When I want to feel good about my writing, I show it to my husband. “Wow,” he’ll say. “This is beautiful. Really compelling.”

“Were there any parts that confused you?” I’ll ask, but I’m already smiling, relieved to be almost off the hook. “What should I change?”

“Hmmm,” he’ll say, hedging. “Maybe here, I didn’t know quite who you were talking about. But that’s the only place. Mostly, I think you should leave it like it is.”

I love that man, but not for his editing skills. Bless his heart; I’m not sure I’d want to be married to my editor anyway. But until recently, I’ve bumbled along with, for the most part, only this kind of feedback.

Sure, I’ve attended writing groups, but most of them weren’t set up for serious, in-depth editing, and they suffered from a confusing surplus of different perspectives (“Cut this part.” “No, don’t!”). Writing conferences and classes helped, but didn’t last long enough.

Recently, when I was selected as a correspondent to write two long-form literary non-fiction essays for a travel writing website, I began working closely with an editor. I don’t wear glasses, but I imagine that getting glasses for the first time and finally seeing the world clearly would be quite like getting this excellent editor.

I couldn’t believe the realizations she enabled. “Well, this is good as I can make it,” I would tell my husband after hitting “send” on one of my drafts. “I wonder what she’ll say.” Back the draft would come, peppered with comments both small (“What does this sentence mean?”) and significant (“I’m not sure this section carries your narrative thread”). My jaw would always drop. “Why didn’t I see this?” I would wonder as I set to work revising.

I’m currently on the third draft of both essays, and have established such trust for my editor that there’s almost nothing she says that I second-guess. She recently proposed cutting a three-paragraph section because it fell too far outside the narrative arc. I liked the language of the paragraphs, the way they sounded, but I didn’t have to think too hard to realize she was right; they impeded the story.

Could I have realized this on my own? Maybe eventually. But probably not.

How else does an editor help?

A good editor…

1. Recognizes major themes. Good editors know what your writing is really about. They don’t proofread; they read, both on the lines and between them. They share a sense of meaning and vision for the work. This “big picture” knowledge informs every editorial decision they make.
2. Identifies key strengths to build upon. Good editors know what you do well as a writer. They articulate those strengths and suggest ways to put them to use in other parts of your work.
3. Cuts the fat. Because they have a good sense of the piece’s overall themes and your writing strengths, they also recognize what doesn’t fit. It might be hard for writers to cut what they’ve written, even unnecessary parts, but it’s not as hard for editors.
4. Asks questions. Good editors probe for more information. Is there more to a character than you’ve let on? Does this plot sequence reinforce the theme? Is this metaphor consistent with its connotation?
5. Honors style. Good editors know that there’s not just one way to write. They know a variety of different writing styles find loyal readership, and they won’t impose their own style on yours. When they make suggestions, they’ll work to hone your own style rather than putting words in your mouth.
6. Notices the empty spots. My editor will often write something like, “This section is starting to do what you want it to do. But not quite…” And then she’ll suggest places to flesh out more detail. She often tells me to write more than I think I’ll need “because you can always cut it back later,” but we never know what clarity might emerge from the act of writing.
7. Doesn’t stop at “It’s great.” An editor might think your work is great. But no matter how promising, no matter how witty and tightly written and gorgeous, it can be better. And a good editor will help you make it that way.

I want to include an encouraging section titled something like “How to Be Your Own Best Editor,” but I just can’t. I don’t think it’s possible to see everything in our own work that needs to be seen.

Pull five of your favorite books off your shelf and check the Acknowledgments; there’s a reason why everyone thanks the editor. Those books wouldn’t be there without them.

How have you benefited from a good editor? Do you frequently consult an editor, or do you typically work through the writing process without one? What are the benefits and drawbacks of these different approaches?

Please welcome today’s aspiring author, Jonathan Byrd, ready for a peer critique.

Take a moment to read the excerpt, then please leave some thoughtful feedback in the comment section below.

If you are a writer whose excerpt has appeared anonymously on Write It Sideways, and now you’d like your name to appear on your piece, contact me.

If you’d like to submit your own writing for critique, keep an eye out for future calls posted on the blog.

