Descriptive Writing
The purpose of descriptive writing is to make our readers see,
feel, and hear what we have seen, felt, and heard. Whether we're
describing a person, a place, or a thing, our aim is to reveal a
subject through vivid and carefully selected details.
• In a clear description, you want to make a dominant
impression, revealed little by little as the details
accumulate.
• Use your five senses, when possible. What scents, sights,
tastes, sounds does this item/place elicit? Can you
describe the touch/feel of the item?
• If you are describing a place or thing, you want to organize
your description in a spatial order. Instead of giving a
disorganized assembly of impressions, arrange details
spatially, from left to right or right to left, near to far or far to
near, top to bottom or bottom to top. The transitions
showing movement from one part of the scene to another –
often in the form of prepositional phrases such as “from a
distance,” or “on the left,” or “at the top”– enable us to
visualize the whole.
In each of the four paragraphs below, the writer has selected a
belonging that holds special meaning to him/her, identified that
belonging in a clear topic sentence, and then described the subject
in detail while explaining its personal significance.
The following paragraph opens the third chapter of Maxine Hong
Kingston's The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among
Ghosts (Knopf, 1976), a lyrical account of a Chinese-American girl
growing up in California. Notice how Kingston integrates informative
and descriptive details in this account of "the metal tube" that holds
her mother's diploma from medical school.
1) The Magic Metal Tube, by Maxine Hong Kingston
Once in a long while, four times so far for me, my mother brings out
the metal tube that holds her medical diploma. On the tube are gold
circles crossed with seven red lines each--"joy" ideographs in
abstract. There are also little flowers that look like gears for a gold
machine. According to the scraps of labels with Chinese and
American addresses, stamps, and postmarks, the family airmailed
the can from Hong Kong in 1950. It got crushed in the middle, and
whoever tried to peel the labels off stopped because the red and
gold paint come off too, leaving silver scratches that rust.
Somebody tried to pry the end off before discovering that the tube
falls apart. When I open it, the smell of China flies out, a
thousand-year-old bat flying heavy-headed out of the Chinese
caverns where bats are as white as dust, a smell that comes from
long ago, far back in the brain.
2) The Brown Wasps, by Loren Eiseley
These are the first three paragraphs of her essay.
There is a corner in the waiting room of one of the great Eastern
[train] stations where women never sit. It is always in the shadows
and overhung by rows of lockers. It is, however, always
frequented--not so much by genuine travelers as by the dying. It is
here that a certain element of the abandoned poor seeks a refuge
out of the weather, clinging for a few hours longer to the city that
has fathered them. In a precisely similar manner I have seen, on a
sunny day in midwinter, a few old brown wasps creep over an
abandoned wasp nest in a thicket. Numbed and forgetful and
frost-blackened, the hum of the spring hive still resounded faintly in
their sodden tissues. Then the temperature would fall and they
would drop away into the white oblivion of the snow. Here in the
station it is in no way different save that the city is busy in its snows.
But the old ones cling to their seats as though these were symbolic
and could not be given up. Now and then they sleep, their gray old
heads resting with painful awkwardness on the backs of the
benches.
Also they are not at rest. For an hour they may sleep in the gasping
exhaustion of the ill-nourished and aged who have to walk in the
night. Then a policeman comes by on his rounds and nudges them
upright. "You can't sleep here," he growls.
A strange ritual then begins. An old man is difficult to awaken. After
a muttered conversation the policeman presses a coin into his hand
and passes fiercely along the benches prodding and gesturing
toward the door. In his wake, like birds rising and settling behind the
passage of a farmer through a cornfield, the men totter up, move a
few paces and subside once more upon the benches.
In the following paragraph, observe how the writer moves clearly
from a description of the head of the clown (in sentences two, three,
and four), to the body (sentences five, six, seven, and eight), to the
unicycle underneath (sentence nine). Notice also how the
concluding sentence helps to tie the paragraph together by
emphasizing the personal value of this gift.
3) A Friendly Clown
