Craft Of Writing

Braiding Prose

January 17, 2024 by Cameron Montague Taylor Leave a Comment

If developmental or structural editing focuses on what your story is about, line editing focuses on how your story is told. The what and the how are inseparable elements; line level skills like effective dialogue, rhythmic writing, psychic distance and manipulation of POV, quick transitions, snappy action, etc. can have impacts far beyond the line level.

Effective (or ineffective!) prose will have a dramatic impact on characterization, the development of story arcs, pacing, foreshadowing, reader attachment, worldbuilding, and the connectivity between scenes—to name a few!

What makes prose effective? Hooboy, I could write posts and posts on prose and merely scratch the surface. But if I were to name one of the biggest make-or-break skills I see new writers struggling with, it’d be narrative balance.

As an editor, one of the easiest ways to tell whether a writer is a beginner, intermediate, or advanced is through how well they vary and balance different narrative techniques in their prose. In modern fiction, there are four skills or ‘styles’ to conquer on the quest to write more compelling and immersive narratives: action, description, dialogue, and interiority.

In this post, we’ll do a deep dive into these four different styles, get a tip for a writing exercise geared towards improving narrative variation, and, at the end, we’ll do a case study that applies this writing exercise to four different SFF novels: Black Sun by Rebecca Roanhorse, A Strange and Stubborn Endurance by Foz Meadows, Frostbitten by Dietrich Stogner, and Bioluminescence by Toni Duarte.

In fiction, there are four major narrative building blocks:

Action (sometimes called stage direction, ie: she picked up the cup)
Description (ie: it was a beautiful summer’s day)
Dialogue (self-explanatory, I hope)
Interiority (verbatim or summarized thought)

Strong writers have a facility with blending all four of these elements to create a balanced, compelling story. Well-braided prose reads easily and provides both enough external motion to be interesting and enough interiority to deliver context and give the story meaning.

“But Cee, there are dialogue-only stories that work beautifully!”

There sure are! But you can rest assured that writers with the chops to create a phenomenal, dialogue-only story first learned how to balance and braid prose, then took on the challenge of warping that braid. Or, to use a favorite metaphor of mine: even Jackson Pollock took figure drawing. Writers of experimental prose still have the ability to braid their narrative elements, but they’re choosing not to for stylistic reasons.

I’ve used the term ‘braid’ a few times, now, which is how I think of prose: a bit like a braided cord, or a tapestry, or perhaps a spider web. Eliminate a strand (or use too little of it, or pick it apart) and you won’t have a functioning braid!

Brand new writers tend to either forget one of these elements or choose a balance that’s so skewed, one of the elements might as well not be there. They’ll write so much action the story feels like stage direction / alt text on a video, or so much interiority that the protagonist live in their head and the story never advances. There will be so much dialogue that the whole story feels like back-and-forth, or so little that the reader gets told important conversations happen, but never gets to see them.

So little description that the characters might as well be in a white room, or so much that the prose becomes overwrought (ie: purple).

As writers level up, they’ll get better at keeping a hold on all four cords, and tend to balance them more and more evenly throughout the manuscript. However, that initial balance often happens in chunks: a paragraph of action, then a paragraph of description, then a half-page of dialogue, then a paragraph of interiority . . . rinse, repeat. Although chunking can certainly work where appropriate and stylistically necessary, if the prose doesn’t get braided at the sentence or paragraph level, it will eventually begin to feel disjoined and difficult to read.

Practiced writers will move seamlessly between these four narrative elements within a paragraph—sometimes even clause-to-clause in a single sentence! This braiding technique will pull the reader into the story, immerse them in the prose, and make reading feel effortless.

(And for those of us writing genre fiction, effortless is the name of the game!)

In order to determine whether or not you’re effectively braiding your prose, check out one of my favorite exercises:

The Highlighter Exercise

Either on the computer or in a printed copy, pick a scene and four highlighters. The individual colors don’t matter, but for the purposes of this exercise, I’ve chosen:

Yellow for action
Blue for description
Pink/purple for dialogue
Green for interiority

Highlight your scenes using these colors. Some writers like highlighting at the sentence level, but I typically go clause-by-clause to get as specific as possible. If I’m on the fence about a phrase, I try to look at what function it serves within the passage and go with my gut.

