Monday, January 11, 2010

Another Box

Today I want to take the Corner Philosophy and run in another direction with it.

Description. Let's look at the four corners.

When you write, exactly how do you describe your scene? Terse? Flowery? Barren? Detailed?

Let me show you some examples...

Terse: Beth stomped down the street revealing to everyone she was mad.

Flowery: Beth, with the wind blowing her long russet tresses in all directions, stomped the stilettoes with a sharp clicking sound on the concrete walk, revealing to every stranger passing by she more than angry, she was venemous.

Barren: Beth moved down the street; she was mad.

Detailed: Beth, a young wisp of a lady, barely twenty-one, brushed back the long, windswept, russet tresses of hair with a quick snap of her hand, never once losing a clicking stride in her glossy, black stilettoes on the gray cement walk, screaming to every passing stranger her ranting feverous, venom laced outbursts of anger.


Which corner do you see yourself lurking in? How would you describe your 'descriptive' writing method?

Please share your thoughts.


  1. I suppose I am flowery!

    I tend to use a lot of imagery in my work, whether that is good or bad, I don't know.

    My imagery/flowery speel, From Birth of Spring (OMNIBUS by Sheri L. McGathy):

    A bitter chill hung heavy in the air and the sun was little more than a hazy glow in a sky dreary and gray as Astara crossed into the northern realms. A fine mist imprisoned the forest of winter-bare limbs in layers of ice while a fog floated over the ground, oozing around the tall, solemn tree trunks, swallowing all sound to leave the world clothed in silence.

    Gray, willowy shadows lurked at the edges of the tree line, ghosting across the forest path like slow, slithering serpents. Within those murky shadows, Astara sensed other, real forms—silent, deadly, serious forms. She knew if she cared to peer into the shadowy depths, she would see glowing eyes glaring back. She kept her gaze trained forward, ever thankful the human children she carried within the folds of her skirt were safely hidden from prying eyes, their dreams shielding them from harm.

    Off in the distance, rising out of the mist like phantom pillars of polished stone, loomed the tall towers of the Snow Palace. Astara had been there once as a child, when the old king had ruled the realm and the new one was nothing more than his beloved son. Though covered in the same ice and snow, the realm had not seemed so bleak then. The land had held a sense of wonder; a magic that had long since abandoned this place.

    Astara could only hope some part of the old king's once-beloved son's heart could still be reached or her journey would be for naught.

  2. I am much more terse I believe.... though I would like to be more flowery as long as my descriptions don't become all about the fluff.