Drills are a seriously underrated part of creative writing. They're great mind- and style-stretching exercises, prompting you to explore things you’d never try on your own. Whether you've got writers block, a procrastination problem, or just a bad case of brain-fluff,
writing prompts are great for clearing out the muck and get back on track, but aren't so all-consuming that you can't go back to your current work in progress when you're through.
There are a lot of ways to go about prompt writing. My favorite method of late has been the random word generator. Let me explain:
So, first things first: what is anthrax? Some may remember it from the news back in 2001, but even so--and for anyone that didn’t catch that series of stories--it’s so rare these day it could use a bit of recap.
Anthrax is an infection caused by the spores of the bacteria Bacillus anthracis. This disease usually affects grazing animals--sheep, cows, goats, etc.--but under certain circumstances can be passed on to humans as well.(1) Animals get the disease by ingesting or inhaling spores while grazing, and humans get it by coming in contact with infected animals: handling ill livestock or corpses, eating contaminated meat, or working with other infected products such as wool or animal skins.(2)
Environments, portraits, and panoramas: the purest forms of descriptions. When the scene changes, when a new character comes on stage, when the tempo drops and you take a moment to just describe.
Bits like this dictate the tone and feel of a work, burning an image into the audience's mind and influencing how they perceive what follows. Light or dark, carefree or sinister, they set a stage for the story and define its players from the start.
Description writing is more an art than a science. Give five writers something to describe, and I guarantee you’ll get five unique portraits. But here are a few tips to consider when writing your own masterpieces.
First—and most important in my opinion—keep it relevant.
Don’t pick your subjects arbitrarily. If you specifically describe something or someone, have a good reason for doing so. The audience doesn't have to know that reason, at least at first, but as the writer, you should.
What counts as “relevant” is loose. Does the description build aesthetic, convey mood, or add comic effect? Does it foreshadow events or present narrative clues? Landscapes described in intense detail can showcase a character’s emotional state, and a discarded apple core can climax a dirty room to wonderful effect. As with choosing your synonyms, being intentional is key.
Second, consider your timing.
By nature, descriptive chunks slow a story down. This isn’t a bad thing, but you have to pick your placement carefully. It doesn't matter how relevant something is. If you pick the wrong time to bring it up, it will devastate your flow. An example:
"Welcome," said the man, standing up from his chair. "My apologies you've been delayed. Now sit, if you'll pardon my abruptness, and tell me what you can."
Jonah sat as quickly as he dared, feeling exceedingly out of place. He sunk six inches into the velvet cushion, painfully aware of the grass stains and mud that smutted his clothes. The cushion was the deepest crimson red, most likely imported, and the chair was just as fine. Flowers etched its surface, so delicate Jonah didn’t dare touch them for fear of knocking them off. The surface of the arms felt like ice under his hands, sanded to slick perfection.
See my point?
Notice how the first part of the description wasn’t an issue. One or two lines worked fine there, showcasing the difference in station between the characters and highlighting Jonah's nervousness. But the longer the description got, the more it dropped the tempo, until, sandwiched between dialogue we want to read, it got downright sluggish.
Maybe the details are important. Maybe the flower pattern on the chair identifies it as a lost heirloom, or the make and build gives hints about where the owner got his wealth. But it doesn't matter. The description’s placement wrecks the timing of the scene, so it doesn't work. The most beautiful—and necessary—descriptions can crumble under issues just like this.
As I’ve said through this whole series, there are few hard rules in writing. A slow moment in a tense scene can increase the tension, driving the audience to the edge of their seats, and putting a description in the middle of a battle can create a nice reprieve. You can stick a description almost anywhere for comic effect and get away with it, or slide one in somewhere odd to highlight a character's personality.
In writing, whatever works, works. Explore and experiment; find what works for you and harness it. The key is understanding what you’re doing and knowing why.
So, I’ve shared my two cents on descriptions. Don’t just slap some adjectives on a noun and call it good; take the concept in your mind—a character, an object, a scene, anything—and craft a string of words that impresses on the audience what you see.
Now let’s expand our focus: what exactly counts as description?
When people say “description” they usually mean one of those time-stop moments where you take something and tell the audience all about it. I love those moments. When used properly, they do wonders for timing and flow (more on that later), bridge moments that need bridging, and add so much depth to the story. But they aren’t the only way things get described.
Let’s use another example:
"The boy ran down the street.”
This sentence conveys an action. It does the job well enough, but doesn’t provide much imagery. You could add an “ly” word:
“The boy ran quickly down the street.”
But be careful with those. They can make perfectly good sentences feel stale, or worse, forced. No description at all is better than that. So how can we make this sentence say more without pin-on words or phrases?
Synonyms.
Almost every word in the English language has synonyms, from common replacements to ten-dollar words we rarely hear. And though they’re similar, few synonyms truly mean the same thing. Words have their own reputations—a feel they carry in addition to their technical meaning. Writers can take serious advantage of this.
Going back to the example, dozens of words could replace run, each of them adding their own flavor to the sentence. Use “jogged”, and it takes the punch away, making it feel more easy and casual. Say “dashed” and the energy increases. “Carrened” implies panic or loss of control, and “charged” suggests aggression, or maybe childishness.
Taking it even further, hardly a word in this sentence can’t be replaced.
“The boy ran down the street.”
child dashed along road
lad careened parallel cement
urchin tumbled
scamp launched
We have a huge language at our disposal. It’s a pity to leave all these lovely words unused.
I admit that you can get some… unfortunate results using this method. weighing down your work with big words will sink it. This isn’t about choosing different words, it’s about choosing the right ones. Sometimes “run” truly is best, but you need to choose it on purpose.
Paper is valuable real estate. If something doesn’t pull its weight—add depth, meaning, or interest—replace or remove it. That goes for characters, that goes for paragraphs, and it goes for every word on the page.
Sweeping panoramas, tiny details of foreshadowing few will notice—it can take whole paragraphs, or one or two carefully picked words. It’s a process of layering, comparing and implying: doing everything you can to make your audience see what you see.
That’s the purpose of descriptions: to make the audience see what you see. It seems like an obvious statement, but many descriptions do anything but that. let's use an example:
Anybody who writes fiction knows a bit about building characters.
Every writer has their own flare to the process: some start with a name, others with appearances; I tend to start with occupation, or role in the story, myself.
Whatever you choose to start with, though, the process of development is more or less the same. You take your new creation, you name them, you get attached to them. You poke them and prod them and ask them all manner of funny questions until they finally grow a personality. Once you're done with the preliminaries you turn your new friend (or enemy as the case may be) lose on a story, and you watch them.
No amount of boardroom chatting can really round out a character. They have their place, and a very important one, but if you really want your character to turn into a someone you have to let them lose. You need to see how they do things; how they interact with other characters and handle situations that get thrown at them. Actual 'in world' experience is the best way to make a character feel like a real, living thing.