One you’re finished, you’ll have a clear visual of whether, where, and how you’ve braided narrative styles. Zoom out and look at the colors on the screen (or page):

Are the colors braided? Do you have any blocks of one particular narration style? Are any missing? What kind of narration do you tend to lean on? What impact do you think it’s having on the scene you’re working with? Remember, it’s normal for action to dominate an action scene, or for dialogue to disappear from a scene where the POV character is alone. But if a particular trend persists for pages upon pages, it could be a sign that something isn’t quite right.

My favorite thing about the highlighter exercise is how it takes the guesswork out of assessing my writing. Instead of working off of ‘feel’ or ‘vibes,’ I have a clear picture of my narration style, and can determine whether the balance I’ve chosen suits the story I’m trying to tell.

Of course, not every author’s ‘braid’—nor even every scene written by the same author—will look the same. For the second half of this post, we’ll be doing a deeper dive on the four different narrative styles and taking a look at examples of highlighted, braided passages from four different SFF authors.

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Using Description to Enhance Character

January 2, 2024 by Cameron Montague Taylor Leave a Comment

Does anyone else hear the phrase “a picture is worth a thousand words” and feel a vague sense of dread?

No? Just me? Too many years of writing and editing, I guess 😅.

Jokes aside, one of the issues I notice both in my own work and in client work is the dreaded overwritten draft. I put too many words onto the page because I feel like I need to describe everything I ‘see’ when the story enters a new setting. Or because I’m trying super hard to drive a point home. Or because there’s something important about what I’m describing, and I don’t quite trust myself to build up enough context for the reader to ‘get’ it.

One of the best pieces of writing advice I’ve received was to be sure all of my written-word ‘pictures’ were doing double-duty. In other words, my descriptions are never just about telling the reader what something looks like. Rather, I’m using the description as an opportunity to do one of the following:

Tell the reader something about the POV character
Enrich the POV character’s voice
Tell the reader something about the quality/nature of what’s being described (beyond its appearance)
Establish a vibe

When we pack extra layers of meaning into our descriptive prose, we’re no longer giving the reader a laundry list of facts. Instead, we’re giving them context through which they can better understand the POV character, the side characters, the setting, or the story as a whole.

Let’s dive in with some examples.

Great description can use comparison to tell us about the POV character—sneakily.

She was taller than him, though given how frequently his sister called him “short king,” that wasn’t surprising. What did catch him off-guard was the sheen to her dress, the fancy little rhinestones on her heels—the whole look, really. It had him second-guessing his choice of jeans and gym shoes.

Here, we learn two important physical details about our POV character: he’s short, and he’s wearing jeans and gym shoes. We also learn four other non-physical details: he has a sister, he has a relatively healthy relationship to his height, he’s the kind of person who notices an outfit, and he’s invested enough in whatever event he’s attending to care about how others perceive him and what he’s wearing.

That’s a lot of heavy lifting for a description! And it’s much more interesting than saying something like “She was tall and wore a cocktail dress with a slight sheen and a pair of matching rhinestone heels.”

You can use this same technique to divulge important backstory for the POV character:

I did a double-take. He had the same sunken eyes and crooked grin as Mr. Anders, my sophomore math teacher. It wasn’t him—this guy was much taller, and had far meatier shoulders—but I can’t say I was disappointed. I’d never been a math guy, and Anders hadn’t exactly appreciated the hard work I’d put into cheating on my midterm exam.

Whether or not it’s important to the story that the protagonist cheated on their sophomore math midterm, these little backstory details serve two additional purposes: they 1) contribute to the perception that the POV character is a full and complete human with a full and complete life that predated the start of the story, and 2) help the reader better understand what kind of person the POV character is.

But that’s not the only way description can enhance characterization.

Strong description is voicey.

Consider the difference in personality between these two narrators:

Narrator one:

Those fucking mountains. I’d nearly frozen my ass off crossing their snow-capped peaks to get here, and I didn’t relish the thought of trekking back through them again. But they boxed in the city on all sides, and short of rolling over and dying here in Niasenne, trek I would.

Narrator two:

I dreaded our return to the mountains. The crossing to Niasenne had been treacherous, and twice, I’d feared the range’s vicious blizzards would end us. Yet the trade roads had closed for the season, and frigid peaks ringed the city, leaving us with few other options. If we wished to fulfill the Acranist’s directive, trek we would.

