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Craft

Improve Your Sensory Description to Bring Readers Back For More

Here’s an exercise I highly recommend doing outside, but you can do it wherever you are.

It’s a simple exercise about being present in a place, centering yourself, and using your entire body to take note of the world around you. Use your eyes, ears, nose, and fingertips to observe everything. What does the place smell like? What does it feel like? What are the textures? Be specific in your descriptions.

Just make a list. You don’t need to write lush, vivid sentences right now—just be as specific as possible. If you hear birds singing, try to identify what kind of birds they are. If you notice flowers, determine their type. If you smell an herbal scent, figure out if it’s lavender, oregano, or something else.

The goal is to dig deep into specifics.

Just this morning on my walk, I brushed a hand over a short pine tree and came up with the following sentences on the fly, which might open a novel someday:

Despite their name, pine needles are actually soft, almost silky, to the touch when caressed the right way. Rub them the wrong way, and they’ll stick you. My mom was the same way.

Will it win a literary award? No, but it’s a vivid image, ain’t it?

For example, one of my students went out to her front porch and sat on the “red brick step” off her porch. Just those three words already create a vivid image.

Then she noticed she couldn’t sit there long without a pillow for her back, which tells us a lot about her if she were a character. Imagine opening your story with such a specific detail: “Frances sat on the red brick front porch steps, thinking she would need a pillow before too long.” This one sentence reveals much about the character.

Another student mentioned going out to her back porch and watching a neighbor hosing down beach furniture. While not highly specific, this detail suggests proximity to a beach. Instead of saying, “Frances lived on the beach,” you can show it through specific observations.

In crafting your story, choose which details to keep and which to trim. You might start with specific details and then refine them in revision. For instance, instead of saying someone walked a dog, specify the breed, color, and characteristics. A detail like “a white hypoallergenic Labradoodle” tells us much more than just “a dog.”

Allow your sensory memory to influence your writing. One student described a ceiling fan’s pull chain tapping against the base, a sound many of us recognize: tick tick tick tick tick. Such sensory details can draw readers deeper into the story. Consider what memories those sensory details evoke—whether they bring warm, fuzzy feelings or negative associations. Does that ticking sound take you back to grandma’s kitchen baking cookies? Or does it take you back to terrible room in a terrible house where terrible things happened?

There’s no right or wrong response, only that you banking that sensory memory for later use in a story.

One student mentioned jasmine bushes around her house. A lovely detail, but it wasn’t the plants themselves that stood out to me as she talked about this exercise. What captivated me was when she said her husband planted them after their trip to India. This detail reveals so much about their relationship and evokes a powerful memory. A simple line of description like that in a story would give the reader instant insight into the character of the husband.

When crafting your scenes, decide what emotions you want to evoke and use sensory details to achieve that.

So: go outside (if it’s safe for you to do so) and immerse yourself in your surroundings. If you can’t go outside, use your immediate environment to practice sensory observation. The more you practice, the richer and more vivid your descriptions will become, resonating deeply with your readers.

I hope this helps!


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Craft

First Words Matter

First words matter!

 

Opening number one in my WIP “Red Planet Gunsmoke” goes like this:

 

“Approaching the Treaty’s new war cruiser filled Cadet Ramona Keegan with something like religious awe.”

 

This sentence works and is functional. However, it forms part of a very chunky paragraph, spanning seven lines. It’s not typical for me, but it’s a different genre, something I’m trying a little differently.

 

Given that, let’s try a different one. Here’s the opening of chapter one from the same story:

 

“Pirate Captain Ramona Keegan ran a calloused hand over her bald head, palm lingering over the crimson hourglass of a colossal black widow spider tattoo, whose tarsi ended at the corner of the captain’s ice-blue eyes.”

 

The second line follows: “‘I want that ship,’ she said to her crew, ‘and I mean to have it.’”

 

In this version, we already have two paragraphs. The first line, though long, is only three lines. By comparison, the first example is seven lines on my Word document.

 

Neither is necessarily better or worse, but there is an adage in advertising and marketing that you want to attract the right people and repel the wrong ones. The same is true of our fiction.

