Writers in the Storm

Imagine two readers. One reads phrases like, “She walked into the bakery.” The characters do things and go places and exchange snappy dialogue. The other one reads phrases like, “The aroma of fresh-baked bread stirs great flutters in the chest of the girl with very large, odd, and attractive eyes that could shoot a man dead in love.” Most likely, both readers will abandon their books. In the first story, there is a litany of actions with no sensory anchor for the reader. In the second, sensory details clutter and obscure any hint of plot or character, and overwhelm the reader.

So how much sensory detail should a writer put in or leave out of a story? There are lots of theories riding in the ether, but there are no hard and fast rules. However, if you treat the senses as narrative tools rather than decoration, you’ll exercise the level of sensory integration that works for you and your story every time.

The Sensory Hierarchy

Ever notice that sight dominates not only sensory details in any descriptive writing but many of our proverbs as well? “Seeing is believing.” “Appearances are deceiving.” “Out of sight, out of mind.”

We even talk more about sight than any other of the five senses. Fun fact: in the last 100 years, there have been more studies done on vision than on any of the other senses. Hearing comes next but numbers fewer than half the vision studies. The gustatory sense, or taste, has had the least. Why do we feel sight is so important? Losing one’s sight alone isn’t life-threatening. But losing one’s sense of touch (pain in particular) is life-threatening. So why is sight still so dominant?

Sight is both personal and social. We share mutual glances, exchange looks, and make eye contact. It’s linked psychologically and socially to security and power. We recognize faces, surveil, stalk, “see the light,” and stare down our opponents.

No matter how important we believe our sight to be, our other senses make our worlds (real or imagined) more tangible and understandable. But if that’s true (and it is), how does the writer decide which senses to include in the story? 

Strategic Sensory Integration

Choosing which sensory details to use in a story, scene, and sentence based on your story’s emotional and narrative goals is called strategic sensory integration. It involves weaving different senses through the story instead of cataloging every detail a character encounters. This reflects how we perceive our world IRL. Which details we perceive are determined by our preferences, our personalities, the strength of our senses, our experiences, our skills, and our focus.

Purposeful selection of sensory details allows those details to do more than one thing for the story. A detective who studies a murder scene and notices a metallic taste in the back of his throat conveys one personality while a detective at that same scene who catalogs a metallic scent in the air presents another personality type. A skilled writer might also use the description to reflect an old unresolved trauma or to present the reader with a clever red herring.

Things to consider in selecting sensory details:

1. The Scene

2. The Viewpoint Character

3. The Setting

4. The Plot

5. The theme 

Guidelines for Strategic Sensory Integration

We don’t notice all five senses all the time in real life, so don’t put all five senses on every page. As a guideline, focus on the 20% of the details that carry the most impact in your story. Stick to two or three descriptors about 80% of the time. Use more than two or three during turning points or moments of significant meaning for your characters.

Remember, this is a guideline. Let your genre be your guide. You can add a little more description and still meet your readers' expectation. Having fewer sensory details might put your readers off.

Allow your first draft to be messy and less detailed if that comes more naturally to you. Make strategic sensory integration part of your revision process. 

Match Sensory Details to Emotion

When choosing sensory details that match the emotional tone of a scene, know what your scene’s primary purpose and tone need to be. What emotional impact will work best for this scene?  

What key details for the plot and the character’s arc are in this scene? Avoid labeling the emotions. Intentionally select physical responses that show what the viewpoint character feels. Anchor the emotions in the setting with mood words, dialogue cues that reflect the tone of voice or unspoken words, and action verbs that convey emotion.

Think about which sense is often associated with the emotion you want to evoke. For example, fear often involves sound or touch, people associate love with scent, and bright colors or sweet tastes and scents often convey happiness.

Identify the emotion in each of the examples below

The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smoldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.” The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman 

I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my courage sank.” Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte 

The heat lay leaden on the graveyard, squeezing its putrefying vapor, a blend of rotting melon and the fetid odor of burnt animal horn, out into the nearby alleys.” Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Suskind 

Kendra took the wooden bowl, dipped it in the water, and drank. Sunlight gleamed off the surface of the water, dazzling her. The clear liquid tasted thick as honey, light as bubbles, rich as cream, tart as berries, and fresh as dew.”―Keys to the Demon Prison by Brandon Mull

The cold carved bone deep, fueled by the lash of the wind, iced by the drowning rain gushing from a bruised, bloated sky…. Dark Witch by Nora Roberts

Analyze the examples above. Identify the strong, specific words used and what story elements those words enhance.

