Writing Sensory Descriptions
Depicting touch, sight, taste, smell, and hearing to enhance your writing.
Tell me hills do more than roll. Seriously. Do they rise? Is there a slanted climb, one that peaks not at a point, but with a broad stroke of green and brown? And then, the land begins to curve — just slightly. The rocks hide in the descending grass-covered land, jutting enough to form a jagged and haphazard staircase.
What do the hills look like in your story?
Writing detail can be difficult. Too much? Too little? Does it highlight or distract? How do writers find the balance of using sensory description while avoiding trite and overwritten phrases?
Think about taking a sip of a carbonated beverage of your choice, of course, and that feeling you get in your nose. It’s like burning and your eyes water. When my kids were younger, they described soda as “spicy” because of the carbonation. If you’re writing a character who has soda for the first time, how would you write his/her reaction?
Details like this matter, so let’s go over the senses and how to up your description-game.
Touch
He placed his hand on her elbow and pulled her a step closer. She resisted. Her skin felt soft and silky. He caressed her arm. She shuddered under his touch.
Yawn.
Ok…trying again. What am I trying to say? This is key. We have to ask ourselves this question as we’re writing to keep our focus on what truly matters. Am I trying to say that she has a strict lotion-before-bed regimen? Is this my way of saying she’s traditionally feminine, attractive? What I really want is to show the tension between two people. Sure, it’s outwardly a sexual tension, but maybe it’s more than that.
He placed his hand on her elbow and pulled her a step closer. Her muscles tightened. His thumb found the soft skin behind her elbow. His hand was a light breeze up the back of her arm, slowly drawing his fingers over her shoulder to the dip of her neck and on to her collarbone. She grabbed his hand and squeezed the tender spot between his thumb and forefinger. A flash of pain screamed up his forearm.
Another…
He was losing his grip. The chalk on his fingers wasn’t working. He knew not to look down. He kept his eyes on the rock in front of him and prayed his ropes would hold.
This isn’t terrible, but it could be better.
Let’s try:
The rock face was flat and gray. His eyes focused on a vein of black and orange-to-brown that ran diagonally up from where his fingers gripped to the next nearest ledge. His hand found the chalk bag. The white powder was cool and slick at first touch, like putting his hand in a bowl of flour. He smoothed the chalk in his hand, rubbing and then patting away the excess. He took a moment to visualize his arm extending up and over, his hand reaching the ledge. And then, on the exhale, he swung his arm up and out, his torso following as he knew it would. Muscle memory and strength propelled him forward and his fingers met the slick rocky shelf. The shallow ledge dug into his skin. It was jagged and uneven and just before his fingers slipped, he hoped his ropes would hold.
Sight
Imagine meeting someone and instantly feeling connected. Depending on lots of things, any sense could be the first to kick in. We’re going to go with sight for this example.
He was a mess. Black hair, blue eyes, and light freckles across his nose. I thought he was incredible.
BOR-ing.
How was he a mess? What can be added to make this more interesting?
This passage comes from a manuscript I’m currently working on:
“His jacket fell awkwardly on his shoulders. It was oversized as if it didn’t belong to him. Perhaps it was his father’s; it definitely belonged to someone older and bigger. In fact, he seemed to be swimming in all of his clothing. He’d skipped a button while doing up his shirt leaving the ends to hang asymmetrically. His tie hung loosely around his neck and his pants were rumpled and sitting too low on his slim frame. But it was his hair — I couldn’t stop staring. It was black as ink and full. It was long on top and the ends were a mix of waves and curls. It was a dark sea of hair. One swirl hung in his face and as I followed it down to its ends I noticed his blue eyes looking straight at me. He looked away quickly and I found myself wishing for him to return his gaze just so I could see the color move swiftly again, like a blue bird flying by a window. He said something, then, something I failed to catch because I was too busy imagining myself connecting the freckles that fell across his nose and cheeks, creating constellations that exist in the skies of other worlds.”
