HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED USING INTERESTING WORDS TO MAKE YOUR CHARACTERS SOUND MORE INTELLIGENT?

By El Ochiis

I was studying abroad when an opportunity to intern at a publishing house, presented itself in the form of a requirement from a professor who had a reputation for his dislike of foreign students – his position was that they suffered from an ignorance of intelligent language above common words. Shifting his cigarette from the right side of his mouth to the left, with a flick of his tongue, he would emphatically state that American writers wrote so relentlessly about themselves, it exhausted him. Rumor was if he liked your writing you got a letter from his spouse, a noted editor – a shoo-in for that internship. 

“I take offense to Professor Brodeur’s opinion. I need to pen an essay filled with such uncommonly smart words that it will greatly annoy him,” I announced to Julien, a former student who has gone on to achieve some writing success, offering him my first draft.

 “This is brilliant. He WILL send you to his wife – she is more torturous than he, but in fewer words,” Julien announced, making edits with a pencil he kept behind his right ear. “But, you can raise it to the height of greater intelligence with a few more unusual words."

I took the points Julien made, incorporated them, and, submitted the piece.

One week and a day later, I was summoned for an interview lunch at the Centre Pompidou by Madame Lilou-Arlette Brodeur.  

I arrived half an hour early; I was nervously anxious. Then, I saw her; she flitted through the passageway on black-tipped Chanel sling-backs, moving with the aloofness of a pedigree feline. Laying a leather-bound diary on my backpack, she summoned a waiter. The Centre Pompidou, at that time, was frequented by artist and writers who could barely afford a cup of coffee, wait staff would be a stretch.

My black, torn jeans with the Janis Joplin and John Coltrane patches, topped off with an even blacker Harley Davison tee-shirt and worn cowboy boots were in stark contrast to her couture.  

She placed some crisp francs into the hands of a man walking by, instructing him to purchase a café au lait, fixating her eyes over my head, at something more interesting, finally resting a momentary gaze on me:

“An agelast, apropos,” she spewed, with a French accent, scanning my essay, taking the steaming cup from the gentleman, pushing it towards me.

I thought I recognized some of the terms she was using as the ones Julien had added, but she spoke them with such a precise French accent; I wasn’t sure – this was interesting and scary.  

“I Conspuer a bioviate.” she reasoned, flicking her cigarette in the saucer of the still warm café, opening her book in a manner that let me know I was either being dismissed or she was departing. 

I tried to give the impression that I wasn’t completely dumbfounded by smiling and nodding – I wrote stuff down in the pretense of astute notetaking. Her faint smile told me she wasn’t displeased. But, were those interview questions or stark criticism of my writing?  

 “Hiraeth, logophilic, n'est-ce pas?” she affirmed, rising, checking her watch before retrieving a piece of paper from her diary, scribbling an address and phone number, pushing it at me. Then, she sauntered off. 

I ran all the way to Julien. I breathlessly retold him everything that happened.   

“I think I got the internship, but I couldn’t understand how she was using some of the words you added – the woman is odd.” I exclaimed, holding out the notes I’d taken.

 Julien perused my badly scribbled handwriting. 

“She was saying that you’re a person who rarely laughs (agelast) - she suspects it’s because you only wear black (atrate). She spits in contempt (conspeur) at people who are long-winded with little to say (biovate) – she feels that the essence of your piece was about the homesickness of a place that you can never return to, or never really existed (hiraeth) - you have a gift for words (logophile),” Julien surmised with the confidence of a cryptographer. 

“How do you know this?” I asked, incredulously. 

“I read one of her favorite books – the words I added to your piece were from a book she edited entitled Interesting Words You Should Slip Into Your Writing To Make Your Characters Sound Much More Intelligent – it’s great that she didn’t quiz you,” Julien chortle. 

Can you, as a writer, write a scene for a novel, short story or an essay using words that have no English translation, or interesting words that would help your characters sound smarter in any conversation? Here is a place to start: https://www.dictionary.com/e/keep-classy-fancy-words-listicle/

 

 

 

 

 

 

AT the CROSSROADS of COVID and WRITING

By Shaun McCoy

Perhaps the single most fabulous piece of advice, and simultaneously the worst advice, I’ve ever gotten about writing is that “a good short story exists at the crossroads between two other stories.”

What makes this advice so dang good is that it is absolutely a fabulous way to rescue that initial inspiration you get for a short story, but which just falls a step short. But, one has to admit, what makes this advice so friggin’ bad is just how vague it is.

With a little creative plotting, one can describe about ANY story, no matter how singular in focus, to be at the locus point between two narratives. So, this crossroads idea is like a Schrodinger’s cat. It’s both alive and dead, in a state of literary superposition, until one of us tries to use the dang thing. At that point, we end up with either a fabulously adorable kitten mewling with all the delight of a cutesy internet meme, or find ourselves in dire need of both a shovel and a good plot of land safely away from the prying eyes of whatever darling child owned that feline.

I couldn’t help but think of this crossroads advice as, during my recent Covid scare. I started scrolling through the symptoms. Some of them weren’t very story-worthy at all.

· Dry cough

· Diarrhea

· Fever

I mean, they’re certainly were story-worthy to me. I’m me. If I’m walking down a tunnel toward the light, I want to hear about it. But it wouldn’t really be a good story to you. In that way it is directly analogous to my last piece of failed writing. It’s my baby, so I love it. To you, though, it’s probably about as bland as watching snail race. (Okay, terrible analogy. That would be pretty riveting.)

