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Writing and Editing

In Praise of Young Authors

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When you reach a certain age, it’s all too easy to become a little bit crotchety on the subject of the younger generation. The transition to curmudgeonliness happens not long after a moment of awakening, such as when a store clerk at a cosmetic counter suggests you purchase an anti-aging serum, or when a young person mentions a bit of slang you’ve never even heard of–even though you’re an editor and thought you were conversant with all the latest usage. Your relative oldness stands out in dramatic relief at such moments. You can no longer pass yourself off as young, nor can you pretend to truly understand the young. The gulf between you and the younger generation seems vast and insurmountable, which paves the way for becoming a critical such-and-such.

To the most curmudgeonly among us, young people are inevitably rude, lazy, undisciplined, distracted, and illiterate. But come now, are they really? I confess to being at a certain disadvantage when it comes to the subject of the young, as I don’t have children of my own, and I spend much of my time around other middle-aged people, many of whom are also childless. But what I can tell you is that none of those adjectives even remotely apply to some of the young authors who have crossed my path recently.

One author I worked with earlier this year is still in high school, while another recently graduated from university. Both have written sizeable and ambitious novels in the fantasy and science fiction genres. Both are respectful, gracious, and generally delightful to deal with. And as far as literacy is concerned, both have very successfully absorbed the fundamentals of spelling, grammar, and punctuation, which speaks well for both them and the educational system. But more than that, it’s as if they’ve already read all those books I’ve been reading about how to write good fiction and have even memorized the rules–they really know how to structure a novel. And doing so seems to come very naturally to them. Perhaps it’s not so much that they’ve read about the rules as that they’ve already read a lot of fiction in their young lives and have absorbed it at such a deep level that they instinctively know how to write it.

That anyone so young manages to write a novel, let alone a good one, astonishes me. Beyond their obvious literary ability, these young authors have ambition, patience, and discipline in spades–not to mention a buoyant optimism to carry them through the long process of writing and publishing their work. Looking back at my much younger self, I know I wasn’t half as impressive as they are. I certainly wish them well, and I can’t wait to see where their writing will take them.

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Writing and Editing

Dialogue Tags: The Perils of Spitting and Hissing

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For the uninitiated, dialogue tags (or speaker attributions) are those words that accompany dialogue to identify a speaker–like “Oscar said” and “Lucinda asked.” When handled well, they pleasantly and unobtrusively do their job of telling the reader who said what. And that is all they’re required to do.

If you read about how to craft good fiction, you’ll discover that the prevailing wisdom these days indicates that you use the most invisible verb possible in dialogue tags. And for the people in the know, such as Renni Browne and Dave King, authors of the marvellously useful book Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, the verb of choice for dialogue tags is said.

You may scoff. Isn’t said a little boring? Won’t a page full of them lull readers to sleep?  With so many delicious verbs in the English language to choose from, why is it not considered appropriate to fling them around with wild abandon while writing your dialogue tags? Why shouldn’t your characters hiss, spit, squeak, roar, growl, shriek, sneer, grunt, laugh, smile, chuckle, grimace, breathe, tease, or scoff their way through their dialogue if you damn well want them to? (Or, in cases where you feel they’ve taken over your book, if they damn well want to?)

There are good reasons for not succumbing to the allure of using colourful dialogue tags. The first is that they’re a distraction from what your characters are actually saying. When you accompany your dialogue with “Gerald spat” and “Valerie squeaked,” it’s as if someone’s standing beside the character as they’re speaking, jumping up and down while waving a big flag. It makes it awfully hard to focus on the dialogue when such flashy verbs are jumping out at you and capturing your attention. In the case of such tags, the reader is distracted from the content by the mechanics of writing, which should never be the case.

Another very good reason for not using these tags is that they often describe actions that are physically impossible for people to carry out. Take, for example, the following: Sybil spat, “But I told you not to use those words!” I think you will agree that it’s not actually possible for Sybil to spit the dialogue. Nor it possible to roar, hiss, squeak, or growl words, and these verbs seem especially inappropriate in connection to human speech since they are best used to describe animal sounds. Using them automatically makes prose more melodramatic and characters more cartoonish, which I’m guessing is something writers would rather avoid. As well, it’s best to avoid all sorts of verbs that are associated with speech such as interrogated, commanded, stated, inquired, divulged, expostulated, affirmed, and objected, just to name a few. When editing, I generally reject these as being much too obtrusive for dialogue tags and go with a plainer choice.

