In my previous article, which provided six tips for writing, the first tip was to learn how to describe - and then to learn how not to describe.
This, however, is an explanation in the description itself, not a lack thereof. I'm going to include an exercise in descriptive writing I did a few months ago, and then analyze it for your benefit. I do not claim this is a perfect example of descriptive writing, but I thought perhaps my thoughts behind including what I did would help give you another perspective on how and why description is done.
Listen. There is the quiet peal of gunfire, the hum of Romana's Ring circling the sky, the distant screams of men and the bubbling of blood. The rough business of the ones on the earth and the ones in the sky has birthed a dust lit orange and blazing against the eye of the setting sun. There is a smell of grit and copper and gas, and the shadows hide fogged breath. Do you see? The glowing, writhing landscape conceals much in its complexity. Look, there, I will direct you - there is a lone one, running. Light glints off the metal encased by the bones about his eyes. A gun pounds at his side. And within each movement, each breath, there is a cold clawing terror that creeps across the back of his legs and thickens his gut and scratches deep within his throat, so raw it turns the world about him bright and faint and terrible all at once. Do you see? Do you feel?
And do you see what he carries, do you hear the rustle of gossamer battered into dancing by the winds? Do you hear the murmur of breathing beneath, the mewling from a creature not quite human which finds shelter in the circle of his arms?
To start out with, the narrator here says "listen." This starts things out fast and automatically lets you know that you're being directed. Someone is here in this scene with you, pointing things out. It sets the stage for the format of the rest of the description.
There is the quiet peal of gunfire, the hum of Romana's Ring circling the sky, the distant screams of men and the bubbling of blood.
This focuses on four sounds. There is a quiet peal, a hum, something distant, and bubbling. These adjectives are gentle and lulling compared to what they're describing: gunfire, Romana's Ring, screams, and blood. (We don't know what Romana's Ring is; the name makes things seem foreign, possibly futuristic.) This establishes contrast - it gives a peaceful mood when the setting is obviously terrible and warlike. Also it makes you wonder about the narrator. Is the narrator sadistic, that he describes all these things so peacefully? Or does it give the narrator a sense of being zen, or that they are above it all, or gentle?
The rough business of the ones on the earth and the ones in the sky has birthed a dust lit orange and blazing against the eye of the setting sun.
"Rough business" is also a term that distances the narrator - and you - from what is happening. It's not war, it's not slaughter, it's simply some rough business. It enhances the tone of peacefulness.
Ones on earth and the ones in the sky
Like Ramona's Ring, it's foreign and makes it feel like sci-fi without ever saying sci-fi. Nobody ever says, "There are aliens!" or "There's a spaceship!" These things are incorporated very gently, subtly, so naturally you hardly notice they're unusual at all.
birthed a dust lit orange and blazing against the eye of the setting sun.
We have 'birthed' and an 'eye.' These two words sound motherly. The rest of it, though, is pure imagery. There's orange, blazing - nothing special here, only that it's orange and blazing.
Point to remember: The most defining aspect of most areas is light. If you must describe only one element of a room or a place, tell how much light is in it. This is why 'setting sun' is important. It automatically tells your brain the color of the world and how long the shadows are.
There is a smell of grit and copper and gas, and the shadows hide fogged breath.
Does grit have a smell? It makes you think of dirty things - dust, sweat. Copper makes you think of blood and metal. Gas makes you think of industry and machines.
Again, all of these are subtle points that this is a sci-fi scene - and it also brings vivid memories to your brain. You know what these smells are and the memories attached to them.
the shadows hide fogged breath.
This is visual, but it provides texture. You see faint white puffs coming out of dark corners. There are people hiding. The air is very cold. Do you see how many things are said without the text ever actually saying them? Also note the descriptions of three, four-ish (texture is implied, never stated) of the five senses.
Do you see? The glowing, writhing landscape conceals much in its complexity.
The narrator returns here, gives you, the reader, the distinct impression that you are looking over a painted picture. The landscape 'glows.' This you can kind of tell by now, since we have a setting sun and blazing dust. 'Writhing' gives you a birds-eye feel of the war, and the faint sensation that a whole lot is going on, and that the landscape looks alive.
conceals much in its complexity
Combined with 'do you see?' you immediately feel like you are searching for something.