But then this bad boy of a symptom came up.

· New confusion

Now that’s a story. It leaps out of you with all the exciting context of the now infamous warning label on curling irons: “don’t put in contact with eye.” Of course I shouldn’t put it on my eye, but the very existence of the label means that someone, at some point, did. Or at least, we think they did. Maybe they were murdering a hitchhiker, and that’s how they got their eye wound, and this whole curling iron thing was only the best excuse they could come up with during their police interrogation.

New confusion. What was the old confusion? When struck with this plague, how am I supposed to tell the old confusion from the new? How can the reader? Can the reader know before I do?

But fortunately this won’t ever be a story. The test came back negative. For me, there will only ever be the old confusion—caught right there, smack dab in the middle of the crossroads between covid and writing.

 

 

 

HOW “REAL” SHOULD FICTION BE?

By Raegan Teller

A conversation circulating among writers lately is whether to mention the pandemic in their stories set in current times. Since Covid-19 has unquestionably altered our lives, should writers ignore it by creating a fictitious, alternate universe where it does not exist? Or should we be “real” about it, even in fiction?

Recently, I watched a virtual panel of writers, and the question was posed as to whether they would include the pandemic in their current era works. One writer responded that we have no idea what 2021 will look like. For example, will the vaccine return us to something close to normal next year? Will people even take the vaccine? Will the vaccine be only a speed bump and not a stop sign? Of course, no one knows the answer to these questions until we get there. This writer also pointed out that fiction is “escapism.” Making our stories too real might be a turn-off to readers. On the other hand, another writer said he would adhere to “the truth” even in fiction and include references to the pandemic in his novel coming out in 2021.

Another author on the panel mentioned he was writing a book that would be edited next year, so he would adjust his story then, depending on the state of the pandemic at that time. Another writer suggested setting stories in 2019: perhaps our last remembrance of “normalcy.”

What everyone agrees on is that while 9/11, earthquakes and major storms have had a profound effect on many people, nothing has altered our everyday lives like Covid-19. So, what’s a writer to do?

My protagonist is a newspaper reporter and often meets with people in restaurants while pursuing a story. If I acknowledged the existence of the pandemic, would she be considered irresponsible if I failed to say she had a mask on?

And, of course, forget writing phrases like, “She recognized him immediately by his smile. It was what she remembered most about him.” Who can tell if anyone is smiling with a mask on? Although, for mystery writers like me, perhaps that added mystique of a hidden face might come in handy. And while we’re being totally honest, our fictious characters would occasionally have to turn around and drive back home for a forgotten mask, perhaps encountering a person or event that alters the story line completely.

But then how you handle the pandemic in your writing also depends on the age bracket of your target readers. Younger readers would be more likely to expect characters to go about their business as usual, whereas older readers may react differently.

I’ve asked several of my readers their thoughts on including the pandemic in my fifth novel, which will be set in 2021. Surprisingly, most said, “don’t mention it” or “I don’t want to be reminded of the pandemic.” I think I’ll take their advice. As one of my reader’s said, “It is fiction, after all. Don’t be too real.”

WRITING the NEXT LINE

By Sharon May 

Imagine me with one joint recovering from surgery and another one prepping for surgery. My right arm braced in Velcro and Neoprene from fingers to pert nigh the elbow after breaking my arm just above the wrist. Left foot in a funky pair of shoes made of more Velcro and Neoprene, rendered even more attractive by a yellow caution sock given as a thanks by the hospital. “Might come in handy,” my frugal wife said as we packed. I am a poster child for orthopedics. 

While laid up, I, like a Nathaniel Hawthorne character, mulled over my life to determine what I had done wrong to require so many surgeries. Then I considered the lessons from these experiences. I decided the gods are determined I become left handed and master speech recognition software. My introduction to Dragon occurred a couple of years ago when I first had my dominant wrist fused. I learned the basics and managed to put a few pages out, but abandoned it as soon as I healed. It will be useful in emergencies, I thought, not imagining having further damage to my hand. 

When really bored or avoiding writing, I will pick up my copy of “Dragon for Dummies” to explore what I don’t know. Facing the computer, all that reading proves useless as learning anything related to computers requires hands-on experiences for me. So I muddle through. 

Speaking to the computer is not the same as typing. The brain, at least my brain, functions differently with the two tasks. 

I think faster when typing. Part of the problem is that the program and I don’t yet communicate well. My wife has complained for years I mumble, and now I have a computer agreeing with her. At this point, about 80% of my words are transcribed correctly on paper. Dialect drives the Dragon to produce words nowhere near what I said.   

Now I’m so paranoid that I’m not enunciating correctly, I concentrate on the screen more than about what comes next. So, I correct at least a fifth of the page in the process. Who knows how many thoughts I’ve lost during that time? 

Oddly, after hours of putting words on paper by speaking, I don’t feel like I’ve written anything. There’s no energy nor renewal that I usually get while typing my words. Used to be the fingers were tired, cramped up, and needing a break. Now I’m just thirsty. 

Usually, I can play with language and sentence patterns. Now, my mind becomes sluggish. I end up frustrated, which further interferes with writing. Time may solve this, or I may have to become a one-handed typist. I hope the brain is soon free again to explore words and create worlds as if on a space ship speeding through time and space.