These two narrators sound like entirely different people, and they very likely are—unless Narrator One is how the POV character would express themself in monologue and Narrator Two is how they’d write in a journal or letter. This is what agents and editors say when they talk about voicey prose. Even the description of something as simple as a mountain range feels deeply tinged with the narrator’s speech patterns, opinions, and personality.

Description can tell us about more than just appearance.

By injecting personality into description, we can transmit information about the quality and nature of what’s being described. This doesn’t have to be opinion-driven. One of the most effective ways to deliver context—particularly worldbuilding context—is by parceling out description in this way. For example:

I counted seventeen men in red-tufted helmets—three short of a full squadron. Had they lost men along the way, or was the draft so unpopular they couldn’t drum up enough hands for the cause?

Especially in SF and Fantasy, the reader relies on the narrating character to unpack and give meaning to the worldbuilding facts delivered through descriptive narration. By blending description with processing and conjecture, you can build that context in slow layers (rather than tossing it all out in a single, massive worldbuilding dump).

These little layers of context can also be deeply subjective when necessary:

His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut, but for a smile like that? She was willing to risk it.

This one might be short and to the point, but it’s powerful, right? It not only tells us something about the physical attractiveness of the character being described, but about 1) how the POV character perceives that attractiveness and 2) what she’s willing to do about it.

That’s a lot of context for a single line of narration! And if you’ve ever wondered how Romance authors use narrative sleight-of-hand to weave compelling chemistry between their lead characters . . . this is one of many great tools in their toolbox.

Use description to establish vibes.

Which leads me into my final point. Description can be used to establish the most nebulous elements of a story: the vibes. Consider the difference between these two sentences:

A set of knife-point peaks loomed over the fortress.

And

Beyond the fortress walls, towering mountains stretched to the sky as if in prayer.

These lines give us the same raw descriptive information, right? There’s a fortress. Beyond it are very tall mountains. But the word choice, sentence structure, and delivery of those lines changes the vibe entirely.

The first example is sharp, blunt, and to-the-point. It uses a slightly uncomfortable metaphor (knife-point peaks) and establishes the threatening nature of the mountains by showing them “looming” over the fortress. By contrast, the second example is lyrical and flowy, and it uses a two-clause sentence. Here, the mountains don’t loom—they tower. Alliteration softens the phrase with “stretch to the sky,” and rather than leaning on violent characterization, the final phrase, “as if in prayer,” gives the impression of yearning piety.

This kind of writing can enhance the mood / vibe of a story. Furthermore, specific verbiage or imagery can play into a motif that reinforces the story’s theme, foreshadows a future event, or creates a narrative callback to earlier scenes. Horror writers will choose language carefully to cultivate dread; on the flip side, comedic writers will craft parallels that get the reader chuckling or, otherwise, help set up a joke.

Matching the vibe to the story (and authorial intent) is important, and descriptive verbiage is a powerful tool for doing so.

A picture is worth a thousand words

A picture might be worth a thousand words, but so, too, are a handful of well-crafted sentences that leverage the true power of strong descriptive writing. Next time you find yourself with several paragraphs of narration or description, run the section through this system to figure out whether it would be possible to add dimension.

Great description can serve double- and triple-duty, just like a beautifully painted portrait. Now let’s pick up our brushes and get writing!

Interested in working more on descriptive prose and character voice? I’ve made a worksheet for using description in both narration and dialogue to sharpen characterization. Check it out under ‘free resources’ in the shop!

“Why is this romance eating my brain?”

November 22, 2023 by Cameron Montague Taylor Leave a Comment

“Why is this romance arc eating my brain?“

I’ve asked myself this question countless times. It’s usually accompanied by “how the heck can I write something that hooks my readers as hard as this hooked me?” and “what is it about a great romantic arc that can turn a Fantasy novel from ‘good’ to ‘I think about this book while showering, grocery shopping, and struggling my way through the gym?’“

For me, the answer lies in the fundamental nature of a capital-R romance. As we’re reading, the question isn’t whether the characters are going to end up together; if the story is billed as a Romance—even if that Romance is a subgenre—we know it’s going to end in a happily-for-now or a happily-ever-after. The question, then, is how the characters are going to end up together.

In other words, some part of our subconscious mind is curious not about the novelty, the surprise, or the external plot events, but rather, the recipe and roadmap for how these characters find a way to be together. We crave these insights into relationships on a fundamental, human level.

Or, to quote Lisa Cron, author of Wired for Story:

“Story is how we make sense of the world.”

