Nash Urban is learning to write fiction.
Listen to me instead of a robot here: Apple, Spotify, Pocket Casts
I’ve prepared a little game that can only be found in the audio version of this post. If you would like to check that out and have a little fun, do not read the rest of this post until after listening to the audio in full. It might spoil the game. And, as always, the audio version contains a little bit of extra spice that can only be found there. For the full Nash Urban experience (because I am so important and acoustically impressive), be sure to check it out.
In the last post, I briefly touched on the course I am progressing through—Writing Mastery: Foundations of Fiction—and the first writing prompt:
"TOO MUCH INFORMATION" (BAD WRITING)
This involved describing a character's appearance with way too much information, rather than being clear, concise, and memorable. I was given a list of 13 characters, from which I was to choose one to complete the exercise with. You can find that post here: Nothing Against Vampires
At the end of the lesson, there were some bonus prompts.
Write a good description of your character
Pick a different character and try again
Team up with a writing partner and challenge each other by making up characters for the other to try describing
I decided to riff on the idea, and get a little extra practice, by trying to write decent descriptions for all of the remaining 12 characters.
A Vietnam or Iraq vet
A celebrity chef
An alien
Your first-grade teacher
Han Solo
A first-class passenger on the Titanic
Your son or daughter
A drunk or alcoholic
A famous movie star
A hedge fund manager
A 90-year-old grandmother
A medieval knight
Decent Character Descriptions by Nash Urban
He stood tall, proud, with a square jaw and a forehead to match. His haircut was high and tight. But the eyes—those baby blues had seen some shit. A look into the soul of a changed man, a tired man, whose body and posture projected a different story.
He was an asshole through and through and he knew it. Didn't matter. He was an asshole, but a rockstar in the kitchen. Slight in stature, but didn't seem to notice. Like a Chihuahua thinking it's a Doberman. And swearing, lots of swearing at anyone and everyone. The crook in his nose, the meticulous 5 o'clock shadow, and the need to wear aviators any time not in the kitchen only added to the facade of confidence of an insecure little boy.
As the cold metallic door slowly opened, a thick, swirling fog poured out, paused, stuck in time, then dissipated in an instant, sucked into an unknown vacuum that left me looking into a mirror, a slate-colored reflection staring back at me. The only telltale sign was the skin—slightly tinted with gray, pale like a sickness. Everything else was flawless, uncanny. And the symmetry—no human is this perfectly symmetrical. The eyes, the ears, even the nose. I guess the little green men didn’t get the memo.
It didn't matter what the weather or occasion was, she always wore a long-sleeved flower print blouse and skirt that went down to her ankles, even on Halloween. And although she did experiment with hair accessories from time to time, her salt and pepper hair was almost always pulled back in a tight bun, making her slender facial features and big kind eyes all that more prominent. Her thin, gold frame glasses with saucer lenses had one of those chain things so she didn't misplace them. Or sit on them. That only happened once from what I am told. But if I had to sum Mrs. C up in one word, it would be ‘warmhearted’.
Pose. Smirk. Smile. Cocky. Smuggler. Leather jacket, head of hair, and a modified heavy blaster.
His walnut brown derby, perfectly shaped to his head, framed two twinkling eyes that sparkled with the kindness of Saint Nick, complemented by a belly to match. A long, russet mustache, assiduously twirled at either end, felt right at home with a smart three-piece suit that might have fit an oversized child. A beautifully crafted cane served its intended purpose, helping with a wobble that afflicted his left side, rather than being ornamental like so many others embarking on this maiden voyage.
Robert Louis Stevenson would have been at a loss for words, but she is and will always be my little girl.
If no one had told me, I would never have guessed.
Sarah was a middle-aged soccer mom who took pride in the role. Petite, vivacious, with a bubbly personality that was infectious, she greeted everyone with a big smile and an even bigger hug. Her dishwater blonde hair in a ponytail pulled back through the opening of her Warriors cap. Black yoga pants with a pocket for her oversized phone bunched and stretched as she slid out of the driver's seat of her obnoxiously large SUV. Her toes struggled to find purchase on the pavement. All par for the white suburban course.
Had no one told me, I would have never guessed... she was an alcoholic.
