She wore a dress.
Okay. Functional.
She wore a funeral-colored slip of silk she didn’t remember buying.
Now we’re cooking.
Here’s the thing about boring prose: it’s fine, sort of. There’s nothing objectionable about it one sentence at a time. It’s just that, as you keep reading, nothing grabs you—or you hit little snags that slow your momentum. It becomes a slog. You set it down, walk away, and later realize you don’t even remember it.
This is the first post in a series I’m doing on the dozens, maybe hundreds, possibly thousands of ways to make prose more memorable. I’m starting with one of the most far-reaching techniques out there.
This one’s about better word choice—using strong or vivid words, often enough and with enough impact, to keep me interested. It might sound ridiculous, but swapping out one little noun can give a sentence a surprising jolt of energy. And if you do that over and over, just where it counts? It works. One vivid, intentional noun can carry more than a dozen neutral ones.
Make it work for you
But what am I replacing, how often? This is a bit tricky, as prose needs serviceable, useful words to flow with varying levels of flower peppered here and there. Write, edit, read, repeat—until you hit the ratio that feels good for this scene. Comparing a page of your work to a page of your favorite authors work and highlighting the high value nouns and adjectives can also help give you an idea of ratio.
Where to look for words to upgrade:
Watch for sneaky filler words. Thing. Stuff. Nice. Pretty. Big. Weird. They sneak in while your brain’s drafting on autopilot. They’re not inaccurate—but they’re not doing much either. Come back and replace them with something that earns its keep.
What does your story need? Is this a moment to deepen character, build tension, or show setting? If the current word isn’t helping that goal, it might be time for an upgrade.
Zoom out and spot the empty zones. Highlight the words doing real work—ones with bite, mood, or movement. Then circle where the energy fades. Adding one sharp detail can wake up that whole paragraph.
Which raises the real question: how do you find a better word? Obviously, if it were that easy, you would have already done it. And is it worth the time? Sometimes, absolutely. A single upgrade in the right place—first paragraph, turning point, gut-punch line—can change the whole vibe of a scene.
Here are the tools I use for picking better words:
Start by asking: what kind of thing is it, really? That one question unlocks better words. The more specific you get, the more tone and character sneak in. Was your heroine big on millennial glam decor but she's fallen on hard times and let her life crumble? A table stood in the corner becomes An expensive table, armored with smudged and dirty mirroring, stood in the corner.
Use your references. Thesaurus, dictionary, Google—use them. My favorite is The Synonym Finder by J.I. Rodale, which is delightfully different from a thesaurus and even more useful when writing.
Try something a little weird. Pick a slightly-too-strong or surprising word on purpose, especially when the context justifies it. This can create a great eerie, voicey, or emotionally loaded sentence. A knife sat on the counter vs. A blade sulked on the counter. This is one of my favorite ways to add tone without adding bulk—especially if the sentence is carrying story weight.
Or pick a word that isn’t quite boring. It doesn't have to be the strangest, longest word in the dictionary. Something just slightly less common can help.
Use metaphor or cultural association. Sometimes the best upgrade is a phrase that, all together, means more to the reader than its parts. Look for specific references that add subtext. Instead of a sad dress use a prom dress worn on the wrong day.
But don’t swing the other way and stuff your sentences full of glitter. If every noun is lush and every adjective is reaching, the prose collapses. Upgrade selectively.
Examples
❌ Meh:
I lit the last candle, stepped back, and felt a rightness settle in my chest.
✅ Better:
I lit the last beeswax taper, stepped back, and let a warm rightness curl in behind my ribs.
What changed:
Upgraded “candle” with a specific noun evoking setting, and replaced flat phrasing with a more vivid, physical delivery of the s:ame emotional beat.
❌ Meh:
He laughed, ran a hand through his hair, and said it was no big deal, but I could tell he was lying because he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
✅ Better:
He laughed, dragged a hand through his hair like a rom-com screw-up, and said it was no big deal—but he didn’t look at me when he said it.
What changed:
Swapped generic phrasing for one with cultural shorthand and tone (“rom-com screw-up”), upgraded verbs with more narrative character shading (“dragged” instead of “ran”), and trimmed repetition to let subtext carry the emotional truth.
And keep scrolling for more bonus examples at the end of this post.
This is the part where I’m contractually obligated to point out that using this often and well comes from practice. So I highly recommend pulling out a few pages of your WIP and trying it right now.
Now go sip your tea and daintily edit your latest draft. Or beat it with a baseball bat. Whichever it deserves.
Bonus Examples
❌ Meh:
The hellhound barked again, more aggressively this time.
✅ Better:
Another bark tore loose from the hellhound—raw, guttural, and clearly not meant for show.
What changed:
Upgraded the verb to add physical intensity, layered in specific modifiers to shape tone, and replaced a vague intensifier with language that evokes sound and intent.
❌ Meh:
The cat hopped onto the counter, meowed once, and stared at her like she was late.
✅ Better:
The cat claimed the counter, gave a single imperious meow, and fixed her with a look that said this delay was unacceptable.
What changed:
Swapped generic actions for more specific and tone-rich alternatives. The “imperious meow” adds sensory specificity, while “this delay was unacceptable” uses cultural shorthand to imply power dynamic.
❌ Meh:
The kids raced ahead toward the playground, their laughter echoing down the sidewalk, bringing a smile to my own face.
✅ Better:
The kids launched themselves down the sidewalk, laughter trailing like a banner, and my joy grew into a smile.
What changed:
Replaced generic verbs with more vivid, tone-matching alternatives, used metaphor to sharpen imagery, and swapped a vague emotional cue for one with more specificity and emotional precision.
❌ Meh:
I finished my popsicle quickly, trying to beat the heat, and ignore how oppressive this town felt.
✅ Better:
I finished the popsicle in three bites, before it turned to goo, trying not to think about how heavy the heat had gotten—or how still the houses were.
What changed:
Made the eating verb more specific, swapped a vague emotional summary for implied physical reaction, and replaced the cliché “beat the heat” with the more vivid and tactile “before it turned to goo.”
❌ Meh:
The hallway smelled weird, like something was off.
✅ Better:
The hallway smelled like someone had tried to cover up a mistake with lemon cleaner and grief.
What changed:
Replaced vague sensory description with a surprising, emotionally charged image. The upgraded phrasing adds specificity, subtext, and emotional tone through a deliberately weird and layered word choice.