The Art of Description

What exactly is a story?

A story is the description of a series of events, and while writing your story, it’s important to describe everything that comes to mind.

Now, the story might revolve around a person or people. It might revolve around a place or a thing. Whatever the story, the genre, or the topic, you will have to describe everything with the exception of dialogue, if there is any, and in a short story about an old cabin, there might not be any dialogue, but this doesn’t mean that you just report on the events surrounding the cabin.

Let’s break this concept down for the sake of simplicity.

You may be writing an exposé, or an article about current events, or an historical account of a long gone town. It’s unlikely that there will be any dialogue, so your descriptions will be about things or events, which transpired.

Let’s look at an example.

"Dirtwater was the first city erected in Florida. It began as little more than a mosquito-infested swamp. The murky waters of Dirtwater were laden with water bugs, mosquito larvae, rotting logs, cypress knees, raggedy grasses, and laurel oaks covered in lichen of all colors, like red, pink, white, orange, yellow, and purple.

The mosquitoes were big, black monstrosities with fluttering wings, and they loved to buzz into and out of the ears of the surveyors who first trod the stinky swamps of the area. Those brave men had to stuff their ears with gray moss to keep the mosquitoes out, but the critters still stuck their little pokers into exposed skin, leaving red, itchy bumps. Many were the hours spent complaining about how badly the bites itched, and to accompany the big, red welts left by mosquitoes were little pinkish bumps. Those were caused by the chiggers, which infested the swamps."

Okay, kind of boring, right?

The above example is a portrayal of over-describing menial ideas; it’s a report, a lame one. It might behoove you to write such a piece in order to get down all of your thoughts, but what will your audience think? That’s always the most important question to ponder once your piece has been completed.

Will they really care about the individual colors of the lichen? Was it not enough to leave it at “all colors?" What about the mosquito bites? We’re all familiar with mosquito bites. Is it necessary to describe the welts? You might need to ask yourself: what is the point of my article? If the point is to teach about the events of Dirtwater, then a great deal of the above descriptions can either be omitted or at least condensed.

"Dirtwater was the first city erected in Florida. It began as little more than a mosquito infested swamp. The murky waters of what was to become Dirtwater were laden with bugs, like mosquitoes and chiggers. Surveyors had a tough time of it, traversing the rotting logs, cypress knees, and raggedy grasses, but at least the sight of the mighty laurel oaks covered in lichen of all colors, were a sight to behold.

The brave men and women who were commissioned to build a thriving city began their journey by learning how to defend against the critters. In order to withstand the annoying buzz of mosquitoes, they stuffed their ears with gray moss, but there was no reprieve from the itchy bites of chiggers. Fortunately, they soon learned that lemon grass kept mosquitoes in abeyance. That was one problem solved."

The example above is more informative, but less descriptive. The key is to strike a subtle balance; readers aren’t stupid, and unless they’re reading a technical manual, they probably don’t need every single little tiny detail spelled out. This is a great theme to keep in mind when writing a short story.

Shot stories should be sweet and to the point, while novels can make better use of long-winded descriptions. Let’s look at an example of a short story about a truck.

"They called it Chuck. That’s a funny name for a truck, but the old, gray, dented, bug-splattered four-by-four had a long history behind it. Chuck had been in the family for three generations. When Grandpa Jackson first bought it back in 1954, it was brand new.

Chuck had not yet acquired its name. It was a shiny piece of steel. The grill was free of dead bugs. The tires were in immaculate condition, and so was the white, vinyl, bench seat. It was large enough to accommodate four people if they weren’t too big, and they crammed in together. The sun shone clearly through the windshield, and at night, the headlights were strong and bright.

By the time the truck was handed down to Bill, Bobby’s dad, it had acquired quite a few scrapes and scratches. There were three, round dents in the tail gate. There was one, big, long scratch down the passenger door from when Auntie Jill turned into the driveway too close to the blue, steel mailbox. There was even a spiral crack in the windshield from when Grandpa Jackson was driving too close to a backhoe, and a rock came loose from the bucket. It struck the windshield with a mighty clamor.

Finally, the truck was handed down to Bobby. He turned 16, and the truck was a gift. Bobby was so excited to get his first vehicle that he didn’t mind the dents and scratches, especially since all four tires were new; his dad had even given the truck a tune up by replacing the spark plugs, the plug wires, the distributor cap, the fuel filter, the air filter, changing the oil, and replacing the oil filter. The truck was old, but it ran like it was brand new."

A reader will expect a short story about a truck to have more events and fewer descriptions, but the above example, at the end, provides another point I’d like to make: don’t use 17 words when one can do the job better. Even for those of you who don’t know what a tune up entails, it’s sufficient to state that the truck received a tune up without going into excessive detail — remember, this a short story, not an auto manual.

"They called it Chuck. That’s a funny name for a truck, but the old, gray, dented, bug-splattered four-by-four had a long history behind it. Chuck had been in the family for three generations. When Grandpa Jackson first bought it back in 1954, it was brand new.

Chuck had not yet acquired its name. It was a shiny piece of steel in immaculate condition with a white, vinyl, bench seat large enough to accommodate four people if they crammed in together. Yup, Chuck was a mighty fine truck.

By the time the truck was handed down to Bill, Bobby’s dad, it had acquired quite a few scrapes and scratches. There was even a spiral crack in the windshield from when Grandpa Jackson was driving too close to a backhoe, and a rock came loose from the bucket, striking the windshield with a mighty clamor. Still, the old machine was a sight to behold, and a pleasure to drive.

Finally, the truck was handed down to Bobby. He turned 16, and the truck was a gift. Bobby was so excited to get his first vehicle that he didn’t mind the existing damage, especially since all four tires were new; his dad had even given the truck a tune up. Of course, amidst the excitement of owning his first vehicle, Bobby had to come to terms with a dark cloud looming over the horizon; since Mom died, Dad became a drinker. Out of the old man’s slurred words, the only one that made any sense was Chuck.