She was a mess. A pill-popping, line-snorting, chain-smoking mess. But on screen, she was a dream. A vision of youth and beauty. Inviting lips, elegant lines, with just a hint of playful mischief. A glance, a smile, a tantalizing promise. Look, but don't touch. And when that camera started rolling, and you entered that dream, you almost forgot... Almost.
I thought your physical appearance going to shit because of stress was just an office myth, but man, Barry is the barely-living embodiment of it, head to toe. His wrinkled suit, tie askew or missing, shirt half-tucked, barely-laced oxfords, and MIA belts. He's even worn mismatched trousers and jacket more than once. His face is starting to remind me of that mask from Scream, and I think he is quite literally pulling his hair out.
I have no idea what's going on in that head of his, and I love him like a brother, but I thank the baby Jesus I'm in a more sane department.
As she slowly walked up to the covered porch, expectations in hand, a petite elderly woman came into view. She was rocking gently and cradling a cup of tea.
"Are you Millie?" Sarah asked, approaching the steps with a touch of sour.
"Well that depends on who's asking," the woman replied with a bite and a smile.
"My name is Sarah. I'm a Judge Advocate with the U.S. Navy. I'm here to ask you a few questions about your grandson."
Millie's eyes gestured toward the outdoor sofa. Despite the many creases and wrinkles that framed them, they burned with a sharp wit and intelligence unexpected in someone her age. The air smelled of chamomile. Stomach troubles, perhaps.
His coif revealed a pudgy face that was almost entirely obscured by a beard and bushy eyebrows. Tall, dark, and handsome, it would seem, was not to be found at Silverbrook Manor—quite the opposite. It would pain one, in fact, to think how feudal duties had been managed to this point at all. Nevertheless, Sir Girthmore appeared to be comfortable in his station and to have things well under control, one might go so far as to say flourishing.
©️ Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.
That’s a wrap. People still say that, right? Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed my decent descriptions.
See you on the next page,
Nash
…
Disclaimer: The prompt in this post was part of The Foundations of Fiction (Writing Mastery) course by Jessica Brody and Joanne Rendell on Udemy. This post is not sponsored and Nu Fiction is not affiliated with the course, the authors, or Udemy. Excerpts from course materials are used for commentary and educational purposes under fair use guidelines. Please check out the full course and resources on Udemy.
Listen to me instead of a robot here: Apple, Spotify, Pocket Casts
I’ve prepared a little game that can only be found in the audio version of this post. If you would like to check that out and have a little fun, do not read the rest of this post until after listening to the audio in full. It might spoil the game. And, as always, the audio version contains a little bit of extra spice that can only be found there. For the full Nash Urban experience (because I am so important and acoustically impressive), be sure to check it out.
In the last post, I briefly touched on the course I am progressing through—Writing Mastery: Foundations of Fiction—and the first writing prompt:
"TOO MUCH INFORMATION" (BAD WRITING)
This involved describing a character's appearance with way too much information, rather than being clear, concise, and memorable. I was given a list of 13 characters, from which I was to choose one to complete the exercise with. You can find that post here: Nothing Against Vampires
At the end of the lesson, there were some bonus prompts.
Write a good description of your character
Pick a different character and try again
Team up with a writing partner and challenge each other by making up characters for the other to try describing
I decided to riff on the idea, and get a little extra practice, by trying to write decent descriptions for all of the remaining 12 characters.
A Vietnam or Iraq vet
A celebrity chef
An alien
Your first-grade teacher
Han Solo
A first-class passenger on the Titanic
Your son or daughter
A drunk or alcoholic
A famous movie star
A hedge fund manager
A 90-year-old grandmother
A medieval knight
Decent Character Descriptions by Nash Urban
He stood tall, proud, with a square jaw and a forehead to match. His haircut was high and tight. But the eyes—those baby blues had seen some shit. A look into the soul of a changed man, a tired man, whose body and posture projected a different story.
He was an asshole through and through and he knew it. Didn't matter. He was an asshole, but a rockstar in the kitchen. Slight in stature, but didn't seem to notice. Like a Chihuahua thinking it's a Doberman. And swearing, lots of swearing at anyone and everyone. The crook in his nose, the meticulous 5 o'clock shadow, and the need to wear aviators any time not in the kitchen only added to the facade of confidence of an insecure little boy.
