When I first started writing I made the mistake of thinking I should be descriptive. I’d envision every scene and describe things, the trees as tall as flag poles, the wind coming across the field like music and all that flowery like this and like that. But in truth, many of the great writers don’t describe much at all. It’s true you’ll read Fitzgerald or Steinbeck and feel like you are in the scene, but when you take a second look at the description, there isn’t a whole lot there.
Instead of adjectives, great writers often use verbs. Their characters do, and they are always doing. In this example from Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, a Mother and Father have recently lost a child to crib death, and the doctor has pronounced the child dead. Notice how the paragraph feels descriptive, but is actually more full of verbs than adjectives.
“My father shakes his head. Doctor says he’ll have to take her to examine her and Dad signs a paper. My mother begs for another few minutes with her baby but the doctor says he doesn’t have all day. When Dad reaches for Margaret my mother pulls away against the wall. She has the wild look, her black curly hair is damp on her forehead and there is sweat all over her face, her eyes are wide open and her face is shiny with tears, she keeps shaking her head and moaning, Ah, no, ah, no, till Dad eases the baby from her arms. The doctor wraps Margaret completely in a blanket and my mother cries, Oh, Jesus, you’ll smother her. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me. The doctor leaves. My mother turns to the wall and doesn’t make a move or sound. The twins are awake, crying with the hunger, but Dad stands in the middle of the room, starting at the ceiling. His face is white and he beats on his thighs with his fists. He comes to the bed, puts his hand on my head. his hand is shaking. Francis, I’m going for cigarettes.”
I’ll hilight the descriptive sentences in green and the sentences pronouncing action in red so we can see which the author feels is more important:
“My father shakes his head. Doctor says he’ll have to take her to examine her and Dad signs a paper. My mother begs for another few minutes with her baby but the doctor says he doesn’t have all day. When Dad reaches for Margaret my mother pulls away against the wall. She has the wild look, her black curly hair is damp on her forehead and there is sweat all over her face, her eyes are wide open and her face is shiny with tears, she keeps shaking her head and moaning, Ah, no, ah, no, till Dad eases the baby from her arms. The doctor wraps Margaret completely in a blanket and my mother cries, Oh, Jesus, you’ll smother her. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me. The doctor leaves. My mother turns to the wall and doesn’t make a move or sound. The twins are awake, crying with the hunger, but Dad stands in the middle of the room, starting at the ceiling. His face is white and he beats on his thighs with his fists. He comes to the bed, puts his hand on my head. his hand is shaking. Francis, I’m going for cigarettes.”
A novice writer will transpose the colors in this paragraph. They will describe the dead baby, the fathers look, the doctors white coat, the children’s fearful aspect. Frank McCourt spends little time worrying about it. He trusts the readers mind to imagine details. Instead, he captivates his audience with action. If people are moving and doing, it’s hard to look away. Indeed it is. Nearly every paragraph in this book would be this red. And look at the description he does use. It isn’t flowery. It’s matter of fact. Her face was covered in sweat. Her eyes are wide open. Really? No prose at all, no flowery description.
None needed.
So, if you’re working on a writing project, do readers a favor and cut out the “white as snow” and “cold as a meat locker” and tell us what your characters are doing. Perhaps, like McCourt, you’ll win the Pulitzer for your effort.
Very interesting. I accept. But for whatever reason, I feel really pent-up about it. I might venture to say, angry. Possibly because you so coolly seem to have negated anything “flowery.” I think I’m being defensive. Wouldn’t it depend on what exactly is being written? This just seems like an over-generalization. I don’t disagree, something is just missing.
Hmm. While I want to agree with this, I am pressed to consider the romantic writers. Dickens especially. They wrote “flowery”. Are we to say that they were simply novices, and didn’t understand writing like we do today? Or have I read Dickens wrong?
Kevin,
you are right in pointing out this is subjective, but i would also say that novice writers describe too much, and too flowery. but that does not mean all flowery descriptive writers are novice. i think it’s safe to say that was inferred, not said. while i think dickens was a skilled writer, in my opinion, he was too flowery. but i prefer american writers (mccourt might be considered american since he has lived here since he was nineteen) and, again, this is subjective. still, when something doesn’t sit right with a novice writer, it’s often some piece of description.
Thank you for recognizing and highlighting the writing of Frank McCourt in your blog. His work is incredible. When I read any of his books I feel like I’m experiencing life with his characters. Have you read all three of his books? They are all worth the time!!!!
A great reminder … and probably the reason why I always wondered what Penny was doing and not what she looked like.
Thanks many times over…Really kicked the junk out of my way….Peace!
