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.