Cameron Montague Taylor

Fantasy Author & Fiction Editor

Craft Of Writing

Power Up Your Descriptive Writing

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Art Design Sunshine GIF
Art Design Sunshine GIF

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.

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Theme in Fiction

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This week, we’re talking theme.

Life In Pieces GIF by CBS
Life In Pieces GIF by CBS

A theme is a central idea or message that runs throughout your novel. Incorporating a theme can allow you to explore important issues, discuss ideas, and create a more meaningful and engaging story for your readers.

But how?

‘Theme’ is such a broad-brush concept that it can feel like a daunting task to 1) create one that works for your story and 2) weave it in while juggling character, plot, worldbuilding, etc.—so let’s start with the basics.

Themes: some examples

As a central, underpinning element to your story, the theme is a broad brush message or idea that your story is broadly about. Though stories often touch upon multiple themes, you can strengthen the core of your manuscript by using a strong, central, ‘controlling’ theme that underpins the others.

Here are some examples of themes in fiction:

Good vs. Evil
Progress vs. Stagnation
War vs. Peace
Coming of age
Self-discovery

Some themes are more complex, or have an inherent ‘point’ or meaning:

Love is love
Blood is thicker than water (family comes first)
Absolute power corrupts absolutely
Progress is a double-edged sword
Good always triumphs
Everything returns to balance

One way to find your theme is to ask yourself: what is my story really about? What message do I want my reader to take away from it once they’re finished?

Or, if that doesn’t work:

What struggles do all of my characters share? What similarities can I find in the challenges they face?

By identifying and leaning into that common thread, the different elements of your story will pull together in a more cohesive whole.

But before we get into the ‘how,’ let’s look at one of the common pitfalls of thematic inclusion, especially when drawing from the second list of themes: moralizing.

Choose with intention, but beware moralizing

When incorporating a theme, the issues we feel most strongly about (or the questions we’ve been pondering for a long time) often bear the ripest fruit. This is one of the many ways you can “write what you know”—even if your story-world is filled with monsters and faeries and dragons.

However, when we when we choose themes that are important to us, we’re not only choosing something we feel strongly about, but a topic on which we have a strong opinion.

There’s nothing wrong with using fiction to explore and challenge our ideas and beliefs. (In fact… that’s arguably what fiction is for.)

But, if we aren’t careful, we run the risk of turning our stories into a platform from which we preach to our readers.

Moralizing happens when an author uses their characters to espouse a particular point of view or moral lesson. It’s most obvious when that point of view or moral lesson aligns closely with a recognizable side of an (often) controversial modern debate.

Readers don’t like being told what to think, even when we’re telling them something they already agree with. If you’re planning to use theme to tackle something heavy—equality, bodily autonomy, etc.—it’s worth ensuring not only that you aren’t feeding the message directly to the reader by using characters as mouthpieces, but that your characters are complex enough that, though the reader might pick up on the theme, it never comes off as preachy or heavy-handed.

In other words: focus on creating complex, nuanced characters with their own beliefs, motivations, and moral codes—not only ones that either align with or diametrically oppose yours. Instead of using them to directly discuss the theme (and the moral lesson hidden within), allow the characters and their actions to drive the story and thus reveal the underlying themes and messages naturally. And please, please don’t set up your story so all the ‘good guys’ agree with your thematic message while the ‘bad guys’ stand in opposition to it.

In other words: keep it subtextual.

Keep theme subtle with symbolism

One way to keep theme subtextual is through symbolism, ie: the representative use of objects or imagery. For example, if your theme is about the importance of family, you could use a recurring symbol like trees, or a specific representative object like a family heirloom. Trees might show up in different periods of fruit and flower throughout the story, representing the state or strength of the family. A cheating husband’s carelessness might be throwing away his marriage; perhaps he loses his faithful grandfather’s cufflinks after meeting with his mistress.

By using a series of related symbols (or the same symbol in different ways), you can create a sense of continuity and tie your theme to your story. If that’s a little too subtextual, you can also use character to explore theme—just be sure you’re doing so in a nuanced way.

Use your characters for nuanced representation

Another way to represent and explore theme is with character. What lessons can your characters learn, what relationships can they have, and what events can they face that all tie back to that same theme?