If: An Allegory

Literary Fiction

Please note: This excerpt is not taken from the beginning of the story. 

The southern United States, like most other regions, is full of flora, fauna, traditions and oddities specific to the area. Sweet tea and invulnerability to hurricanes are examples of the latter for those living along the Gulf Coast. A curious plant known as kudzu is an example of the former. The oriental plant was originally planted as an erosion control measure. Like so many other imported plants, it became a nuisance almost overnight. The most often repeated story about its importation states that it was first planted on a Sunday in South Carolina, and that by Wednesday it had entered Louisiana. No one has ever claimed to kill it, but a lucky few have been able to keep it trimmed back. As Joel went back to his writing, a vine outside began growing on the backside of the house. While its growth would not be a record for kudzu, likewise it was about to perform a miraculous event.

The storm was less than an hour from coming ashore on the opposite side of the lake when Joel fell asleep again. He had not noticed the thick covering of kudzu over the south-facing window. The sun was still shining brightly in advance of the storm, yet the kudzu gave the cabin shelter from its blistering heat. It would ease the discomfort of the coming storm for Joel. The vine grew, as the storm got closer. As the storm rushed violently ashore, the vine insulated Joel’s cabin from noise, light, and damage. He slept soundlessly while all around destruction rained down.

Potential Feedback Prompts

When you respond, you might consider:

• your immediate reactions
• likes and dislikes
• anything that seems unclear
• language issues
• point of view
• voice
• inconsistencies
• general encouragement

Thanks!

Today’s post is written by regular contributor Susan Bearman.

A story either leaps off the page or it doesn’t.

Beatriz Badikian-Gartler once told our writing group that “Titles are a kind of promise you make to the reader.” Certainly, titles are important, but I think her point applies even more to the beginning of your story than to the title itself.

In the beginning, we establish our voice, invite the reader into our world, and tempt them to come along for the ride. We make a promise that the story to come will be worth their time and emotional energy.

And, attention spans being what they are today, we don’t have much time to get them hooked. In the age of the Internet, it’s estimated that a web page has three seconds to catch someone’s attention before they click off to another page. You can probably assume that you have a bit more time with fiction, since presumably the reader has come willingly to you. But you are still making a promise.

We can all think of famous first lines in literature, lines that continue to resonate long after the novel has been put back on the shelf. The classic “Once upon a time…” may be considered cliché, but it does a lot of work in just four words:

• It lets the reader know that a story is at hand.
• It eases the way for suspending disbelief.
• It sets the story in a different place and time.
• It awakens curiosity and raises questions.

These are the kinds of things you want your own beginnings to accomplish.

Change of Pace

It used to be that the writer had loads of time to get a story started, but in today’s fast-paced world, some celebrated opening pages might not hold up. Let’s take a look.

Most people know “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” from Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. But how many people remember the rest of that first sentence:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

Brilliant writing, yes, but I’m pretty sure that you wouldn’t be able to sell a 120-word first sentence today. And unless you are Charles Dickens, don’t even try. Can’t you just imagine a literary agent working with Dickens today?

“Hey, Charlie, you’ve got a lot of pretty words here at the beginning. I mean, it’s really good stuff. ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ We get it. Stop there, dump the rest and start with the action scene in chapter 2. Sure, weave in a little backstory here and there, but stick to the plot. Tighten this baby up, cut out maybe 35,000 words or so and I think you’ll have a real winner.”

I’m kidding, of course, but today most stories don’t begin with such philosophical ruminations; they start in the middle of the action, or in media res. Author Patricia Lear once said: “The opening of a story is akin to an attack. It has to be strong.” Them’s fightin’ words, and they imply that you need to grab your readers by the throat, but what you really need to do is grab their attention.

Don’t Get Stuck at the Beginning

I want to take a minute here to reiterate that your first draft is not the time to hone your beginning. The job of a first draft is to get the story down. Sometimes, your first line may stand just as you wrote it. It may be that this first line was truly inspired—the inspiration for the story that was not yet completely formed.

More likely, though, you have the glimpse of an idea and you need to push through that first draft before the entire picture emerges. It may be that your first line is the last one you polish after all your revisions have been completed—that you find your true beginning at the end of the process.

