Saying a Lot with Few Words

Last month, Josh and I posted a description of our bedroom to illustrate that different characters will describe things differently, depending on their perspectives. Because we are both writers, we both enjoyed the exercise, and I asked if he'd be interested in doing more cross-post blogs.

I read off some of the topics I had on deck, and this is the one he picked.

The subject of conciseness originally came up because my writing group had critiqued a piece of my short fiction. I'd crammed a lot of characterization and world-building into 4000 words. I set my story in a desert world, but I never came out and said what the setting was. The others in the group said they liked how I'd managed to convey a lot of imagery and setting without taking up a lot of my word count.

In that particular story, since my space was limited, I didn't describe the setting initially. I had a character who didn't have any basis for comparison to understand there was anything unusual about his barren surroundings. Instead of going on about that, then, I had him quickly bored from being cooped up inside, and reading the equivalent of cereal boxes. The world's description didn't come in until he left familiar surroundings, and saw color (a white tent) for the first time.

I don't know how many words I saved myself by allowing those small pieces to stand in for paragraphs, even pages, of description, but that's my usual approach. I don't like to stand still or linger on background in my stories. If I mention the surroundings, they're either standing in for a larger part of the setting, or they're relevant to the plot. If I can make them pull double duty, by both standing in for a bigger piece and serving the greater story somehow, all the better. My characters notice only things that stand out to them, so what they notice should say something about their states of mind, or what surroundings they've had before, or hint at their personalities.

I've always felt that I'm sparse on description, but, apparently, some part of the setting is making it onto the page. One doesn't want one's stories to take place in white rooms with no doors or windows, after all. But a window can be implied by the scent of rain wafting through a screen, or a square of sunlight on the ceiling. Space can be implied by actions taking place while people navigate their surroundings. Description need be no more detailed than that someone grunts in surprise pushing open a door that didn't look that heavy.

In my view, description is as much about what you don't write as what you do. To get the idea across quickly, leave readers space to fill it in, themselves, while sketching out what needs to be there. You need to be succinct without coming across as terse.

To read Josh's take on the subject, click here.

An exercise in perspective

I posted a challenge to myself yesterday, that Josh and I could write a paragraph about the same space, and there would be no overlap, except for the nouns. I asked if he might take me up on that challenge, and, because he is a kind and loving husband, he has done so.

Below is his two-paragraph description of our bedroom, as posted here:

The room is both spacious and cramped.  My dresser is small and barely fits the clothing I own.  I can't buy new clothes without having to get rid of the something else first.  The pile growing on top, the one that obstructs my clock from all angles but in bed, is a result of my resistance to find sacrifices.  The closet, if I opened it, would assault me with clutter that fills the bottom.  I find the space impractical, and yet I have freedom of movement.  I can make my way around the bed if I choose and access my side without that cramped feeling.  Yet, I'd love to have a dresser just a bit wider, deeper, and taller.  I'd love to get the clothes put away. 

The window has the curtains drawn and shades down when it is in use and is opened when the room is empty.  Not that this makes a bit of difference, the view of the water tower outside is hardly scenic.  The only true scenery offered by the bedroom are the numerous photos, posters, and art depicting different places.  The art represents everything from Boston to Machias to Asheville.  Perhaps it is these gateways that open up the room to give it that spacious feel, or maybe it is simply knowing that our king-sized, wire-frame bed fits in this room that makes me feel like it offers everything I could want.  That is, so long as the closet door remains shut.

And here's my description of the exact same room:

Our bedroom is smaller than the last place we lived, and yet it fits our furniture better. Instead of weaving or twisting to get through tight spots, there is a wide enough aisle on either side of our king-sized bed for either of us to pass. After we got all the furniture positioned the first day we moved in, I remarked that it looked like a hotel room. There was a place for everything, and everything in its place. 

It looks less like a hotel room these days; if it is a hotel room, it's one that's had the Do Not Disturb sign up for too long. There's often clothing or damp towels hanging off the edge of our iron-frame footboard, and laundry doesn't always make it to the basket. I joke with Josh that he dissolves into mist, rather than getting undressed for bed, because I'm always finding a pile of clothes on his side of the room. We both have clutter on top of our dressers, though I keep mine neater, and our nightstands are occupied with the books we're currently reading. The top of my nightstand is dominated by my CPAP machine, leaving very little room for the alarm clock. My books are on the shelf below, and I know my to-read stack has gotten too big when it fills the space.

We both remark on the size of the space,  and the clutter, and the bed, and moving around it. But I point out different aspects of the clutter, and, while I don't get around to pointing out the art he and I spent nearly an hour of precious unpacking time figuring out or the curtains he hung, he leaves out our nightstands and the parts of the clutter that bother me the most. I don't even bother with the closet, but clearly it's one of his priorities.

The bedroom in question -
how'd we do?

The purpose of this exercise isn't for Josh and I to have a fight. We won't; after nearly 11 years of marriage, it takes a lot more than a difference in perspective to rattle us. It's an illustration, though, of the point I brought up in yesterday's post. While Josh and I may both refer to our "cluttered room," our eyes won't travel to the same points within the room, and we're not talking about the same clutter.

In the same way, your characters shouldn't be describing things in the same way, either. What someone notices, how they tell you what they noticed, and what's important about the observation will vary wildly from one character to another. If you refuse to use that opportunity, you're cheating your characters and your readers.

Thank you, Josh, for your contribution to today's post. Everyone, make sure to stop by his blog to give him kudos.