When planning characters and character arcs, however, it’s important to incorporate the theme in a nuanced way. In a story about the importance of family, avoid having the ‘good’ character struggling to hold their family together (and getting rewarded at the end), while the ‘bad’ character openly rejects their family bonds and pays for it. Thematic nuance might mean writing a ‘good guy’ who struggles with the loss of a loved one while the ‘bad guy’ tries to hold their family together, but does so in deeply flawed ways.

By using characters to explore the theme in greyscale, you can add depth and complexity to the story—and avoid sending unintended or reductive messages about ‘right’ and ‘wrong!’

Don’t forget the setting

But don’t stop at character; setting, too, be used to create a sense of atmosphere and mood that reflects or enhances the theme. Returning to the example of a story about the importance of family, think about how different the story would feel when set in 1) a small town where everyone knows everyone else vs. 2) a big city where people can often feel isolated and alone. What different elements of theme would each setting allow you to explore?

Remember: setting is a great driver of conflict. Setting impacts character, which impacts plot. Therefore, choosing a setting that resonates with your theme will help you bring thematic conflict to the forefront in an organic way that won’t feel as preachy or forced.

Weave theme into your subplots

Finally, don’t forget about the power of subplots. Though your protagonist might carry your story’s thematic heart, are there subplots or side characters you can use to explore other, related elements of that theme (or even, other related themes)?

In a story about the importance of family, you might contrast the protagonist’s struggle with loss with a secondary character’s voluntary estrangement with their family of birth—and their subsequent discovery of ‘found family,’ or family of choice. This is another great way to add complexity and nuance, particularly with complex or hot-topic themes.

In conclusion, incorporating a theme into your fiction novel is a great way to add depth to your writing. By choosing a theme that is meaningful to you and using symbolism, characters, setting, and subplots to explore the theme, you can create a more engaging and meaningful story for your readers. Take your time and think about the theme you want to explore in your story, plan how you want to incorporate it and then let your imagination run wild. Remember that the theme should be a subtle undertone and not overpower the story, and it should not be forced in the story, it should flow naturally.

What themes have you written into your stories? Did you find yourself leaning more towards one method of incorporation (ie: symbolism v. character v. subplot)?

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Killing Darlings

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This week, I’m trying something new on the blog: a segment called Dear Cee, in which I answer I question I received via email, DM, comment, or otherwise. The first Dear Cee is from a colleague who’s wrestling with a Contemporary Romance manuscript and trying to work out whether/how a scene ought to be cut.

If you’ve ever wondered why a developmental editor might suggest a scene-level cut—or how an editor might go about performing one—read on!

Dear Cee,

I have a question about “killing darlings.”

Let’s say an author’s manuscript has a long chapter in which the FMC (female main character) and her two friends go out to party on a boat. The only thing that happens during the trip is a conversation about the FMC’s ex-boyfriend and her hot new (MMC) neighbor. The chapter shows the closeness of their relationships, but doesn’t progress the plot or add any tension.

Should a chapter like this be cut? My gut says ‘yes,’ but I’m not sure how to approach this with the author!

You’re almost certainly right, so the questions are:

  • How much of that information is necessary to character development / to understand the rest of the story?
  • Could the author cut the entire chapter and not lose anything meaningful? (in that case, chop chop)
  • Do we need character and relationship progression there, but the scene fails to add anything to the story because it’s a ‘diner’ conversation (ie: had while eating/drinking/hanging out with little external motion)?

I suspect the issue is a combination of the above three factors. Granted, I haven’t read the source text myself, so I’m making guesses, but I’ll go out on a limb and pinpoint the following issues:

  • The reader probably doesn’t need to know all of the information that gets presented in the friends’ dialogue
  • Most of the dialogue is snappy back-and-forth, ie: literal reportage of what the author heard in their head while they were writing
  • This snappy back-and-forth feels like talking heads by the end of the scene, which drowns out important or interesting character-building information.

These tend to be ‘darling’ scenes. They’re fun, the author enjoyed writing them, they show the characters interacting and having a good time. We’re loath to cut these moments in our writing because they give us the warm-fuzzies, and it’s easy to conflate I love this scene with I need this scene. Self-editing is hard!

