HYPOCRITES in the LANGUAGE FAMILY

By Bonnie Stanard

As I read Richard Edwards’s article “10 Words Editors Hate” I got an adrenaline rush. He affirms my view that some words have become frauds, and we writers are betrayed by using them.

It’s reassuring that I’m not the only person who cringes when I see the word soul, which heads the list. Why do I have the idea that writers who use this word are trying to reveal some deep and intense spirituality? By the way, I doubt that  intense spirituality comes out in words.

The word love is number three on the list. It’s a trouble maker. We cover a lot of emotional territory with that one word. What parents feel for their children may be something that nurtures, impedes, or even destroys. And what about a child’s reaction to a parent? A teenager’s crush? A debaucher’s wanton passion? In sentences, the subject love is promiscuous in selecting direct objects, which might be a book, a movie, Las Vegas, or the Dalai Lama. Love is a belly-fat cliché. When will we come up with precise words to replace it?

The concept of forever is inconceivable, as Edwards points out, so the word is given an impossible task. But that’s not what bothers me. It comes across as an immature effort to be emphatic. I picture the writer chewing gum and blowing bubbles as they type it.

Then there’s light, life, and death. Edwards says an editor will shut down at the sight of these words. Write about them but don’t write the words. I get it about life and death, but light? I’d put dark on the list ahead of light. And as I write this, I know I’ve written dark many times. Light too. I use these two words to express feelings, which by the way is another no-no, i.e., don’t write the word feeling. But stories without feeling are basically news reports, so he’s saying write about feelings without using the word.

Dianne Urban’s article, “43 Words You Should Cut From Your Writing Immediately,” goes overboard. I’d put her word immediately in a list of words to avoid. She makes a good point about words like said, replied, and asked. She suggests we surround dialogue with action and leave out dialogue tags. This doesn’t always work, especially if there’s a quick exchange of comments.

Urban puts the word begin on her list and I applaud that. There are occasions when it might be needed but most of the time it’s like a preview to what is coming next. And who needs a preview when our writing is hot with action?

We once had a writer in our group who took issue with the word that (one of Urban’s 43 words). He marked every that in a paper. Now there are times when you need that. That’s a fact.

Many of Urban’s words are weaklings that undermine your writing, such as completely, then, just, literally, actually, somehow. But what’s wrong with breathe, shrug, nod, think?

WHAT DOES IT MEAN to “TIGHTEN UP” and HOW DO I DO IT?

By Kasie Whitener

I’m bringing the second half of the second novel to group, one segment at a time. Like a serialized version in biweekly installments.

Consistent feedback at one group, for me and others, is “tighten up.” Last week one of our novice fiction writers candidly asked, “What does that mean and how do I do it?”

When our critique group says, “tighten up” I take it to mean I should make the scene less boring. The dialogue should be punchier, the action more impactful, the scene more tense. How do you make a so-so passage that meanders a little bit less boring?

Get rid of all the stuff that doesn’t belong.

Step 1: Reduce the details that don’t directly contribute to the action of the scene.

Sometimes those details are exposition, sometimes they’re scene setting like the lighting or furniture in the room. Whatever slows down the pace of the scene or distracts from the real action has got to go. How do you know? Take it out and read the scene without it. Do you miss it? Count how many details are about a person, remove half of them. How many are about the room? Remove half of those.

Step 2: Read the dialogue out loud. Just the dialogue.

If it bores you, it bores us. Tightening up dialogue means the characters only have to say what matters to the story. We can assume they greeted one another upon arrival, so dispense with the “Hi, how are you?”s. Strong writers use dialogue to advance the plot. Accusations, denials, confessions, and pleas get dialogue. Instructions (“Put that down.”) and procedural stuff (“I made lunch.”) don’t deserve dialogue. Give them gestures. Or better yet, assume we know they exist and cut them all together.

Step 3: Read each sentence word-by-word and cut any extra words.

Being succinct is an easy way to add tension to a scene. Read each sentence and consider what the real action should be. We sometimes combine two unrelated actions into the same sentence. Decide which one stays and which one gets cut. We sometimes give full driver’s license descriptions (hair color, eye color, height, weight) when only one feature matters. Pick one. Tightening up is about getting rid of the excess line-by-line.

Tightening work can also mean “kill your darlings” those clever turns of phrase you think demonstrate your quality as a writer. But mostly it means focus the passage on what matters to the story. It may require that you re-evaluate what the scene means to the novel. The hard work of writing is revision.