Look, there, I will direct you - there is a lone one, running.
And your searching zooms in, pointed out by your helpful narrator, on one tiny spot in the crowd and the chaos. There is no fighting, it's 'running.' This automatically makes this person different.
Light glints off the metal encased by the bones about his eyes. A gun pounds at his side.
This sentence describes two things: Metal in this man's face, and the fact that he's carrying a gun.
But I don't just say "There was metal in his face, and he carried a gun."
Light glinting brings us back to that previous point - we tend to notice light. This means the metal is shiny, and instead of just plain metal you can see it reflecting in the setting sun.
This metal is 'encased by the bones.' This means it was implanted there, or it's grown there. Another nod to sci-fi.
The gun 'pounds.' This reminds us of the fact he is running without actually saying he is running. It also tells us he's probably a soldier, and that he should be fighting.
And within each movement, each breath, there is a cold clawing terror that creeps across the back of his legs and thickens his gut and scratches deep within his throat, so raw it turns the world about him bright and faint and terrible all at once.
This is a long sentence. It feels like it's drawn out - if you try to say it out loud there is hardly a pause at all, and it feels rushed, almost breathless. This is intentional. The sentence itself reflects the terror it describes.
And note we're moving out of the world of the purely physical, here. We're no longer describing a painting, we're going into the feeling of a man within. We're focused, now. It's become alive.
The terror is personified into something that 'creeps,' 'thickens,' 'scratches,' and is 'raw.' This gives the feeling of a monster, or an oozing wound, or an insect burrowing into flesh.
The second bit, "so raw it turns the world about him bright and faint and terrible all at once," is meant to be a poetic explanation of adrenaline. When you get scared, one of the main things you notice is your vision - it narrows, or fuzzes, or does something weird. I just sort of made the description of terror slide into what the description of adrenaline does.
Do you see? Do you feel?
These questions aren't essential for the description of the story, but I like them myself because it gives a slightly unusual taste - it's not common for a narrator to be directly asking you questions.
It also makes you wonder - why are you being asked what you see? Why are you being asked if you feel what this other, separate character is feeling? Do you have the ability to move around like a ghost, taking on feelings and sensations no matter whose they are? It also gives a pause for the transition into something more important.
And do you see what he carries, do you hear the rustle of gossamer battered into dancing by the winds?
The questions come faster now, this time to promote a sense of urgency. DO YOU FEEL IT? WELL DO YOU? DO YOU?
Achem.
Anyway, the description here is reversed. In the first bit we described something terrible with the tone of something peaceful, and here is something pretty described as 'battered into dancing' - something violent.
Contrast is your friend. Love it.
Do you hear the murmur of breathing beneath, the mewling from a creature not quite human which finds shelter in the circle of his arms?
There's nothing special about this sentence in terms of description. "Murmur" was placed there to provide an extra beat in the sentence (read it aloud without the 'murmur of,' see if it sounds as good), and also to provide more character to the breath.
"Mewling" is associated with kittens or children, which automatically makes you think that what he's carrying is some sort of baby. I say 'some sort' due to the whole 'not quite human' phrase. Also note what would have happened if 'mewling' had been 'whisper' instead? We no longer have a baby but instead a nubile alien princess. Or something. But baby would be easier to carry.
This last sentence makes you think this is a story, here. There is obviously a war, and it's implied that it's between humans and aliens. And now there's this super scared man, running - away from the war, we can guess - trying to rescue an alien baby.
Also, notice how the passage moves from general to specific. We start out with noises, move to wide-open sites, like looking at a landscape, and then slowly we get more specific, to smells, to breath in shadows, and then we zoom in to a single man, and then we zoom into the cloth in his arms, and then we notice the baby.
There is a deliberate progression here. Try to keep this in your stories - make the reader's mental eye glide along your scene from one thing to another, not jumping from bit to bit.
If you made it through all that, congratulations to your attention span. I hope this might have given you a new perspective on the rationale behind descriptive writing.
-Antier