But your author would be happy to know that, while I’m leaning towards ‘cut it,’ there could be enough important contained to justify keeping (and rewriting) it. If you suspect that’s the case, I have another set of questions:

  • What aspect of the Big Three elements of story (plot, character, worldbuilding) are advanced in this scene?
  • Can those elements be worked into surrounding scenes in order to chop this one?
  • If not, is there a more conflict-driven, high-stakes way to approach the reveal of this vital information?

On the surface, this scene sounds like a candidate for either a wholesale cut or a drastic reduction: it moves slowly, it only advances one element of the Big Three, it lacks conflict/stakes. But—if this is the only in-scene relationship development between the FMC and her friends, cutting it might leave their friendship on shaky legs.

What if the author was right to include a character-building scene, but the execution is flawed? What would need to change in order to turn this ‘darling’ scene into one that drives the narrative forward?

Kill your darlings, then bring them back to life

Like zombies. But better.

When giving ‘darlings’ a new lease on life, we must identify what information the author conveys. Mark and set aside important dialogue exchanges, moments of action, and snippets of interiority that need to make it through to the next draft.

Next, take a step back. Look at those important bits, and ask the author “how else can you string together these pieces?”

I’m operating under the assumption, based on the nature of the question, that this is a ‘bonding’ scene. These types of scenes often cause problems, not because character bonding is irrelevant to plot, but because of how the bonding happens. The easiest way for characters to share information is through dialogue, which is why we end up with so many sit-down conversations in our rough drafts. But sit-down conversations tend to drag, and moreover, they aren’t the fastest way to show the bond those characters have.

People bond through hardship, which is another way of saying conflict—ie: the driving engine of narrative traction. When adding conflict into a dialogue heavy scene, many authors reach first for a natural next step: make the characters have an argument.

This is a possible solution, but it’s often a trap. If the scene is already too dialogue-heavy, adding more dialogue (even if it’s high-conflict dialogue) won’t necessarily fix it.

So, how else can we add conflict into a dialogue-heavy scene?

  • A ticking clock
  • An obstacle

In other words: incorporate an action element to replace, contextualize, and balance the scene’s dialogue.

The resurrection

When I edit, I ensure the author understands 1) why I believe the structure of a scene isn’t serving their story, and 2) offer multiple solutions for how the author can address the issue. I try to recommend a way to ‘save’ a scene unless I believe, from the bottom of my soul, that it has to hit the chopping block. In this case, I’d give an example of a way to add a ticking clock or obstacle in order to provide the tension necessary to carry a relationship-building scene.

In this case, let’s say:

  • The FMC has promised to dog-sit for the MMC that evening (ticking clock), and
  • The boat’s engine breaks down (obstacle).

Though in some genres, these obstacles will be life-threatening, they absolutely don’t have to be! All we need is a little shock or scare that gives the characters a reason to rally together, bond (or bond further), and reveal information in an organic way that doesn’t read like a conversation included for the reader’s benefit.

For the purpose of the example, let’s say the boat’s engine breaks down. This would give the characters a reason to talk about the FMC’s hot new neighbor (MMC), because if they can’t get back to shore in time, she’s going to ruin his night by failing to show up to dogsit for him. Even better—what if they don’t have cell reception, so she can’t even let him know what’s happening?

Was the FMC’s ex good with engines? Does she momentarily bemoan their breakup only for her friends to leap on the offensive and remind her what a no-good cheater he was?

Sure, this could be a scary moment: they’re adrift and panicking as the sun starts to set and the waves get bigger. Or, it could be a lighthearted, zany adventure as they find a handheld VHF, charge it, and make a radio call to the coast guard. What if, when the tow boat comes, the captain is young and attractive, and one of the friends flirts outrageously with him—and teases the FMC when she won’t join in on the fun, saying her ‘heart is spoken for’ by her hot neighbor?

There’s a reason why friend groups often get involved in antics in books/movies/tv: antics are fun, they provide an in-scene way to show relationship dynamics to the reader, and they almost always result in a conflict the group needs to overcome in order to reach their scene-level goal.

Tie it all in

To recap: the best thing for the story might be to cut the scene entirely. But if that’s not the case, the author must find a way to tie the events of that scene into either an external plot or subplot, creating moments of action that have a ripple effect on scenes. The easiest ways to add tension are through a ticking clock or an obstacle—preferably both!

