When passing strangers start noticing the color of your main character’s eyes and wax lyrically about them, it’s a sign.
We know you love your main character, author. But, could you just…make the fawning a little less blatant?
“In fact, Kote [the main character] himself seemed rather sickly. Not exactly unhealthy, but hollow. Wan. Like a plant that’s been moved into the wrong sort of soil and, lacking something vital, has begun to wilt. Graham [the old blacksmith] noted the difference. The innkeeper’s gestures weren’t as extravagant. His voice wasn’t as deep. Even his eyes weren’t as bright as they had been a month ago. Their color seemed duller. They were less sea-foam, less green-grass than they had been. Now they were like riverweed, like the bottom of a green glass bottle. And his hair had been bright before, the color of flame. Now it seemed—red. Just red-hair color, really.” [The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss; Chapter 3]
In other words: I am a burly village blacksmith. I saw the innkeepers green-grass, sea-foam eyes [sea-foam: quite common in my middle-of-nowhere-forest village, donchaknow], his deep voice, and his flaming hair! Now, alas, he is wan and bleak, his eyes dulled!
I better be getting a romantic subplot out of this purple prose.
Author, if you absolutely must creep all over your main, mysterious character, please, please camouflage it better. Because a blacksmith on an errand is such a lousy exposition choice.
PS. I finished The Name of the Wind, and yes, it did in fact continue in this vein.
PPS. No, no romantic subplot with the blacksmith.
PPPS. Three words: Historically inaccurate glass.