(Or how to tell if you’re writing too much description.)
A lot of things have evolved about my writing since I started out, but my recent project of entirely rewriting my first manuscript to cut more than 50,000 words from its total length has forced me to focus on one of those areas in particular. Efficiency.
When I say ‘efficiency’ in this context I’m not talking about my process. No, that’s still as inefficient and generally byzantine as ever. What goes on in the planning document stays in the planning document.
No, I’m talking about using words and space efficiently. Saying more with less, and knowing what to say at all and what to leave unsaid. In this first part of a planned series on writing efficiency, I’m going to focus on the biggest potential pitfall of all. Description.
Defining Description
Description is any block of text the purpose of which is to describe something. More specifically, it’s usually found to introduce a new scene, environment or character. It’s a wonderful opportunity for a writer to show their stuff and construct some truly elaborate prose…
No, it’s not. Description is there to lay the scene and get out of the way. If it’s doing more than that, it’s probably distracting from the actual story being told – and either way, it’s certainly using up valuable space. Think of it like the set for a stage production. It is never the focus; it is there to help the audience understand the scene and help the actors tell their story.
The Purpose of Description
As a fresh amateur writer – not even yet an aspiring fantasy author – I used to think I was pretty good at writing descriptive text. I could draw the reader (well, myself) into a vivid world of carefully constructed prose. I would sometimes write thousands of words of pure description into a chapter, and my writing suffered as a result.
Back then, I just crammed everything I could think of into every description. Have you ever tried to take a picture with a whole lot of stuff in it, only to look at it later and discover that it’s just a confusing jumble without direction? It ended up about like that.
A good piece of description gets the job done and then gets out of the way. Like all the rest of your writing, every element of it should contribute to the story in a way you can sit back and justify. If it doesn’t, it’s probably not contributing.
Personally, I look for these three elements in my descriptions:
- Mood
- Characters
- World building
There are exceptions to every rule, but I’ve found that if you can’t justify describing an element under those three headings it’s probably not contributing. Describing the peaceful forest is good if you’re trying to foster a peaceful mood, or contrast it with something else. If you’re just describing a forest for its own sake, it’s not so good.
The Training Room Example
Let’s imagine an example where a character opens the door to a training room in some ancient fortress and looks in. Fighters are sparring with one another, and the viewpoint character is here to seek one of them out. Here’s how I might have written it out seven years ago:
The practice chamber was all black marble, polished until it shone like a mirror; huge columns rose to the vaulted ceiling a dozen feet overhead, their fluted sides studded with torches. The walls were lined with weapon racks and mannequins holding practice swords and leather armor for combatants wishing to test themselves in combat. Four such warriors were currently engaging in a vicious battle at the center, three against one. The three circled, trying to surround their lone opponent and make use of their superior numbers. A few moments of watching their nervous movements and uncoordinated attacks was enough to see who was winning this particular contest.
Contrast with how I would write it now:
The door opened on an expanse of black marble, broken by huge columns soaring a dozen feet overhead. At the center, four warriors in leather practice armor and sparring helms fought a vicious battle, three of them working together to harry the remaining one with their wooden blades. It didn’t take long to see who was winning that one-sided battle.
Not only is the second example shorter, it has direction. The basic element of the room is dealt with quickly: framework established, you know they’re fighting in a marble practice room now. We don’t need to hear about how shiny it is or what the light source is – neither of those is important. We don’t need to know about weapon racks or mannequins. It’s a sparring room; it’s going to have those, and they can be called later when someone returns a sword to one. We want to see the fighters.
Every element in the second description serves a purpose. The size and description of the room is just enough to reinforce the grand scale of the setting, although it could be removed in a pinch if it’s a familiar setting. The warriors fighting three against one instantly puts focus on the one, and the final sentence sets up what’s going to come next.
But what if the room actually is important?
Is the room a character in this scene?
Usually, the setting for a scene is only minimally important. Everything happens somewhere, but aside from convenience of plot most times the same scene could happen in almost any room. The exception is when the room or setting actually is a character in its own right.
When this happens, the room isn’t just a place for something to happen: something is happening in the room. The where is at least as important as the what. Maybe the room is the culmination of some long quest, or its unique specifics are actually the point of the scene. Maybe its mundane aspects are going to be important later, and you want to foreshadow them.
If the room is a character, then it needs to be treated like one. Introduce it like you would a character. Put it front and center.
Opening the door, Heather stopped and stared. The ‘training room’ wasn’t a room at all, not in the traditional sense of the word. Shattered stone ended abruptly a pace from her feet, and beyond was just the howling wind and a dizzying drop to the forest floor a thousand feet below. Across this chasm the elves had strung a series of ropes; a lone warrior stood at the center, feet spread for balance as she swayed in the wind. Three others circled her, moving with a natural grace that defied the elements.
Ignoring the oddity of the example, you can see what I’m talking about. In this example, the room isn’t just a setting for the warriors to spar – it’s a character in its own right, on equal footing with the elves occupying it. Their interaction with the room is every bit as important to the scene as their interaction with one another. While the first two examples are clearly building towards the battle between the combatants, this example could easily be leading towards a battle of a different sort between the room and its occupants.
Another handy note is that the viewpoint character reacted to the room in this example. If they don’t consider it noteworthy enough to react to, consider that your readers probably won’t either.