First description, edited to replace vague words with more exact ones:

The bottle sits on a strip of glass that is approximately an eighth of an inch thick. The light shines through this strip, making the bottle look like it is atop a glowing pedestal. Bright red polish fills the inside of the bottle and a matte black cap rests on top. It is somehow neither bumpy nor smooth when I run my fingers across it. The brand “OPI” is stamped into the top of the cap. The thickest point of the cap is closer to the middle than the bottom, which is higher than I would’ve expected. The height of the cap is slightly more than that of the bottle, making it look lopsided. There is a sturdiness to the glass, and the bottle is smooth except for the inscription on the front. The light hits the high point of the glass — the hard edge created by the “ledge” that the cap is placed on. The glass is scratched along this ledge; it is the least-protected part of the bottle. There is a white sticker on the bottom of the bottle, one that you would only find if you were looking for it, that assigns this color a name (“The Thrill of Brazil”) and a number. There is something mesmerizing about the way the glass looks up close, both impenetrable and incredibly delicate at the same time. There is a certain weight and sturdiness to the way the bottle sits on the table, like you wouldn’t be able to move it even with the knowledge that if it were to get knocked over, everything would shatter, leaving behind a bloody, red scene.

Rewritten description:

At the bottom of the bottle, there is a strip of glass that does not hold polish. It is completely clear but distorts the shape of anything that you look at it through, like a magnifying glass. The polish is a solid, classic red. It’s the color that comes to mind when you think of “red” without any further descriptions or qualifiers — it’s not a deep red or a wine red or a rusty red, it’s just “red.” The title of the polish, however, makes a (what I would classify as failed) attempt to describe such a red. “The Thrill of Brazil” is printed on a white sticker underneath the base of the bottle along with the serial number “600622.” I suppose these are all ways of referring to the same object: “The Thrill of Brazil” and “600622,” simply put, just map to “red” either in our minds or in a database of sorts. The glass is entirely smooth aside from a few scratches along the edges and lettering that reads “OPI Nail Lacquer.” The bottle has a matte black cap that contrasts the shiny glass body of the bottle. The top of the cap is imprinted with the letters “OPI.” The brush extends from the inside of the cap and is saturated with the so-called “Thrill of Brazil.” The bristles, while separate, operate as a unit to drag strips of polish across the nail. The bottle stands strong atop a clean, white tabletop. I can’t help but think what just half a fluid ounce of this polish could do to the pristine surface.

Process notes: 

I was daunted by the task of writing a specific, objective description of this nail polish bottle because it seemed futile. I was grappling with how this written description could possibly give my reader a more accurate or effective understanding of the object than simply looking at the bottle or a photograph of it. In completing the exercise, I think I have a better understanding of the art of dynamic description. Regardless of whether this is conscious or unconscious, the writer’s interpretation and background will surface in their description. I suppose this speaks to why two writer’s exact descriptions of the same object can turn out so differently. The exercise showed this phenomenon in an even stronger way that was surprising to me in the sense that my own two descriptions of the exact same nail polish bottle turned out differently. Does this mean that I failed in my task of producing the most exact description of the object as possible? Or rather, does it speak to something intrinsic in the art of writing? My goal in these descriptions was not only to be as accurate and specific as possible, but to write a paragraph that could bring the object to life more-so than a two-dimensional photo could (even though it would capture the object exactly as it is).