. Each gesture and pause becomes a sentence, each silence a paragraph.
Tip: We can all learn from that restraint: say less, feel more.
A Final Note
The beauty of Tales from the Loop lies in its trust of emotion over explanation. That principle extends beyond the page, compelling us to examine our own relationships with tech and with one another.
When discussing your own work (book, music, art), whether on your website, in your bio, or in a newsletter, lead with what it feels like, not just the plot.
What will a reader get from reading your work, looking at your art, or listening to your music?
What resonates?
What do you feel as you write it? Readers need to feel that as they read it.
Let that be your guide.
If you’ve seen the show or plan to, or any mentioned here, please comment below!
Happy writing!
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- Days ago: MOM = 3786 days ago & DAD = 440 days ago
- New note - On 1807.06, I ceased daily transmission of my Hey Mom feature after three years of daily conversations. I post Hey Mom blog entries on special occasions. I post the days since ("Days Ago") count on my blog each day, and now I have a second count for Days since my Dad died on August 28, 2024. I am now in the same time zone as Google! So, when I post at 10:10 a.m. PDT to coincide with the time of Mom's death, I am now actually posting late, so it's really 1:10 p.m. EDT. But I will continue to use the time stamp of 10:10 a.m. to remember the time of her death and sometimes 13:40 EDT for the time of Dad's death. The blog entry numbering in the title has changed to reflect total Sense of Doubt posts since I began the blog on 0705.04, which include Hey Mom posts, Daily Bowie posts, and Sense of Doubt posts. Hey Mom posts will still be numbered sequentially. New Hey Mom posts will use the same format as all the other Hey Mom posts; all other posts will feature this format seen here.
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