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The first time my husband read something I wrote, I eagerly awaited his feedback. “What did you think?” I asked breathlessly.
“It was good!”
“Say more about that…” I prodded.
“I liked it.”
“But what did you like about it?”
“I don’t know…it was good.”
My then-new spouse wasn’t trying to be opaque or difficult or euphemistic (though it took a few days of pouting and grousing for me to figure that out), and I wasn’t (just) seeking more praise (though it took a few days of bewilderment for my hubs to figure that out). I needed clear, objective input on exactly what was and wasn’t working so I could figure out how to fix it. I needed specifics.
Generalities Create Bland Stories
Just as we as writers can’t address the possible weaknesses in our stories until we understand exactly what they are, readers can’t fully engage with those stories without a clear, concrete, granular sense of detail.
Yet one of the observations I most frequently make with authors’ manuscripts in my editing work is that key elements may lack impact because they feel vague or generalized. Not only does this prevent readers from grounding themselves in the world of your story, but it can also result in ambiguous writing or a lack of clarity that may frustrate them, lower stakes, and reduce the effectiveness and immediacy of your story.
Generalities prevent readers from grounding themselves in the world of your story, but it can also result in ambiguous writing or a lack of clarity that may frustrate them
Consider this description:
My dad died of a heart attack, and I don’t want to die having never really let myself live like he did.
versus
One day my dad trundled in to work—eight fifteen on the dot, just like always—worked until six, then went to sleep on the two-hour train ride home and never woke up. Heart attack, the doctor said. Just like that—while the rest of our family was being a family, he worked and worked and worked and then one day he died. I don’t want that to be me.
Both these passages convey the same idea, but one does it with generalizations that offer the reader little context, that create no concrete picture in her mind. In the first passage we understand the point the character is making, but it’s intellectual, not visceral; theoretical rather than real—vague rather than clear.
In the second example we get enough specific details that we have a concrete image in our minds and can paint the rest of the picture for ourselves—which is what creates that magical synergy between author and reader that draws readers directly into the world of the story and fully brings it to life. We get a fuller idea of the narrator’s father—that he was a man of structure and routine, perhaps a workaholic. We get an idea of the protagonist’s feelings about him—that his dad wasn’t around for their family, in fact didn’t fully feel part of it to our narrator and that maybe he resents it. And we have a much more direct, visceral feeling for how that affected his own goal not to live his life that way.
The author doesn’t spell out every tiny detail—just enough to create a concrete suggestion of these story elements and give the reader rich raw material to build on in her own imagination.
Let’s look at another brief example:
She fled an unhappy marriage.
That certainly conveys some information about the character’s past. But as Dostoyevsky famously said, “each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” An unhappy marriage might suggest any of a broad spectrum of issues, from incompatibility to abuse. It leaves out nuance.
Look what even a few strokes of specificity add to this simple line:
One day she packed a bag and walked out and never looked back, vowing no one would ever make her feel invisible or small again.
Now we can fill in more of the picture from our own perspective—we may never have been in a verbally abusive or belittling marriage, but most of us can relate to the feeling of someone making us feel inadequate in some way, and we can viscerally understand the emotions and reactions and impact of that based on our own firsthand experiences.
Specifics Add Nuance and Impact
This is what I mean by the specific invoking the universal: The more concrete and granular a picture the author creates, the more it may resonate with each reader’s direct experience of the universal feelings attached to these situations and events. It’s the effect that we connect with, not the cause—meaning that despite perhaps wildly differing personal experiences, we can understand feeling minimized, unseen, unhappy, etc., by reflecting on times when we felt those things ourselves—albeit perhaps for different reasons.
In Brit Bennett’s novel The Vanishing Half, Stella Vignes decides to abandon her mother, her hometown and community, and her twin sister to pass as white to circumvent the limited opportunities she feels her future holds as a Black woman in the segregated South, yet finds herself haunted years later by the secret she carries.
We may never have faced that exact situation for ourselves, but most of us can relate to the desire to transcend strictures or limits put on the opportunities available to us. We can probably relate to the pressures and emotions of hiding something about ourselves that we fear others seeing—whether that’s a secret, a vulnerability, a shame or regret, etc. Bennett’s pinpoint-specific character and situation may not reflect the lived experience of the bulk of her readers—but they hit on universal motivations and emotions that allow readers to viscerally understand and react to Stella’s choices and their effect. They bring her story to rich, vivid, immediate life.
As humans we don’t deeply engage with abstracts; we crave detail, specificity, and most of all connection on a human level.
Using specifics will also add punch to character motivations and goals—consider a character who “wants to find love” versus one who demands a partner who can see and appreciate her for who she is, rather than what he wants her to be (Sandy in Grease), or a protagonist who wants to vanquish the terrorists holding hostages inside a building versus the one desperate to save his wife and family so he can reconcile with them (Die Hard). As humans we don’t deeply engage with abstracts; we crave detail, specificity, and most of all connection on a human level. We understand story through the universal human reference points we all share.