The point is, don’t agonize over the beginning at the beginning. Save that particular angst for a later date. When you are ready to see if your beginning works, here are some suggestions.

Ask Your Beta Readers

This is a great task to assign to your trusted critique group. Presumably, these invited readers will give you the benefit of the doubt and read past even a terrible beginning. Ask them specific questions:

• When did the story get interesting?
• What was the hook that drew them in?
• What did they experience when they read the first line, page, chapter?
• What drew them up short?
• What questions did the beginning raise?

Look at the Words

Words are your paint box. The colors you choose for the beginning sentences of your story will set and light the stage.

The words you choose here tell the reader what to expect from you as a writer. Do you use language well? Are you gifted at your craft? Do you care enough to use rhythm and pacing and nuance in a way that’s never been done before?

Be specific. Specificity engenders trust. Name your characters. Set your story in a defined place and time. A telling detail can draw your reader in quickly by making your fictional world real. Words have literal meaning as well as emotional connotations. Think how a well-chosen noun can evoke setting, like parasol, palm tree, or rickshaw.

Though beginning with action is the current trend in fiction, delayed gratification has its pleasures. When you start with setting, you can draw the reader into your reality. Just don’t make them wait too long.

Find the Magic

Reading a great beginning is like falling in love at first sight. There is a certain amount of magic involved. No one can teach magic, but you can practice the tricks of the trade until your skills are so honed that the reader can’t see how you did it. You can’t see magic, you just believe.

Please welcome today’s anonymous aspiring author, ready for a peer critique.

Take a moment to read the excerpt, then please leave some thoughtful feedback in the comment section below.

If you are a writer whose excerpt has appeared anonymously on Write It Sideways, and now you’d like your name to appear on your piece, please contact me.

If you’d like to submit your own writing for critique, keep an eye out for future calls posted on the blog.

Follow Me

YA Suspense

Please note: The excerpt is taken from the beginning of the work. 

When Great-aunt Aida started trying to feed me cat food and began having complete conversations with my Uncle Jimmy, who died before I was born, I started to worry. A few days later, I caught her trying to build a fire in the middle of the living room floor for her little brother, who died of pneumonia over eighty years ago. I knew then it was time to get help.

She’d been talking to herself as long as I could remember, and calling me Sarah, which was my mother’s name, for a few months now. But she seemed fine enough. I mean, we all get confused a little every now and then, and Great-aunt Aida, being ninety-eight years old, was entitled to put the clean dishes in the refrigerator if that’s where she wanted them. Who was I to correct her? Although, it did make living with her very interesting at times.

A few days before the fire incident I found her holding an old doll and crying. It was one of those old porcelain dolls, the yellow hair stiff and matted. The green silk dress was beautiful once, probably. Now it was dirty and full of moth holes. It even looked singed in a few places. But there was Great-aunt Aida, sitting at the kitchen table, clutching the doll to her chest and sobbing to fill a river. She insisted on holding a prayer vigil over the doll all night in the front living room. The next day, we buried the doll in the back yard. Only then did Great-aunt Aida finally rest.

Potential Feedback Prompts

When you respond, you might consider:

• your immediate reactions
• likes and dislikes
• anything that seems unclear
• language issues
• point of view
• voice
• inconsistencies
• general encouragement

Thanks!

Today’s post is written by regular contributor Sarah Baughman.

Is anybody else out there a terrible titler?

Naming pieces of writing is one of the hardest parts of the process for me. To give you an idea of just how hard, I offer this confession: in college I wrote a swath of poems as various incarnations of “Untitled” (I was even known to title poems in a series “Untitled 1,” “Untitled 2,” “Untitled 3″…). Pretty bad, I know.

What is it about titling that’s so difficult? Personally, I have a hard time being succinct, and it’s even more difficult to achieve that in a title that’s simultaneously meaningful, catchy, and relevant to the work as a whole.

Since I have some writing I’ve been putting off submitting for publication in large part because I can’t for the life of me figure out what to call it, I decided it was time to stage an intervention. For myself. I took a long look at titles and identified some major types in hopes that doing so would help me divine how great authors handle such a tricky task. This list is hardly exhaustive, but it’s a start.

