Description,
Over-Easy
By Vitora
My little
sister comes running up to me. “Here,
here, read what I wrote!” I take the
page from her and read the first five lines:
Luke, a young man, was forced to jump off a
cliff, but he fell onto a winged cat’s back as he was falling. The winged cat had really pretty
rainbow-colored wings and a powerful tail that whipped back and forth. She also had deep blue eyes and big
paws. They landed safely. The winged cat took him into her cave, which
had cups along the wall: pink china cups with little green flowers on them...
I glance up
at her eager face. She’s got a good idea
here, but something’s wrong. I tell her
this; she responds with a question.
“What? What’s wrong with it?”
Many
pro-writers with decent experience under their belts snigger behind their hands
and quickly point out what’s wrong.
People new to this form of art—little kids, mostly—have listened in on
those writing classes their big siblings take (it’s
scary how much they pick up, really) and have heard a lot about description. So when they pick up the pen and begin their writing journey, the first
thing that comes to their minds is: description. Lots and lots and lots of description. And since sister’s teacher said to, doesn’t
that mean it’s right?
Uh, yeah. That is, if
you do it correctly.
Grab your
measuring spoons, kiddos. Description’s
not something you heap on by the cupfuls, especially not if, as in the example
above, you’re in the middle of some pretty important or life-changing
action. I mean, Luke just fell off a
cliff. Don’t you think those five
sentences would be better off describing how he feels while he’s falling, or at least what the ground rushing up to
meet him looks like? And then he hits
the winged cat. Uh, that’s pretty
important, too. He was just saved from
certain death.
Now, I’m
not accusing all younger authors of putting their descriptive skills to use in
the wrong places, or saying that experienced authors are totally free from
blame; on the contrary, I’m saying that everyone can probably learn a lesson
from this. Even I should put my own
teachings to work *smacks self* and not do things like this:
Both
rider [Fria] and animal [Montella] were beautiful. Fria had fiery red hair that nicely
complimented Montella’s dapple gray, so that when they galloped through the
green valley, they looked like a shooting star zipping through an emerald
sky. The pair paused at the edge of a rock and looked back down over the countryside they had
known since childhood. The layout of the
land was dazzling, with the Sencorth mountain ranges on both sides of a lush,
green valley. All the homes were built
in the valley, because it seemed to go on forever; there was always room for
newcomers.
Fria sighed. She and her mare were tired, so she turned
Montella’s head for home. But just as
they were about to cross the hill, Fria happened to glance back and saw, on the
mountain tops, small watchfires. She
gasped and spurred Montella into a gallop.
OK. So let’s look at
it sentence by sentence, seeing what’s wrong and what could be improved. (Useful rules are in bold.)
First sentence.
Now, this isn’t too bad, but it does say something outright, breaking
one of the first and foremost rules of creative writing: show, don’t tell. This could
definitely use some work.
Both Fria and Montella received
admiring glances from the males of their kind when they rode through the camp.
The new version doesn’t say directly that the pair is
beautiful, but it indicates it by letting the reader know that the guys give
‘em glances. Admiring ones, no less;
obviously, they’re not getting stares because either one of them has a
deformity of some sort.
Next sentence: this one’s not as naughty as the first,
because it’s using a simile; it
states that they look like a meteor across a green sky (oh-kay, then). But it still
could be changed around a bit.
Fria’s thick, flame-colored hair
stood out against Montella’s dapple gray coat, whipping out like a meteor’s
tail when they galloped through the valley.
To an eagle, they would have seemed like a heavenly body that had fallen
from the sky and was now flying against the grass.
Now we come to a breakpoint in the description (albeit a
very short one). The action of Fria and
Montella pausing at the cliff and gazing down at the valley indicates that
we’re now going to read about the valley.
Skipping along to the next two sentences…the land. All right, so the “layout”—whatever that is—is
dazzling; so what? If you’re going to
describe something important—and it’s not a mystery item of some sort that
needs to be kept secret—, describe it
thoroughly, but don’t overdo it.
Also, saying that “all the homes were built there” doesn’t really tell
us much, either…what kinds of homes are these: wigwams, castles, mansions, or
grass huts?
Jardia [the name of the land they
live in] was unlike any other land on the continent, with its entirety
consisting of a long, narrow valley, flanked on both sides by mountain
ranges. Fria stared across at the opposite
summits and wondered, as she had often done, why both separate sets of peaks
were called the Sencorths; it seemed to the girl that individual landmarks
should have individual names. But the
stunning beauty of the valley swallowed the mountains, and its mysteries—if
that were at all possible. Green,
fertile, and seemingly endless, the gorge was home to hundreds, if not
thousands, of huts, which grew closer and closer together until one reached the
castle.
Much better.
Moving on…
Righto, now we’re back to the action. But hang on a minute. There’s no transition here, nothing about the valley that triggers Fria’s next
thoughts. Whoops.
Fria’s eye was caught by her
village, with its distinctly bright tents and lively population. The girl even imagined that she could see
Sniri [her nurse of sorts] wandering from tent to tent, bearing heavy load of
wash on her hip. She continued to scan
the tents, searching for the one she knew as her own, and felt a sudden wave of
weariness wash over her. Feeling
Montella tremble beneath her, she turned the horticorn’s head for home.
I, uh, think I’ll stop editing there. Because if I don’t, I’ll end up writing the
entire rest of the story (no, this thing was never finished). So let me conclude.
Action is not something to be taken lightly, especially when
it has a great impact on the story. Now,
if someone yawns or fiddles with their ring, you can—and should, to drop
appearance hints—smother it with lovely page-long paragraphs of description
(kidding, kidding, that’s totally overdoing
it). But things like
falling off a cliff, or seeing watchfires that shouldn’t be there…big no-no. You and your reader both will lose sight of
what’s important in your story.
There are some instances, however, that this misleading
technique should be used. Mystery
stories are the obvious example; you want to drop clues, but not so obviously
that it’s easy to figure out whodunnit.
But I digress.
When using description, do so sparingly. Even when it’s time to describe a character
for the first time, don’t just say it all at once…drop clues along with
action. It’s so much more
interesting. Trust me.