To make this more interesting (or a total waste of time, depending on your viewpoint) I will combine this with the "What Does Your Muse Smell Like?" meme. I can't find the original post where I saw this, but it appeals to me, sort of synesthesia-wise.
(me, age 6)
My muse smells like the ocean in the dark, sea wrack and water weed and salt on the skin. It comes inside before dawn and smells like fresh washed hair and crisp linens and incense (blue pearl). It lays its head on Jim's shoulder and he tells it that it smells like nutmeg and cinnamon, and the cold smell of pine trees on the dark porch in October. On the days I am not sure it will cooperate, it smells like oatmeal with vanilla or library paste. If it smells like vinyl action figures, I am in for a ride.
my Theatrical Muse characters:
Tuor smells like snow before it falls, a piercing yearning at the back of the throat for whatever is coming to please, come... He warms to fresh turned earth and springy cresses crushed underfoot, and the wet smell of water in the woods. He smells like the wind off the ocean when it blows so hard you dare not open your mouth lest you drown; beach plums and clamshells tumbled into beads. He smells like oil on metal, and sweat evaporating off skin in the sun.
Marc Remillard marc_remillard
Marc smells like lightning, the sizzling smell of ozone entering and leaving. He smells like maple syrup meeting hot food in a room somewhere below that you wish you were in. He smells of well tended machinery, and new car leather. He smells like pleasure and pain.
My fiction muses:
Faramir smells like leaf litter and oak moss; like the moment when the storm breaks but the instant before the first raindrop touches your tongue. He smells like crushed lavender and thyme, and of spray when water meets rock, and the wet slate smell and herbs at the edge of a pool. He smells of leather and woodsmoke and musk and horse and the smell of cool darkness in the pools of shadow that cling under the pines when the sun beats on the earth, but you don't step out into it. He smells like wool warmed by skin. He smells like November.
Anduin smells wild, and she carries a hint of where she has just been. She may give me herbs or pollen clinging to fat bees in the hot sun, or the sharp smell of lying snow that lingers in the nose. She smells like wet wood, and dampness creeping across stone. She smells like change coming.