This author’s order of operations becomes:

  1. Identify a goal for the FMC that will carry her through the boat scene and into the rest of the story. Does this goal—or a sub-goal beneath it—carry a ticking clock? Even better.
  2. Put an obstacle into the boat scene that will force failure on the ticking clock goal.
  3. Hijinks ensue as the friends rally around FMC to help her meet her goal.
  4. Use this as an opportunity to work the important conversation, action, and interiority that was flagged as ‘must save’ from the original draft.
  5. Allow the FMC to have a partial win (she doesn’t get stranded at sea, hooray!) with a defeat immediately chasing its heels (she is egregiously late to dog sit, so the MMC missed his evening obligation).
  6. Does the MMC get upset about this? Probably! This ties into the romantic plot’s ‘push’ factors (the MMC thinks she’s a flake; the FMC thinks he’s an uptight, unforgiving jerk).
  7. This partial defeat can also tie into the next step of the external pot (how does the FMC make it up to the MMC? This gives them an opportunity to connect further!).

Naturally, this tweak with the engine breakdown and the dog sitting might not work for the author, and that’s totally okay. In editorial work, our suggestions aren’t The Only Way to ‘fix’ a story. Instead, they’re fleshed-out examples that show the author how altering an element of the story will strengthen it, hopefully paving the way for them to plug-and-play their own solution.

The details of the change itself aren’t important. We can change them to anything: one of the FMC’s friends falls overboard and the MMC is a member of the Coast Guard, for example, or the FMC breaks something on the boat and has a blow-out fight with the friend who owns the boat, which reveals a lot about the FMC’s backstory in the process.

Whatever the author chooses, the result is the only thing that matters, and that’s a scene which reveals both the FMC’s backstory and the bond she shares with her friends, while generating conflict/stakes and connecting back to the external plot.

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Understanding Psychic Distance

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By this point, everyone and their cat has heard the world’s most popular piece of writing advice: “show, don’t tell.” It’s a snappy, cute little phrase that feels accurate while remaining frustratingly vague. Though it’s one fiction writing’s most important tenets, I don’t like repeating it verbatim for one big reason:

It’s not a single piece of actionable advice.

“Show, don’t tell” is an umbrella under which a wild number of craft concepts sit. It impacts almost every single aspect of writing prose, and the best method I have to explain it is a metaphor: if your prose is a camera and you’re the photographer, make sure you use the right zoom lens for each scene.

Some parts of the story require a wide-angle. Or a telephoto. Or a macro lens. Showing vs. telling is the act of zooming in or zooming out to focus (or not focus) the reader’s attention on immersive, real-time detail.

This ought not be interpreted literally, either, for setting detail is only one part of the “Show, don’t tell” picture. It impacts all axes of prose in our writing, and in today’s blog post, we’ll be looking at how “show, don’t tell” impacts narrative voice and psychic distance.

Show, don’t tell & psychic distance

First, let’s get clear on the camera metaphor:

Showing means zooming all the way in to focus the reader on vivid details, and telling means zooming out to deliver a broader picture. Therefore, showing brings the reader closer to a character’s consciousness, while telling increases the psychic distance (there’s that word!) between the reader and the character, letting them observe story events from further away.

Like any good zoom lens, our narrative ‘camera’ has more than two binary settings, and as writers, we can choose how far we ‘zoom in’ in order to best suit our narrative.

Certain POVs, like true and subjective omniscient, put a great deal of distance between the reader and the character, often by using a third-party narrator. And while omniscient narrators can dip into characters’ heads, they do so at a distance, observing but not experiencing those thoughts and feelings.

Contrast that with POVs like third limited close and first person, which allow the reader to experience the narrative as if they were the character in question. These POVs often get called “voicey,” because the narration sounds is delivered by the character, and sounds like the character’s spoken voice. Think about Catcher in the Rye, when Holden Caulfield calls other characters “phonies” in narration.

Is one method better than the other?

Arguably, no. Third limited and first person are more popular right now, especially in middle grade and young adult categories, but there are bestselling writers who masterfully use omniscient and somehow still attach us deeply to the characters (think Fredrick Backman). Like any zoom lens, psychic distance is a tool and a choice we can use as writers in order to effectively tell our stories.

So what do these different ‘zoom settings’ look like?