Taste
This can be a hard one. Perhaps it’s more subjective than the others. It doesn’t apply only to food. Think about tasting the salt water in the ocean or the dust in an abandoned home. When you taste something new at a restaurant, do you ever try to figure out what’s in the sauce or marinade? Can you separate out the flavors and describe what you’re tasting? Great. You’ll be good at this, then.
When I visited Mexico City the street tacos were unforgettable. My favorites were the tacos al pastor which are made with pork cooked on a vertical rotisserie and served with sauce and onions and pineapple.
Now I’m hungry. (Disclaimer: I’ve never actually been to Mexico City. Fiction, anyone?)
Mexico City is so many wonderful things: beautiful people, interesting history, resilient culture, and delicious food. When I visited Mexico City, I was overwhelmed by color and music and the vibrant smells of street food. Tacos Al Pastor, for me, are the best combination of piquant spices, juicy meat, earthy cilantro and onion, and the tang of the pineapple — wow! Traditionally, chefs will make their own marinade for the pork including ground chiles and achiote paste, which is a blend of spices and the orange-colored annatto seeds. The result is a well-adjusted peppery flavor with just enough sweetness to carry the heat. Add in the tangy pineapple, avocado sauce, the coolness of the cilantro and the bite of the onion on top of the corn tortilla and you’ve got a meal that will punch you in the palate.
Smell
There are certain smells that bring up specific memories for me. I’m sure you’re the same. Smell can be quite sneaky. It’s not visible and sometimes the thing that is causing the smell can’t be seen either. It can take you by surprise and all of a sudden you’re sitting in your elementary school cafeteria or at church camp braiding a friend’s hair or in the back of a truck that’s speeding down a path cut through corn rows. How do we capture those moments in writing?
Her anxiety was triggered every time her roommate used the hair dryer. It was that same smell, the smell of hot, maybe burning hair that made her remember her mother standing in the old bathroom getting ready for her date.
I like this image and want to do it justice, let’s try:
Amanda heard the shower shut off. She knew her roommate was pulling back the curtain and reaching for her towel. In a moment, the hair dryer would start and Amanda would grab her cigarettes and head for the balcony. She’d rather smell the exhaust from the truck stop and wet, rotting garbage from the dumpster downstairs than inhale the scent of hot burning hair. She couldn’t stand it. It was too familiar. It was late nights and her mother standing in the bathroom, the one with the pink and black tile. It was hot rollers on the vanity. “You know they’re ready when you can smell them,” her mother would say. It was blush, so much blush, and lacy underthings, and perfume. It was late night date nights and Amanda would be left alone.
Hearing
Anyone else remember the sound AOL Instant Messenger made when you had a new message? Sound can be evocative; maybe it’s a song, someone’s voice, a car horn. In the same way smell can trigger a response out of nowhere, our sense of hearing can take us back to another place or time almost immediately. Sound or the lack of it can also be useful in describing scene.
David’s mother lay still in the hospital bed. The bed was situated so that she could see out the bay window on the front of the house, the house where David remembered her cooking his meals, washing his clothes, dancing, singing, and now dying.
Oof.
David matched the rise and fall of his mother’s chest with the push and pull of the ventilator’s inner-workings. He watched her heart rate timed with the beeping of her monitor, slow and steady. He wasn’t sure how it all worked. He just knew he could listen to the rhythm of her heart and the swish and shhhh of the machines and he felt better, comforted. She lay in partial sun as it streamed through the bay window and across the hospital bed. David had moved out the larger furniture to make room. He wanted her here. He wanted her home. He wanted her where she’d made his meals and washed his clothes; where she’d danced with his father to old records and hummed along with the radio. If she’s dying, he thought, let her do it here.
Occasionally, an alarm would go off, loud and urgent. Her blood pressure cuff had slipped or her oxygen level had fallen. The nurse would rush in, her feet quickly patting the hardwood floors. Sometimes it was nothing. Sometimes it was everything. She would have to turn off the machines, readjust his mother. David held his breath in the silence and prayed for the machines to come back on.
At the end of the day, we as writers have to choose our own way of expressing the details in our stories. That’s where our voice comes from. These examples are a guide for those who feel they need more sensory description in their writing. More is better for some. Less is better for others. Find what works for you.
