How do I write a character’s physical description without it feeling unnatural and clunky? I’m able to describe their hair and body relatively easily because my writing puts emphasis on small movements and fidgeting, but I can’t describe faces.
16.06.2025 02:41
Physical appearance should be worth mentioning if it matters to the story.
Case Study #1a because he wouldn’t shut up: Thomas Wolfe
Thanks, Thomas. The problem with the above is—
So, in terms of Mahfouz’s artistic intentions, it makes sense for us to know that Amina is portrayed as someone who, under other circumstances, wouldn’t need to be content with such a patriarchal asshole as Ahmad, but she is anyway—and that’s one of the things that drives the story.
The book opens with Amina waiting for her husband to come home after a night on the town, and she is described as looking slender and still beautiful, whereas he is extremely well-groomed and also very overweight—because he doesn’t need to bother to keep in shape, since he has an extremely obedient and, indeed, subservient wife, who gets up every night at midnight, and waits up for him to come home around 1am, so that she can tend to his needs (i.e. take his socks off, among other things) and make sure he goes to bed in comfort.
FFS, Thomas Wolfe, enough with the face-describing!
How much of lounge pianists playing is from repertoire, and how much is improvised?
Another is that he is determined to emphasise how this character’s inner soul is reflected in her face, perhaps by way of justifying why he’d described it in the first place. But he’s just telling us this stuff.
Why do we need to know what they look like at all?
Please tell us that you’re not also describing what a character’s face looks like, as if it directly reflects their innermost soul.
What did Rama tell Sita about Kaliyug?
This is because Amina’s submission to her husband is one of the themes of Palace Walk, and indeed the trilogy as a whole. He is a complacent and immensely confident philanderer, whereas she lives as though he is her faithful and wonderful husband, and her role is to treat him as though he’s perfect. She overlooks things like the obvious evidence that he’s been drinking wine all night, which is frowned upon for someone who claims to be as good a Muslim as he is, because she thinks he’s flawless.
You might find it liberating.
I would echo Rachel Neumeier’s question in her fine answer:
Do you feel it’s absolutely necessary to tell the reader what characters look like?
(Donoghue went on to write the award-winning novel Room, which was later made into a 2015 movie of the same name, for which Brie Larson won the Best Actress Oscar, and Donoghue was nominated for the Oscar for her own screenplay.)
If I think of classic novels that I admire, like Kafka’s The Trial, or Melville’s Moby-Dick, in neither of those novels do I ever find out what the protagonist looks like.
The other problem is specific to Wolfe himself: the reason why he was determined to tell you what his characters looked like is that they were based on people he knew—family members, friends, neighbours—and he was heroically but idiotically determined to render them in fiction with as much completeness and detail as he possibly could.
In the Irish novelist Emma Donoghue’s second novel Hood, the protagonist and narrator, Cara, is supposed to be rather on the large side, but the only way we know this is that she talks about how she habitually sweats and chafes, and gets red in the face, whenever she has to do even minimal exercise, plus (iirc) a couple of casual remarks by her deceased lover. Donoghue never actually tells us what she looks like.
In the great Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz’s 1956 novel Palace Walk, the first volume of his Cairo Trilogy, the physical appearance of the two principal characters, Ahmad Abd Al-Jawad and his wife Amina, is sketched fairly quickly but in detail in the first few pages.
How does a man look at you when he is in love?
One is that Wolfe is determined to tell you what the person looked like, and so the story grinds to a standstill while he does that.
Well, here’s Thomas Wolfe to show you how not to do it.
You know when people say ‘Show, don’t tell’? Thomas Wolfe was an incorrigible teller of stuff.
So, does this really need to be a problem?
If a character is a bit out of physical shape, there’s no need to point this out in advance.
Why do you want to write a character’s physical description?
How do people develop stage 4 cancer without noticing until it’s too late?
If so, why? What’s so important about their appearance that you have to describe them to us?
The problems with the above are manifold. (It goes on for two more pages.)
But if the story is mostly about what goes on inside the characters, and their physical appearance isn’t really that relevant… why mention it?
Because, as I hope I’ve shown, some of the greatest writers ever have not been bothered to describe what their characters look like.
Is the story set in a world where visible ethnic differences matter? Is it about sexual attraction? Then physical appearance may well play an important role, and could be worth mentioning.
Why? Because it’s completely irrelevant to the stories that Kafka and Melville want to tell.
Is it ok to be spanked by your parents if you are not in bed in your set bedtime?
What do you want to do?
There could be other cases. Is a character well-known for having an unusual appearance? Then it’s worth mentioning.
But that doesn’t mean that a character’s physical appearance is always completely irrelevant.
Can you provide some examples of music with a free form structure?
In the end, we always return to the same question:
Case Study #1: Thomas Wolfe
What’s it got to do with the story?
Free yourself from the need to describe what your characters look like.
Case Study #2: Naguib Mahfouz