Types of Titles

Direct Character Descriptor

Some titles refer quite specifically to a particular character; many offer a key description whose significance emerges through reading.

Consider using it if: A particular characteristic of your protagonist drives the plot.

Examples:

• The Girl With The Pearl Earring, by Tracy Chevalier
• The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, by Kim Edwards
• The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, by David Wroblewski

Indirect Character Descriptor

These titles refer to characters as well, but in more general terms or using only a descriptor as opposed to a specific pronoun.

Consider using it if: Something that happens to, or embodies, your protagonist is ultimately more significant than his or her separate identity.

Examples:

• The Help, by Kathryn Stockett
• The Namesake, by Jhumpa Lahiri
• Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, by Annie Dillard

Setting Descriptor

Titles that indicate setting can be poetic or plain, mysterious or straightforward; what unites them is their shift in focus from person to place.

Consider using it if: Where or When your story takes place drives the plot.

Examples:

• House of Sand and Fog, by Andres Dubus
• Shutter Island, by Dennis Lehane
• The House at Tyneford, by Natasha Solomon

Gerund Verb

There’s just something about an -ing verb; these titles feel active, assertive, and suggestive of an exciting read.

Consider using it if: An action characters perform drives the plot.

Examples:

• Running the Rift, by Naomi Benarom
• Bringing Up Bebé, by Pamela Druckerman
• Losing Clementine, by Ashley Ream

One Word

Sometimes that’s all it takes. These titles stand out because of their spare clarity; just make sure the word you choose counts for a lot.

Consider using it if: You want to pack a punch and can condense the essence of your work into a single noun or descriptor.

Examples:

• Run, by Ann Patchett
• Saturday, by Ian McEwan
• The Reader, by Bernhard Schlink

Poetic

Poetic language doesn’t just belong in poems. A pretty, descriptive title attracts readers.

Consider using it if: Your story is rich in metaphor, you want to call attention to a particular detail, or you want to create a mystical effect.

Examples:

• Tomorrow River, by Lesley Kagen
• Dry Grass of August, by Anna Jean Mahew
• Half of a Yellow Sun, by Chimamanda Ngozi

Surprising or Strange

There’s just enough oddness in these titles to make you want to read further and figure out what in the world is going on.

Consider using it if: A contradiction in your work can be easily summed up.

Examples:

• The Tenderness of Wolves, by Stef Penney
• Holy Fools, by Joanne Harris
• What is the What, by Dave Eggers

Prepositional Phrase

These titles suggest you’re already in the middle of the action. They’re unfinished; they suggest a question. Which, of course, is a great reason to read.

Consider using it if: An important message in your work can also be expressed through concrete action.

Examples:

• To Kill A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
• By the Iowa Sea, by Joe Blair
• In One Person, by John Irving

Saying With A Twist

Titles that relay something people are used to hearing, but not quite, create immediate intrigue.

Consider using it if: You’re witty and can figure out how to reappropriate a cliché or common phrase to reflect a theme in your work.

Examples:

• Birds of a Lesser Paradise, by Megan Mayhew Bergman
• Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, by Barbara Kingsolver
• A Spoonful of Promises, by T. Susan Chang

Noun, Plus

These titles create a distinct image, concrete or poetic, that elaborates on a key noun.

Consider using it if: When you sum up your work, it’s not a single word, but an action, phrase, or description that comes to mind.

Examples:

• A Million Little Pieces, by James Frey
• The Art of Hearing Heartbeats, by Jan-Philipp Sendker
• A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty, by Joshilyn Jackson

Two-Part Title

Particularly common in non-fiction works, two-part titles are generally made up of an interesting hook and a longer, relatively detailed explanation of exactly what the work entails.

Consider using it if: A catch-phrase isn’t enough; you want to be creative but also explain exactly what readers will encounter.

Examples:

• It Sucked and then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita, by Heather B. Armstrong (Phrase + Explanation)
• Bloom: Finding Beauty in the Unexpected, by Kelle Hampton (Single Word + Explanation)
• Confessions of a Scary Mommy: An Honest and Irreverent Look at Motherhood: The Good, The Bad, and the Scary,  by Jill Smokler (Short Plot Description + Explanation)
• Extra Virginity: The Sublime and Scandalous World of Olive Oil, by Tom Mueller (Twist + Explanation)

How To Title

How do you decide on a title for your work? Do you have any strategies that work particularly well? 

