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I had a unique experience recently as part of an interagency work group preparing a half-day training session on accessible web site design. As soon as the program was announced, a relatively large number of people began registering for our program.
Two things became very apparent. First, we realized that we were offering a program that many people saw as valuable — very gratifying for us. Second, much of our presentation consisted of Microsoft PowerPoint slide shows — an inherently visual experience — and several members of our audience were blind. They requested Braille versions of our course materials.
I had prepared documents for conversion to Braille before, so that part was not daunting to me. But because the bulk of our presentation consisted of a variety of visual materials, this would require more than just converting text to Braille. Everything we used — PowerPoint presentations, web pages, visual aides — would need to be described.
You'd think that for a flash fiction writer, composing concise descriptions should be relatively easy, but it wasn't. How much of what you see has true meaning? And how can you convey that meaning to someone who does not have a visual frame of reference?
The key is to provide all the information and allow the recipient to discern what is meaningful to them and what is not. That process of sifting through the information available to just the salient points is something each of us does when we read a novel or long-form short story.
A good flash author saves us the need to condense. They present only the information advancing the story.
If you think about that concept in the abstract, flash might seem like a cut-rate experience. That's an argument I've heard from some who contend that flash is a perversion of literature created by a generation whose attention span has atrophied to virtual non-existence. I don't buy that. I prefer to think of flash as concentrated, an experience distilled to its absolute essence.
For example, I defy you to read "Fruit" by Donna George Storey and not find your mouth watering for a melon. Ms. Storey did not accomplish that by any trick other than choosing the perfect elements of description to convey the experience of choosing, preparing and savoring a perfectly ripe cantaloupe.
Or think about Annette Gendler's essay "A Room of His Own." Here we have a wonderful description of her husband's domain, a cluttered room where he feels comfortable. The room is key in this story, but it's not the most important element. What stays with the reader is strength of this relationship, the respect and consideration that this woman has for her partner. The significance of that realization would not have been possible without the strong descriptions.
One of the best examples of the importance of descriptions in this issue may be "Souvenir Postcard" by Laura Loomis, David Shapiro's Editor's Pick. This strong story is just one paragraph long, but really packs a wallop — almost solely on the strength of its description of the title postcard. It's not a pretty story, but it's one that will stay with you long after you've finished reading it.
Description is an essential element in all of these stories, and the ability to write good description is a powerful tool in any flash writer's arsenal. Well executed, it's one of the most effective ways to engage your reader and involve them in the story you're telling — to embed your story in the mind's eye of the beholder.
And isn't that all any writer can hope for?
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