The list of my bad writing habits is a long one.  Foremost, I struggle with finding the balance between how much detail I should include and how much I should leave to the reader’s imagination.

I’m a control freak. I tend to add to more detail than is necessary. To coin a phrase, if a character walks through a room, I’ll paint the flowers on the wallpaper. I’m guilty of including way too much detail that isn’t important. The reader will fill in the visual of the room based whether the character is rich or poor. Is it a mansion or a trailer? The reader’s brain will decorate the mis en scene with elegant wallpaper or discolored paneling, respectively.

Reading is an act of trust. Readers give their trust to authors who don’t ask them to friction their brain cells against superfluous details.

My love-hate relationship with Stephen King is a long column unto itself. That’s not important. His book On Writing is an amazing and accessible reference guide. Every writer should read it.

His homily on Rabbit Number Eight is a favorite among writers. It gets passed around a lot. It has been a while since I flogged this particular gem. So, for the edification of the noobs and as a reminder to the veterans, I reprint it here.

By Stephen King – From On Writing

Look—here’s a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot-stub upon which it is contentedly munching. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8.

Do we see the same thing? We’d have to get together and compare notes to make absolutely sure, but I think we do. There will be necessary variations, of course: some receivers will see a cloth that is turkey red, some will see one that’s scarlet, while others may see still other shades. (To colorblind receivers, the red tablecloth is the dark gray of cigar ashes.) Some may see scalloped edges, some may see straight ones. Decorative souls may add a little lace, and welcome—my tablecloth is your tablecloth, knock yourself out.

Likewise, the matter of the cage leaves quite a lot of room for individual interpretation. For one thing, it is described in terms of rough comparison, which is useful only if you and I see the world and measure things in it with similar eyes. It’s easy to become careless when making rough comparisons, but the alternative is a prissy attention to detail that takes all the fun out of writing. What am I going to say, “on the table is a cage three feet, six inches in length, two feet in width, and fourteen inches high”? That’s not prose, that’s an instruction manual. The paragraph also doesn’t tell us what sort of material the cage is made of—wire mesh? Steel rods? Glass?—but does it really matter? We all understand the cage is a see-through medium; beyond that, we don’t care. The most interesting thing here isn’t even the carrot-munching rabbit in the cage, but the number on its back. Not a six, not a four, not nineteen-point-five. It’s an eight. This is what we’re looking at, and we all see it. I didn’t tell you. You didn’t ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We’re not even in the same year together, let alone the same room… except we are together. We’re close.

We’re having a meeting of the minds.