Five levels of psychic distance

First, a caveat: there aren’t five levels of psychic distance.

Or, at least, there’s no dividing line between each of these so-called ‘levels.’ I use five, here, because that was how I initially learned about psychic distance in fiction, and because I think it’s 1) enough to provide nuance without 2) being overwhelming.

For these purposes, think of the levels like this:

  1. Omniscient
  2. Omniscient or distant third
  3. (Close) omniscient or third limited
  4. Third limited close or distant first person
  5. Third limited close or first person

Notice how there’s a lot of overlap between them? This is important! It means that, while choosing our POV will inherently limit how close or far we can ‘zoom’ while writing, our narrative camera still comes equipped with a zoom function.

Let’s first take a look at our five levels, then examine why we might choose to zoom in and out between them.

*Note! These examples aren’t meant to be exact rewrites of the same sentence—they’re illustrations of what close vs. distant narration looks like with one character in one scenario.

  • Omnicient: furthest from the POV character

It was an unusually warm fall in Tarrytown. On one of the city’s many tree-lined streets, a brownstone door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the sidewalk.

In this example, it’s clear the character (a woman) isn’t narrating the story; she couldn’t have seen the brownstone door open from the street if she’s the one opening it, right?

  • Omniscient or distant third: far from the character, but skimming their thoughts

Ida Marie didn’t appreciate the unreasonably warm weather, and feared it would ruin her afternoon walk.

This example is slightly closer than #1. A writer using subjective omniscient might even piggyback these first two examples off of one another, ‘zooming in’ to the character to give us her name and a hint of her mental/emotional state.

This could also be an example of distant third limited, because it’s settled firmly upon Ida Marie’s shoulders. Yet while the reader can skim Ida Marie’s thoughts, this POV isn’t immersive; the use of filtering phrases like didn’t appreciate and feared serve as ‘tells.’ Rather than showing the reader what Ida Marie experiences as she begins her walk, the narrative zooms out to tell the reader what she’s thinking and how she’s feeling. Contrast these telling words with the following examples:

  • (Closer) omniscient or third limited—slipping into the character’s body

Ida cursed November’s unreasonable heat, which made her shirt stick to her back as she walked.

Much closer! While this breaks no laws of omniscient (it’s still tell-y), the sensory detail of the shirt sticking to the back brings the reader closer to Ida Marie. This is the true point of crossover between the deepest possible omniscient perspectives and the ‘standard zoom’ of third limited.

  • Third limited close, or distant first person—slipping into the character’s thoughts

God, how she hated those second summers. They made her tacky with sweat, shirt turning clammy and gross against her skin.

Here, we’re experiencing Ida Marie’s thoughts along with her, learning that she calls the unseasonably warm parts of fall ‘second summer,’ that her shirt is tacky, that she thinks it feels ‘gross’ against her skin. While this is phrased in third person, it would work in first, too, without coming off as weak writing: God, how I hated those second summers. They made me tacky with sweat, shirt turning gross against my skin.

Some narrative distance remains, because Ida Marie is still telling us how she feels with “she hated those second summers.” Yet although the camera isn’t zoomed all the way in, her voice sneaks in makes an appearance—how she sounds both in dialogue and in her own head—which means this cannot be an omniscient narrator; Ida Marie is now the one telling us the story.

  • Third person limited close or first person—deep POV, macro zoom

Another damn seventy-degree day in November. Forget pumpkin spice; this year was sweaty tee shirts, soggy pits, and lungs that ached with every stupid, humid breath.

See the difference?

In this excerpt, we are Ida Marie. We’re so close in her head that we can hear the quality of her voice as if she’s chatting in our ear. This is deep interiority, the last step before pure stream of consciousness. Did you notice how there were no pronouns in the excerpt? That’s not an accident! How often do we refer to ourselves in our own heads? Infrequently, right? Our focus is usually directed elsewhere.

That’s not to say pronouns won’t appear in deep POV (we need them to describe physical action), but they’ll become less common throughout moments of interiority. The ‘macro’ zoom setting on psychic distance gets us so close to the character that we no longer ‘see’ them; instead, we gain an understanding of who the character is by observing their reflection in the world around them. This is the bread-and-butter spot for first person and third limited deep.

How do we decide when to zoom in/out?