So true, all of it. Earnest Hemingway’s guidelines for writing were “short sentences, short paragraphs, clarity, authenticity, immediacy, and compression”- nothing which permits the colors of feeeelings or hyperbolic similes. I think it’s the America in us that wants such immediate and compressed literature. It’s like fast food that speeds up your metabolism instead of clogging your arteries. It’s just not as impressive on bookshelves.
I like you, Donald Miller. I’ve decided.
When script-writing, you are always told “show, don’t tell”. It’s a similar idea – never tell your audience what is happening when they can deduce it themselves from what they see occurring. Don’t draw the lesson for them. Give some credit to your audience – no-one likes being patronised or lectured.
[...] What Makes This Paragraph so Great? — Donald Miller, one of my favorite authors shares some writing tips. It’s all about the verbs, not the adjectives. [...]
[...] *A very good post on how to write well. I still have a lot to learn. [...]
As I read your blog I was feeling wonderfull. I could see the dust motes dancing in the half light the sun left. My cat walked across the room as if she were the Queen of Persia. The happiness I feel can only be compared to the happiness a salmon feels when it gets to the end of its journey and doesn’t get eaten by a bear and gets to spawn. I feel, like, really good.
But seriously. The economy of language in that paragraph isn’t quite poetic, but close. There are no wasted or throw away words. This has me thinking about the way I write.
Donald,
I couldn’t agree more. I worked in the Television News Business for 23 years. You learn to write like you talk or you die.
PS. I like you books too. Your writing style is so easy on the eye.
I love Frank McCourt’s writing, but I’ve never figured out why.
Thank you for helping me figure it out.
Couple of things. One, thanks for mentioning this guy. I’m going to go read some of his stuff now. I didn’t know he existed (so shoot me). Second, thanks for informing us of why this paragraph IS so good. It will make my writing better perhaps. When I am doing narrative I mean. Probably wont help my blogging any.
aha! i was just reading a book great in content, but irritating in its attempt to describe everything. i couldn’t figure out why i was so annoyed, and i felt apologetic for leaping through paragraphs and pages.
so, thanks. that read with so much sense.
A great suggestion. Thank you for posting that.
[...] What Makes This Paragraph So Great? – Don Miller This short writing lesson rocked my world – “Notice how the paragraph feels descriptive, but is actually more full of verbs than adjectives.” [...]
[...] Miller says that a downfall of amateur authors is that they often get sidetracked by sharing too many [...]
yes.
Louis L’Amour’s advice was to write stories that “move”. Though he did spend some time in describing surroundings, it was always concise and a small part of the rest of the story.
simple, but incredibly helpful.
thanks.
I’ve read two of your books and recently found your blog due to the unlikely combination of a two year old daughter, three week old son, strep throat and crappy television. While looking through the archives I found this post incredibly helpful as I also have enjoyed reading Hemingway and Steinbeck over authors such as Dickens, Bronte, or somewhat more recently Joseph Conrad. I knew it was based upon their respective writing styles but would have simply called Hemingway “spare” and Dickens “overbearing.” Your analysis gives me that “a-ha” moment as to why and I’m eager to develop it further in my own writing endeavors. Thanks!
Just thought of this post while writing tonight..decided to re-read it and rewrite some of the more lengthy paragraphs that didn’t seem to cut it.
I try to sound poetic too often in my writing…it may come from my daydreamy mind or probably more from former teachers who stressed the imagery when conveying stories to their readers. These teachers always wanted to see, hear, and smell everything that was going on through descriptive words…it’s nice to be reminded that imagery and knowledge of the scenes can come in other forms.
You could possibly have not intended to do so, but I think you’ve managed to express the state of mind that quite a lot of people are in. The sense of wanting to assist, but not knowing how or exactly where, is one thing quite a lot of us are going through.
Hmm… I’m trying to remember some of the best things I’ve read, and suppose that it depends a great deal upon the kind of story one is trying to write. There were a few descriptions: Chesterdon’s flame-haired fellow who was “more a poem than a poet,” for instance. But that, of course, was only a few words. There were, perhaps, more actions: Alyosha’s going out into the forest after Zosima’s death and kissing the ground in a burst of passionate joy, say. Oddly enough, and contrary to much writing advice, the very best things — that I take as quotes and remember long after the book is over — is exposition, either from the character or the author. Perhaps, though, it has to show up in little bursts in order to be quite effective. Action is, of course, what drives a plot, but a great *paragraph* isn’t necessarily the stuff most of the story is made of; it might be great in being rather an exception, like:
“From the moment Pierre recognized the appearance of the mysterious force, nothing seemed strange or frightful to him: not the corpse smeared with soot for the fun of it, not these women hurrying somewhere, not the charred ruins of moscow. Everything that Pierre now saw made almost no impression on him — as if his soul, preparing for a difficult struggle, refused to receive impressions that might weaken it.” (War and Peace, 1018)