On one corner of my dresser sits a smiling toy clown on a tiny
unicycle--a gift I received last Christmas from a close friend. The
clown's short yellow hair, made of yarn, covers its ears but is parted
above the eyes. The blue eyes are outlined in black with thin, dark
lashes flowing from the brows. It has cherry-red cheeks, nose, and
lips, and its broad grin disappears into the wide, white ruffle around
its neck. The clown wears a fluffy, two-tone nylon costume. The left
side of the outfit is light blue, and the right side is red. The two
colors merge in a dark line that runs down the center of the small
outfit. Surrounding its ankles and disguising its long black shoes are
big pink bows. The white spokes on the wheels of the unicycle
gather in the center and expand to the black tire so that the wheel
somewhat resembles the inner half of a grapefruit. The clown and
unicycle together stand about a foot high. As a cherished gift from
my good friend Tran, this colorful figure greets me with a smile
every time I enter my room.
4) The Television Room
At 7:59 this Thursday night, a thick hush settles like cigarette smoke
inside the sweat-scented TV room of Harris Hall. First to arrive,
freshman Lee Ann squashes down into the catbird seat in front of
the screen. Soon she is flanked by roommates Lisa and Kate,
silent, their moths straight lines, their upturned faces lit by the
nervous flicker of a car ad. To the left and right of the couch, Pete
and Anse crouch on the floor, leaning forward like runners awaiting
a starting gun. Behind them, stiff standees line up at attention.
Farther back still, English majors and jocks compete for an
unobstructed view. Fresh from class, shirttail flapping, arm crooking
a bundle of books, Dave barges into the room demanding, “Has it
started? Has it started yet?” He is shushed. Somebody shushes a
popped-open can of Dr. Pepper whose fizz is distractingly loud.
What do these students so intently look forward to? At last is tarts –
TV’s hottest reality show.
The Bedford Reader, Tenth Edition. Kennedy, Kennedy, and
Aaron
5) Night sounds, by Bess Streeter Aldrich, A Lantern in Her Hand,
(c.1928)
Abbie turned to the opening in the canvas cover and looked out
again at the night. Yellow-white, the moon rose higher over the dark
clumps of trees. A thousand stars, looking down, paled at its rising.
An owl gave its mournful call. The smell of burning maple boughs
came from the fire. A wolf howled in the distance so that James got
up and took out the other gun from the wagon. There was a
constant tick-tacking in the timber--all the little night creatures at
their work. It was queer how it all hurt you--how the odor of the
night, the silver sheen of the moon, the moist feeling of the dew, the
whispering of the night breeze how, somehwere down in your throat
it hurt you. It was sad, too, that this evening would never come
again. The night winds were blowing it all away. You could not stop
the winds and you could not stop Time. It went on and on -- an on.
Tomorrow night would come and the moon would look down on this
same spot--the trees and the grass, the wagon tracks and the dead
campfire. But she would not be here. Her heart swelled with an
emotion she could not name."
Bricksville, by Mark Twain
From The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapter XXI
The stores and houses was most all old, shackly, dried-up frame
concerns that hadn’t ever been painted; they was set up three or
four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach of the
water when the river was overflowed. The houses had little gardens
around them, but they didn’t seem to raise hardly anything in them
but jimpson weeds, and sunflowers, and ash-piles, and old curled-
up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and played-out
tinware. The fences was made of different kinds of boards, nailed
on at different times; and they leaned every which way, and had
gates that didn’t generally have but one hinge – a leather one.
Some of the fences had been whitewashed some time or another,
but the duke said it was in Columbus’s time, like enough. There
was generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out.
and she’d stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst
the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on
salary....
From The Autobiography of Mark Twain
I can remember the bare wooden stairway in my uncle’s house and
the turn to the left above the landing, and the rafters and the
slanting roof over my bed, and the squares of moonlight on the
floor, and the white cold world of snow outside, seen through the
curtainless windows. I can remember the howling of the wind and
the quaking of the house on stormy nights, and how snug and cozy
one felt, under the blankets, listening.