As the cold metallic door slowly opened, a thick, swirling fog poured out, paused, stuck in time, then dissipated in an instant, sucked into an unknown vacuum that left me looking into a mirror, a slate-colored reflection staring back at me. The only telltale sign was the skin—slightly tinted with gray, pale like a sickness. Everything else was flawless, uncanny. And the symmetry—no human is this perfectly symmetrical. The eyes, the ears, even the nose. I guess the little green men didn’t get the memo.
It didn't matter what the weather or occasion was, she always wore a long-sleeved flower print blouse and skirt that went down to her ankles, even on Halloween. And although she did experiment with hair accessories from time to time, her salt and pepper hair was almost always pulled back in a tight bun, making her slender facial features and big kind eyes all that more prominent. Her thin, gold frame glasses with saucer lenses had one of those chain things so she didn't misplace them. Or sit on them. That only happened once from what I am told. But if I had to sum Mrs. C up in one word, it would be ‘warmhearted’.
Pose. Smirk. Smile. Cocky. Smuggler. Leather jacket, head of hair, and a modified heavy blaster.
His walnut brown derby, perfectly shaped to his head, framed two twinkling eyes that sparkled with the kindness of Saint Nick, complemented by a belly to match. A long, russet mustache, assiduously twirled at either end, felt right at home with a smart three-piece suit that might have fit an oversized child. A beautifully crafted cane served its intended purpose, helping with a wobble that afflicted his left side, rather than being ornamental like so many others embarking on this maiden voyage.
Robert Louis Stevenson would have been at a loss for words, but she is and will always be my little girl.
If no one had told me, I would never have guessed.
Sarah was a middle-aged soccer mom who took pride in the role. Petite, vivacious, with a bubbly personality that was infectious, she greeted everyone with a big smile and an even bigger hug. Her dishwater blonde hair in a ponytail pulled back through the opening of her Warriors cap. Black yoga pants with a pocket for her oversized phone bunched and stretched as she slid out of the driver's seat of her obnoxiously large SUV. Her toes struggled to find purchase on the pavement. All par for the white suburban course.
Had no one told me, I would have never guessed... she was an alcoholic.
She was a mess. A pill-popping, line-snorting, chain-smoking mess. But on screen, she was a dream. A vision of youth and beauty. Inviting lips, elegant lines, with just a hint of playful mischief. A glance, a smile, a tantalizing promise. Look, but don't touch. And when that camera started rolling, and you entered that dream, you almost forgot... Almost.
I thought your physical appearance going to shit because of stress was just an office myth, but man, Barry is the barely-living embodiment of it, head to toe. His wrinkled suit, tie askew or missing, shirt half-tucked, barely-laced oxfords, and MIA belts. He's even worn mismatched trousers and jacket more than once. His face is starting to remind me of that mask from Scream, and I think he is quite literally pulling his hair out.
I have no idea what's going on in that head of his, and I love him like a brother, but I thank the baby Jesus I'm in a more sane department.
As she slowly walked up to the covered porch, expectations in hand, a petite elderly woman came into view. She was rocking gently and cradling a cup of tea.
"Are you Millie?" Sarah asked, approaching the steps with a touch of sour.
"Well that depends on who's asking," the woman replied with a bite and a smile.
"My name is Sarah. I'm a Judge Advocate with the U.S. Navy. I'm here to ask you a few questions about your grandson."
Millie's eyes gestured toward the outdoor sofa. Despite the many creases and wrinkles that framed them, they burned with a sharp wit and intelligence unexpected in someone her age. The air smelled of chamomile. Stomach troubles, perhaps.
His coif revealed a pudgy face that was almost entirely obscured by a beard and bushy eyebrows. Tall, dark, and handsome, it would seem, was not to be found at Silverbrook Manor—quite the opposite. It would pain one, in fact, to think how feudal duties had been managed to this point at all. Nevertheless, Sir Girthmore appeared to be comfortable in his station and to have things well under control, one might go so far as to say flourishing.
©️ Nash Urban, 2024
All rights reserved.
That’s a wrap. People still say that, right? Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed my decent descriptions.
See you on the next page,
Nash
…
Disclaimer: The prompt in this post was part of The Foundations of Fiction (Writing Mastery) course by Jessica Brody and Joanne Rendell on Udemy. This post is not sponsored and Nu Fiction is not affiliated with the course, the authors, or Udemy. Excerpts from course materials are used for commentary and educational purposes under fair use guidelines. Please check out the full course and resources on Udemy.
Nash Urban is learning to write fiction.
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