Here’s an excerpt from a blog she wrote for Writer Unboxed shortly after publishing Wired for Story:

It’s long been known that the brain has one goal: survival. It evaluates everything we encounter based on a very simple question: Is this going to help me or hurt me? Not just physically, but emotionally as well.

The brain’s goal is to then predict what might happen, so we can figure out what the hell to do about it before it does. That’s where story comes in. By letting us vicariously experience difficult situations and problems we haven’t actually lived through, story bestows upon us, risk free, a treasure trove of useful intel, just in case. And so back in the Stone Age, even though those shiny red berries looked delicious, we remembered the story of the Neanderthal next door who gobbled ‘em down and promptly keeled over, and made do with a couple of stale old beetles instead.

Story was so crucial to our survival that the brain evolved specifically to respond to it, especially once we realized that banding together in social groups makes surviving a whole lot easier.

Suddenly it wasn’t just about figuring out the physical world, it was about something far trickier: navigating the social realm.

In short, we’re wired to turn to story to teach us the way of the world and give us insight into what makes people tick, the better to discern whether the cute guy in the next cubicle really is single like he says, and to plan the perfect comeuppance if he’s not.

The sense of urgency we feel when a good story grabs us is nature’s way of making sure we pay attention to it. It turns out that intoxicating sensation is not arbitrary, ephemeral or “magic,” even though it sure feels like magic. It’s physical. It’s a rush of the neural pleasure transmitter, dopamine. And it has a very specific purpose. Want to know what triggers it?

When we actively pursue new information – that is, when we want to know what happens next — curiosity rewards us with a flood of dopamine to keep us reading long after midnight because tomorrow we just might need the insight it will give us.

So how do authors who really hook us with these romantic arcs ignite this sense of curiosity and flood us with ooey gooey happy hormones? What is it about the relationships they’re creating that makes us crave the insight they give us? Here’s my theory:

When we intellectually and emotionally enmesh ourselves with a fictional romantic arc—particularly one in dual-genre fiction with a strong external plot—we’re feeding off the power of a well-written, self-actualizing relationship.

In more Cee-like terms, the crackiest dual-genre, romantic arcs are all about transformation.

When I talk about romance with other readers and writers, I find the conversation often turns to tropes (there was only one bed, the third act breakup, enemies-to-lovers, etc.). These conversations—and tropes—are fun, but they don’t form the backbone of a romantic arc.

Tropes are window dressing. They’re plot devices through which writers can introduce conflict, but when we focus on tropes at the expense of crafting solid character arcs, the story ends up feeling like a house built out of throw pillows. Cushy, but not the sort of structure we want to live in for weeks after reading “the end.”

Romance, when presented as a transformative experience, fundamentally changes the participating characters. And while tropes can be a vehicle for the motion of the external plot—a fun premise, if you will—they aren’t the engine behind transformative character growth.

True tension in romantic arcs lies in their connection both to the character’s arc and to the external plot arc. These arcs function as a ‘third rail,’ powering and propelling the story. The spark generated through tension between the romance, the characters’ individual growth arcs, and the external plot is that Ingredient X; readers believe these characters must be together because, on some level, they recognize that the success of the relationship is integrally tied to whether or not the protagonist will ‘win’ against the external plot problem by the end of the story.

Writers create this integral tie in one of two ways:

1) Character growth generates the possibility for a romantic relationship which didn’t exist at the beginning of the story, and the synergistic relationship between the protag and love interest allow them to solve an external plot problem which would be impossible for either of them to battle alone, or

2) The development of a romantic relationship between two compatible characters drives their character growth; they become better people for having known one another, and by growing into this better version of themselves, the protagonist accesses/unlocks the skills necessary to defeat the external plot problem, often with assistance from the love interest.

You might recognize #1 as an enemies-to-lovers arc (because it is ;)). These characters grow for the better throughout the first half of the story, often from having known one another, and thus grow ‘toward’ one another for long enough that a romance becomes a viable option. #2 better describes friends/teammates/rivals-to-lovers: two adult characters who are relatively emotionally mature, who pique one another’s interest fairly quickly and embark upon a romantic relationship which transforms their character arc.

These different methods of connecting character, romance, and external plot yield different “push” and “pull” factors. Every good romance has both, and every good romance writer does clever work shifting the balance between these factors throughout the story. “Push” factors keep the characters apart; “pull” factors encourage them to be together.