What to Avoid

Don't rely on a single sense to convey the emotion in a scene or the entire story.

Avoid labeling emotions. Writing 'he was angry' is far less impactful than showing us his clenched fists and reddening face.

Clichés will make your writing stale.

Unusual comparisons, vague non-sensory nouns, and unique descriptions may make your sensory detail vague or incomprehensible.

Filter Sensory Details Through Character 

When you use sensory details filtered through the character, it gives your character depth and verisimilitude. Ask yourself what senses and details most align with the character’s experience, personality, preferences, skills, and training? For example, a chef notices food smells and tastes; a musician will probably interpret things as tones, rhythms, and beats; a carpenter notices structural things most of us don’t, and so on. 

Consider how the character’s medical conditions, past traumas, and family relationships affect the character’s perceptions. For example, a past trauma may make your character deathly afraid of fire or have a deadly fascination with fire. A character who survived a tragedy that claimed many of his friends and neighbors may have an over. A character who had a great relationship with her mother may see a certain color (or food) and think fondly of it because of associations with her mother. Yet another character who had a contentious relationship with her mother might hate that color because of the associations with her mother.

Look at the examples above again. What did the sensory details in those sentences tell you about the character?

What to Avoid

Avoid using generic sensory descriptions. “It was the worst thing she ever tasted” is too vague.

Avoid comparisons to things that don’t exist in the world and to things your character has never experienced. If you’ve created a character who grew up on a farm and has never seen a city, the sound of trucks and cars won’t startle her, but the speed of those vehicles might frighten her.

Layering Sensory Details

Layering in sensory details is as important as layering in the clues to a mystery or the acts that make your character grow. In real life, sensory details flood our brains. Your brain ignores a lot of the information. It notices the most significant detail first. That could be the life-threatening smell of smoke, or the flash of a blade, or a scent that evokes a pleasant memory. Then the brain gives you another detail and another as you need them. (Note: all this happens faster than I can write about it and faster than you can read.)

Do the same thing for your readers. Give them the one sensory detail that is most important in that moment. Seed the other details in decreasing order of importance.

What to Avoid

Avoid the habit of dumping all the sensory details at the beginning of a scene, with few or no more sensory details in the rest of the scene.

Don't use a lot of sensory details in scenes that aren't turning points. The more details in a scene, the more importance the reader assigns the scene.

The Sensory Callback

Use one or two sensory details to represent or emphasize your thematic content. Edgar Allan Poe was exceptional at this. Most of us remember the sensory details from his works like the clock with its pendulum, the raven, and the beat of the telltale heart.

Sensory details can be used to bookend chapters or scenes. They can be a motif throughout your story. Remember the great white whale in Moby Dick?

What to Avoid

Avoid forcing a sensory detail into a motif. Motifs work best when they fit the character, the setting, the theme, and the story.

Confession

Do I think all of this through for every scene I write? No. Most of the time, I immerse myself in my viewpoint character and write by instinct. However, in revisions I try to pay specific attention to the sensory details, particularly in my turning point moments, those scenes where my character must change something. By focusing on what this character will notice and when this specific detail will influence character and my readers, I give my story a strong chance of being one my readers can’t put down and can’t forget.

Expand Your Sensory Vocabulary

Less is more. Choose the sensory details you use for specific reasons that enhance your character and your story.

Study sensory writing in books. Some poetry is full of sensory details, but don’t overlook the books you like to read, the books in your genre. After you’ve finished reading the story, go back and highlight the sensory details. Study how they added tension or conflict, or revealed key pieces of information. Are there sensory detail dumps you skipped? Did the scene create an image in your mind? Were there details that instantly placed you in the setting? What details set the mood? What other things did the sensory details add to the scene and the story?

Read children’s books. Yes, that’s right. Many children’s books focus on sensory details because that’s how children perceive the world. There are children’s books like Cold, Crunchy, Colorful by Jane Brocket written to help children learn sensory words. Use those resources.

