Rules for Adding Description

You need it.  But how much of it do you need?  It’s a common misconception among rookie authors that intricately cataloguing the color, style, and etc of a character’s jerkin is what helps the reader to become immersed in their world.  When, in fact, the opposite is true: too much description is distracting.  It breaks up the flow of the story and, in some cases, can actually prevent the reader from identifying with the character.  Which is a serious problem, because identifying with the character is what creates that longed for reader to story bond.  As a reader, you keep turning the pages, not to learn who’s wearing what but to learn what’s happening.  And it’s not who’s wearing what that makes you care what’s happening but, rather, the fact that you already care about the character.

So why do so many writers, even with so much experience as readers, forget this?

Because, I think, when writing, they get so wrapped up in sharing their every little thought that they forget what they’re trying to do.  Which is, ideally, tell a story.  That lovingly realized jerkin?  It matters to them; so they forget, I think, that it might not matter to the reader.  Are offended by that idea!  This is their world; how could the reader not care?  And description…description is important!

Well…yes it is.  To a point.  But only a certain kind of description: description, not that pleases the writer, or that seems particularly important to the writer, for whatever emotionally based reason, but description that serves a purpose.  So how do you know if the kind you’ve got is the right kind?  Follow these simple rules:

Only describe things that are relevant to the story, when they’re relevant to the story.  I’ve been asked, over the years, to look over a number of manuscripts and one issue the less successful ones all have in common is that they spend a lot of time describing people, places and things that turn out not to be relevant.  Three paragraphs on a building that no one is visiting, three more paragraphs on this dress or those robes.  If I don’t need to know, at precisely this moment, why this building is made out of limestone or covered with bas relief eagles or whatever, don’t tell me.  Save this information for when it’s part of the story–and if it’s never part of the story, I never need to know.
Describe people, places, and things from the character’s perspective.  Description can be a great opportunity to shed light on a particular character’s background, ideals, etc.  Maybe they’re a country mouse, awed by their surroundings; maybe they’re more of a city mouse, and look down on everything.  Don’t waste an opportunity to show your world through a distinct set of eyes; the same town square isn’t going to look the same to everyone.
Description should advance the plot.  It is, however, not the plot.  You might be thrilled with the pages upon pages of world building-type trivia you’ve created, but one of the hardest things to recognize as a writer is that 95%–or more–of your world building will never make it into your actual manuscript.  Should never make it into your actual manuscript.  If you open the story with “this is the planet, and this is its ecosystem,” or “this is what everyone was wearing,” you’re going to accomplish precisely one thing: boring your readers to tears, and then losing them.  Unless you’re writing an encyclopedia, this is not your plot.  Your goal, with description, is to give just enough that readers can connect with what’s actually going on–and no more.
Description should evoke emotion.  Again, in terms of what’s actually going on, what’s going to drive your story–no matter what kind of story it is–is emotion.  Emotion, and the action it produces.  Is your character angry?  Sad?  Why?  Tell me.  Help me to feel what they’re feeling.
Don’t info dump.  It’s so tempting to lump all your great ideas–about this fortress, or this whatever–together in one place.  To tell the reader, the first time they see this thing or meet this person or etc, etc, etc, everything there is to know about them.  Except…do not do this!  What, to you, is absolutely incredible and fascinating in every way is going to seem, to your reader, like paragraphs of useless information.  Going back to the first rule, only share information when it’s relevant.  And by relevant, I mean, when it’s absolutely necessary to give context to, and create atmosphere for, the actual plot of your actual story.

I know it’s hard.  It’s hard to be a ruthless editor, especially with your own work.  But believe me, it’s easier to face your own criticisms than to face other peoples’.  Few things suck as much–and trust me, I know, I’ve been there–as entrusting your literary baby to someone and having them yawn.  Even with my published work, that’s achieved modest bestseller status, I’ve gotten absolutely terrible reviews.  There’s a paragraph about cheesemongering in The Demon of Darkling Reach that, from the excoriation it received, you’d think was six chapters long.

In other words: if you don’t rake your work over the coals, someone else will.

A good exercise, when you’re struggling to craft a story, is to think back to books you’ve enjoyed and to what, specifically, about them worked for you–as a reader.  Not, of course, to copy anyone’s work (don’t do that!) but to help yourself connect, as a writer, to which tactics are successful and which aren’t.  You might be surprised to discover, if you go back to a certain chapter of a certain book, that that masterful description you remember so well, the one that plunged you directly into a scene, was only a sentence or two long.  Because the best writing, ultimately, isn’t about quantity but about quality; your goal, as a writer, should always be to say the most in the least amount of space.  And that’s true whether your story is 150 words long or 150,000.