The Delight is in the Details

Published July 23, 2024

By Monique Bos

One of my fiction teachers observed a strict “rule of three” about descriptions. Writers, he believed, should provide three—no more and no less—descriptive details about each main character in their stories. And each detail had to convey an essential insight into the individual.

He didn’t need to know that a protagonist had long brown hair, for example; that didn’t enhance his understanding of their personality, their motives, their passions, their values. We had to justify any description we included in the stories we turned in for his class, and we needed to delve beyond cliches and obvious explanations and shortcuts. For example, a character wasn’t to order a salad at a restaurant to signal to readers that they were dieting, insecure about their weight, committed to healthy eating, or trying to impress a date. And if they ordered a Greek salad with fat-free dressing, olives on the side, extra feta cheese, we’d better be prepared to explain why readers would care how they wanted their meal served. In fact, he pushed us to explore options. Why tell readers what anyone ate or drank? Did the scene need to take place in a restaurant, or could we identify a more compelling location that offered glimpses into a character’s psyche?

If I mentioned that my protagonist wore a red scarf, I had to provide a reason. Did they sport it at a funeral to mock everyone else’s grief? Or did the colorful accent honor their late grandmother, who was known for her whimsy, joy, and flamboyance? Did that red scarf save their life? Maybe they wore it skiing, and when they had an accident and lost consciousness, the scarf caught the attention of another skier. Maybe it marked the location of their murdered body. Maybe it was left hanging forlornly off the branch of a fir tree, the only clue in their disappearance. Whatever the significance, readers needed to grasp why I highlighted a scarf rather than another article of clothing, and if I specified that it was red, the color needed to matter somehow.

I was deep into my Goth phase when I took this class, and my writing often resembled Poe’s most torrid fantasies. Paring down my character descriptions to three significant details was challenging—and it often meant cutting passages I was proud of. I’d lovingly describe every item of a character’s attire, from the scuffed combat boots she’d bought at the Army surplus store to the fishnet tights that were torn over one knee, the ragged lace skirt she’d thrifted, the 69 Eyes t-shirt that had been washed so many times it was peppered with bleach stains and holes, and the spiky dog collar she wore around her neck, which cost more than the rest of her wardrobe combined. (In full disclosure, most of my characters dressed exactly the way I did, so these descriptions didn’t require any creativity or effort to push myself beyond the limits of my own closet!)

Maybe all those details conveyed important insights—I was convinced they did—but choosing between them proved to be valuable discipline for me as a writer. I had to interrogate my own intentions: my purpose, assumptions, audience, and signaling. I also had to acknowledge that I wasn’t as original—in my writing or my personal appearance—as I wanted to believe. Every stock Goth character I encountered in books, graphic novels, and short stories wore scuffed combat boots from an Army surplus store and ripped fishnets, so those details did nothing to distinguish my protagonist. And no matter how many 69 Eyes lyrics I scrawled in my diary, adding layers of significance to her t-shirt choice in my mind, the band reference would be meaningless to readers unfamiliar with their music. 

On the other hand, when I presented readers with a character who seemed like the stereotypical Goth, I could complicate their assumptions—and provide insight into her personality—if I pointed out the pastel bead bracelet she always wore, even though it clashed with the rest of her appearance. Or I could describe the Taylor Swift lyrics tattooed on her lower back, where none of her friends ever saw them. Or maybe, despite her emphatic stated aversion to team sports, she slept in a Patrick Mahomes jersey. 

While I was, and remain, leery of writing as an exercise in checking off boxes (have I included three character details? Oops, I added a fourth! Which one do I remove?), the concept behind that teacher’s rule has remained with me. What descriptions can I provide that convey, in a concise and powerful manner, a sense of personality and individuality? How can these details intrigue readers, invest them in my character’s fate, and keep them reading this story?

I see the importance of details, and of being sparing and intentional with descriptions, not only as a writer but also as a reader. I confess to being an impatient consumer at least as often as I’m an admiring connoisseur savoring the taste of an exquisite sentence. Although I stubbornly persist in believing otherwise, it’s likely that one lifetime just won’t be enough to read all the books I’ve accumulated and continue to gather. One practical effect of this backlog is that I don’t need much excuse to start skimming. If an author spends more than a sentence describing a palatial home or a character’s bespoke Brooks Brothers suit, I’ll skip paragraphs until I reach dialogue or action. Ditto with those restaurant scenes my teacher so loathed: If characters spend pages discussing their meal choices, the book may permanently land on my DNF pile.

I might be, and have been, criticized for this impatience. Perhaps those criticisms are justified. And personal taste certainly comes into play: Some readers love eloquent descriptions, crave pages and pages that tell them exactly what the writer pictures. And I’m sure that some writers, with an eye to their stories eventually landing on screens big or small, take care to be as precise and specific as possible so their original vision is more likely to be reproduced faithfully.

But ultimately, I as a reader choose where to devote my limited time, attention, and energy. And as a writer, I have to acknowledge the tough reality that I’m vying with a slew of other stories—books, movies, TV shows, social media clips, headlines, ads, the best friend who compulsively narrates their Instagram feed out loud—for readers’ time, attention, and energy. 

So making thoughtful, intentional choices about how to honor my time and my readers’, how to express what’s most crucial about my characters without getting lost in extraneous details, and how to push myself beyond shortcuts and assumptions has become both a challenge and a joy. It requires me to approach every person, whether they live in the outside world or only in my head, as a unique individual with their own quirks and passions, secrets, and desires. It demands of me to decide what to hold close, what to share with readers, and why. It’s brought me to a fuller, deeper understanding as a writer that has translated into being more present as a human.

Monique Bos works as the communications manager for Pikes Peak Habitat for Humanity. She also has taught writing at the university level, reviewed mysteries for Publishers Weekly, and served as the managing editor of a weekly newspaper. Her short fiction has appeared in small-press anthologies and online journals. She enjoys long walks with her partner and their dogs, the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo, nature photography, and everything books.