101 TIWIK #10: Density

When I first started writing, my drafts would often read like this:

Paragraph of description–> followed by paragraph of action–> more description–> block of dialog–> paragraph of backstory or exposition–> etc.

As readers, we know instinctually that there is something wrong with this pattern. When we read our favorite books, we don’t tend to find entire paragraphs dedicated to description, action, or exposition. We don’t tend to find long strings of nothing but dialog. In fact, we don’t tend to notice the methods of storytelling embedded in the text at all, because experienced authors weave them together so deftly that we can’t see the warp.

This tight weaving of words has a name, and it is density. When I finally learned about density from a friend in my writing group several years ago, the gap between my writing and excellent writing became something I could begin to straddle.

Density, as a writing term, is essentially the idea that each paragraph, and if you can manage it, each sentence, should serve multiple purposes. Instead of just describing, or just moving plot along, or just revealing character, or just showing action, or just explaining something, you should try to do as many of those things as possible with the fewest words possible. 

To demonstrate what I mean, here’s another paragraph from Robin Hobb’s Assassin’s Apprentice: 

His jerkin was closed with an intricate buckle shaped like a buck’s head. It was brass, then gold, then red as the flames in the fireplace moved. “Boy,” I said. I do not know if I was merely repeating what he and the guardsman had called me, or if I truly had no name besides the word. For a moment the man looked surprised and a look of what might have been pity crossed his face. But it disappeared as swiftly, leaving him looking only discomfited, or mildly annoyed. He glanced back at the map that still awaited him on the table.

The first two sentences have action and description combined. The jerkin is closed, the flames move. Then we have a touch of dialog. Then a sentence of exposition, explaining that the narrator is unsure whether he really has no name. Then a description–the man looks surprised and pity crosses his face. In that sentence and the one that follows it, the author reveals character purely through the minute actions of his facial expressions. And finally we have an action that transitions to the next paragraph.

The effect of density in this paragraph is that the story keeps moving. The descriptions and explanations don’t slow down the forward momentum. 

Another aspect of density is that every single sentence is tied into the rest of the book. There are no superfluous sentences, nothing that serves only one purpose, here and now, for this scene. The buck on the man’s buckle is an important sigil throughout the book. The name of the boy in question is a riddle unanswered until about the 9th book in the series. The touch of pity in the man’s eyes, as well as his return to his immediate preoccupations, sets the tone for the relationship between the man and the boy for the rest of the books. And even the map has significance, as the man spends much time in the rest of the series studying maps. There is truly no word wasted in this paragraph. 

For contrast, here’s a paragraph from a writing exercise I did about sixteen years ago. 

The whole land felt fresh, like a trip to the city after months on the farm. Last fall’s pale, dead grass lay in sodden mats, punctured by tiny, chartreuse shoots of new spring growth. The dismal grey tentacles of alder and willow down by the creek bed were peppered with tiny vestibules of fresh greenery. I could hear the tinkling of the creek, which had just thawed out from a long, hard winter, below me in the valley. The sound called to my soul.

This paragraph only describes. There is no motion; we get no sense of the character, there’s no information beyond the current scene. If I were to re-write this, I’d want to show the sodden mats and tiny shoots under the character’s feet as she walked. I’d want some indication of the character’s emotional state. And I’d want to know how this scene fits into the bigger story. What is the significance of this spring? Why does the creek call to her soul? What are the implications?

The concept of density highlights, in my opinion, the importance of planning. When you draft without knowing how the scene you are writing fits in with the larger picture, it’s harder to make every single sentence serve the story. You end up with a lot of superfluous text and a lot of gaps that need to be filled in later. You can revise to density, but it is much easier to write dense the first time. 

But beware of forcing it. If you are constantly asking yourself what purpose your sentences serve while writing, you may do what you fear most from planning and stifle creativity. Instead, read your favorite books and take note of how the author uses density. Read your peers’ work and find places lacking density. Once you start to be aware of it, you’ll start doing it automatically.

At that point, you will have developed your voice as a writer–which brings us to tomorrow’s topic: 101 TIWIK #11: What the Heck is Voice?

This post is part of a series of 101 Things I Wish I’d Known Before I Wrote My First Book. Start reading the series at the beginning.