Writing a story is like turning on a flashlight in a midnight room. The words you use describe only part of the scene. What remains unsaid is just as important as what makes its way to the tale.
Our stories are mediated approximations. They can never express the fulness of the experience, and sometimes I wonder if the same experience is fully unique anyway. Do I experience a sneeze the same way as you?
I’ve been reading a lot of descriptive writing. I know it’s fallen out of favor these days. Books from before the internet describe what a person looks like, each piece of clothing, hair style, and characteristic marks. Now just “Joe” or “Jane” will do.
The sense of smell is underused in descriptive writing. Perhaps because most people don’t pay much attention to scents, or perhaps because what you smell is far too personal to reveal. We are animals, and like animals, we can be led by our noses.
I find that the description of an odor can add a lot to a story. Sounds, of course, play into it as well. Tastes tend to be reserved for eating scenes and perhaps a few others. Scent, however, is ubiquitous and ephemeral.
Brownian motion and mental triggers mean that we soon learn to ignore bad smells. The molecules dissipate, our sensors adjust. We can learn to live with smells, and we have to appreciate them the moment they hit our noses.
I’ve always been sensitive to smell. It is often a key ingredient of a scene I enter. As psychologists tell us, scent is closely associated with memory. That one aroma can instantly transport me back to college, to high school, to my mother’s arms. Maybe it’s too personal to share with others.
Despite the direction writing has gone, to the more action-oriented, minimalist description style, I still appreciate a good, painterly scene, and a nice scent to accompany it.
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