At the beginning of the story, push factors outweigh pull. The super-tense-and-satisfying romantic tipping point happens when those pull factors finally eclipse the push. In other words: for these characters to get together, something fundamental needs to change. In #1, that’s something fundamental about the characters. They’re not suitable partners for one another at the beginning of the story, so they must become suitable partners for one another before the scale can tip. The factors in #2 are usually external*; the characters simply don’t know one another well enough yet, or they don’t have time to embark upon a romantic relationship, or the external plot / other characters keep getting in the way, or the risk of being discovered is too high, etc. etc.

Sometimes a plot that primarily relies on #2 will throw in a few character-level stumbling blocks (a fear of intimacy, romantic inexperience, etc.), but these don’t require character growth to overcome so much as they require a reframing or perspective shift, which tends to happen earlier in the story than the character-level changes you might see in #1.

(*A note on external factors:

External factors are like any other plot-point or method of conflict generation, and obey the same dramatic rules. In other words, they must be part of a cause-and-effect chain that makes sense. Romantic tropes that make us roll our eyes do so because they don’t make sense. They’re plot-convenient conflict thrown in for the sake of creating a push-factor so the characters don’t get together too fast. If you’ve ever found yourself deeply annoyed by a third-act breakup… this is probably why.

Push-factors strain credulity and feel unsatisfying when they aren’t grounded in the reality of those characters’ flaws. They make little sense given what we know about the character, and they aren’t hooked to the events of the external plot in a sensible, well-foreshadowed, well-constructed twist.

In other words, conflict for the sake of conflict is just as annoying in fiction as it is in real life.)

Romantic arcs #1 and #2, when well executed, rest on an extremely strong premise:

Being a part of a self-actualizing relationship makes us stronger. Whether romantic or otherwise, this is a fundamental human truth: we are social animals, and our survival (literal, emotional, etc.) depends on the relationships we build with others.

Great romantic arcs contain magic because they hit upon one of the most fundamental human questions:

How do I find and cultivate relationships that help me thrive?

These arcs are satisfying because the protagonist’s interactions with the love interest help both of them grow. This growth brings them closer. It allows them to pursue a healthy and fulfilling romantic relationship, and their newfound strength—as well as the strength of the relationship—is the well they draw upon in order to defeat the story’s villains.

This isn’t a matter of the love interest ‘saving’ the protagonist, or vice versa. Rather, they’re driving growth in one anotheruntil they’re strong/healed enough to save themselves. When talking about these kinds of arcs, we sometimes use phrases like “they saved one another,” but that’s not entirely accurate. These arcs feel so good because they play not into our desire to be saved, but into our deep craving for transformative experiences.

We love the love that makes us love ourselves.

Great, capital-R, romantic arcs yield self-actualizing relationships. They’re fundamentally compelling because, even if we as readers wouldn’t want to be in an IRL romantic relationship with either character, we want the kind of relationship these characters end up having: ie, one in which our partner acts as a source of support, inspiration, and accountability as we grow into the kind of person we want and need to be.

The magic of a well-crafted Romance—the sort of magic that gets us imagining those characters while we’re in the shower or riding the bus—lies in how it sends the reader on a profound emotional journey with the characters. These stories are as much about personal growth as they are about romantic attachment, and focus on building relationships in which each character is better off for having known and loved the other.

And isn’t that what we truly want in all of our relationships, romantic or otherwise?

As Lisa Cron said, “story is how we make sense of the world.”

The greatest romances are the ones that make the most beautiful sense for both partners.

Commonly Misused Dialogue Tags

October 4, 2023 by Cameron Montague Taylor 2 Comments

Kermit The Frog Reaction GIF by Muppet Wiki

The most frequent dialogue-related errors I see when editing manuscripts have to do with how authors tag and punctuate their dialogue. To be more specific:

Authors tend to confuse dialogue tags with common, mouth-related action beats.

This isn’t going to be a post knocking said-bookisms. While I’m a big fan of reducing the number of said-bookisms in our writing (because I think they’re a crutch), alternative tags have a time and a place, and I’d never presume to tell authors to leave them out of their writing entirely. However, I’ve found that a proliferation of said-bookisms within an author’s manuscript often correlates with the improper punctuation of action beats.

To explain what I mean, let me briefly go back to basics:

What’s a dialogue tag?

