Specificity elicits trust. It tells readers the author knows what she's doing. She understands they don't want to read a story, they want to live it.

So every detail counts. A car isn't half as vivid as a red '74 Gran Torino with one headlight. A receptionist can't hold a candle to a dark-haired teenager with purple eyeliner. The ordinary becomes extraordinary. The vague becomes precise. Suspension of disbelief comes naturally. 

The next time you're working a scene, look for ways to be more specific. Readers will remember.

EXAMPLE:
I no more get my mouth open before I spot something near his feet. The wood pile hides most of it, but I know it's a body.

CLEANED UP:
I no more get my mouth open before I spot something near his feet. The wood pile hides most of it, but I can see bare bent legs and a pink flip flop on one foot.

EXAMPLE:
She ran up on an abandoned car, just sitting there in the middle of nowhere. Could that be his hiding place?

CLEANED UP:
She ran up on an old Chevrolet with flat tires and busted windshield, rusting away in the middle of nowhere. Could that be his hiding place?

EXAMPLE:
I found the hostages immediately. They were sitting on the floor of the lobby. I saw five women, one man and a young boy clutching a toy. They looked sweaty and scared.

CLEANED UP:
I found the hostages sitting on the carpeted floor of the lobby, near the tellers' windows. Three women wore business suits, probably loan officers. Two elderly women, thin as skeletons, held hands. A bald man in jogging shorts still clung to his deposit slip and a young boy clutched a tiny helicopter. They looked sweaty and scared.

"How did I meet thee?
Let me recount the day."

A pivotal scene in all romances is the one in which the heroine first crosses the path of the hero. Whether the meeting is subtle or dramatic, the intimate tension surrounding it lets readers know these two are more than mere ships passing in the night.

How do your lovebirds meet? How do they reveal their smitten-ness? Melt our bonbons, as well as our hearts, with your best romantic encounter! 

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   And shortly after that they looked into a room that was quite empty except for one big wardrobe; the sort that has a looking glass in the door. There was nothing else in the room at all except a dead blue-bottle on the windowsill.

   "Nothing there!" said Peter, and they all trooped out again—all except Lucy. She stayed behind because she thought it would be worthwhile trying the door in the wardrobe, even though she felt almost sure that it would be locked. To her surprise it opened quite easily, and two mothballs dropped out.

   Looking into the inside, she saw several coats hanging up—mostly long fur coats. There was nothing Lucy liked so much as the smell and feel of fur. She immediately stepped into the wardrobe and got in among the coats and rubbed her face against them, leaving the door open, of course, because she knew that it is very foolish to shut oneself into any wardrobe. Soon she went further in and found that there was a second row of coats hanging up behind the first one. It was almost quite dark in there and she kept her arms stretched out in front of her so as not to bump her face into the back of the wardrobe. She took a step further in—then two or three steps—always expecting to feel woodwork against the tips of her fingers. But she could not feel it.

   This must be a simply enormous wardrobe! thought Lucy, going still further in and pushing the soft folds of the coats aside to make room for her. Then she noticed that there was something crunching under her feet. I wonder is that more mothballs? she thought, stooping down to feel it with her hand. But instead of feeling the hard, smooth wood of the floor of the wardrobe, she felt something soft and powdery and extremely cold. "This is very queer," she said, and went on a step or two further.