There are a variety of reasons why an author might choose to zoom in or out within the boundaries of the POV they’ve chosen. Here are the three that I believe are the most important to consider while we’re writing:

  • Voice when writing first or third POV

The narrower the psychic distance, the stronger the POV character’s voice will be in narration, and the more the character begins to feel like a real person. Strong character voice can provide a hook and a handhold for readers to become invested in them and the story they’re trying to tell. Zoom in!

  • Managing the reader’s connection and comfort

Though a narrower psychic distance gap is often pushed as a method of strengthening reader connection, there are times when it’s more appropriate to pull back and leave a gap between the reader and the POV character. Authors do so when sitting too deeply in the POV character’s head is uncomfortable and disturbing. This might be the case, for example, when a murder mystery slips into a serial killer’s POV, or when a character commits an atrocity that the author doesn’t want to excuse, sexualize, or romanticize. Zoom out!

  • Show, don’t tell

Larger gaps can work better for technical reasons, too. There will be times when the POV character must transmit information to the reader that, while important to understanding the flow of the story, isn’t itself vital to describe in detail, like a time skip or a scene transition. Writers might zoom out to prevent these scenes from bogging down the story, then zoom in when they want the reader to experience a scene alongside the character: clue discoveries, major reveals, battles, sex scenes, love confessions, etc.

Want to learn more about when it’s appropriate to ‘show’ and when it’s better to ‘tell?’ Check out this infographic.

There’s more to “show, don’t tell”

While there’s more to “show, don’t tell,” mastering psychic distance is a major step towards learning how to strike the right balance in your writing.

Have questions about what you’ve read in the blog post, or more questions about “show, don’t tell” that weren’t answered here? Let’s chat in the comments!

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The Inside/Outside Trick

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Do you struggle with talking heads or an overreliance on body language cues like smirking or eyes widening or brows furrowing when you’re writing dialogue passages? You’re not alone. It’s so tempting to reach for those easy, common body language cues, especially in early drafts.

As a developmental editor, I’ve recently realized that my advice to clients when strengthening or replacing body language descriptions always goes one of two ways. I encourage the writer to either:

  1. Zoom all the way into that character’s head, or
  2. Zoom all the way out to show the reader how they’re interacting with the setting.

I call this the inside/outside tip, and it’s all about adding richer context to dialogue by avoiding an overreliance on middle-distance description.

But why is an overreliance on body language a bad thing?

A GIF of Ursula from The Little Mermaid saying "and don't underestimate the power of body language!"
Don’t underestimate the importance of body language!

We overuse body language in fiction

Lemme start by clarifying my point: there’s nothing wrong with describing body language, and many descriptions of body language are useful, if not necessary, to our writing. But when crafting dialogue passages, we tend to lean on body language even when it isn’t the strongest possible way to convey a character’s emotion.

In particular, we often focus on facial choreography, describing the way a character’s eyes, mouth, or brows are moving. When used too often, these action beats being to feel meaningless—almost as if we plug them into dialogue passages in order to attribute the dialogue rather than enhancing it.

How important is it, really, that his brows raised?

That her eyes narrowed?

That he flashed a grin?

Though all of these cues tell us something about the character, they’re shorthand descriptions of emotion. At times, the shorthand is perfectly suitable; if the reader already understands the context, a small reminder is ideal.

At other times, however, body language cues can feel vague, repetitive, or even disruptive to the story flow.

This is particularly true when the point of view character uses body language to convey their own emotional state to the reader. Although most people are aware of how their faces move in conversation, we tend not to think too much about our micro-expressions in casual conversation. Why would our characters be any different?

Thus, when a POV narrator relies on descriptions of their own face to give the reader a window into what they’re thinking or feeling, it reads like they’re observing themselves from the outside, either

  • increasing psychic distance, or
  • creating a POV error.

How does that character know their own eyes have darkened? This implies the character can observe themselves from outside their own body, which could jolt the reader out of the story.

But… what about ‘talking heads?’

Many writers learn to incorporate abundant body language cues into their writing in order to avoid an issue called ‘talking heads.’

When we receive criticism that our characters feel like ‘talking heads’ during dialogue exchanges, it means that, while the bare facts of a conflict are conveyed through speech, the reader has no idea

  • Who these characters are
  • Where these characters are
  • What their body language is conveying.

