Okay, so far no one has mentioned some good elements of description, perhaps the best--sensory detail, and NOT simply the visual. When referring to the 5 senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch, the writer presents detail that is most easily used to create the illusion of reality. Specificity adds to the illusion of reality as well--that is, using concrete, specific nouns rather than abstract nouns.
FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE: Metaphor is a bit stronger than similie, since metaphor says something IS something else, rather than LIKE something else, making sort of a translation for the reader. Exaggeration and hyperbole can add to good description as well, as well as onamatapea, or words that sound like the sound described (buzz, clackety-clack, etc.)
Here's a piece of writing that describes a man's den. See how many sensory details and figurative language it uses. Evaluate this as a piece of description--can you see the room described?
My den in our new house is huge, 21 feet by 15 feet, anything but empty; it could easily pass for a scene from one of those splintered towns along the Gulf coast.
How many books are too many? When you die carrying them all up a flight of stairs, that’s how many.
Newly varnished bookshelves greet my nose when I enter, mixed with the sweet aroma of oil paints in what will be my art corner, and a hint of Carpet Fresh where I dabbed up a stain. A den should contain good smells, manly smells.
The house next door is so close I could reach out the two giant den windows and slap a neighbor who might also be reaching for sunbeams falling into my room and across my leather couch and chair, furniture that firmly embraces my tired old teacher’s carcass.
My new closet organizers are pig-piled with junk I’ve stashed since my teen years: old family photo albums, mementos, antique car models, books too ragged to put out on display, computer guts and other paraphernalia—all kept for reasons only known to my subconscious or from some genetic flaw.
Next to my desk is another bookcase with two shelves on Mark Twain and a shelf of writing reference tomes. A few of these books have grown a rarified dust that clings to my fingers whenever I peer into them.
I listen: a train wails off in the distance, a motorcycle dawdles by with rattle-coughs, and the whining lament of a lawnmower down the block. I’m grateful I don’t have to mow a lawn in this den—though I realize at some point the clutter will have to give way to a vacuum. Still, it’s my space, all mine. Every man needs a den, even if it looks like elephants play roller derby in it.