Writers, How Do You Describe Smells?

While I urge the writers I work with to use as many senses as possible (and reasonable) in their writing, I recently realized that I almost never use the sense of smell. I posted to my FB Winged Horse Writing Studio page about this, and a writer friend responded.

Friend: I once wrote an opening paragraph where the aroma of his ex’s perfume told the MC she had walked back into his life. With his back turned. From fifteen feet away. My wife pointed out that she’d have had to bathe in the perfume for him to smell her from that distance. I changed the moment to when she came up to touch his hand. I still had to do a bit of research to describe the aroma in words. But it felt like a crucial aspect of her coming back into his life.

Me: I agree that describing a smell can be difficult. I tend to think more in terms of the memories a smell dislodges rather than the smell itself.

Friend: I used aromas of perfume ingredients that I looked up. Rose, sandalwood, cinnamon, citrus. Smell is infinitely complex, even more than language.

Me: So you named it, yes? That makes sense. Trying to describe a smell is next to impossible, it seems to me. Yes, even more complex than language — well said.

Friend: Yes. It’s like describing the flavor of wine. What does “hints of sandalwood” mean? The perfume sites I visited said which were light scents and which were heavier, so I could go with the lighter to give the impression I wanted.

The more I thought about this, the more I realized that you can’t really describe a smell without either (1) naming its ingredients and hoping your readers know that smell (like rose or smoke or cooked cabbage) or (2) comparing it to another smell that you hope your readers recognize (like sweat or hot sun on asphalt or popcorn).

So maybe the reason we don’t describe smell often, or at least I don’t, is that it’s really difficult to do.

I’m remembering a time, many years ago, when I was walking down a Chicago street and stopped on the corner across the street from my apartment. A huge lilac bush lived on that corner and was suddenly in full bloom. The smell was intoxicating. But underneath that smell was another smell that confused me. I just couldn’t place it. I couldn’t remember ever smelling it before.

I had quit smoking about six months earlier (a two-pack-a-day habit for over 15 years) and had started to regain my sense of taste and, I realized at that moment, my sense of smell. It wasn’t until I smelled that confusing smell again, another day, after a spring rain, that I was able to identify it: Mold. Not the black, disgusting mold that grows on your shower curtain. Just the normal mold that lives on grass and leaves and that contributes to the smell of spring.

Can you smell it from this description? I’m not too confident that you can. And yet, at this moment, I can’t think how to describe it. For one thing, it was so long ago; I just have a memory that the smell existed, not the smell itself.

I’m going to play with this for awhile. How do I describe the smell of my horse’s neck? Of feta cheese? Will adding a description of the taste help? What can I compare these smells to? Or do I want to smash norms and talk about how a smell looks or feels?

I invite you to play around with this as well. We writers tend to stick to sight and sound and sometimes touch. I’m thinking that smell and taste could, used sparingly and intentionally, add richness to our writing.