I sat bolt upright in bed.
He pulled himself to his feet.
He raised himself to his feet, with a loud grunt that betrayed his age.
The boy jumped at his feet.
He raised himself to his feet, with a loud grunt that betrayed his age. His brow furrowed. The older you get, the louder the grunt, he reflected.
She lowered herself to the bench.
She sprung to her feet.
He leaned his chair onto its rear legs. … His chair fell forward onto all four legs.
She jolted upright.
She jumped to her feet.
She rose from her seat.
She stood on the cross legs of her stool to look over the bar.
The chair squeaked and strained under his heavy frame.
Loud scrapes and creaks echoed in the still room as he dragged the wooden chair on the floor.
The wooden chair creaked as she shifted her weight on her seat.
From behind the door, she heard the high-pitched screeching of chairs being shoved around on the tiled floor.
She pulled the string on the blinds, which closed with a loud swoosh.
The old wooden blinds clacked and clattered as she pulled the cord.
The cord made a zipping sound as she rolled up the blind, the cloth rustling with the sudden action.
The metal blinds rattled against the window.
He ripped open the blinds with a swish.
The cloth blinds made a pleasant ruffle as she lowered them.
She put her body down on a chair.
She approached the ancient rocking chair as if expecting it to skitter away like a scared cat; as if one wrong move and she’d never set eyes on it again. She offered it her back, settled her body gently against that smooth oak chair, got a feel for its perfect rhythm, the familiarity of creaking wood.
Clothes
* * *
There are a million different ways to describe clothes, so this is but a tiny selection, with an emphasis on fantasy.
He pushed the coat down and off of her shoulders and it fell down her arms, pooling at her feet.
She admired the gossamer robes.
She lifted the long cloak and held it high. “I used the pelts of rabbits, and sewed them to well-tanned and thin-beaten deer hide.”
She strapped her short sword to her side, where it hung against her left hip. The knife he had given her sat in its sheath on her right hip.
Tall leather boots graced her feet.
She wrapped herself in a fleecy sheepskin worked with fine hand embroidery, spider-thin silken threads woven into ancient symbols no longer understood.
She wore a pair of simple gathered-leather, over-the-knee boots.
He wore a fitted charcoal-gray pinstripe that had the look of absurdly expensive bespoke.
She peeled off her jacket, tossed it on a peg.
His gaze caressed her painted-on red dress.
She wore olive-green fatigues and a lightweight tank.
She was draped in a burgundy wrap dress.
She wore a light green gown with beading covering the bodice and trickling into the skirt.
She wore a black Chanel suit that was all business and sexy heels that weren’t.
He teased the gown above her head. All at once, a river of plum-colored silk rushed over her arms and down onto the floor,
It was pure cashmere, but she dismissed it as just a good layering piece.
She put on distressed jeans.
He was wearing tight jeans that played up his broad shoulders and slim hips.
She dressed with some care, donning a lilac-colored dress accented with white satin trim. She left her light brown hair loose but added a ribbon to keep the strands free from her face.
Clothes can be mired or soiled (mired in dirt)
He began dressing, stepping into his pants and then reaching for his shirt. Shrugging into it, he turned.
She set him moving with a smack to the back of his jeans.
A rip along the bottom of her bag called to mind some battlefield casualty, like a veteran’s scar.
Sawgrass reached across the path and tugged angrily at the hem of her skirt.
Her dress graced the floor with a pale blue splash like fallen sky. Discarded underpants conjured visions of puffy white clouds.
Doors
* * *
He opened a door. She closed a door. Is that really all we can say about doors?
He tore the door open.
She slammed the door.
The doors lumbered shut.
They filed through the door.
Doors banged.
The door crashed open.
He vanished behind the glossy wooden doors as he swung them shut. She waited until they clicked closed.
He slammed the door behind him.
The door creaked open.
Doors squeaked, scraped and groaned open.
He reached in and yanked the connecting door closed.
The door snapped shut.
Behind her, the door groaned shut.
The door thudded closed.
The door clanked into its lock.
The brass door handle squealed when he pressed it down. The door swung inwards without making a noise. When he closed the door behind him, the handle squealed again, as if in pain.
The doorbell gave a soulless 'ping'. She heard shuffling steps, then the rattling of a chain, and the door opened, scraping across the carpet. While she brushed her damp shoes on the door mat, the door clacked shut and the chain rattled again.
The master key was on his belt. He slid it into the lock and jerked open the door to the cell. The hinge squeaked from the weight of the door.
The solid wood door they’d so carefully fortified was split in half, like kindling.
Her fingers found the rain-slick knob and, to her surprise, it turned in her hand.
His hand found the rust-roughened knob. To his surprise, it turned in his palm.
Her fingers found the lichen-encrusted knob and, to her surprise, it turned in her hand.