Of course, there are certainly other verbs besides said that have their place in speaker attributions. Characters can easily reply, ask, shout, or whisper when these particular words apply. And I must admit that sometimes I’ve read one of the more exotic verbs in a dialogue tag and realized that it works beautifully and that nothing else really seems right. What I’m saying is that some flexibility is called for when considering dialogue tags. But as a general rule, keep it plain and simple. And repeat after me: said is a perfectly good word.

 

 

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Virginia's Ghost

Who’s Afraid of Virginia’s Ghost?

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Well, this is it–I’m finally admitting that I’m working on a novel. A number of my friends already knew this, so strictly speaking, it was never really much of a secret. But now that I’m putting the news out there in the blogosphere, my endeavour has instantly become so much more serious than it was before. And I’m glad–it’s time that I gave Virginia’s Ghost the attention I need to. It’s time to start bringing this book out of the shadows. In between editing books for clients, I’ve been obsessing about my novel, waking up in the middle of the night with new ideas about how to handle a scene, or with new details that fill out a character. If you write, you probably are familiar with these nocturnal flashes of inspiration.

As you’ll no doubt assume from the title, Virginia’s Ghost features a spirit. There’s no need to be afraid, however, as she’s not the kind of ghost that inspires fear. In fact, she’s rather sad and sweet, and she looks like Louise Brooks. I’m not prepared to give more than that away just yet. But please stay tuned for updates on my progress with Virginia’s Ghost.

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Writing and Editing

Usage Misdemeanours: Flair and Flare

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Discussions of taste and style often bring to light confusion over the homophone pair flair and flare. In its advertising, a restaurant might claim to have  a “flare” for French cuisine, leading word-nerd readers to joke about the possibility that there are flaming dishes on the menu. But in most cases, there’s no need for alarm since no food is on fire–flare is simply being used when flair is intended, which is the usual sort of misuse when it comes to this pair.

The definition of flair is fairly straightforward and frequently concerns matters of style. Someone who dresses with flair, for example, is stylish and fashionable by current standards, or has a style all their own. Those with flair display an aesthetic sensibility and a natural ability to be discriminating and discerning. But the idea of flair extends beyond good taste to include certain specific talents and aptitudes unique to an individual. You may have a flair for any number of things, from growing orchids to dancing the tango. Flair is invariably a noun.

Flare has a great many more definitions than flair, and can be used as both a noun and a verb. A flare is often some sort of flame, usually a dazzlingly bright one that burns unpredictably. Flares can be flames that are distress signals or those that are dropped from aircraft to illuminate a target. Any device that produces such flames is also known as a flare. In the context of fire, flare is also used as a verb, so a flare itself could be said to flare suddenly, bursting into a sudden and dramatic blaze.

A related use of flare comes from the field of astronomy. There are solar flares, which are sudden increases or decreases in the brightness of a star that result in obvious changes in the magnitude of such stars. In photography, we also have flare, generally considered a bad thing, as it refers to undesirable illumination in a photograph or negative, often visible as a foggy-looking patch, resulting from reflection within a lens.

Beyond its associations with light, flare in used as both a noun and a verb in the context of an emotional response. A sudden outburst of emotion, usually anger, is a flare or a flare-up, and your temper can be said to flare. Similarly, angry, aggressive and contagious sorts of diseases are also said to have flare-ups or to flare up. All these states are anything but subtle, and flare is also a verb that means to display something in a conspicuous way. You could, for example, flare your red scarf at someone to attract attention.

The meanings I’ve mentioned so far often involve sudden, dramatic changes or motion, but flaring can also be gentler in nature. Something that flares may widen gradually from its top or bottom. This sort of flaring is often used to describe clothing, so a dress may be said to flare slightly at the hemline. Not to be forgotten are those pants with trouser legs that widen below the knee–the ubiquitous flares or bell-bottomed pants of the ’60s and ’70s. They have been revived in less extreme forms ever since and in their current incarnation are called boot-cut pants.

