Where does the light come in? (A small craft shift that changes everything)

How paying attention to one detail can deepen your writing

Photo by SapiensC on Unsplash

During a writing workshop last year, I learnt a new technique for thinking about the setting of a scene. You begin by asking yourself the question:

Where does the light come in?

Not what does the room look like?
Not how does the character feel?

But physically, where is the light entering the space? A window? A doorway? A crack in the curtains? Is it harsh, golden, flickering? What does it touch first?

It’s a deceptively small question, but it forces you to slow down. To anchor yourself in the physical world before reaching for interpretation.

It’s a beautiful way to think about the small details that matter, and an exercise in precise attention.

I remembered the exercise earlier this week when I was sitting at my desk at 8 am, working on my novel during Writer’s Hour. The sun had risen to exactly where my gaze naturally rested, streaming in through the wide window in front of my desk.

At that precise moment, the light was coming in in a way that burned my retinas and made it extremely difficult to focus.

Stupid sun, I muttered in irritation.

Then, almost immediately:
I shouldn’t be complaining. How amazing that it’s such a bright day after so many miserable ones.

Later, I thought about this as a scene.

What was interesting wasn’t just where the light came in, or even the physical effect it had on me. It was my response, and what that response would tell a reader about me as a character.

My first instinct (irritation at an inconvenience) suggests someone easily frustrated when their plans are disrupted. The quick self-admonishment suggests something else: self-awareness. A tendency to correct myself. A pull towards gratitude.

And perhaps also a hint of harshness. Because having the sun in your eyes is uncomfortable. It’s natural to be annoyed.

In less than thirty seconds, the light in the room revealed not just a setting, but a temperament.

I could keep digging — into psychology, into habits, into history — but that would turn this into a different kind of essay.

My point is this: One small, seemingly innocuous moment can hold a wealth of characterisation and story.

When we pay attention to what’s physically happening, the light, the sound, the texture of the air, we often uncover emotional truth without forcing it.

Writing, in this way, becomes mindfulness in practice. And when we’re purposefully mindful, it strengthens our writing. A quiet, virtuous circle.

Now, it’s your turn

Here’s a small invitation for this week:

Think back to a moment from the past few days when the light caught your attention.

Maybe:

• the way it fell across your kitchen counter,

• the grey blur of a bus window at dusk,

• the sharp brightness of your phone screen in a dark room.

Set a timer for five minutes.

Start with this line:

“The light came in through…”

Describe only what is physically present.
Where does it land? What does it illuminate? What does it leave in shadow?

If a thought or emotional reaction appears, you can include it, but don’t explain it. Let it sit beside the detail.

The practice is not to produce something polished. It’s to notice.

If you try this exercise, I’d love to hear what you notice.