I recently bought a cheaper brand of hairspray, and the almost-forgotten scent of it instantly transported me back to picture day for the senior class in 1970. This was the big one, the milestone glamour photo that would be framed on the portrait wall at home and given to everybody the family knew, wallet sizes for all the cousins and portrait sizes for all the grandparents.
The photographer set up his equipment in the cafeteria and was ready to begin, but the halls seemed oddly empty. Between classes, I walked into the girls’ bathroom and encountered a fog of Aqua Net so thick that it nearly obscured a great flock of nervous girls who were clustered around the mirrors, given over to giggles, chatter, and the hiss of aerosol cans.
The fancy salon up-dos on those who had worn ponytails ever since elementary school were getting lacquered into stiff, unyielding statues of curls. Rave and Aqua Net were so thick that even the air — what was left of it — felt sticky by the time I found an empty stall.
Scent, along with sight, touch, taste, and hearing, is a gift to writers. The five senses have the power to coax readers into the very heart of whatever you write.
The kitchen that smells like cinnamon rolls and coffee is more than just a kitchen. The sight of gingham curtains moved by the breeze through an open window, the soft feel of a tabby cat’s fur, the taste of butter on mashed potatoes, and the sound of someone calling the kids to supper all transform a one-dimensional, generic kitchen into someone’s home.
Sensory details do more than reach your audience’s ability to read — they are a bridge between your writing and your readers’ experience and memories. They build relatability and engagement, helping your reader experience your story world as if it’s their own, and they keep readers turning the page, wanting more.
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