Please welcome today’s aspiring author, Cody Connor, ready for a peer critique.

Take a moment to read the excerpt, then please leave some thoughtful feedback in the comment section below.

If you are a writer whose excerpt has appeared anonymously on Write It Sideways, and now you’d like your name to appear on your piece, please contact me.

World Apart

Science Fiction

*Please note:  This excerpt is taken from the beginning of the work.

The trio stood adjacent at the apex of the mount, their minds whirling as they stared out across the open valley before them. The sky was already shifting red with sunset, the hills on the horizon looming dark silhouettes on the fiery backdrop. The basin thrived with grasses and shrubs yet trees were absent, the openness revealing every detail to their sights. A towering precipice enclosed the region, its rugged walls embracing stones that threatened to fall but did not. The cliff’s shadowed face rose at such an angle that scaling it would be impossible without equipment; they knew that the only exit was where they now stood.

Darkened figures littered the glade, tall and rectangular but glistening in spots where the retreating light bounced off their lustrous surfaces: metallic they inferred. But what these objects were, they didn’t know, and it plagued their thoughts until the answer interrupted with a deafening boom that sent them reeling and ducking.

The racket of smashing metal boomed and echoed throughout the enclosing, initially the product of one box but then, slowly, the sporadic sounding of them all. The silent vista morphed instantly into chaos, the walls of the metal boxes shifting from within against blows of inhuman strength.

Cages.

The three stared at each other, their hearts racing as they awaited the moment when the structures would give way. They gripped their weapons tightly and cocked them in preparation. The click of bullets dropping into position drowned instantly amongst the clamor. Whatever they were, the creatures within were sent to kill, and their ferocity flaunted this charge.

Potential Feedback Prompts

When you respond, you might consider:

• your immediate reactions
• likes and dislikes
• anything that seems unclear
• language issues
• point of view
• voice
• inconsistencies
• general encouragement

Thanks!

Today’s post is written by regular contributor Susan Bearman.

Choosing the right words can make the difference between flat, tedious writing and writing that sings a clear, sweet song.

Adjectives and adverbs are fine in moderation, but strong verbs will propel your writing forward and engage your reader in a sensory adventure.

Flowery or distracting language can be just as risky, taking the reader right out of the story. When you feel an overwhelming need to spice up your writing with more adjectives or adverbs, take a closer look at your verbs.

Show, Don’t Tell

Every writer knows this mantra, but sometimes it’s hard to figure out exactly what that means. The verb “to be” and all its iterations often takes a writer down the “telling” path. Here’s a blatant example:

“The mountain was big.”—How big? Bigger than a car? A house?

I’m telling you something here about a mountain, but not showing you anything at all. Here’s how a couple of strong verbs can show how big that mountain really is:

“Mt. Rainier thrusts its stony, snow-capped peak more than 14,000 feet into the brilliant blue skies of western Washington, where it reigns as the tallest mountain in the lower 48 states.”

One more:

“The movie was great.”—Really? You wouldn’t know it from that sentence. How about:

“The new indie film struck a chord with the audience, who gasped in horror over the grisly murder, but laughed uproariously when the murderer slipped on a bloody banana peel.”

But wait, there’s as an adverb in that sentence: uproariously. True, but I believe this is one of those instances when replacing the verb “to laugh” with a synonym would only distract the reader, rather than enhance the sentence. See what you think.

“The new indie film struck a chord with the audience, who gasped in horror over the grisly murder, but …

• … guffawed when the murderer slipped on a bloody banana peel.”
• … snickered when the murderer slipped on a bloody banana peel.”
• … tittered when the murderer slipped on a bloody banana peel.”

In each of these examples, I found the replacement verb distracting, so I stuck with my original verb: “to laugh”. The problem was that just “laughing” didn’t seem to provide enough of a contrast to gasping in horror, so I added “uproariously” to heighten the difference.

