As a writer, sometimes I get WAY too caught up in telling the story, eager to get ahead to the next plot point. When I get in that impatient mode of writing, it’s hard to remember that I’m creating an experience for the reader, that I need to make the scene vibrate with life. I think all writers struggle, at some level, to make their stories have that kind of immediate life to them, like the readers are watching a movie unfold in their heads every time they read the printed words.

Putting Sensory Information Into Our Stories

One of the many ways we as writers can characterize that life–that rich, lush sense of a story being lived out in front of the reader–is to involve more of the five senses in the story.

Let me give you an example of prose without the five senses:

I walked out onto the front porch and went down the eight steps to my car, counting them as I went. I had to hurry–there was so little time left in the day to get my errand done.

This is a slice of very ordinary life, but it’s a very bland slice. Why does the person count the steps going down from the porch? Is this an OCD moment, or is there more purpose? Also, what time of day is this happening, that the narrator feels such a time pressure to get things done?

Sensory information can actually fill in the holes of this story, as well as describe the scene much better:

The breeze was a warm, moist breath along my arms as I opened the door to step outside onto the front porch. Summer’s humidity, along with the sharp, fresh tang of ozone, lay heavy on the air outside; it was this muggy air I’d been avoiding all day. But I couldn’t avoid the outdoors without ignoring my errand. Already I’d let so much of the day slip by that the eight front steps were darkened with auburn dusk and tree shadows. The velvet green leaves above my head swished a little as I made my way carefully down the steps, counting them so I wouldn’t slip.

The raspy voices of the crickets began tuning up all around me as I got into the car, popping a mint into my mouth and allowing myself to enjoy how the peppermint percolated on my tongue. If I just took care of it now, I reasoned, I’d have no reason to worry myself awake all night.

See how this prose is so much richer, and yet the story still moves along, despite the added description? The sentences are longer, and there are more of them, but each piece of sensory description adds life to the story and pulls it along. There are lush sights and sounds, distinctive scents, real sensations, and even a bit of taste thrown in, too–and all this brings the scene more vividly to life.

I’m not sure if this falls into the category of “show, don’t tell,” but I think the second selection of writing definitely outshines the first in terms of quality. What do you think? Which was the more engaging to read, for you?

To Make Your Writing Sing of the Senses:

• Picture the scene in your mind. What colors are present? What visible textures? What kind of shadows, and what kind of light? Describe these for your reader, especially if they’re meaningful to the plot, or to the character’s state of mind.
• Are there any sounds in the environment you’re writing about? If so, are they instantly recognizable (like music, laughter, or language), or are they randomly noisy (like cars rushing by, rattling, etc.)? Put a line or two in about these, if it makes any difference to your story’s plot or characters.
• Any smells or tastes which are important to the story? If so, go ahead and include them–these are the two senses that get left out of a story all too easily. Just a few words about scents and tastes, however, can conjure up emotions and scenes of their own.
• Don’t forget the sense of touch! Are there any important textures that you can feel in the scene you’re describing? What about anything in the environment that affects your character (like the breeze in my example paragraphs)? What does the environment feel like?
• Include just enough of these details to paint a scene, but not so many that you forget to move your plot along. This is where it’s helpful to have someone else read it, to see if they get the same “mind-picture” you do without crowding out your story.