 

In a bookstore or on a website like Amazon, you have the benefit of a cover and blurb, which help attract readers. On a website, you might also have reviews. But most readers, whether browsing in a store or online, will look inside the book. The first thing they’ll likely see is the first page. While most readers won’t make a decision based solely on the first sentence, it’s beneficial to make that first sentence remarkable.

 

If you’re a writer seeking traditional publishing, that first sentence matters even more. An agent will only read so much, and if the first sentence doesn’t grab them, they might move on. Agents have piles of submissions, both physical and digital. You have mere seconds to capture their attention and compel them to keep reading. For book readers and purchasers, there’s a bit more leeway, but why not make that first sentence exceptional? It can make the difference in hooking your reader.

 

For example, I was working with a student who had a solid opening about a creature in the bushes. It was intriguing, but not as engaging as it could be. A few paragraphs down, the student mentioned the character imagining a gunfight with Jesse James. By moving that line to the top, the opening became much more compelling. Immediately, it created curiosity and made me want to read more. If you’re not interested in Jesse James or the Old West, you can put the book down, which is fine because it means the book isn’t for you.

 

It’s important to realize your book isn’t for everyone.

 

It might appeal to millions, thousands, or even hundreds, but it won’t appeal to everyone. Writers, particularly those pursuing traditional publishing, need to understand this. Telling an agent your book will be a bestseller because “everyone will love it is unrealistic.” Focus on finding your actual audience. Crafting an irresistible first line can help attract the right readers and repel the wrong ones.

 

For instance, starting with “Pirate Captain Ramona Keegan” grabs attention. It hints at a space opera setting without explicitly stating it. Even though the cover might show a spaceship or a woman in a spacesuit, the narrative needs to establish the genre quickly. The first sentence doesn’t need to reveal everything, but it should hook the reader and be honest about what to expect.

 

Consider the difference between the two openings: the first, “Approaching the Treaty’s new war cruiser filled Cadet Ramona Keegan with something like religious awe,” is functional but doesn’t grab you. In contrast, “Pirate Captain Ramona Keegan ran a calloused hand over her bald head, palm lingering over the crimson hourglass of a colossal black widow spider tattoo, whose tarsi ended at the corner of the captain’s ice-blue eyes,” is much more engaging.

 

Take the time to write your story, but also craft that first line, paragraph, and page meticulously. Consider paragraph breaks, word choices, and every detail. A well-crafted first page can attract the right readers and, crucially, literary agents.

 

I hope this advice is helpful. Stay in touch and take care.

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Never Abandon the Blissful Value of Saying What Can’t Be Said

 

MIXTAPE

by Tom Leveen

 

A mixtape says the things you can’t. Or won’t.

Or sometimes: shouldn’t.

Mikey fretted over this daily as he sorted through song after song, classics and new hits, trying to compose his feelings with someone else’s music.

Some of it depended on his mood. Some days it was all AC/DC, which he knew Glorietta liked from back in the day. But this wasn’t the sort of situation where one could blithely record Highway to Hell onto the mix, even if it was one of her favorites. The title was just too . . . inappropriate.

He leavened today’s tape with some old R.E.M., thinking some of the lyrics of Driver 8 said a lot of what he wished to say: take a break, we’ve been on this trip too long.

He’d never say that to her. Even if he could muster up the courage and, hell, write the words down, they still wouldn’t come out right. He had way too much experience with that. Glorietta deserved his best.

Nirvana next? No, too abrasive. Poison? No, a power ballad didn’t work either, not today.

Checking the time—he did not want to be late, so as to maximize their time together—Mikey hurriedly chose some Midnight Oil, followed by U2. Classic stuff. Despite not the world’s biggest U2 fan, in his opinion, The Joshua Tree was one of the top great albums ever made.

Minutes ticked away as he painstakingly constructed the opus. He didn’t have a title for it yet; previous incarnations included A Fragile Flash of Lightning, riffing off Pink Floyd’s Delicate Sound of Thunder. Glorietta—she preferred “Glory”—had given him a brief laugh for that, which Mikey cherished. Last week he’d gone full metal-head, nothing but Megadeth, Slayer, Anthrax, Metallica, Skid Row, Queensrÿche, Flotsam and Jetsam . . . and called it Wish You Were Hair, bemoaning that he’d lost his own long locks some time ago and still feeling pretty pouty and petty about it.

