Last night as I prepared dinner, I listened to an interview David Marchese of The New York Times did with celebrated author George Saunders.* During the interview, Saunders was talking about his new book, Vigil, as well as other issues such as his personal beliefs. When he was discussing how his childhood Catholicism affects his work, he talked about the experience of writing a character whom he initially disliked and how, as he tried to make the language about the character more interesting, concepts such as liking or dislike the character become “almost useless phrases.” Then, he spoke the words that have stayed in my mind: “Specificity negates judgment.”

In all candor, as I pondered the interview last night, I thought he said a lot more about specificity in writing. It wasn’t until I went back to the printed version of the interview today and searched for “specific” that I discovered this was his only statement on that particular point. But it didn’t matter, because when he said that, he reminded me of something I’ve long known but had somehow managed to forget: good writing is specific.

Think about it. If I tell you a character wore a green shirt, your idea of what that character is wearing may be very different from what I mean. Those words—green and shirt—are so imprecise that without more, your mental image of the character’s appearance will likely be very different from what I intend. Your imagination may clothe the character in a pine-colored button-down corduroy shirt with leather elbow patches and a pocket in which he always keeps a pen, or a short-sleeved blue-green knit polo shirt with a tiny pink polo player stitched onto the left breast, while I meant to dress him in a fluorescent lime-green T-shirt bearing the ghost of a stain from the chili dog he ate two weeks ago. Each of these is indeed a green shirt, yet each speaks very different volumes about the wearer.

General is benign; specific is dynamic. Armed with this reminder, I returned to editing my current book. As I reviewed each scene—each sentence—I sought to oust the general in favor of the specific. For example, a cluster of three interns—a generic, faceless group—became three individuals with distinctive characteristics. They weren’t major characters, so I didn’t devote enormous space to them, but on this pass, I provided enough detail that the first-person narrator (who never learned their names) could easily tell us which was speaking: Glasses, Acne, or the cheerleader. (If the names she assigns them sound a tad judgmental, that reveals something about the narrator.)

I finished this round of edits on the first section of the book last night. Since I only had the revelation about specificity around page 90, I’ll need to go back to the beginning to see what I can tweak in the name of the specific. For now, though, I plan to continue moving forward. In its way, the first section was the easiest, plotwise. I need to gird my loins to address the second and third sections, where character relationships will become more complicated and I’m juggling the unexpected and the inevitable. (No, I will not be more specific at this point.)

But as I edit, the reminder to be more specific will remain with me. Also, as I work with a particular character who would be very easy to judge, I’ll bear in mind George Saunders’ comment that specificity negates judgment. Maybe if I focus on specific aspects of that character, I’ll find that I’m not quite so inclined to judge them. And maybe, if I do this well enough, you won’t judge them, either–and maybe the narrator won’t, either. We’ll see.

*The Interview is a show that airs as an audio/video podcast. A print version of the episode with George Saunders is available online.