Dialogue tags are words that:

Identify the speaker
(Sometimes) give a clue re: pronunciation or delivery
Are verbs which must have something to do with the production of speech

Said and asked are the most common dialogue tags, but said-bookisms like whispered, hissed, or spat are also common in published works.

In fact, here’s a whole list of the most commonly used tags I see in fiction:

Said
Asked
Replied
Exclaimed
Shouted
Muttered
Whispered
Yelled
Mumbled
Spat
Cried
Murmured
Snarked*

*Why an asterisk for snarked? Stand-by; I’ll get to it in the second half of this post

Notice that all of these words hit bullets 1 & 3; they identify the speaker and have to do with the production of speech. Everything but said/asked/replied also serves as a tone-tag.

Contrast those with action beats.

What’s an action beat?

When referring to dialogue passages, an action beat is a brief physical movement made by the speaking character. Beats are most obvious when they’re short phrases:

Rubbed the back of [her] neck
Bit [his] lip
Folded [their] arms
Ran fingers through [zer] hair

Action beats have to do with what the speaker is doing while they’re talking, but aren’t related to the production of speech itself. For example:

Gestured
Nodded
Sighed
Shrugged
Grimaced
Smiled
Grinned
Smirked
Sneered
Huffed**
Gasped**
Laughed**

Here’s the tricky part: many of these one-word beats have to do with the head, nose, mouth, breath, or sound one makes before, after, or alongside speech. While they don’t have to do with the production of speech itself, the simultaneity and proximity to speech means they’re commonly confused with or treated as dialogue tags and not action beats.

Why does this matter?

Because dialogue tags and action beats are punctuated differently.

Punctuating dialogue tags vs. action beats

Consider the difference in punctuation between the following examples:

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“I don’t think so.” She smirked.

When using a tag, the dialogue finishes with a comma instead of a period, and the word that follows the end quote isn’t capitalized. When using an action beat, the dialogue finishes with a period, forming a complete sentence, and the word that follows the end quote is capitalized.

Here’s another example:

“Oh, really?” he asked.

“Oh, really?” He grinned.

Or, to make a direct comparison, let’s take a look at correct vs. incorrect examples:

❌ “I don’t think so,” she smirked.

✅ “I don’t think so.” She smirked.

❌ “Oh, really?” he grinned.

✅ “Oh, really?” He grinned.

In other words, while it’s easy to mix up dialogue tags and simple action beats—and it’s arguable that conflation doesn’t matter from a storytelling perspective—this confusion creates a grammatical error which won’t reflect well on the writing. Improper tagging isn’t always a make-it-or-break-it error, especially for action beats that might slip beneath the average reader’s radar, but when it’s so simple to exchange a comma for a period, why chance it?

“But standard tags just don’t have the same meaning!”

I suspect the conflation of tags and beats happens because action beats add flavor and meaning to the dialogue, enriching it in a way a simple tag can’t. This is understandable! However, there are a number of structural workarounds that let us preserve the intention of the beat while adhering to style guides like the Chicago Manual of Style.

(And keeping our copyeditors happy ;))

Let’s get into the nitty-gritty examples!

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Keep Readers Engaged (even when the story gets gloomy)

September 9, 2023 by Cameron Montague Taylor Leave a Comment

One of the best pieces of writing advice I’ve ever heard comes from Fantasy author L. Penelope and her podcast My Imaginary Friends.

Penelope says that one of the greatest ways to drive tension in the story and ensure that both internal and external arcs remain interesting is to “leave blood on the floor.” By that, she means that authors ought to take advantage of potential pain points for their characters and ensure we don’t pull our punches when we’re hitting them.

Need a character to flee a safe house?

Burn it down.

Need your character to get sidelined from a fight?

Break their arm.

Need a couple to spend time apart?

Have them blow up at one another over a conflict that’s real, genuine, and hits at both of their backstory wounds.

If the story isn’t coming together or things feel like they’re dragging, take whatever pain-point or problem your character is currently facing and find a way to make it worse.

In other words, ask yourself: what’s the worst possible situation you can put the character through that still lets them get up and continue driving the story forward, even if (especially if) at great cost? Then find a way to put your character through it.

Twist the knife, so to speak.

But when we’ve twisted enough knives—especially in longform or series writing in which our character may very well receive several such twists—it’s easy to accidentally swing hard in the other direction and write a story that’s entirely doom and gloom.