I haven’t completely exhausted all the possible meanings of flare here, but I have covered the major ones. When determining whether to use flair versus flare, here are a few points to keep in mind. If it’s a verb you need in the sentence, then by default the word you must use is flare. However, if you need a noun, then deciding is a little trickier. If you’re talking about taste, style, or a particular talent or aptitude, then flair is unquestionably the word you want. If you’re talking about flames, lights, or tempers, then flare should be your choice. And no matter how much flair they may possess, trousers with wide legs are always flares.

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Writing and Editing

Things I Don’t Want to Read About: The Bored Character

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James sighed in exasperation as the presenter at the conference droned on and on in her flat monotone. He wasn’t even taking in anything she was saying anymore. God, how bored he was. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he’d last been so excruciatingly bored. He drummed his fingers on his desk restlessly to try to amuse himself, but it didn’t help. All he could think about was that he wished desperately he was not in the auditorium listening to the dullest presentation that anyone had ever given. He felt his mind shutting down and his eyes glazing over, and the time seemed to tick by incredibly slowly. Letting out a gaping yawn, James wondered when it would all be over so his boredom could come to a merciful end. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and soon he knew he would be falling asleep, his head drooping as he drifted off. He was really that bored.

* * *

Tell me the truth: at what point in the above paragraph did you decide that you really didn’t give a fig about James? Was it within the first couple of sentences?  If, after reading the first two or three, you simply skipped ahead to the second paragraph, hoping for something much more stimulating to read, I can hardly blame you for your impatience. Perhaps you are no longer even with me, as you’ve fallen asleep in front of your computer screen. If so, I offer my deepest apologies for torturing you with James’s tedious story, which I wrote myself.

Someone’s boredom has to rank among the top ten things I really don’t care to read about. But judging by how often the subject appears in writing, not everyone agrees with me. Many a writer has spilled far too much ink conveying in devastatingly mind-numbing detail the intolerable state of being bored, and many a poor protagonist has suffered the agony of being in this state.

One observation I’ve made is that authors who dwell on boredom often tend to be rather young. Perhaps, even with social media and all the other delightful distractions of the twenty-first century, many young people still experience much more boredom than older people do and are therefore much more likely to write about what it feels like. But this is not something I know for sure–I am only surmising.

Reading about boredom is, well, boring. For one thing, when an author goes on and on about the exquisite torment of his character’s boredom, the plot tends to come to a complete standstill, which is rarely a good thing in fiction. For another, bored characters  chafe at my nerves. They’re dull themselves and often unreasonably whiny. Sometimes, with the way they carry on, you’d think they’re the only people in the history of the world who have ever been so bored. And I usually want to ask (no, demand) that they try harder to be more resourceful and find creative ways of amusing themselves. After all, I’ve sat through some awfully boring presentations too, but I at least managed to come up with some impressive doodles while the presenter was droning on and on. There’s no reason why bored characters can’t choose to break out of their dreary states and become much more interesting to readers in the process.

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Writing and Editing

My Writing Has Gone to the Dogs

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I consider myself primarily an editor, but every once in a while, I cross over to the other side of the great divide and write. It’s seemingly for pleasure, if you can call fussing over your own words instead of someone else’s pleasurable. Mostly, I write blog posts, but I also write fiction. Part of the reason you haven’t seen a blog post from me over the last couple of weeks is that I have been absorbed in writing a short story for a contest. It has been a sort of exquisite agony for me.

Writing fiction when I’m much more accustomed to editing it is good for me because it deepens my appreciation of what my clients go through when they’re developing their plots, characters, and settings. I’ve always been in awe of those who seriously undertake the daunting process of creating fictional worlds, and when I struggle to create my own, it reinforces my respect for the process and reminds me to tread lightly and tactfully upon the manuscripts that writers submit to me for editing.

But of course, I don’t just write fiction because it’s good for me. Certain themes spark my imagination. When I discovered that there was a short story competition dedicated to dog-themed fiction, I knew I had to enter it. I puzzled over the challenge of creating my canine protagonist, who could express his thoughts and emotions only through body language, behaviour, and vocalizations (but as stated in the contest rules, he was not allowed to speak). I struggled over how to make the dog the engine that drives the plot and how to make him upstage his human companions and take the spotlight. I agonized over how to make my furry main character show the same depth of character and emotion that any human protagonist should have.