With a pneumatic hiss, a vertical line appeared on the rock face. The wall split and slid apart to reveal a small area behind it.
Just as the door was about to latch shut, it stopped moving.
Every beat of the bronze knocker reflected the beats of her heart.
He was stopped by a cherry door flanked by stained-glass sidelights and crowned by a matching transom / covered with elaborate wrought-iron latticework.
Voices broke through the door, warm and loose by tone, although she couldn’t piece together any single conversation.
We broke the threshold and crossed into the sort of scene I’d conjured up during a hundred sleepless nights.
The door gave up a wide yawn. A short man leaned into the gap.
His wide shape filled the front door and crept onto the porch.
She drifted through the open door.
A coded knock issued from his knuckles.
The red door pulled a tight yawn. A porcelain face filled the thin crack.
The doorknob felt cool against her hand.
He shoved the door closed.
Hushed voices conspired like conniving schoolboys behind the thin door.
A curious jiggle found the doorknob.
Driving
* * *
I’m sure you can drive just fine. But how easy do you find it to describe your character’s driving? These might help.
He cut across three lanes of traffic, careening over the median to speed back in the other direction.
She coasted the SUV out onto the road.
He backed out, hand on the gear shifter.
We swerved to the right as the back end of the SUV fishtailed until it came to a halt.
He jammed the car into gear and gunned the engine.
A red traffic light stopped us.
A cab screeched to the curb.
He turned into [name of] Street, tires screeching in pro
test.
She pulled onto a sandy road going off into the desert.
The truck bounced over the rutted road.
The tires screeched as the truck careened to a stop.
The truck peeled out of the driveway. She opened it up on the main road.
She hauled the steering wheel to the left as her right tires careened down the incline.
Flying through the maze of trees, we hung a sharp right.
She parked the truck in the gravel patch.
Traction caught and the car lurched forward.
He mashed the brake to the floor.
He stifled the engine’s growl and flung his door open.
The smell of burped gasoline stung her nose.
First gear submitted with a painful grind.
The driver’s door gave up a squeaky yawn and spit him onto his feet.
A black Model T Ford skulked in the tall grass beside the lane.
A dark Victorian villa cast invisible hands toward our car, luring us nice and snug against the curb out front.
Fights
* * *
Fights. The staple in many a genre. Where would be without them? Here are a few words that may prove useful when describing a fight:
He crushed his opponent.
He crashed against the floor.
She hurled the stone at him.
He pinned her to the ground.
He pummeled the shield.
She splintered the wood.
She plunged at him.
She swerved his sword.
He catapulted at her.
He wrenched the knife from her hand.
He was already hurtling toward them.
He lunged at her, wielding a huge axe.
He swung his axe.
He flung his axe at her.
He dashed / raced / vaulted at them.
She charged them.
She hasted toward them.
He plummeted to his death.
She pounced at him.
She dived after him.
She slapped / thumped him.
Fists thudded.
Swords clanked.
He sheathed his blade in the scabbard on his belt.
A sudden and forceful tremor sent him sprawling on all fours.
Furious, she hurled her knife after him. A moment too late, the blade thudded into the wall as its target vanished.
Blood caked her wound, forming smudged streaks down her thigh.
Blood was bubbling up through the wound.
Taking the sword from where it rested against the wall, he sheathed it on his hip.
He instinctively grabbed the side of his head as a surge of splitting pain pounded within.
She launched herself into a spinning leap toward her opponent. The man lunged forward to meet her, jabbing his fist towards her stomach. She dodged him nimbly and cracked the pole down on his broad back. There was a sickening crunch, and the man sprawled senseless on the ground.
She whirled around in a circle, looking for any stragglers.
A large stream of blood, now caked and hardened, clung to the side of his face. His eyes had a glassy sheen; his expression was dazed. He gingerly touched the wound near his temple, and winced slightly on contact. He flicked a few flakes of dry blood from his fingers.
A fine sheen of sweat shone on his upper lip.
A second volley hissed in his ears, quelling the advance.
As he bolted into the forest, he caught a glimpse of the enemy’s warriors, faces smeared with red paint, rushing up the road and pouring into the camp.
The larger the army, the more logistics needed tending.
Blood jetted in all directions, hitting him in the face.
A mushroom cloud boiled over the ocean. The noise and shockwave washed over them.
His boots scuffed and kicked at the cobbles as he was dragged up onto a high stone step.
She’d yank all of her hair out.
His head thunked back onto the blood-streaked cobblestones.
Blood sprinkled from the wound.
It was as if she could sense every nerve, cell, muscle, drop of blood and hair in her body individually.
She shot up to him and grabbed him by the throat.