Adverbs and adjectives are not bad in and of themselves. Words are a writer’s palette and they come in all colors, but writers should choose carefully, not rely on the default settings.

“To write” is a verb—an action word—so act with intention when you write.

Context Matters

Finding the right word is often dependent on context. A flabby verb will work almost anywhere, but a strong verb fits best within a particular context. For example, let’s look at two sentences using the common (flabby) verb “went”:

• The racehorse went around the track three times.
• The airplane went slowly across the tarmac.

While the word “went” works just as well (or poorly) in each of these sentences, stronger, more precise verbs will bring them to life and paint completely different pictures.

• The racehorse trotted around the track three times.
• The racehorse galloped around the track three times.
• The racehorse limped around the track three times.

“Trotted”, “galloped”, and “limped” are all fine synonyms for “went” in this sentence, and each one delivers a different image of our horse. None of these verbs, however, can replace “went” in our second sentence, but a more precise verb choice, such as “inched” or “rolled”, will give us a better picture of how that plane moved on the tarmac.

I recently gave this same exercise to some students, asking them to replace the word “went” in the following 10 sentences. In parentheses, I have shown their suggestions. We then voted on the best changes.

Which verb would you have chosen, or do you have an even better suggestion?

1. The jockey nearly flew off his saddle as the horse went (raced, ran, bolted, galloped) for the finish line.
2. The ghost faded before their eyes as he went (floated, disappeared, evaporated, glided) through the closed door.
3. The old jalopy went (zigzagged, lumbered, hiccoughed, bumbled) down the street, belching little clouds of black smoke in its wake.
4. Even with a fever of 104°, the dedicated nurse  went (dragged herself, made it, schlepped, trudged) to the hospital.
5. “You’re going to miss my exit!” shouted the passenger, as the taxi driver made a hard right and went (careened, rolled, skidded, screeched) onto the ramp.
6. The passengers heaved a collective sigh of relief as the airplane went (lifted, rose, glided, elevated) silently up into the sky.
7. After months of suffering, the cancer patient went (passed away, perished, died, expired) quietly in his sleep.
8. While the grownups around him carefully avoided the puddles, the little boy went (jumped, skipped, splashed, pranced) right through them.
9. “I’m not tired and I don’t want to go to bed!” Tommy protested as he went (stomped, scrambled, trudged, stumbled) up the stairs.
10. Batman went (dove, stormed, swung, soared) into action, taking the bad guys by surprise.

One of my favorite classroom exercises is to bring in a poster board titled “Bad Words”, with the list of offending words draped in a piece of black tissue paper. I tell the class to think (not say) the worst word they can think of. This always elicits lots of giggling and then surprise when I reveal my list of “bad words”:

Today’s post is written by regular contributor Sarah Baughman.

I often read about the importance of spicing writing up with dialogue or description: a little show-don’t-tell language, a heated argument relayed with fast-paced exclamation points, a vivid image, an exchange whose subtext reveals more than the words themselves.

“Absolutely!” I always say. “I need to include more of that in my writing.” The only question is—when? How can I gauge when to give way to rich description, and when to let my characters speak for themselves?

Certainly part of the decision depends on balance. If we rely only on dialogue or description, challenging ourselves to develop the other at some point will surely benefit our writing. But assuming we strive to incorporate both in appropriate measures, are there any indicators available to help us see in which instances one might serve more purpose than the other?

Choosing Dialogue

Dialogue reads easily; it’s familiar, and its structure mimics regular conversations. It’s by nature colloquial and comfortable. Consider inserting dialogue when you want to:

1. Establish mystery or create tension between what’s said and what’s meant.

Readers can be just as taken with what isn’t said as with what is; suspense grows from reading between the lines. The following excerpt from Sara Gruen’s Like Water for Elephants (pg. 187) recounts an exchange between the protagonist and antagonist, and the fact that the characters don’t tell the whole story suggests a lot about their relationship as well as how the plot might develop.

“I need to arrange to get a doctor out here.”
“Why?”
I hesitate. “I’d rather not say.”
“Ah,” he says, winking at me. “I understand.”
“What?” I say, horrified. “No. It’s nothing like that.” I glance at Marlena, who turns quickly toward the window. “It’s for a friend of mine.”
“Yes, of course it is,” says August, smiling.
“No, it really is. And it’s not…Look, I just wondered if you knew of anyone. Never mind. I’ll walk into town and see what I can find.”