My inspiration for the character came, not surprisingly, from my own dog. I began observing Trinka’s body language and behaviours and thinking about them in relation to what she was trying to communicate. She’s an amazingly vocal dog who apparently wants to have conversations with me–if only she could figure out how to speak English. After this period of careful observation, my plot seemed to come effortlessly to me one night, a genuine bolt from the blue. But getting everything down on the page was, of course, another story.

I fussed and I fiddled for days; you know how it goes. I had the whole thing packaged up and ready to mail today when it occurred to me that I’d forgotten a small but crucial detail. So I opened the envelope, only to find that I was also missing an important word, right there in the first paragraph. Even though I had probably read the story fifteen times before, I sat down and read it out loud, determined to catch any other niggling little errors that remained.

The tweaking could have gone on forever, but it was time to put a stop to it. I was well and truly done and, I admit, rather pleased with my work. When I finally sealed the envelope for good, I experienced a rush–or rather, a fantastic big whoosh–of elation that made the thought of all that fussing and fiddling fade away into nothing.

Trinka, the inspiration for my recent foray into fiction
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Writing and Editing

Usage Misdemeanours: Palate and Palette

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Homophone duos and trios are notorious for creating confusion–witness there, their, and they’re, for example. People sometimes aren’t sure when to use which word, and unfortunate usage misdemeanours ensue, such as “Their going to have to learn to use there homophones properly.” Lately, I have noticed problems with using the duo palate and palette correctly.

Misuse of this pair is rampant in restaurant reviews, advertising, and websites. Palette is typically used when palate is meant. I found the most compellingly awful example of this misuse on a restaurant website that declared that they offered an “ecclectic [sic] menu to suit any pallette [sic].” What made this example particularly bad was that palette was misspelled and should have been palate anyway. (And the extra c in eclectic was a nice touch.) The error pile-up in this example takes it from the level of a misdemeanour to that of a crime.

In an effort to rid food writing of palate versus palette errors, I’ll do my best to eradicate the confusion. First, let’s consider palate. Anatomically speaking, your palate is the roof of your mouth, that structure, both hard and soft, that separates your oral cavity from your nasal cavity. Your palate is also your sense of taste, and the idea of taste extends from your taste buds to notions of aesthetic taste and appreciation in general. So it would be quite correct to say that “the exquisite wine satisfied Cynthia’s discriminating palate,” but you could also say that “the raucous sounds offended Ariel’s palate.” However, the word seems most often used in connection to the gustatory sense.

Then there’s palette. It is used to refer to an oval or oblong board with a thumb hole upon which an artist mixes paint, but it also refers to the colours that are arrayed on such a board. So an artist could be said to use “a rainbow palette of colours covering the entire spectrum.” Famous artists are said to have particular palettes, or characteristic ranges of colour, in their work. Palette needn’t be restricted to paint, of course, as fashion designers, interior decorators, and graphic designers using computers also have their colour palettes.

The definition of palette can also extend beyond visual art to describe a whole range of materials or techniques in other realms. For example, you could say that “the symphony consisted of a rich palette of evocative tones” or “the chef used a dazzling palette of exotic spices to season the stew.” The latter type of example could explain the current palate versus palette confusion, as the sense of taste is involved here.

I should note that there’s a third homophone, pallet, which most often refers to either a straw bed (from the old French word for straw, paille) or a wooden frame or skid upon which you’d stack goods in a warehouse. I found at least six other definitions for pallet as well, including a potter’s tool. And at least one source I consulted stated that you could use pallet when referring to a painter’s palette. But because pallet seems rarely confused with either palate or palette, I haven’t made it my focus here.

Sometimes when I read about usage, my head starts to swim when I uncover all the assorted meanings and subtle nuances of words. As I don’t want to leave you feeling similarly dazed, here’s a good rule of thumb for using palate versus palette: remember that palate contains the word ate and is most often used in connection to the taste buds. So unless you’re describing a palette of flavours, aromas, or colours, you’re most often going to be using palate if you’re writing about food. I hope you’ll find this rule of thumb more than–ahem–palatable.

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General Musing

Resolving to Enjoy Satisfying Purposelessness

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I don’t know about you, but I was relieved when 2012 swept in the other day. For one thing, I was overjoyed to finally be able to put up my new calendar, which features beautifully photographed antique teapots in lush settings. And if I happen to get tired of looking at teapots, I can always swap this calender for the tastefully arty Maxfield Parrish one that hangs in the hallway. I’m even enjoying my very businesslike Letts of London 2012 desk diary, with oodles of space for scribbling notes.

