Don’t stink up the page

How do you work sensory details into your writing?

by Dietrich

I close my eyes and imagine a room, let’s say a kitchen. What’s that smell? The bite of burnt garlic or the warm hug of baked cookies.

Writers are schooled from day one to use sensory details—show, don't tell, we’re told. But is there a hidden danger in this advice? In an effort to make an imagined world vivid, it’s easy to overdo it by loading down sentences with adjectives and adverbs until the prose drags along the ground.

Somebody once said the secret isn't about using more details; it's about using them with precision. I bought into that—less is more—and as I attempt to paint a vivid image, I’m aware of when to leave it alone.

Sensory details are best used for the heavy lifting. Let a single image sketch the entire scene. And if a detail doesn’t evoke a visceral reaction, then it’s just clutter.

She walked slowly down into the damp, cold, dark, gray stone cellar that smelled of mould, rot, and ninety percent humidity.

Or I could just write: The basement smelled like a wet dog.

I don’t need to explain dampness or cold if I let the "wet dog" do all the work. There’s my vivid image in just six words, establishing the mood, and letting the narrative keep its pace.

That’s always top of mind—to keep the story moving—that’s the primary job of a storyteller. If the reader has to wade through a paragraph of description while two characters are in the middle of a blowout, then I’ve likely lost them.

If a character orders a coffee, I don’t need to describe a three-sentence breakdown of the roasting process—unless, of course, the roasting process is about to poison somebody. If it’s just breakfast, then a quick mention is enough to place us at the table.

I need to let the reader fill in the blanks, remembering that reading is a collaborative act. As the writer, I’m just sketching the boundaries, giving them just enough information to help them along, then stepping back to let them fill in their own blanks. 

When I leave space on the page, they can inject their own memories, fears, and histories into the story. They build their own mental images, making the experience deeply personal to them.

The golden rule when I’m editing a scene is to look at my descriptions and ask: Is this moving the story forward, or am I just stinking up the page? Do I need to strip away some fluff?

I have to remember to trust the reader, give them a taste, and let their imagination do the rest.