Bring Dead Writing Back to Life with the Five Senses (Re-Published)
Previously published on January 4, 2010. The American Writer was an unknown blog. There was only one visit, so I decided to re-publish this post.
Eddie entered the girl's empty apartment and carefully closed the door behind him. Outside it was still raining. Photographs and lithographs hung on the walls, but were not interesting enough to take his attention from his purpose. He had to find the box. Stepping lightly, he moved through the room and his hand grazed the back of a chair. Something wet. When he held his hand up to the light, it was red. He sniffed it. Blood.
His heart pumped his own blood through his body. He became alert and aware that someone could be in the apartment. He crept into the bedroom, pushed open the door, and he couldn't believe what he saw. The body sat upright against the headboard of the bed, legs akimbo, with its arms looped up over the top of the headboard like it was lounging on the beach. The head was covered in a pillow case.
Fairly pedestrian prose. Information, some description, the beginnings of a scene. But it's dead. Not just the body in the bed, but the writing. Dead writing is dead writing because I'm only telling the reader what to see--and even that isn't detailed or specific enough to create images in the reader's mind.
See, hear, touch, taste and smell. If I use all five senses, the writing comes alive, like this:
Eddie heard the echo of his own shoes in the hall as he entered the girl's empty apartment and carefully closed the door behind him with a click. The whoosh of tires on the rain-drenched street outside reminded him to check for mud on his shoes. None. The smell of rain, grease and lilacs mixed in the air of the room to create a new odor of metalic staleness, like a convalescent hospital. Black and white photographs of famous musicians and colorful lithographs of Paris, Rome and Majorca covered the pine-panelled walls. But they were not interesting enough to take his attention from his purpose. He had to find the box. Stepping lightly, he moved through the room, furnished in oak and pine, the shine on the wood creating the memory of lemon polish in his nostrils.
His hand grazed the back of an oak, mission-style chair. Something felt sticky and wet. When he held up his hand to the yellowish street light pecking at the window in the rain, it turned red. He sniffed it. Sweet. Blood.
His heart pumped his own blood through his body, and he felt the throb in his chest, the cold adrenaline running down his arms, his neck, his spine. He crept into the cold, dimly lit bedroom, pushed open the door, and couldn't believe what he saw. The body sat upright against the iron headboard of the bed, legs kimbo, with its arms looped up over the top of the headboard like it was lounging on the beach. The head was covered in a pillow case that was saturated in black blood stains. Eddie smelled Death permeating the room with the stench of rotting flesh and rancid body fluids.
I purposely overdid it, but only to demonstrate the possibilities. When I write anything, I want to use all five senses within the context of mood, tone, pacing and story. So if the pace needs to be quick, I won't use as much description. But if I want to create a mood, the description might make the mood more specific to what the character is experiencing. Hearing and seeing come easy, but I forget touch, taste and smell, which are the three senses I usually overlook in my writing.
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