Fun and frivolous reasons for welcoming 2012 aside, I was happy to put 2011 behind me since it was not the best year I’ve ever had. But I’ll be quick to point out that it was not the worst year, either. Unlike some of my friends, I was lucky–no true disasters occurred, and I count my blessings for this. Nonetheless, 2011 seemed to weigh heavily on me, challenging me at every turn, to the point where by the end of the year, I was finding that the simplest things–even activities I usually enjoy, like baking cookies–required almost Herculean efforts on my behalf. Although I seemed to achieve a fair bit this past year, I’ve frankly been worried about the toll those accomplishments have taken on my body and my spirit recently.

I’ve always considered myself an introspective person, but despite this, I often haven’t stopped to analyze what role I play in my own well-being and simply push myself through low-energy periods, misguidedly assuming that determination alone will see me through. In years past, at the beginning of a new year, I would often throw in a few resolutions to theoretically strengthen my will, resolutions that inevitably fell by the wayside within a few short weeks (or sometimes even days). No amount of determination and resolve has ever made me feel any better when I feel physically and mentally deflated.

What has made me feel better lately is reflecting on the uselessness of most resolutions. I came to the conclusion that they are the last thing I need to be heaping on myself–now or at any other time of the year. Most resolutions just underscore a feeling of personal inadequacy; I make resolutions to do this, that, or the other thing when I don’t feel good enough. Yes, there’s always room for improvement–I could probably waste less time and be more productive if I really set my mind to it, and I’m sure that many of us fall into this category. But the pressure of trying to live up to an ideal of non-stop accomplishment exacts a cost. Do any of us really need to put that much more pressure on ourselves? Is life not already challenging enough for most people? Must we always be so focused on accomplishing things?

In 2011, my focus on accomplishment went far beyond what was healthy. In an effort to push my business to the next level, I developed a kind of tunnel vision: all my thoughts and activities seemed to be directed by the need to accomplish, and I felt utterly tyrannized by the word should. Where was fun, play, and relaxation? Like those poor souls who are incapable of taking a vacation, had I simply forgotten how to relax? The thought was horrifying. With such an imbalance in my life, no wonder I’ve felt so out of whack.

My last afternoon of the year was spent puttering–reading for pleasure instead of for work (a book about the history of handwriting, which was more entertaining than you might imagine), clipping mouth-watering recipes from magazines, watching the woodpeckers gorging themselves at the suet feeder, drinking my favourite Indian spice tea, and eating those orange double chocolate cookies I hadn’t much enjoyed making (since they were needed for Christmas Day). I wondered aloud when I had last had an afternoon of such satisfying purposelessness. This year, my only resolution is to allow myself to spend more time drifting in this way, free from the need for constant accomplishment. Happy new year.

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General Musing, Writing and Editing

The Perfectionist Syndrome in Writing

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James Scott Bell is a novelist and the author of several wonderful books on the craft of writing including Revision & Self-Editing. This book is a model of clarity and succinctness when it comes to delineating the essential elements of great fiction, and I’m convinced that it should be in the reference library of every fiction writer. The book is also wildly entertaining, peppered as it is with references to classic movies such as Casablanca and interesting little anecdotes.

One of my favourite anecdotes from the book concerns the writer Marcel Proust, who was once found writhing on the floor of his study by his housekeeper. No, Proust was not in the throes of a violent seizure. Instead, his contortions reflected his angst over what word he was going to write next. According to Bell, Proust was probably suffering from what he calls the perfectionist syndrome: the compulsion to make each sentence perfect before moving on to the next one.

Editors are well acquainted with perfectionism. Attention to fine, nitpicky detail seems to be in our blood, and we have sought out the editing profession because words are something we can control and strive to make perfect and beautiful. And our editorial training reinforces the idea that nothing less than perfection will do. Mistakes can be costly, we are told, and they are embarrassing as well, undermining our professional credibility. The perfect sentence is not just important, but crucial to our livelihood.

