Specificity is crucial to effective writing.
Done poorly, it causes great damage to your story.
Done well, it can make your prose stand out as professional.
The trick is knowing when to get specific, and what about.
But first, if you’re wondering what I mean by specificity, let me explain.
New writers have a scene in their mind, one they think they are getting across clearly, but to the reader it’s often still too abstract.
The author sees the scene in their head, and their words translate that scene to the page where the reader then turns the words back into mental images. It’s thought-transference, but because we are all unique creatures with individual experiences, it’s like a game of broken telephone.
The image changes in the process.
This is the clarity gap.
In order for the author to accurately send their thoughts through the nether, they need to use specific words to limit the possibilities the reader can imagine.
All language is technically abstract, and the meaning changes over time. Try reading Ye Olde English, for example, or listening to the slang kids use. It’s the context and the details that add concreteness to the conveyance of ideas.
When you say something, like “I tossed a ball”, it can be interpreted in a near-infinite number of ways. Each person who hears or reads that phrase will conjure a different mental image based on their life and experience and recent history.
Are you tossing a tennis ball for your dog, or a football in a big match? What type of ball, what color? Who’s catching it, if anyone? This makes that phrase nebulous. It’s non-specific and does not tell the audience what to visualize.
That’s fine if it’s a minor detail.
When your character dashes through an alley, pursuit hot on their heels, the villain’s arm outstretched, ringed fingers snatching and missing as our hero twists out of the way, knocking a stack of boxes over… we don’t necessarily need to know if the boxes are light or dark wood, banded in metal or missing planks. We don’t need to know what’s inside them, how many there are, or what logo is painted on the side.
Those specific details don’t add to the excitement of the chase.
If this scene appears in the middle of a story, the reader will already have contextual clues about the two characters and the city they are running through. If they imagine four small crates or three wooden barrels, it doesn’t change their understanding of the scene and therefore isn’t an important detail to get specific about.
However, if the hero flees around a corner and discovers a dog blocking their way, then we need some specific details to
a) understand how this affects them, and
b) properly visualize the scene.
Is it a mangy stray, just as surprised as the hero, and the two get tangled in a heap?
Or is it a snarling hulk of bristling black fur, lips curled back from jagged yellow teeth, shoulders hunched and forelegs bent, ready to spring forward in attack, and our hero slides to a halt and raises their hands, pursuit suddenly forgotten?
Because “dog” is a nebulous concept and can be imagined in so many ways by different readers, and because it has a direct impact on our understanding of the story, the specificity is critical for an effective passage.
As a note, this is what is happening when writers overdo unnecessary character actions.
He turned.
She placed her right hand in her right pocket.
This “stage direction” can be used sparingly to keep track of where the characters are in physical space, but too often it’s overdone in an inexperienced attempt to portray the scene accurately.
It’s specific, but doesn’t convey emotion, set the tone, or add anything meaningful to the reader’s understanding.
Use specificity when you want to limit the possibilities a reader can imagine. Do it to accurately impart information.
Be less specific when the extra detail doesn’t add anything important.
This is called the Pool of Precision:
This is another way of saying “the devil’s in the detail” or “choose your words carefully”, but it goes beyond simply having an extensive vocabulary.
If it was only about the correct word, a writer could grab a thesaurus to approach the sentence:
The day was hot.
And change it to:
The day was scorching.
But that is still just saying it as is. It’s a missed opportunity to immerse the reader and deepen their understanding of the story.
This is one of those situations where you might want to show not tell, and you can do that through specificity.
Instead of: The day was scorching…
The cicada song rose in waves while the asphalt baked under a cloudless sky.
It’s more vivid, conjuring images in the reader’s mind that let them experience the scorching day for themselves.
Now the fun part.
You can alter this specific description according to the genre or tone you want to convey:
Romance:
The cicada song washed across her in a pleasant hum, the asphalt a comforting heat beneath her sandals.
Thriller:
The cicada song droned relentlessly while the asphalt baked her with the heat of a cremation oven.
Action:
The cicada song buzzed a call to adventure, while the blazing asphalt pointed the way under a cloudless sky.
The base of the description remains the same, and all three indicate how hot the day is, but the specific words chosen alter the tone you’ve set for your audience, priming them for what’s to come.
Think about the emotion you want your reader to feel on this hot day. Use the description to enhance the story.
In movies, they will often use close-up shots to convey this effect, focusing your attention where it will pick up on the emotions they want you to feel.
Example: A group of cowboys escort a cart down a dusty track in a western film.
If it’s adventure, maybe it’s a shot of hooves kicking up travel dust, the creaky wagon wheel, and a hat pulled low against the sun.
If it’s a thriller, the close-up is of spurs digging into horse flanks, the dirty fingers of an outlaw wrapped around the bars of the prison cart, and a holstered pistol, blood smeared on the butt.
These are specific details they chose to highlight in order to impart information and set the tone.
You can do the same with your writing.
Let’s do an exaggerated example to show the power of specificity.
Sarah stabbed Eddie.
Well, what did she use to stab him?
I was visualizing a sword, but this is so nebulous you might have thought “fork”. They could be knights on a crusade or at a modern diner. We have near unlimited possibilities at the moment. Let’s shrink the pool until we have more precise thought transfer.
Sarah pulled the katana free and tossed the sheath aside.
(Now we know it’s not only a sword but a specific type: the katana)
With two hands on the hilt, she levelled it at Eddie, five feet of white-steel halving the gap between them.
(The katana comes into clearer focus and we see where the characters are in relation to each other)
While Eddie fumbled to draw his own weapon, Sarah lunged with Dawnslicer. Faithful Dawnslicer, the blade nicked from years of service but still sharp, needing only to strike true for Sarah one final time. The sword whispered through the air of the silent bakery, piercing Eddie’s breast as easily as it would any of the fresh rolls on the surrounding racks.
(Now we can visualize what the sword is doing, and where it is)
She held the fatal pose, frozen by the look of confusion and betrayal in Eddie’s eyes until at last they dimmed. His heart’s blood oozed between her palms and Dawnslicer’s corrugated leather grip. With a cry she shoved blade and body away, sinking to her knees on the tiled floor as sobs climbed from her throat.
This is by no means a perfect passage and is lacking the context of a surrounding story, but it provides us with quite a bit of information.
It hints at the previous relationship between Sarah and Eddie. It tells us there’s history between Sarah and Dawnslicer, and this is their final chapter. We get a good indication of the mental state of both characters, though whether Sarah sobs in anger or relief is unclear yet. We are also told the specific details of the stabbing, both the tool and the action.
There are still many details left up to the reader’s imagination, but the total pool of possibilities has shrunken drastically from “Sarah stabbed Eddie”. We have directed the reader to visualize a specific scene, and much more accurately conveyed the details of our thoughts.
At least, you are no longer in danger of thinking “fork” when I meant “sword”.
Weave specificity into your writing to close the clarity gap between you and your reader. Keep the Pool of Precision in mind. Ask yourself, what’s important for the reader to visualize clearly? And maybe more importantly: what isn’t?
You can practice this while editing by hunting for generic words to replace.
You can practice this while writing by over-exaggerating your specificity and pulling back later.
And you can practice this while speaking, if you’re willing to get a little goofy:
(2:04 – 4:36)
Good luck, and happy writing!