Use a photograph of a setting. Write a paragraph describing that setting using three of the five senses.

Practice in real life. Visit several new-to-you locations. At each location, take notes about what details you notice, when you notice them, and how you reacted or felt about each of those.

Rewrite the same scene five times, focusing on one sense at a time.

Learn more: Unforgettable Writing: Use All Five Senses to Add Emotion, Make the Most of Sensory Details in Deep POV, and Let's Get Sensory:Powering Scenes Using the 5 Senses.

Engage Your Readers

Have you ever put down a book because the sensory descriptions were either too overwhelming or completely absent? Your readers don’t have to gush over how lovely the sensory details were in your story. Some readers love stories where the writer uses details sparingly. Other readers love lush descriptions. The goal is to use sensory integration that supports your characters and your story and gives your reader the reading experience they desire.

What are your favorite resources for helping you with sensory details in your writing?

About Lynette

Lynette M. Burrows is an author, blogger, writing coach, and Yorkie wrangler. She survived moving seventeen times between kindergarten and her high school graduation. She contends that alone qualifies her for writing stories of characters who struggle against the odds.

Book One, My Soul to Keep, and Book Two, If I Should Die, of her Fellowship Dystopia trilogy explore the struggles of a young woman fighting oppression. They are available at your favorite online book seller. Book Three, And When I Wake, will be published in December 2025.

When Lynette’s not writing she avoids housework and plays with her two yorkies. They live in Dorothy’s home state of Kansas. You can follow Lynette on her website or her Facebook page or Sign up for her newsletter.

Featured image purchased from DepositPhotos.

Second image by Kellie Nicholson from Pixabay.

by Jenny Hansen

When you’re learning something new—whether it’s baking bread, fixing a leaky sink, or crafting a story that keeps a reader up all night—you bump into two types of difficulty: the stuff you can figure out on your own, and the stuff that makes you want to throw your laptop into the nearest body of water.

The Zone of Proximal Development (ZPD) lives in between those extremes. This magical zone is where the most effective (and usually the fastest) learning takes place.

What is the Zone of Proximal Development (ZPD)?

Lev Vygotsky, the psychologist who coined the term, defined the ZPD as the sweet spot where a learner can’t quite do something alone but CAN do it with guidance, modeling, or collaboration. This zone is the difference between “Easy Peasy” and “I have no idea where to start.”

In that in-between zone, you’re stretching your skills without snapping them. You’re building competence while getting support, until you can learn to handle the [Fill in the Blank] challenge on your own.

How does the ZPD apply to writing?

To think about this from a writing perspective...there is only so far you can take a story without help.

That help might come in the form of blogs, classes, podcasts, writing mentors, or books, but no writer develops their talent in a bubble. For every creative, there is something that sparks your need to create, or shows you more productive ways to go about that creativity. There is someone or something that makes you attempt to reach higher or further.

For writers, the ZPD is EVERYWHERE. We are in a profession of constant learning.

We find it hidden in the learning curves we barely noticed, and in the hurdles that stop us cold. The trick is recognizing when you’re in that I don't know how to do this place, and then being willing to seek help.

Seeking the right kind of help allows you to move forward more quickly in mastering Craft skills.Think of a teacher like Margie Lawson or Becca Syme as the "scaffolding" that allows you to bridge the gap between what you can't do yet and what you can do with their assistance. 

Some examples…

Below are examples of how I've seen the ZPD show up on the road to learning writing craft, and ideas for how you can use it to your advantage.

1. Moving from Grammar Rules to Style

A beginner writer might know basic sentence structure but often gets stuck when trying to vary sentence rhythms for effect.

On their own, many newbies produce choppy or predictable prose. In their ZPD, a mentor, teacher, or writing group member might give them a critique and point out where varying length or structure could create impact. Through guided rewrites, the writer learns how to balance clarity with cadence, eventually hearing and applying those patterns instinctively.

Without support: “I write how I talk, and my sentences all sound the same.”

With support in the ZPD: “Here’s how to play with sentence length so your reader feels the tension you’re building.”