So what happens when people who spend an awful lot of time editing switch gears and write for a change? Not surprisingly, we often experience the sort of brain freeze that poor Mr. Proust was afflicted with. Our critic, which prides itself on its editorial prowess, dukes it out with our artist, which just wants to write. The critic, rather than going into hiding while we’re writing, is as opinionated and yappy as ever. It strikes fiercely at our creativity like someone pruning a sapling before it’s had half a chance to grow. In that quest for perfection, in which we painstakingly polish up each sentence before we dare write another, we stifle the artist, which just needs to get everything that’s inside us out there on the page, regardless of what condition it tumbles out in. It often seems that our creative impulses don’t have a hope.

Where’s the mute button? How do we go about shutting up the critic and letting the artist take centre stage? Bell has some good suggestions. Among them is a warm-up writing exercise involving just letting our prose flow for a few minutes without stopping to evaluate it. I’ve had some success with this technique, though I can’t deny that it’s difficult to lose myself in the process, as I’m often tempted to stop and fix mistakes as I make them. Which brings me to another one of Bell’s suggestions. “Any problem can be fixed,” he writes. Of course we know this–after all, our critic is an expert in fixing. But it needs to learn when to do the fixing, which is not while we’re struggling to get our words on the page in the first place. Otherwise, we end up like Proust–writhing, not writing.

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Freelancing, General Musing

Fear Not the Drear

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Here in Toronto, it’s the time of year I like to call the drear–that period in late autumn when the leaves are off the trees but the snow has not yet begun to fly. The drear feels like a limbo state between autumn and winter and is characterized by days and days of unrelenting overcast skies, rain, and mud. Last year’s drear was mercifully short because the snow arrived early, but this year, we’ve been subjected to what seems like an extraordinarily long drear–long enough to test the fortitude of even the most diehard optimist.

One thing I should say before I continue is that drear is actually a literary adjective that dates to 1629. It’s the sort of word that makes me think of a 19th-century poet wandering lonely o’er a dank and drear moor pining for his lady love, who has either spurned the poor poet or succumbed to consumption. Drear has Gothic literary connotations for me. Editors could legitimately take issue with my use of it as a noun, since the Canadian Oxford Dictionary regards it as an adjective only.

Noun or adjective, drear captures both the prevailing weather and how it affects me perfectly. As a freelancer who works at home, I find the drear particularly difficult to cope with. As far as I know, I don’t suffer from seasonal affective disorder (SAD), yet if I allow it to, the drear will sneak into my home office, robbing me of energy and taking energy’s close relatives, motivation and inspiration, with it as it flies out the door (I imagine it uttering a diabolical laugh as it flees). Perhaps if you work at home and spend many hours alone writing, editing, or doing whatever else you do, you’re finding that the drear is affecting you too. What to do?

I’m not normally the sort of person who needs to give myself rewards to motivate myself to get a job done unless that job is so challenging that it’s threatening my sanity. However, I do find that rewarding myself helps me combat the drear. My accomplishments needn’t be immense and the corresponding rewards needn’t be elaborate–something modest like “When I finish editing this chapter, I’ll get up and have a cup of tea (something fruity and caffeinated like blackcurrant) and some dark chocolate (70 percent)” works just fine for me. Of course, finishing an entire project is cause for celebration, meaning a much splashier reward awaits. Keeping that reward on the front burner of my mind as I’m working certainly keeps my momentum going. If I intend to splurge on a sweater, I keep looking at it online to remind me that it will be my present to myself for both achieving my goal and surviving the drear.

Exercise and fresh air are also essential to coping with the drear. Fortunately, I have the 50-pound mutt to take me out for walks every day, usually just when I desperately need to stretch my limbs and get the oxygen flowing to my brain so the synapses will start doing what they’re supposed to again. The daily dog walk has many benefits, both physical and psychological. Watching my dog wrestle with her best friend (an Airedale) and fly around the park–outrunning most of the other dogs with superlative ease and grace, I might add–lifts my spirits and makes me smile. And there are inevitably other dog owners to talk to. When you spend much of your day in front of a computer screen, the joy of talking to human beings face to face should never be underestimated. After an outing to the dog park, the score is once again in my favour: Caroline 1, Drear 0.

Dangling rewards before myself and doing the mutt promenade are two things I do when the drear threatens to turn me into an unproductive, useless lump. But I have to ask: What do you do to fight the drear?

 

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