I walk my kid to school in the morning. With a five year old alongside, it’s a slow walk, about 45 minutes. Most of it is along the road we live on, which about half way through turns from residential to small farms complete with a stream running through in a couple of places, big old gnarly trees, cows, and moss encrusted wooden farm gates.
I love these gates. Even the ones that are falling apart, sagging on their hinges. Actually I think I love them the most. Every slimy, grotty inch of them.
Bear with me, I have a point.
It’s the dirty, raw detail that I like. And it pisses me off that I don’t write like that. I’m a glosser. I was reading something recently, and it was just a mention of the type of wood a door was made of, and it made me go O.o My doors are just doors. No colour, no particular type of wood, just doors. Now, in my contemporary/AH stuff, that’s not really much of an issue, cos what does a door mean? It’s just a door. But if it’s a door to a chamber in Volterra, then the door freaking well matters, you know? What the hell is it like down there where the Guard hang out in their off hours?
That’s a fanfic thing, I think. The fact that we have at least some detail from canon, and we know roughly what to expect, well, it makes me lazy. And it’s not as if I want to suddenly begin writing screeds of unnecessary description, because I don’t like to read it, but I should be doing a little, you know?
At least mention the moss on the gate (or the tarnished metal on the door).