When I’m told “tighten up” I think my readers lost focus somewhere. I don’t want that. I want them spellbound by every single word. So only use the good words. Stream of consciousness may have worked for Mrs. Dalloway but Ulysses proved it’s unsustainable. Novice writers get better when they cut the excess and focus on the story.

Procrastinators Would Unite Tomorrow, if Their Writing Wasn’t Blocked, Maybe

By El Ochiis

How can you convince yourself to write when even your imaginary friends won’t talk to you? Writer’s block, and some form of procrastination, probably existed since the invention of writing.  But you can blame English poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who first described his “indefinite indescribable terror” at not being able to produce work he thought worthy of his talent. Of course, soon afterwards, “French writers latched onto the idea of a suffering connected to writing and expanded it to create the myth that all writers possessed a tortured soul, and were unable to write without anguish.”

Speaking of the French, and, writers, it has been after I’ve finished reading Flaubert’s Madame Bovary that I cease tapping letters on my keyboard in an attempt to produce what I believe is a Man Booker award-winning novel and clean my closets in search of a blanket to use for curling into a fetal position. How can any writer pen something as prolific as Flaubert? Well, firstly, he lived with his mother and didn’t have to pay rent or buy food. You see how that just happened, I was writing about avoiding the task of writing, leading to writer’s block, yet I managed to digress. But, this should count as part of the subject matter – wait, I had to perform hours of research on the internet – oh look, I found a cute cat video that just had to be posted on Facebook, then, tally how many likes – crap, a day has been shot to Hades, but, I still had a few more days to finish that piece.

Back to the subject, I think. You see, any female who has given birth, knows that to nurture another human being whilst churning out prose worthy of publication, for financial compensation, is nearly impossible. My point, Flaubert was not a mother? Oh dear, maybe some of us writers may simply suffer from attention-deficit disorder. Nah, it’s definitely procrastination.  

Tim Urban says that procrastinators’ brains are the same as non-procrastinators, save for the presence of a little friend called an “instant gratification monkey.” This monkey seems to be a lot of fun, but, in fact he/she is nothing but a ton of trouble – monkeying around is fun but not productive when you’re under pressure to produce.

So, does a writer, tackle procrastination that leads to blocked writing or vice versa? Well, after having researched both for days BEFORE I managed to tackle writing this piece, I came across some advice that even I would agree is helpful:

1. Form a relationship with your inner critic – you know, the one inside your head that is capable of convincing you to bring your writing to a complete halt through a huge dose of self-doubt, leading to self-deprecation. “Have you overdosed on metaphors?” “I think you could use a better opening, couldn’t you?” Stephen King struggled with it and Margaret Atwood was well acquainted with its debilitating effects – I doubt there is a writer who hasn’t been blocked by his/her own inner critic.  

   

2. Talk to your characters – like you would converse with a friend or stranger who is trying to make your acquaintance or you his/hers - seriously, at the center of all stories are characters. Then, if they are not clearly defined in your mind, you most likely to come crashing straight towards writer’s block. Some conversations to have with your character(s):

a. If your house was on fire and he could run back inside and save one thing, what would that be?

b. What is the one trait you deplore in yourself?

c. What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Create a profile for your character(s):

1. The outer layer – physical appearance and the basics: name, place of birth, height, weight, speech, communication – stuff that makes each person different from the rest.

2. The Flesh – (past or backstory) - characters are products of their environments (family and external relationships)

3. The core – deep down, who is your character? Play with psychology – is he/she street or book smart? What does your character want in the story?

3. Take a walk – no, really – walking can help a writer think.  Writing IS thinking. A study at Stanford has found that walking improves creativity – it can actually help improve brain function and allow you to come to more effective and novel solutions.

Walk along a river, lake or trail, have a goal for your walk, at least one mile, before you give in to fatigue, heat, cold or procrastination, leading to writer’s blockage, or, vice versa. If you weren’t able to complete numbers one and two, you will AFTER you’ve walked.

VOICE REVISED

By Sharon May

One of my previous blogs focused on voice. At the time, I was in the early stages of writing a novel, which has multiple first-person narrators. My first step in brainstorming about the topic was to search the Internet. That helped me write the blog, but not the novel. I learned the definition of voice and how to build the character of a narrator, but not how to write a distinctive, engaging voice, much less several of them.