The shouts and clangs of metal coming from all around them faded from her ears, as she concentrated on her opponent’s eyes, waiting for a tell-tale sign of attack. It came perhaps thirty seconds later. A slight narrowing of his eyes told her he would charge. When he did, she parried, slid from beneath the attack and spun, her sword held ready to defend her. He came again, this time swinging from the opposite direction. She caught the blade on the flat of her own. The force of the blow sent a numbing shockwave along her arm. She back-pedaled quickly and circled to the right to give her arm time to recover. He charged again. She caught the first blow easily and flicked her wrist to separate. This time, he came with an arcing attack. She stopped his blade before he could finish the swing, slipped beneath it and pushed him back. Spinning, he reversed and attacked again, faster than she expected. In the midst of his attack, his eyes flicked to the right. She backed quickly away. He came at her an instant later in a full-out charge. Instead of back-pedaling, as she knew he expected, she pushed forward, her blade moving in the figure eight, her arms weaving so fast that the blade blurred in the air. She kept her counter attack until he fell into her pattern of weaves and faints. Then he changed pace and pushed her back, his sword hammering steadily in short, swift strokes. Their blades gleamed in the air, the sound of metal echoing loud and crisp until, finally, she spotted an opening in his defensive pattern. She dipped beneath one swing, stepped closer and an instant later touched the tip of her sword to the side of his neck.
She lifted her bow and notched an arrow.
With the sun on his back, he raised his arm and whirled his hand in a circle, finishing with a finger pointing forward. Behind him, the voices of the officers echoed his hand signal with commands to move.
His arm ached from the fighting. His legs cramped, but he held himself strong.
The mist-like appendages exploded, falling and twisting, as the creature fought for its existence.
The fighting was fierce; no quarter asked, none given.
He held his sword high and bellowed the command to reform their ranks. The cry echoed up and down the lines of armored men and women.
The man bled his life out on the floor.
He jumped off the crate, rolled beneath the monster, lashed out with his sword, and sliced through one of its legs.
He swung his arms to loosen them.
Horses
* * *
Like fights, horses are a staple of many a genre. Even if not many of them are around nowadays, it pays to know how to describe our heroes’ interactions with them.
He tightened the cinch on the last horse.
With her bow slung across her shoulder and back, the quiver of arrows attached to the horse’s saddle, she pulled on the reins.
He stroked the horse’s powerful neck, being nuzzled at the same time.
She stroked the horse’s wide, flat nose.
She stroked the horse’s head, dismounted and stretched her body. “I feel like I have spent my entire life on his back,” she said, continuing to twist and stretch the kinks that had grown with each mile ridden.
The horse stood there shaking, a low groaning sound bubbling from his mouth.
Molten steel coursing through his veins, he mounted the horse, rode the valley floor and marched up the hillside, the horse in tow.
He yanked the reins.
He hefted his sword and started his horse into the ravine.
His hands resting on the pommel, he relaxed into the ambling ride.
The horse stomped and danced, ears flattened at the tight hold on the reins.
Leaning forward, he patted the big horse’s neck.
Houses and Scenery
* * *
The best way to describe a house is to flick through an (online) arc
hitectural magazine. The second best is to read on.
The walls were covered in rich, black wallpaper that exhibited a shimmering, barely perceptible pattern in the winking candlelight.
Depression glass candleholders stood on the shelf.
Along the far, short wall was a wide, polished, walnut, rectangular table.
Their footsteps echoed on the travertine floors.
All the paint chips he had been forced to stare at had driven him crazy.
The interior was cuter still, with wooden floors polished to a warm honey-gold and exposed brick walls showcasing vintage travel posters.
The room was perfect for sit-downs that didn't call for the formality of a conference room.
The room had seamless windows and a breathtaking view of the park.
The polished marble flooring gleamed in the full sun.
Blue plaid curtains accented with a soft beige draped the windows.
He touched the rain-streaked pane.
A smattering of trees met his gaze.
He saw a pretty jut of cliffs upholstered with wild grass.
The tower lorded over the seaside village.
Ladders slid on oiled rollers from one section to the next. Bookcases lined each level, from floor to molding.
The garden was redolent with the scent of gardenias.
The central desk looked like a cresting wave, scooped up from a thick base on one side, its leading edge flattening to form a workspace.
Brocaded chairs topped by soft throws lined the wall.
One section of the gate rolled on a rail to the side and another could be raised and lowered.
Their footsteps echoed on the gold-veined marble flooring.
A wet bar was tucked into an alcove. Another wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows with French doors.
Original works of art hung placed on recession-lit walls.
She touched the embroidered fingertip towels.
He gazed at the slow-paddling ceiling fans.
Behind elegant banisters, platform walkways permitted catwalk access on the second and third levels.
It was a grand two-story home, painted a pristine white and fronted by tall shrubs that sheltered most of the columned porch from view.
Emotional Beats Page 6