2. Developing a Compelling Scene Arc

When I was a newer fiction writer, I understood the components of a scene: characters, conflict, dialogue. But I didn't understand how to use them in a way that moved the story along. I'd flesh out the scene, and the pacing would drag. I knew I was dragging, and that I was taking too long to get to the good stuff, but I couldn't pinpoint why.

3 Pivotal Tools (for me)

Reading Debra Dixon's book (Goal, Motivation & Conflict) pointed me down the path toward mastery. Blake Snyder helped too, by explaining Story Beats in Save the Cat. Finally, Margie Lawson's EDITS system showed me how to visually see what was missing from any scene or chapter.

Writing teachers like the above, a great editor, or a really good critique partner can walk a writer through a scene, so they understand when and how to apply a concept like micro-tension, or recognize when an emotional beat is missing.

Best of all, they can do it quickly. Two perspectives are way better than one when you're learning writing craft.

That new-ish writer who asked for help can rework their scene so the tension rises and falls in a compelling way. Almost overnight, a writer can go from “my scenes all lack energy” to understanding how to build or release tension in a scene. Eventually, they can extrapolate the knowledge to all their scenes. Their readers begin to lean in instead of tuning out.

Now they can move on to work on the next layer of learning.

3. Understanding Point of View Nuances

The leap from knowing what point of view is to mastering it is a classic ZPD moment. A writer might be able to keep first-person narration consistent but still “head-hop” in third-person without realizing it. A line editor, workshop leader, or (in my case) a blogger, can point out where the voice slips, then guide them through exercises to keep the reader anchored in a single perspective.

My amazing helper was Lisa Hall-Wilson. Her Deep POV posts here at WITS have had a massive impact on how I approach point of view. Here's one of my favorites: The 4 Important Layers of Deep POV.

The before-and-after difference in a nutshell:

• Before: “I’m writing in third person, but my beta readers sometimes get confused about who's talking.”
• After: “I know how to ground the reader in the sensory world of one character at a time and keep them in Deep POV.”

4. Learning to Cut (Without Bleeding Out the Story)

Self-editing is a survival skill, but during most writers' early stages, it’s hard to tell what’s fat and what’s bone.

In the ZPD, a mentor models how to identify redundancies, over-explaining, or tangents, while preserving your voice and teasing out the most effective emotional beats. After a few times through this process, the writer starts applying that same lens to their own drafts.

Without support: “I know it’s too long, but I’m afraid to cut anything in case it messes up my story.”

With support in the ZPD: “Let’s cut this paragraph. Perfect. See how the pace improves without losing meaning?”

5. Building Subtext in Dialogue

Speaking of meaning... Many beginning writers write dialogue that says EXACTLY what those literal-minded characters mean. *raises hand* There are no hidden meanings, no misunderstandings, no sarcasm. . .and no tension.

In the ZPD, a writing coach might break down a scene from a well-known novel, showing how characters often talk around the truth. Guided practice helps the writer layer in body language, pauses, or misdirection, until they can craft conversations that hum with what’s unsaid.

Without support: “My dialogue sounds like a script reading.”

With support in the ZPD: “What if the character says the opposite of what they feel—what clues could you drop for the reader?”

Working Inside Your ZPD

The big secret, in my humble opinion, is not waiting too long to find help. You see, the Zone of Proximal Development is less about magic and more about strategy. It’s about identifying that edge where you can almost—but not quite—do the thing, then finding the right scaffold to bridge the gap.

In writing, that scaffold could be:

• A mentor’s real-time feedback
• A workshop’s targeted exercises
• A craft book that speaks your language
• A peer who’s one step ahead of you and willing to share their knowledge

The goal is to internalize the skill so it moves from “I need help” territory into “I’ve got this.” Once it does, your ZPD shifts, and you can move forward. There’s always a new edge, a new skill you can almost—but not quite—do on your own.

And that’s the best part of writing. There’s no finish line, only the next sweet spot where growth lives: just far enough to stretch you, but close enough to reach. . .with a little help.

When have you experienced that lightning-flash of knowledge that kicks your skills up several levels? Please share your effective writing teachers and mentors with us down in the comments!