New writers often lean on body language in order to avoid giving the reader the impression that dialogue lines are spoken by disembodied heads. Though it’s a good start, it won’t provide quite enough context; even the best-crafted body language can’t hit points #1 and #2.

Think of it this way: body language is one part of a much greater descriptive whole. It’s the connective middle between a character’s thoughts (interior) and a character’s actions (exterior).

And without the inside (thoughts) and outside (actions), the connective middle begins to lose its meaning.

So, if not through abundant body language and facial cues, how else can we enrich our dialogue and avoid talking heads?

A GIF from a music video by the Talking Heads.
The only acceptable Talking Heads

Go ‘outside’

One element of talking heads is called white room syndrome, in which the setting description is so minimal—and the characters interact so little with it—that they might as well be having a conversation in a blank, white room.

This is where ‘outside’ comes into play: give your readers a window into who your characters are and what your characters are feeling by showing their interaction with the setting.

Bear in mind, I don’t mean your character should repeatedly sip from a teacup during a sit-down meal; interactions with props can be just as meaningless as repetitive body language cues.

But could a character in the midst of an argument make tea aggressively in a Regency romance by setting cups down with a clank, stirring in sugar so hard the tea sloshes over the rim, dropping spoons with a clatter? Sure!

How your character interacts with the setting will lend context to the conversation they’re having. What other interesting interactions with setting can your character have in order to give a window into their internal world?

Can your characters argue while reorganizing a bookshelf and start slamming books into their places? Would an anxious character in a restaurant scene start organizing condiments by size and shape? While planning a heist, would the easily distracted character click a pen over and over until the hair-trigger-temper character leaps across the table to rip it out of their hands?

Going ‘outside’ of body language to show interaction with setting is a great choice for all characters, but when it comes to POV characters, we have a second option that’s just as powerful:

Go ‘inside’

By going ‘inside,’ I’m referring to a POV character’s interiority: their thoughts, judgments, and how they unpack, contextualize, and make sense of the conversation they’re having. Interiority not only deepens the connection between the reader and the character, but it can also ascribe additional meaning to a non-POV character’s words or body language.

Interiority strikes back at talking heads by showing the reader who these characters are, preventing a back-and-forth dialogue exchange from losing meaning. It can take several different forms, including

  • Descriptive narration

“What do you want?” the shop-keep asked as he spun to face her. He had a blunt face with a scar cutting into one cheek. “Well? Spit it out. Don’t got all day, y’know.”

  • Verbatim thought

“What do you want?” the shop-keep asked as he spun to face her.
Damn, he’s ugly. “Uh, I—”
“Well? Spit it out. Don’t got all day, y’know.”
Impatient, too.

  • Narrative thought

“What do you want?” the shop-keep asked. He had an ugly mug and an attitude to match, and interrupted her attempt at a reply. “Well? Spit it out. Don’t got all day, y’know.”

All three of these examples show different flavors of interiority, but there’s no reason you couldn’t use a combination of them, moving between description and thought as necessary to show the reader both what the POV character is observing and what judgments they’re forming about it.

It’s also possible (and encouraged!) to combine inside/outside in a single line where appropriate.

For example:

The shop-keep slammed a cabinet shut and spun to face her. He had a blunt face with a scar cutting into one cheek, and an attitude to match his appearance.

“What do you want?”

Sara clutched the package to her chest. “I uh—”

“Well? Spit it out. Don’t got all day, y’know.”

Impatient, isn’t he? She’d have to sweeten him up or she’d never get her refund.

Tools, not rules

As always, remember that these are tools for your writer’s toolbox—not rules that ought to be obeyed to the letter. I’ll never tell authors to wholesale delete darkening eyes or cocky smirks or arched brows, but I will issue a challenge:

If you find yourself using a lot of the above descriptions, pick up a highlighter while working on your line edits and use it to pick out body language cues in your dialogue passages. For each one, ask yourself: is this the best possible way to show the reader what’s going on?

If I substituted one of these cues for interiority or environmental interaction, would it add meaning, balance, or clarity to the scene?

I suspect you’ll find that the answer is often ‘yes!’

