Write What You Notice

Blame it on spring, but lately I’ve been on a kick about the ways in which writers—and everyone else—interact with the world. “Write what you know” is a common instruction for aspiring authors. Like most clichés, it holds a kernel of wisdom. But but don’t write only about what you know; write about what you notice.

Here in the West, it’s easy to get caught up in the larger aspects of being outdoors: the clear air and spectacular views, the aerobic challenge of mountain hiking, the attention-getting rocky terrain. Everything seems bigger and bolder. But here—like elsewhere—the real magic is in the microcosm.

Desert four o'clock, mirabilis multiflora

Nature reminds us daily to pause and look closer. We are surrounded by stories. A penstemon that was brown and dry a few weeks ago explodes with green leaves and a stem that appears to reach inches taller overnight. Heavy buds burst into bloom and bees follow, until the air vibrates with color and sound.

Look closer still: A nipped stalk might be the work of a javelina. Most Sedona visitors and quite a few locals have never seen a collared peccary, yet on nearly any trail you can spot its hoofprints, similar to deer tracks but smaller and closer together. Look for scrapes where a herd has searched for roots, or find scattered prickly pear parts, remnants of last night’s meal.

Look again at that prickly pear, and you might see a jumble of twigs, home to a woodrat (a.k.a. packrat) who cleverly arranges spiny cactus parts to discourage visitors. The nest, likely occupied for generations, may contain shiny treasures fallen from hikers’ pockets, or even pollens preserved since prehistoric times—a treasure for archaeologists. In so many ways, the world around us is interconnected, layered with stories.

“It is not a matter of miracles,” says Buddhist teacher and author Lewis Richmond, “but a matter of noticing.”

Opening your eyes, using all your senses, perceiving intimately—this is what separates tourists from travelers, whether you’re on the road to Grand Canyon or traveling the road of life. Write about what you notice, and your words are authentic, even inspiring. The everyday sparkles with the numinous, the deeper layers that call to our sense of beauty and connect us to the miraculous.

The Secret of the Senses

Cliffrose near Walnut Canyon National Monument

When I’ve spoken to other writers about making their work more sensual, a few have jumped to conclusions, thinking I’m suggesting they change their manuscript from a memoir or mystery into a romance novel. What I mean is this: Whether you’re writing a romance novel or a travel story, involve the five senses in your work.

I learned this simple technique at the very first writing workshop I attended, about 25 years ago. At the time, I’d published poetry and corporate materials, and I'd finished a romantic suspense manuscript that had just been politely turned down by Harlequin. The workshop leader, Richard Jewell, was published across a multitude of genres and markets, and his advice was universal and easy to implement. To date, it remains the most valuable workshop I’ve ever taken.

Some of us respond well to inspiration, some to nagging. I respond to practicalities and tools, and Jewell matter-of-factly shared several over the course of a couple evenings. Incorporating his suggestions, I revised my manuscript and sent it to the next publisher on my list. It sold.

Are you ready for the secret?

Ground your words in the reality of taste, touch, sound, smell, and sight, and they will come alive. Incorporating the senses in your writing is a bit like cooking, however. If you add too many seasonings, or too much of one spice, the dish will be unpalatable. Instead, sprinkle in the senses in proportion to how we use them.

Because most of us are visually oriented, sight—describing how things look—will be the dominant flavor. Very likely, you’ve incorporated the visual sense intuitively, without having to think about it. You may have even overdone it—too much description and not enough dialogue, for example. The danger of engaging so much with the virtual world is that we rely more and more on the sense of sight. Without including the other four senses, our writing can become as flat as our screens. 

Though sounds may be harder to spot in your writing (just as we often don’t notice the sounds around us once we’ve become habituated to them), we rely heavily on our sense of hearing. Does your fictional heroine respond to a footstep in the dark? Does your travel story include the sound of the wind or the pulsing beat from a nightclub? Include a sound on each page of your story.

The sense of touch--the itch of wool against skin, the slick coolness of a glass of ice tea--should pop up every couple pages. Smell and taste are more challenging to incorporate, especially if you’re writing nonfiction, but a dash of these every few pages will add immediacy to your work: the bitterness of stale coffee, the heady vanilla-like scent of a blooming cliffrose.

When you engage all five of the reader’s senses, you’ve opened a doorway into your world—the one you’ve created on the page (or screen)—and the reader becomes an active participant. 

Try it. I know it sounds simple, but what have you got to lose?

Flowers in the Desert

Poppies and phaecelia  in the Sonoran Desert

Spring brings improbable splashes of color to the rocky deserts of California, Nevada, and Arizona. Something about flowers blooming in an arid landscape calls to the human psyche. Photographers and travelers hoping for an iconic scene dial hotlines or check websites for wildflower reports. (Desert USA is a superb resource.) Gorgeous coffee table books by Larry Ulrich or Jack Dykinga get snapped up along with wildflower field guides. Many of us bring home seed packets, hoping to replicate Mother Nature’s annual surprise party in our own backyards.

What is it about flowers in the desert that speaks to us so? Certainly, they are a metaphor for perseverance. Or for finding beauty in unexpected places—a swath of golden poppies at the base of a rocky peak, a red plume of Indian paintbrush bursting from a split boulder. A flower in the desert also reminds us of the ephemeral nature of beauty and youth: Here today, dried sticks tomorrow.

Speaking from a writer’s standpoint, I think that the vision of a tender plant surrounded by cacti, dirt, and rocks creates a feeling of tension. It’s like starting a story in medias res (in the middle of the action), intriguing the reader with questions: How did this get here? What happens next? There’s a sense of impending doom, for you know this delicate flower won’t survive the harsh desert summer.

Or will it?

What I’m getting at in a roundabout way is that all types of writing, even nonfiction, can incorporate fiction-writing techniques to pique the reader’s interest or simply to entertain. Though I haven’t written poetry in many years, I still think about rhythm, consonance, alliteration, and other poetic techniques when I write travel pieces. Similarly, I’ve found that the ingredients of a compelling novel—tension, conflict, characterization, sensuality—often work well for nonfiction.

Maybe you’re writing a piece about an upcoming city council meeting, or a blog post about using Facebook for marketing. As you re-read the draft of your article, think of the wildflower in the desert that makes you stop and take a closer look. Have you unconsciously incorporated storytelling techniques in your work? Will readers feel compelled to stop and take another look themselves? Will they ask, "What happens next?"