Petty! Of course.

Wildflowers became the last song on side B. Glory belonged among the wildflowers, most definitely.

Mikey hesitated as he scrawled the song title on the lined white insert. Did Wildflowers imply too much? That he, Mikey, should be her lover?

No, he decided. Most of the lyrics seemed very pointed at wishing the best for the other person. If that happened to come from a place of pure love and affection and . . . okay, fine, lust . . . Glory wouldn’t be any the wiser.

He hoped. God, the last thing she needed right now his sappy confession of love. No way, man.

Mikey snapped the cassette into its case and ran for his bike. If he pedaled hard, he’d get there just in time.

He got to the hospital one minute after Glory’s visiting hours began. A little breathless, he peeked into her room to see if she was awake.

She was. Barely. The TV was on. Family Ties.

“Hey,” Mikey whispered, still peering around the open door, not wanting to come in without Glory’s permission.

“Hey, you,” Glorietta said, and motioned with her fingers.

It was all the strength she had, and it was all the invitation Mikey needed. He slid into the room and went to the side of the wide bed, where he slipped the case into her hand.

“I, uh, I made . . . I made this . . . um . . . it’s, it’s a new—”

Even in her emaciated state, Glory’s smile lit his insides on fire.

“You know, Michael, one of these days . . .” She had to pause to take a breath. “You’re gonna have to bring a Walkman. Remember those?” Another pause. “Or you could just send me a Spotify list.”

He shook his head. “Not the same.”

“No,” Glory said. “It’s really not. You’re right.”

She lifted the tape to her face, squinting. “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. Christ, Michael, you’re fifty-five years old, you better get on it.”

Glory smiled again as Mikey shuffled his feet. He wanted to say, “I did. I did find what I was looking for. Forty-five years ago when you moved in next door.”

But he couldn’t, and wouldn’t.

And, probably, oughtn’t.

All these years, nothing but friends. Through her various boyfriends, her first husband, her divorce, her second husband, him leaving her. Never having kids, career like a pinball in one of the old machines they used to play back in the neighborhood growing up. Then finally, this illness. He’d been the best friend he could. So he came every day with a new tape, and he’d keep coming until the inevitable end.

It was nearer than he cared to think about.

Glory gently put the cassette on a nearby table with several others Mikey’d brought over the past couple weeks. He almost helped her do it, her gesture was so weak. But he knew her stubbornness well. She would have given him a raft of shit for helping.

After the tape clattered mildly against the table top, Glory then stretched out her hand toward him.

“Michael.”

Perplexed, he took her hand. She was so cold.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.”

“Yeah, but, I . . . I mean, I do, I want to, I like to . . . unless you want me to stop.”

Glory shook her head weakly against the pillow. “No. Don’t do that. I’m just saying.” A pause. “You have a life. You don’t have to come if you don’t want.”

Mikey licked his lips, eyes darting. The words were right there, he could taste them in his mouth.

They wouldn’t come.

In a burst, Mikey snatched the new mixtape off the table and popped open the tiny radio-cassette player he’d brought on his first visit. He jammed the tape inside, slapped the tray shut, and pressed the play button.

Freddie Mercury said what he couldn’t. Mikey glanced at Glory, to see if she understood.

Glorietta pressed her lips together.

“Yeah,” she said quietly as the song played. “You’re mine, too.”

Mikey smiled, pulled a plastic molded chair to her bed, and sat down. Glory offered her hand again, and he took it.

She fell asleep an hour later in the middle of Tom Petty’s Wildflowers. Mikey stayed by her side until visiting hours were over.

He’d come back tomorrow. Maybe with some Beastie Boys.

THE END

 

What did you think? Thumbs up, thumbs down? I don’t think it’s bad for a first draft. Tell me your thoughts!
~ Tom

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How To Forge Your Own Joy

What image comes to mind when you read the word “forge?”