The right balance is tough to strike. Not enough blood on the floor, and the story might feel plot-convenient, easy, or slow. Too much blood on the floor, and the story might be so grim that it’s no longer fun for readers.

Readers in different genres and subgenres have different tolerances for doom and gloom, but most have a Do Not Cross line somewhere. What that looks for your readership and your work will be different from the next writer, but you likely know what mark you’re trying to hit. So, the question becomes: how do we hit it, and what can we do to make sure they don’t get dragged through the mud alongside our characters?

Let’s dive into a two-part technique that keeps readers hooked even through dreary storylines.

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Power Up Your Descriptive Writing

April 14, 2023 by Cameron Montague Taylor Leave a Comment

Feeling like your descriptive prose is falling flat, or your worldbuilding and setting details aren’t hitting the page quite right? That could be because you’re not giving these details a ‘face.’

Readers are relentlessly interested in the humanity of your story: the myriad ways in which each element of setting, backstory, and worldbuilding impact the people who populate your universe. Thus, when our setting descriptions fall flat, it’s often because we get stuck on describing things instead of the relationships people have to those things.

For example:

When describing a city that recently endured an air-raid, we might be tempted to write something like:

A bomb had gone off, leaving wreckage along the city block.

There’s nothing wrong with this sentence on the surface. It’s to-the-point, and it creates an image in the reader’s head. But is it the most evocative depiction of warfare possible? Perhaps not. Thus, the question becomes: how can we give the city a face?

The bomb had left only rubble behind. Lara picked her way through the street, pausing when a flash of red caught the corner of her eye: a single child’s shoe, abandoned by its wearer.

The shoe is the human element. It takes setting description and connects it to a character—even a character the reader hasn’t and will never meet—which in turn punches up the emotional impact of the description.

This might seem like a cheap ‘win’ in prose, because harm to children and animals tends to garner an emotional response from anyone who isn’t a complete sociopath, so let’s look at a more mundane example. Many stories feature some kind of storefront, shopping, or market scene. How can we add interest into such a common setting? Try zooming in from the general to the specific, and ensuring the specific has a single, human subject at its heart. Compare:

Merchants sold their wares

with

A merchant with yellow-stained fingertips organized his display of hanging spice baskets.

Here, we narrow the focus from ‘merchants’ to a single merchant, one who works with (presumably) saffron, based on his yellow-stained fingertips. While this description is significantly longer than the simple and general ‘merchants sold their wares,’ it arguably condenses the power of a paragraph of exposition into a single sentence, and gives the reader a much clearer mental picture.

Even when zooming in, however, we tend to focus on visual details. Don’t forget about the power of the other senses: sound, smell, touch. Take a simple, general description like:

When the first fires lit, they fled the city in droves

and punch it up with sensory details that evoke the human element of that exodus.

Wagons lined the roads, filled to the brim with hastily stacked belongings and overseen by thin-lipped matrons. Impatient horses whickered at the slow pace, made nervous by the acrid tang of smoke carried westward on the breeze.

By calling upon multiple different senses, we capitalize on the descriptive power of our narration and help our readers immerse themselves in setting.

This is, at its heart, the difference between showing and telling in descriptive writing. In one excerpt, we inform the reader that residents are fleeing the city. In another, we show them what flight looks like in an immediate, visceral way.

There will be times when telling is necessary; we use descriptive summary in order to dispense less-important information to the reader and quickly move the narrative focus from one place to another. Often, we might begin our description with a ‘tell’ to give the reader an important piece of information, then zoom into little human details to ‘show’ them what that information means.

Combining the two descriptions from the last example would yield a strong result:

When the first fires lit, they fled the city in droves. Wagons lined the roads, filled to the brim with hastily stacked belongings and overseen by thin-lipped matrons. Impatient horses whickered at the slow pace, made nervous by the acrid tang of smoke carried westward on the breeze.

The first sentence is weaker without the sensory zoom, but provides the groundwork upon which a ‘human element’ can rest.

That’s not to say description must include a human face in order to work; environmental or setting description can be moody, atmospheric, and beautiful on its own. But by searching for connections with the human element, you can allow atmospheric descriptions to shine without over-relying on the inanimate to build your story’s backdrop.

Details like yellow-stained fingertips or a single red shoe can give resonant, emotional context to the inanimate. By adding a ‘human face’ to specific moments in your setting and worldbuilding description, you can help readers feel present in each scene, and deeply connect them to and immerse them in your world.