Many novels out there have bland, distant, and downright boring narrative voices, whether first or third. Or stereotypical ones. Hillbillies are painted as ignorant and are to be made fun of. Women sound whiney and/or bitchy. Men often have a false toughness, like the author is imitating how the Marlboro man might talk. Drug dealers sound like they stepped out of Pulp Fiction. What readers want is a voice that carries the novel and that is ultimately, unique and memorable.

Someone once said that when fiction has multiple narrators, a reader should be able to turn to any page and determine quickly who the narrator is. The structure of sentences and the word choices are extremely important in building narrators. Setting a novel in Appalachia, as I am, means everyone has a dialect, but all the narrators can’t have the same linguistic markers.

In reality, hillbillies will sound hillbilly, but not speak the same. Some hillbillies revel in the language of the hills, while others try to hide its influence on them. Also, some will rely heavily on the words and pronunciations that are distinct to the region. Some speakers drop -s, -g, and -ed endings. The key to creating an interesting, distinctive voice is putting all the pieces together to find the grammar of a particular narrator.

First-person narrators are not simply characters to be developed, but also story tellers. Their stories obviously raise the question of reliability. But there is more to consider. The author has to decide how and why the narrator is telling the story. What are the motivations for revealing plot and for introducing and reacting to other characters? How does each narrator relate to the surroundings and help build mood?

The voices of the two main characters of my novel, Lafe and Preston, came alive magically, organically. Honestly, I was lying down, thinking about beginning the novel again – for at least the fourth time in 30 years. Suddenly, Lafe spoke a line to me to introduce himself when I asked myself who should begin the story. Much the same happened with Preston when I was trying to determine how he is different from Lafe and what his purpose as story teller is. The other narrators are finally “finding their voices” too.

A lot of writers avoid first-person narrators because they think the work will be judged as autobiographical and by an inexperienced writer. I may not have published the novel yet, but I am getting very experienced at understanding and mastering voice.

WHY CAN’T YOU JUST CALL YOURSELF A ‘WRITER?’

By Kasie Whitener

I subscribe to Runner’s World magazine and every now and then the discussion comes around as to when someone can realistically call themselves a runner.

If you started a Couch-to-5K program yesterday and haven’t gotten to the running part yet, are you a runner?

If you used to run half-marathons but now mostly stroll with your neighbors instead of training for anything serious, are you a runner?

It’s called ‘imposter syndrome’ and has been explored at length in discussions ranging from sports newbies (like runners) to female business owners (entrepreneurs). It fascinates me that as I reached the point in my career where I finally have a good amount of experience and expertise, I’m surrounded by people who admit they feel like fakes.

But no place do I see this rash of insecurity as often as I do in the writing community. There are dozens of reasons why. Here are just a few:

‘Writer’ is a broad title for a number of professional roles.

To be a professional, one must be paid. Professional writers can be copywriters in marketing departments, communications specialists in public relations offices, journalists or storytellers in news outlets, and even the holy grail: Novelist complete with publisher, agent, and roof-over-your-head paycheck. So does winning a contest with a $300 payout make me a professional writer? Do blog subscribers count as currency?

 ‘Writer’ could mean any level of experience and education.

In most professions, there’s a career path that includes some combination of education and experience. But writers don’t always have the same credentials or the same resumes. Many of them have no resume at all. Your work is your evidence of achievement. Unless you have an MFA, right? Or a PhD?

Being a ‘writer’ only means you write. It doesn’t have to mean anything else. But it could.

If you’ve been writing, you’re a ‘writer’ according to Jeff Goins who has made a tidy internet success out of telling people to self-declare. But there are professional writers who want the title to mean more. They want prestige and meaning behind the term. Lance Armstrong is a cyclist, sure, but I rode my bike yesterday and that technically makes me one as well.

The accolades and distinctions of ‘Writer’ are not organized into any recognizable path of achievement.

While there are national and international awards of distinction and while publication in esteemed journals or by discerning publishers can be badges of your skills, the literary world is highly subjective. For every dozen learned scholars who praise The Great Gatsby, there’s an equal cadre of scholars who loathe the work. How can subjectivity rule a profession? Ask any gymnast with a gold medal.

If it’s not enough to simply write and be a ‘Writer’ then create for yourself a vision of what you think ‘Writer’ is. Decide what you want to accomplish, what respect or recognition you’d like to earn and then put in the work to make that goal a reality.