“How de’ ole’ chuck ridin’, boy?”

That was Dad’s favorite question."

In the above example, the readers still get a rundown of the history behind the truck, but they also learn from where it got the name, Chuck. There are fewer descriptions, too, yet we can all still imagine the truck and its decay over time.

If the story was a full length novel rather than a short story, the original example might be tolerable, but nothing bogs a story down like a mindless description of the mundane. On the other hand, if there’s very little description, readers may be left feeling like they’re at arm’s length.

"John walked down Barrington Street to Greg’s Bar. He walked inside and strode on over to his favorite stool. After plunking down, he turned to the woman on his left.

She returned his smile with her own. Her name was Phyllis. She wore a pant suit and looked out of place. Although John had spoken to her before, that fateful day was the first time he noticed how beautiful she really was.

They conversed for hours, knocking back one beer after another. They ate, too. Greg’s had a pretty good cook in the back. When they settled their tab, the two walked back out into the street. It was already dark.

Both of them had enough sense to call a cab. When it arrived, they split the bill. Phyllis was dropped off first, outside Marcus Bay Towers. The cabby then drove John to his home, a little ranch in a place called Beesville.

John unlocked the door, stumbled inside, turned on the lights, and called for his pooch. Brutus hopped on the couch, wagging his tail. John patted him once before turning on the tube to see the news. It was grim tidings, as usual."

Whether the above example is for a short story or a novel, I think everyone can agree that it reads like words on a page. What does John look like? What does the street look like? Are there any sounds? What’s the interior of the bar look like? Are there any scents? What kind of food did John and Phyllis order? What did they say to each other? What made Phyllis beautiful?

"John walked down Barrington Street to Greg’s Bar. The red, neon sign over the glass, double doors flickered. Smiling to himself, the burly construction worker walked inside and strode on over to his favorite stool, a beat-up, leather seat on wobbly legs and covered with swatches of duct tape. After plunking down, he turned to the woman on his left.

She returned his smile with her own pearly whites. Her name was Phyllis. She wore a gray pant suit and looked out of place in the rough and tumble joint. Smoke filled the air, classic rock blared through wall-mounted speakers, hard looking folks rambled on boisterously. Although John had spoken to the middle-aged gal before, that fateful day was the first time he noticed how beautiful she really was.

Phyllis had smile lines accentuating her painted lips. Dirty blonde hair cascaded down over her shoulders. An ample bosom gave her a sensuous appearance, but the dimple on her right cheek made her look demure, girlish even.

They conversed for hours, knocking back one beer after another. They spoke of the weather, their lives as recently divorced people, just trying to find their way through a muddled world. Greg’s had a pretty good cook in the back, too, so they ordered some Buffalo wings; the spicier the better, and they were spicy enough to bring about beads of sweat.

It was already dark out by the time they settled their tab. What few stars twinkled overhead were hurriedly covered by wispy, gray clouds. Both of them had the presence of mind to call a cab. When the yellow beater arrived, they split the bill.

Phyllis was dropped off first, outside Marcus Bay Towers, a modern apartment complex for busy, white collar folks. Even during the late hour, many lights shone through windows. The cabby then drove John to his home, a little ranch in a place called Beesville.

John unlocked the door of his modest abode, stumbled inside, turned on the lights to reveal a worn, suede couch, and he called for his pooch. Brutus hopped onto a sagging cushion, wagging his tail. The man of the house patted the stocky bulldog once before turning on the tube to see the news. It was grim tidings, as usual."

The second version of the story is far more descriptive without going into great detail. No one cares how many buttons Phyllis’s coat has. No one cares just how stocky Brutus is. No one cares what the cabby looks like. What’s important is what’s happening.

Admittedly, since John seems to be the protagonist, he may need further describing, but that can be done when he brushes his teeth before bed; he can look at his figure in the mirror to see puffy, blue eyes, short-cropped, brown hair, and an uneven farmer’s tan.

It’s just as important to spread out the descriptions for a time when they are relevant; to begin the story by stating that John is 6 foot 2 inches, weighs 280 pounds, is muscular, but has a pot belly, and a salt-and-pepper beard accentuating a square jaw and chiseled chin may well create a barrier between you and your audience. It comes off as an info dump, and you can read more about that here.

To recapitulate, your story will be a description of events, which transpire as they transpire, and while writing, just write the same way you think, but ask yourself why you’re telling your story, and for whom. Tailor your story for your audience, and if you’re writing a short story or a novel, you’ll want to find some beta-readers upon its completion.

Ask your beta-readers to keep in mind certain questions, so that they can provide you the feedback you need for when you edit. Ask them the following:

Was my story entertaining? Was it too slow or too fast in places? Were you ever confused about anything? Were there any redundancies? Was it over or under-described?

The thing about describing your story is that you’ll never please everyone. The best written stories will have just as many people claiming it was overly described as it will have people wanting more description; that’s how you can tell you’ve found a happy median. Sometimes, you’ll get no feedback on the topic, which means that readers were pleased enough; if they had a problem, they’d have told you.

Thanks for reading. I hope this little article on descriptions has been of value to you. Over describing was a problem of mine, but I learned to heed the advice of beta-readers, and while I still describe everything during the writing process, I have learned to cut the guff during the editing process; you may need to do the opposite, depending on your style of writing.

At any rate, I want to add that tips such as this one are available in my newest release, How to Become a Successful Writer.

This handy manual sells for a meager 99 cents and walks you through everything you need to know to begin a fruitful and long lasting writing career. The more you know before you begin writing, the easier and more pleasurable your career will be. Good luck to you.