Specifics help build stakes, too:
He was determined to save the family farm
doesn’t quite suggest the same driving need to preserve a legacy as:
His father had worked this land all his life, and his father and his father before him, their sweat and tears and blood as much a part of these fifty acres as the soil, and that strong unbroken chain wasn’t going to snap with him.
They even apply to descriptions: Compare the images in your mind between
She took in his gorgeous high-end kitchen
versus
The reflections off the miles of quartz countertops and gleaming Viking appliances practically blinded her.
Notice how just from a few concrete specifics, your imagination lets you fill in more detail on your own—I’m betting your mental picture included more than just appliances and a countertop: Did you also see the cabinets, the sink, the flooring, the color scheme? Sparked by specific detail, you create a much clearer and more vivid picture in your mind than from the vague generalization of “a high-end kitchen.”
Enhancing your stories and readers’ experience of them with specifics doesn’t mean adding tedious laundry lists of detail. Experiment with shading in just enough nuance to bring a few details into sharper focus so that readers can engage by filling in the rest of the picture.
Read more: "Writing Insights from the Drawing Board"
Over to you, authors: When you think of your favorite stories you’ve read, what details live most vividly in your mind? How do you use specifics to bring your own writing more fully to life?
This article originally ran in the Writers in the Storm blog.
14 Comments. Leave new
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
It is almost impossible to read the titles in the green box “How Writers Revise”
Fair point–and not the first time I’ve heard it. I’ve resisted because I love that font, but I’ve just asked my designer to see if she can find a similar-feeling font that easier to read. Thanks for the feedback, James.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Forty-odd years after first reading Little House, I can tell you that Laura and Mary got a peppermint stick, a tin cup, a little heart-shaped cake made with white flour, and a penny in their Christmas stockings. And they were thrilled about it– they could hardly believe their good luck. As a kid, I was struck by the penny, but now I’m thinking what a skillful authorial choice the heart-shaped cake was.
I’m trying hard to find the right evocative details for my 1970s historical fiction. A particular farmhouse kitchen is going to have a Kit-Kat clock and a tea towel with a 1970 calendar and a colorful autumn tree printed on it. I’m going for a sense of humor and warmth in the heart of the family’s life.
Your examples, and the reminder of “not too much, not too little” detail are very helpful. Understanding that the reader will become emotionally connected to my story by filling in the rest of the picture themselves was an a-ha moment for me. Thanks for this.
I love the specificity of that Christmas–it creates such a vivid picture of the family’s situation and dynamics–and how it’s lingered with you, Heather. And I love the clear, specific details you’ve already picked out to represent your family’s kitchen–it already feels so cozy and homey and warm…and evocative of the era. Thanks for sharing–and I’m glad the post hit a chord! Good luck with your WIP.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Sometimes I have a hard time shutting up on the details, once I get started. A rabbit hole is always more fun that what we’re supposed to be doing, right? I once turned out 1700 words on my character getting out the good silverware to set the table. It was based on real life; I’d dried the silverware and returned it to Grammy’s case many times, and I could still feel every threadbare part of it. Eventually it led to a fascinating plot point I couldn’t possibly use. I don’t regret spending the time on it, it was really fun…..and now that I think about it, I’ll bet there’s a pretty good chance I can make a stand-alone piece out of that Darling. I’ll dig it out this weekend and see if it’s still alive!
Truth! There’s a balance to strike–it’s so easy to bury readers in a surfeit of detail that stalls momentum and may leave them a bit glazed over (all due respect to your no doubt finely wrought and presented flatware… 🙂 ). But one moment of your character fingering that fork with affection could be plenty to evoke the whole set for readers, and all its emotional, nostalgic weight. Thanks for the comment, Claudia.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
The details that live so vividly for me are when the words on the page stop being words, and I am in the character, feeling I am her and she is me.
Including specifics is such critical information to keep in the corner of our eye. I think I lean toward the too little. I keep reminding myself to show the reader rather than tell them. The examples you used were very helpful in driving this point home. Thanks!
That’s when the story gets magical to read, isn’t it? Glad the post was helpful!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I’ve used your sage advice today in tweaking up some sections. Thanks for the awesome insights, Tiffany!
I’m so glad it helped, Sandra! Thanks for the feedback.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I loved how Barbara Kingsolver used the details of sound and smell in Prodigal Summer. Having been raised in a rural community and spending entire summers traipsing in fields and woods, I was right there with her in that forest and cabin. I used to count the types of sensory details in each chapter to make sure I gave each modality adequate attention, but my writer’s group said I was slowing the story with too much description. Now I work at including specifics that keep the story moving. Your examples provided vivid guidelines that will inform my future choices; thanks so much!
It’s a balance–sometimes hard to find. I’m glad the post helped!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I had a piece reviewed at my last writer’s critique group a few days ago. It was the first chapter of book five in a series. More than one person suggested that I needed more backstory, or at least a better understand of the reason for the MC’s desire for what she wants. Your suggestions in this post may be just what I need to do to make the character’s motive more clear, without adding a lot of extra backstory. Thanks for another great newsletter!
Glad to hear it–thanks, Patti!