There’s a man in a tuxedo holding a large dead fish.

He’s on a beach. He’s soaking wet.

He’s smiling like he just won the lottery and his ticket has gills.

That’s an image. You saw it, didn’t you?

And you might not know what’s going on (don’t worry, neither do I), but your brain just did a backflip and landed in a folding chair labeled “What the –”

Because when an image lands, it doesn’t ask permission. It skips the polite introductions and hits the “light up the senses” button like a fork in an electrical socket.

A great image isn’t just a visual.

It’s not “the room had a table.”

Read this 3 times if you need to:

Just because something exists does not make it interesting.

A great image isn’t overly descriptive “world building.”

It’s not “The table was an oaken monolith of forgotten dinners and ancestral tension, its lacquered surface catching the light like a whisper of regret. One leg wobbled—symbolically, of course.”

Read this 2 times if you need to:

Describing everything exhaustively just makes everyone exhausted.

It’s not about keeping it short, and it’s not about pretentiously pontificating preposterously. It’s about the image DOING SOMETHING in the story.

Try this, instead – “The old wooden table had one short leg and leaned toward the door – like it, too, was considering leaving.”

Most mediocre storytelling happens because people think description = story.

It doesn’t.

Listing details isn’t storytelling—that’s called “saying a list.”

And I’ve never heard anyone turn to someone and say “Hey – say that list I like so much. You know, that list that makes me laugh and then makes me feel emotional? That list. Say that list for all of us again. I really love that list.”

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The Job of an Image

A good image does at least one or more of three things, and does them fast:

1. It anchors us. (Where are we? What’s the vibe?)

2. It surprises us. (We didn’t expect that.)

3. It signals meaning. (Even if we don’t know what it means yet, we feel that we will.)

If your image doesn’t do any of those things, it’s just… there. And that’s fine. I just don’t know many people who care deeply and intrinsically about rooms with tables.

They might care, however, about what’s going to happen IN a room. What might happen AT a table.

Refer a friend

Why So Many Descriptions Stink

Let’s consider an example.

“The office looked old.”

vs.

“The carpet had a crime scene outline of a long-gone desk.

The first one kinda tells us something.
The other… makes us wonder.

Your description shouldn't sound like a building inspector wrote it on their lunch break.

A good image makes a scene more than visible. It makes it memorable. It makes it repeatable. It makes someone go,

“Wait, wait” – and they play the line back again in their head.

TL;DR (Time Limited; Do Recap? Too Lazy; Don’t Read?)

You want an instant upgrade to your storytelling?
Don’t describe the whole room.
Give us one sentence about the one thing in that room we need to know about later in the story.

Make it surprising, specific, a little strange.

And when in doubt?
Start with the thing we’ll remember—even if we don’t know why we’re remembering it yet. (That’ll probably be more memorable.)

I’ve Been Told I Need a “Call-to-Action” and to “Tease the Next Newsletter.” Here’s that:

Want to take this even further?

Some of the most effective images sting.

They matter more when the audience feels some ownership.

Because if I break my lamp, that’s my story.
But if I break my lamp, but in your head you see YOUR LAMP?

That’s now OUR story.

Next time: Whose Lamp Is It Anyway?
– or – Why You Cry When the Mug Breaks.

Sign up, stick around, and bring your favorite fragile object.
We’re about to make it personal.

Also, feel free to share, reply or comment. I’d love to hear from you and your friends.