2. Accentuate a character’s voice or personality.

Think about the key relationships in your life and the extent to which conversation fuels them. Can’t we determine a lot about someone from the way they speak—their tone, vocabulary, syntax, use of humor or sarcasm?

In the following excerpt from She’s Come Undone (pg. 220), Wally Lamb expertly illustrates in just a few sentences of dialogue the differences between two characters. Marcia’s proper chiding, her quaint, chaste expression (“fry ice!”) contrasts perfectly with Naomi’s blunt, crass response, efficiently setting the two women at odds.

“Now you just watch your language and I mean it,” Marcia said.
“Oh yeah, your virgin ears,” Naomi laughed. “That’s probably your trouble, Marcia. Virgnity.”
A tremor passed over Marcia’s face. “You know, Naomi, I try hard to love a little something about every gal in this dormitory. But you can just go fry ice!”

3. Step back from interpretation; let characters reveal relationships.

In description, writers choose key details; they create metaphors that carry subtle connotations and paint images that might guide readers to a certain feeling about the subject being described.

Bare-bones dialogue leaves interpretation to the reader; it’s a pure form of characterization. In fiction, characters often take on lives of their own, ones the author might not have predicted at the beginning. In creative non-fiction, relaying a conversation ensures objectivity.

Consider how, in the following excerpt from A Thousand Splendid Suns (pg. 209), Khaled Hosseini creates an argument between two characters whose stark dialogue, unaffected by description, refrains from judgment:

“Where did you put it?” she said, wheeling around to face Laila.
“Me?” Laila said. “I didn’t take it. I hardly come in here.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Is that an accusation? It’s how you wanted it, remember. You said you would make the meals. But if you want to switch–”
“So you’re saying it grew little legs and walked out…”

Choosing Description

Rich description brings readers into the world we’ve created, making fictional settings and characters undoubtedly real. Consider inserting description when you want to:

1. Explore the significance of setting.

Writers know that characters, like people, are influenced by their environments. Using vivid description to linger on aspects of setting especially important to plot or character development is an excellent strategy.

In Snow Falling on Cedars (pg. 5), David Guterson assigns human qualities (optimistic, implacable) to his setting:

A few wind-whipped and decrepit Victorian mansions, remnants of a lost era of seagoing optimism, loomed out of the snowfall on the town’s sporadic hills. Beyond them, cedars wove a steep mat of still green. The snow blurred from vision the clean contours of these cedar hills. The sea wind drove snowflakes steadily inland, hurling them against the fragrant trees, and the snow began to settle on the highest branches with a gentle implacability. 

2. Create a close study of one character’s private thoughts.

We can carefully script and edit what we actually say out loud, but our thoughts run wild. Description reveals truths about a character that might seem unrealistically revealing or even disingenuous if spoken in conversation.

In this excerpt from The Snow Child (pg. 3), Eowyn Ivey uses imagery to plumb her main character’s disappointment with a depth Mabel certainly could not bring herself to reveal through dialogue:

Mabel had known there would be silence. That was the point, after all. No infants cooing or wailing. No neighbor children playfully hollering downy he lane. No pad of small feet on wooden stairs worn smooth by generations, or clackety-clack of toys along the kitchen floor. All those sounds of her failure and regret would be left behind, and in their place there would be silence. 

3. Move plot forward quickly, using shifts in time.

Vivid description can quickly layer different plotlines to create an unconventional narrative structure. In Cold Mountain (pgs. 4-5), Charles Frazier uses an element of setting–a window–to trigger a character’s memory and build backstory:

Inman suspected that after such long examination, the grey window had finally said about all it had to say. That morning, though, it surprised him, for it brought to mind a lost memory of sitting in school, a similar tall window beside him framing a scene of pastures and low green ridges terracing up to the vast hump of Cold Mountain…The memory passed on as the light from the window rose toward day. 

How do dialogue and description complement one another? How do you determine whether to develop one or the other in a particular part of your manuscript?