Many people think writing is simply sitting down at a keyboard and letting the words flow. To an extent, that’s how it works. Writing, however, is a craft like painting, sculpting, pottery, fashion design, or landscaping. Every craft has its history and associated terminology, and a practitioner has to learn the craft to do it well, sometimes over years. Writing is no different.

In my first Tinker Mountain Writers Workshop, after the class gave its critique of my submission, it was the instructor’s turn. First and foremost, he loved what I’d submitted, a dystopian novel that went no where, but it needed, he explained, quotidian details.

What the h**l was quotidian detail?

Of course, I said nothing because I was the lone non-MFA candidate or graduate in the room. One of the newbie MFA graduates leaned toward me with a smirk and said, “Everyday details. If you had an MFA, you’d know that.”

Once she said that, I knew what it was. I responded, “Oh, you mean, common descriptors of mundane events, items, actions, etc., designed to ground the reader in time and place and to establish familiarity.” Which was how my 10th grade English Composition teacher had explained it.

“Bless your heart,” I said, “and thank you.”

She wasn’t a southerner and didn’t know I’d basically told her to eff her snooty self off.

Make Sure You Include the Deets

Quotidian details are one of the reasons writers rewrite. When I compose a new story, my first attempt at it is to get the story in my head on the screen and in a computer file. In my head, when I mention a place, a setting, etc., I know what it looks like, sounds like, feels like, smells like, and, sometimes, tastes like. However, the reader may not. Thus, it’s up to the writer to provide those quotidian details from experience (preferable) or extensive research.

One of my characters, Alexei Bukharin, trained to be a chef for a mission (I haven’t written that one yet.), and that’s why in my work I often include descriptions of food he’s prepared because, well, spies eat, too — a quotidian detail a reader can identify with. The same is true when I describe what a character is wearing or reading or seeing or hearing.

I remember in another workshop with the same instructor, I thought I’d done a good job of describing a dingy home library where my character Mai Fisher was meeting with two Balkan politicians of opposing parties: the overstuffed bookcases, the overflowing ashtrays, the not-so-clean glasses with plum brandy. The problem was I’d told the reader those details; I hadn’t shown them.

An edit later, and the bookcases’ shelves were sagging, books had been shoved in willy-nilly, so that one more book would engender a collapse. The air smelled of fresh and stale cigarette smoke and it clung to clothing. The smoker in the room had ashes on his shirt and tie, and so on. It made a scene that was mostly dialogue become a bit more exciting. (If you’re curious, that scene is in Dangerous Truths, which is book 2 of the series, Self-Inflicted Wounds.)

But Don’t Info-Dump

I’ve read books — even traditionally published ones — where the author has gone a bit overboard with the details, quotidian or otherwise. A setting described down to how many blades of grass make up a glade isn’t providing quotidian detail, merely boring ones. Or it serves to show the reader how much research you’ve done. I’ve been guilty of that myself, and this is what editors are well-paid for.

James Michener, in every way a great writer, quite often bogged you down in the quotidian details to set you up for the story. His novel Chesapeake comes to mind, where he delved back almost to the beginning of earth to establish that bay as a setting for his novel about several families who contributed to the history of the Chesapeake Bay from the 16th century to the 20th.

I confess if an info dump is history-related I will geek out on it; however, I also remember cutting pages and pages of the results of my research from End Times, book 1 of the series A Perfect Hatred, because it was stultifyingly boring.

I confess as well one of the reasons I don’t read much romance is because of the quotidian details about quivering lips and other appendages of a body. However, a good romance writer makes sure those quotidian details of quivering and throbbing and pulsing are in the novel because that’s what a romance fan wants to read.

Balance is the key: Sufficient details to engage and enthrall the reader but knowing when to back off and let the reader’s imagination take over.

Remember the Five Senses

Sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste.

Come back to them every time, and you’re sure to get those quotidian details in your story. Of course, you may not have to use all five. Maybe smell is sufficient or hearing. Don’t force a sense into a scene if it doesn’t make sense — okay, you get my drift. For example, unless you’re writing a vampire novel, you may not need to describe how blood tastes.

Recall what Anton Chekhov essentially said about quotidian detail:

“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

And

“. . .[O]ne has to cross out the beginning and the end. It is there that we authors do most of our lying.”

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