Body language can’t carry a conversation on its own; as with all elements of craft, it’s a middle-distance tool we can reach for when neither inside nor outside feel quite right. In other words, I’m not asking writers to thinking critically about our use of body language in dialogue passages in service of eliminating body language, but rather, as a way to encourage balance: the secret ingredient for clear and compelling prose.

Do you overuse body language in your own writing? I sure do! I find it all the time when I’m self-editing. Here’s your boilerplate reminder that it’s impossible to get it all ‘right’ in the first draft, so don’t get discouraged! Words on the page can always be tweaked, and getting that story down in draft form is a victory in and of itself.

Let’s chat

Let me know what body language cues you overuse in the comments, or fire away with any questions you have about the inside/outside trick.

Or share a short excerpt of a place where you’ve used the inside/outside trick to enrich your dialogue passage!

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Writing Vivid Description

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The 5-4-3-2-1 Grounding Technique The five steps of this grounding technique are: Touch Vision Taste Smell Hearing

If you’ve ever struggled to write vivid sensory description in your story, here’s a quick tip: try using the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding method for managing anxiety.

Folks who struggle with anxiety use this technique to manage their body’s response to stressful stimuli; I have friends and colleagues who’ve told me it can help them prevent or mitigate a panic attack. It was one of these colleagues who shared their writing secret with me, too:

Because the 5-4-3-2-1 method helped her manage anxiety by connecting her with her surroundings, she began using it to connect characters with their surroundings, too.

If you’d like to learn more about how to use this technique to alleviate anxiety, you can check out this article here. Today’s post only addresses the techniques applicability to writing and isn’t meant to assist with mental health management.

Using the 5-4-3-2-1 technique for vivid description

When a new point of view character walks into a new setting, open up your worldbuilding notes (or take out a scrap of paper) and try the following exercise:

  1. Put yourself in your character’s body* and imagine the scene from their perspective. Shut your eyes if necessary.
  2. Commit yourself to noticing only what they would notice, giving priority to what they would find important or noteworthy and how they’d describe what they observe.

*For the sake of this exercise, let’s say our character is a detective in her forties who has recently lost her mother. She and her partner have just entered the home of a murder suspect’s mother for questioning.

Now note down the following:

  • Five things the character can see. The floral wallpaper that reminds your character of her mother’s house. Framed pictures of family sit on every available surface. An antique rifle hangs over the mantlepiece. The room has three exits, one of which leads to a long, dark hall. There are two steaming coffee cups on an end table, as though someone else has recently been in the room.
  • Four things the character can touch. The pile of the carpet is high and plushy beneath her boots. It’s hot inside the house and sweat forms beneath her collar. The mother’s hand is cool and dry when she reaches out to shake. The springs of the couch are long-busted, and she sinks into her seat when she sits.
  • Three things the character can hear. Windchimes tinkle on the porch. Upstairs, a toilet flushes. The mother’s voice is soft and gentle.
  • Two things the character can smell. The mother’s floral perfume is the same one her own mother wore. Something hearty is cooking in the oven.
  • One thing the character can taste. The acrid tang of the cigarette she’d smoked before entering the house.

With these details in your worldbuilding document, you have not only a snapshot of the setting, but a list of the things your character first notices about that setting — a list which would be different if you made it from another character’s point of view. Setting and characterization: two birds with one stone.

Don’t use the list.

Now put the list away.

Or, rather, avoid the temptation to turn your list into several paragraphs of prose and jam it all into the top of the scene. That’s not what this list is for!

Instead, pick out two or three important, vivid details from that list and use those to ground the reader in the setting as the character enters. (In this case, perhaps we’ll pick the wallpaper, the room’s exits, and the mother’s perfume.) As the scene progresses and the character begins to interact with it and/or notice more details, use your list to trickle them onto the page as she encounters them.

By trickling, you can avoid information overload and ensure that only the most important, strongest details make it onto the page.

You don’t need to use all of the details listed above. Sometimes it won’t be possible to, or some senses won’t apply. Conversely, in scenes where noticing things is particularly important (ie: a detective visiting a suspect’s mother’s home), you might add to this list of details in order to both reveal and obfuscate important clues.

And remember: the purpose of the 5-4-3-2-1 method in fiction isn’t to measure how many details appear on page, but rather, to ensure that those details are concrete, sensory, powerful, and grounded in the POV character’s perspective.

Hope that helps you as your drafting or in your next round of edits!

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