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Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
Description in fiction
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Description in fiction

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  • 1. DESCRIPTION in FICTION
  • 2. An Example "If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins."
  • 3. An Example "If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins."
  • 4. An Example "If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins."
  • 5. Another Example We wore our best dresses on the outside to make a good impression. Rachel wore her green linen Easter suit she was so vain of, and her long whitish hair pulled off her forehead with a wide pink elastic hairband...Sitting next to me on the plane, she kept batting her white-rabbit eyelashes and adjusting her bright pink hairband, trying to get me to notice she had secretly painted her fingernails bubble-gum pink to match. Barbara Kingsolver
  • 6. Another Example My brother Ben’s face, thought Eugene, is like a piece of slightly yellow ivory; his high white head is knotted fiercely by his old man’s scowl; his mouth is like a knife, his smile the flicker of light across a blade. His face is like a blade, and a knife, and a flicker of light: it is delicate and fierce, and scowls beautifully forever, and when he fastens his hard white fingers and his scowling eyes upon a thing he wants to fix, he sniffs with sharp and private concentration through his long, pointed nose...his hair shines like that of a young boy—it is crinkled and crisp as lettuce. Thomas Wolfe
  • 7. What about places? I have learned that there are actually intensities of blue beyond very, very bright blue...I have seen fuchsia pantsuits and menstrual-pink sportcoats and maroon-and-purple warm-ups and white loafers worn without socks...I now know the precise mixological difference between a Slippery Nipple and a Fuzzy Navel.  I know what a Coco Loco is.  I have in one week been the object of over 1500 professional smiles.  I have burned and peeled twice.  I have shot skeet at sea.  Is this enough?  At the time it didn't seem like enough.  I have felt the full clothy weight of a subtropical sky.  I have jumped a dozen times at the shattering, flatulence-of-the- gods sound of a cruise ship's horn.  I have absorbed the basics of mah-jongg, seen part of a two-day rubber of contract bridge, learned how to secure a life jacket over a tuxedo, and lost at chess to a nine-year-old girl. David Foster Wallace
  • 8. What about action? He could remember when he was good and it had been only three years before. He could remember the weight of his heavy gold-brocaded fighting jacket on his shoulders on that hot afternoon in May when his voice had still been the same in the ring as in the cafe, and how he sighted along the point-dipping blade at the place in the top of the shoulders where it was dusty in the short-haired black hump of muscle above the wide, wood- knocking, splintered-tipped horns that lowered as he went in to kill, and how the sword pushed in as easy as into a mound of stiff butter with the palm of his hand pushing the pommel, his left arm crossed low, his left shoulder forward, his weight on his left leg, and then his weight wasn't on his leg. His weight was on his lower belly and as the bull raised his head the horn was out of sight in him and he swung over on it twice before they pulled him off it. Ernest Hemingway
  • 9. DESCRIPTION in FICTION is about observation
  • 10. DESCRIPTION in FICTION is about choosing something to represent the whole
  • 11. DESCRIPTION in FICTION is about sensory details
  • 12. DESCRIPTION in FICTION is about metaphors and comparisons
  • 13. YOUR TURN describe a nervous surgeon a typical Seattle morning a car crash

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