About Jenny

By day, Jenny Hansen provides brand storytelling, LinkedIn coaching, and copywriting for accountants and financial services firms. By night, she writes humor, memoir, women’s fiction, and short stories. After 20+ years as a corporate trainer, she’s delighted to sit down while she works.

Find Jenny here at Writers In the Storm, or online on Facebook or Instagram.

Featured photo purchased from Depositphotos. Branded in Canva.

By Jenn Windrow

There’s something deeply satisfying about writing the end of a chapter. You’ve hit your word count, the scene wrapped up neatly, and you’re ready to toss your laptop across the room and eat carbs. I get it.

But if you’re ending chapters with quiet exits, vague inner monologues, or sighs into the distance then your readers are skimming. Worse, they might be stopping. And you need them to keep going.

After all, you want your chapters endings to be so well written, so hooky, that your reader goes to work exhausted the next day because they couldn’t out the book down.

Why Chapter Endings Matter More Than You Think

Chapter endings aren’t just stopping points. They’re launch pads. They create momentum. They sell the next page. They’re the cliffhanger in your Netflix binge, the “oh no she didn’t,” the sharp inhale before the plunge.

When a chapter ends with a punch, your reader isn’t just intrigued — they’re compelled.

So how do you deliver that punch? Here’s how:

1. End on a Question (Not an Answer)

Wrap up the scene, sure — but leave the situation unresolved. Your character learns something, but what does it mean? Someone enters the room, but we don’t yet know what they’ll say. A letter arrives. A door creaks. A lie is told.

Endings with open loops force the reader to turn the page.

❝She opened the email, read the subject line, and stopped breathing.❞

Don’t explain it yet. Make them chase the next chapter.

2. Let Someone Twist the Knife

An emotional gut-punch works just as well as an action one. End a chapter on betrayal, confession, dread, shame, or anything that yanks your character’s emotional foundation out from under them.

Your readers don’t need time to process. They need to feel.

❝He smiled at her like nothing had happened. Like the blood on his hands didn’t belong to someone she loved.❞

3. Use the Door Slam Rule

Metaphorical or literal — something ends with a bang. A secret revealed. A character walks out. A spell is cast. A gun is drawn. Someone makes a decision they can’t undo. Endings with finality drive story momentum.

❝She hit send. There was no taking it back now.❞

4. Let the Last Line Echo

Sometimes it’s not about the action but the phrasing. A sharp, poetic, or haunting final line can create the perfect emotional or thematic reverberation. It sticks in the reader’s brain and makes them crave more.

❝It was the first time he’d ever lied to her. It wouldn’t be the last.❞

Avoid These Wet-Noodle Endings:

• “And then she went to bed.”
• “He wasn’t sure what he felt, but it was complicated.”
• “They would figure it out in the morning.”
•  Any variation of “They didn’t see what was coming next” (lazy foreshadowing is not the same as suspense)

Pro Tip: Write the Ending First

If you know how your chapter ends, you’ll shape everything else to build toward that punch. It keeps your pacing tight and your scene direction clear. Even if you revise it later, writing with a goal makes a better chapter every time.

Final Thought: End with Purpose, Not Exhaustion

Don’t treat the end of a chapter like the end of a shift. This isn’t the clock-out point — it’s the hand-off to your next scene. Respect your story’s rhythm and trust your reader’s hunger.

When in doubt, ask: what would make me need to turn the page?

Then write that. Because your readers deserve more than a quiet fade to black.

Have you written a chapter ending that you love? Share it with me in the comments.

About Jenn Windrow

Jenn Windrow once attempted to write a “normal” book—and promptly bored herself into a coma. So now she sticks to what she does best: writing snarky, kickass heroines, broody supernatural men, and more sexual tension than a vampire in a blood bank.

She’s the award-winning author of the Alexis Black novels and the Redeeming Cupid series, where the undead never sparkle and the drama is always delicious. Jenn moonlights as a developmental editor, helping other writers wrangle their wild plots and tangle-free prose.

When not arguing with her characters or muttering about Oxford commas, she can be found binge-watching trash TV, wrangling the slew of animals that live in her house (husband and teenagers included), or telling herself she’ll only have one more cookie.

You can find her at jennwindrow.com or lurking on social media where she pretends to be an extrovert.

Header picture - Crawford Jolly - Unsplash