Information Dumps

This past Saturday, I received Chapter One back from my beta reader, RG.  This was the second time he'd taken a look at it–I believe the most problematic one of the entire novel so far–and, again, he'd spent a crazy amount of time going through it, providing more detailed feedback than I have a right to hope for.  Yet, it's clear he's taking this task seriously, and I'm forever grateful to him for that.

Thus far, I've only had the opportunity to review his comments in passing; once Chris is back at work–he's on vacation now until June 1–I will go through RG's comments in detail, and learn from them. 

But I noticed one thing that didn't get my back up so much as disappointed me.  It relates to the following paragraph, which occurs in Chapter One, Scene Three: 

A low, cream-colored sofa stood against the wall to my right, book-ended by two tall, thin lamps with cloth shades on small, matching tables.  A brass-framed, glass-topped coffee table sat in front of the sofa, while, at the other end of the long room, a black-lacquered, square table, surrounded by four, black, high-backed leather chairs, dominated the dining area.

Here was RG's comment affixed to this paragraph:

I'm not sure the point of this paragraph of description.  It feels more like a writer's exercise.  What in the room matters?  The seating options, for sure, as Brian must plan where he'd like to sit when David comes with the drinks.  Perhaps there's a mirror where Brian can quickly glimpse himself to check out his hair or ensure there are no dinner remnants between his teeth.  Lamps and tables?  Not relevant.

My initial reaction was, Wow!  Two sentences.  And two sentences I worked so hard on.  Two I felt really good about, actually.  I knew I didn't want the description of one of my major character's furnishing to go on forever–and I would never have allowed that to happen–but couldn't I have two sentences?  Just two?

Since I read RG's comment late Saturday evening, my subconscious has been working on it.  And, today, I had another epiphany–that is, I connected his comment to something I'd read in the past, and saw how it applies directly to me.

RG is right.  First, the description stops the action cold.  Second, what's really critical for the reader to know?  Honestly?  Nothing in this paragraph.  Not a word.  As I think through the remainder of the novel, the reader doesn't need anything I included here (no matter how succinctly, or beautifully, I may have written it).

This is called an information dump, and, according to Don McNair, in Editor-Proof Your Writing: 21 Steps to Clear Prose Publishers and Agents Crave, they should be avoided.  Here's what McNair has to say about information dumps:

Information dumps are like ornaments bunched together on a Christmas tree. 

And, if necessary, Work the information into the story.  Make facts a part of the action.

So here's what I need to do. 

I need to be sure none of what I described in this paragraph is necessary to the telling of the story.  If any of it is, I need to work it into the action.  If those two tall, thin lamps suddenly become critical to the telling of my characters's stories, one of them has to turn them on, perhaps while saying something to the other.  As RG put it, I need to make them relevant.

If they are never relevant, they need to go.  (Sniff.)