All the stores was along one street. They had white
domestic awnings in front, and the country-people hitched their
horses to the awning posts. There was empty dry-goods boxes
under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all day long
whittling them with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and
gaping and yawning and stretching – a mighty ornery lot. They
generly had on yellow straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but
didn’t wear no coats nor waistcoats; they called one another Bill,
and Buck, and Hank, and Joe, and Andy, and talked lazy and
drawly, and used considerable many cuss-words. There was as
many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he
most always had his hands in his britches pockets, except when he
fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a
body was hearing amongst them all the time was:
“Gimme a chaw ‘v tobacker, Hank.”
“Cain’t; I hain’t got but one chaw left. Ask Bill.”

All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn’t nothing
else but mud – mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in
some places, and two or three inches deep in all the places. The
hogs loafed and grunted around everywheres. You’d see a muddy
sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop
herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her,
Student Writing
The Andalucian Stallion, by Jarnell Wilson, 2005 (student)
Standing on his hind legs, this rare andalucian stallion is fearless.
His ears are turned back while his noble looking head is held high.
His all black coat glistens in the late afternoon sun. His face
displays a strong confidence with his nostrils flared, his veins
bulging from his cheek bones, and his fiery black eyes burning
holes into the souls of those who stare into them. His neck muscles
are tensed and thickened with adrenalin. His black main is thrown
into the wind like a flag rippling in the winds of a tornado. His
muscular front legs are brought up to his chest displaying his
flashing gray hooves that could crush a man's scull with one blow.
His backbone and underbelly are held almost straight up and his
hind quarters are tensed. His back legs are spread apart for
balance. His back hooves are pressed into the earth; therefore, his
hooves cause deep gouges from the weight of his body on the soil.
His black tail is held straight down and every once in a while a burst
of wind catches it and then it floats down back into place like an
elegant piece of silk falling from the sky. His bravery and strength
are what made his breed prized as a warhorse.
The Longest Race, Kristian Anderson
As Chad Reed pulled into the pits, you could tell just by looking at
him that this had been a grueling race. His dirt bike was plastered
with so much brown, wet, sticky mud that you couldn’t even read
the number plates. His boots, resting comfortably on the foot pegs,
were a mess of muddy brown dirt, bright white plastic and black
buckles. His riding pants were soaked and covered with mud on the
front, while the back remained a brilliant white and blue. His chest
protector seemed to have kept most of the mud off of his blue and
white jersey, although his sleeves had turned the same swampy
brown color as his bike. His goggles hung looped over the
handlebars of his bike, dripping the ooze it had saved from Chad’s
eyes. His helmet, still on his head, was a greasy smeary brown,
save for the thin line of white and blue where his goggle strap had
been. Although his body looked beaten, his eyes, peering through
the helmet, seemed relaxed and happy. He had just won a very
long and very tiring race.
The Hot Fudge Sundae, Kelly Cofske
In front of me on the table sat a beautiful pure white bowl, simplistic
in design, hiding a decadent surprise inside. In the bowl was hidden
something that was not so pure, however, the irresistible indulgence
was worth every calorie that I knew it contained. As I looked inside I
saw on the bottom of the bowl a hot, tender brownie loaded with
macadamia nuts. I knew from past experience that the nuts had a
creamy and smooth texture, almost like white chocolate. On top of
the brownie were two firmly packed scoops of ice cream, laying side
by side, each one a different flavor. The scoop on the right was a
rich vanilla, flecked with dark specks of vanilla bean. The scoop on
the left was a dark, smooth, bittersweet chocolate. The scoops were
just starting to melt tiny rivers of melted cream down the sides of
the hot brownie, pooling on the bottom of the pure white bowl.
These scoops of ice cream were draped with a sumptuous, rich, hot
fudge sauce. Topping the luscious sauce was an ample dollop of
whipped cream that was in perfect contrast to the dense, almost too
rich dessert below. The whipped cream was topped with a shower
of chocolate sprinkles and finely chopped walnuts. What finally
completed this wonderful creation was a perfect maraschino cherry,
its red juice sending tiny streams down the whole mountain of
dessert delight. The contrast of colors, textures and flavors in this
dessert appealed to every part of my senses. I could not wait to eat
it.
The Blond Guitar, by Jeremy Burden
My most valuable possession is an old, slightly warped blond
guitar--the first instrument I taught myself how to play. It's nothing
fancy, just a Madeira folk guitar, all scuffed and scratched and
finger-printed. At the top is a bramble of copper-wound strings, each
one hooked through the eye of a silver tuning key. The strings are
stretched down a long, slim neck, its frets tarnished, the wood worn
by years of fingers pressing chords and picking notes. The body of
the Madeira is shaped like an enormous yellow pear, one that was
slightly damaged in shipping. The blond wood has been chipped
and gouged to gray, particularly where the pick guard fell off years
ago. No, it's not a beautiful instrument, but it still lets me make
music, and for that I will always treasure it.
Snap Shot, Snap Shot, Kayla Marie Anfinson set, and I have to forgive him for his obnoxious, but endearing,
habits.
Back in 1999 this fearless athlete posed in this football picture. In
the far distance below the cloudless sky stands an off-white Student samples are from:
stadium. Embedded in the center is large, cracked, blue, painted, http://english120.pbworks.com/w/page/19006860/descriptive%20pa
letters that spell out BISON. Beneath the old stadium are rows of ragraphs
worn-out bleachers which are completely empty. Up in front stands
the competitor down on one knee. As you observe more, the sport
player is wearing a blue Bison jersey sporting the number 60. To
the left above the freshly trimmed green grass that engulfs this
player’s figure lays a football. In the center of the picture, you see
her pale white face and dark brown eyes. Around these features
you can not help but notice the bronzed hair; which appears to be
pulled back around this slender face. Her stern look shows how
proud she is; nonetheless, all the confidence she carries on her
padded up shoulders. This unique woman is not only elegant and
brave; she is my sister, Margaret Eva Hoyt.

In the next descriptive paragraph, the student writer focuses less on

the physical appearance of her pet than on the cat's habits and
actions.

Gregory, by Barbara Carter

Gregory is my beautiful gray Persian cat. He walks with pride and

grace, performing a dance of disdain as he slowly lifts and lowers
each paw with the delicacy of a ballet dancer. His pride, however,
does not extend to his appearance, for he spends most of his time
indoors watching television and growing fat. He enjoys TV
commercials, especially those for Meow Mix and 9 Lives. His
familiarity with cat food commercials has led him to reject generic
brands of cat food in favor of only the most expensive brands.
Gregory is as finicky about visitors as he is about what he eats,
befriending some and repelling others. He may snuggle up against
your ankle, begging to be petted, or he may imitate a skunk and
stain your favorite trousers. Gregory does not do this to establish
his territory, as many cat experts think, but to humiliate me because
he is jealous of my friends. After my guests have fled, I look at the
old fleabag snoozing and smiling to himself in front of the television