Spark Comp 5
Spark Comp 5
The last aspect of style that we are going to focus on in this book is vivid description. As you
write your composition, you might want to appeal to all the five senses of the reader that is ;
sight, smell, touch, taste and hearing. How do you make that possible? Vivid description of
course. Let the examiner take part in your composition. Make them feel like they are part of it.
Let them create that visual image of the occurrences of your composition in their heads.
In descriptive writing, the writer does not just tell the reader what was seen, felt, tasted, smelled
or heard. Rather, the writer describes something from their own experience and through careful
choice of words or phrasing, makes it seem real. Your writing should be colorful, vivid and
detailed. Your writing has to be concrete, evocative and plausible.
Concrete; Rather than saying, his eyes were blue in color, try, his eyes sparkled like
sapphires in the dark.
Evocative; you have to unite the concrete image with phrasing that evokes the
impression the writer wants the reader wants to have. For example, in stead of the
example in 1 above, you could go further and write, his eyes sparkled like sapphires in
the dark, warming my night.
Plausible; you have to constrain the concrete, evocative image to suit the reader’s
knowledge and attention span. Do not try to show the examiner that you know too much
as he may end up losing interest in your composition. Just be brief. Avoid writings such
as, his eyes were brighter than the sapphires in the armrests of the Tipu Sultan’s golden
throne, yet sharper than the tulwars of his cruelest executioners.
Her last smile to me wasn’t a sunset. It was an eclipse, the last eclipse. Noon dying away to
darkness where there would be no dawn…
The painting was a field of flowers, blues and yellows atop deep green stems that seemed to call
the viewer in to play…
The idiosyncrasy of this town is smoke. It rolls sullenly in slow folds from the great chimneys
and settles down in black, slimy pools on the muddy streets. Smoke on the wharves, smoke on the
dingy boats, on the yellow river clinging in a coating of greasy soot to the house front.
It was a cold grey day in late November. The weather had changed overnight, when a backing
wind brought a granite sky and a muzzling rain with it. And although it was now only a little
after two o’clock in the afternoon, the pallor of a winter evening seemed to have closed upon the
hills, cloaking them in mist.
I have always been fascinated by carnival rides. It amazes me that average, ordinary people
eagerly trade in the serenity of the ground for the chance to be tossed through the air like
vegetables in a food processor. Therefore, a date to the carnival with Jessica did not really
warm up my heart. I only came since I could not decline the kind offer.
Mary’s hands curled into fists as she saw the smoking ruin that had once been her beautiful
forest. She hardly felt the sharp points of her fingernails digging into her palms. Everything that
she had worked so hard to maintain, gone. It wasn’t only the acrid smoke that made her eyes
water.