Sentences

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An article in today’s The Daily Telegraph caught my eye.  On page 5, the caption is “The genius of Shakespeare is in grammar, not the words.”  It goes on to say:

“For centuries, Shakespeare has been celebrated not just for his genius as a playwright but for creating many of the most commonly used words and phrases.
But an academic has challenged the view of Shakespeare as the father of modern language, claiming that he was no more inventive with words than his contemporaries”

Jonathan Hope, from Strathclyde University, compared Shakespeare’s work with that of Thomas Middleton, Ben Jonson and Thomas Nashe.  These men were, in proportion to the volumes of their work, responsible for inventing just as many new words.  But, according to Mr. Hope, Shakespeare reinvented grammar, breaking away from the conformity of traditional rules.

“Mr. Hope highlighted a passage from Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 4, where Shakespeare plays with the normal rules of English that demand a sentence is structured in the order of subject, verb, object.  In the scene the queen says to her son: ‘Hamlet, thou has thy father much offended.’  Mr. Hope explained: ‘In present day English we would expect, ‘Thou hast much offended thy father, Hamlet’.

As you may know, other languages don’t follow this subject, verb, object convention.  In German, for example, the verb is often placed at the end of the sentence.  So in German, it might be, ‘Thou, Hamlet, thy father hast much offended.’  To me, this sentence seems a bit awkward, because it’s not immediately clear who is the subject and who is the object.

Nevertheless, I am very much in favour of creating different sentence structures to make it interesting for the reader.  But more importantly, different structures can convey sightly different meanings by emphasizing one part of a sentence over another.

Let  me give some examples:

  • “Handsome John passionately kissed pretty Mary and held her hand in the dining room.”  (conventional, except that the prepositional phrase at the end kind of dangles)
  • “In the dining room, pretty Mary was passionately kissed by handsome John, who held her hand.”  (in this version, Mary and the dining room assume more importance)
  • “Having passionately kissed pretty Mary in the dining room, handsome John held her hand.” (here, that passionate kiss takes centre stage.)
  • “Having held her hand in the dining room, handsome John passionately kissed pretty Mary.” (here, that hand holding seems most important.)
  • “Pretty Mary was passionately kissed by handsome John, who held her hand in the dining room.” (pretty Mary is the key character here.)
  • “John, who was handsome, passionately kissed pretty Mary and held her hand in the dining room.” (John’s looks get extra emphasis.)
  • and so on

In my opinion, it can make boring reading if one sentence after another follows the subject, verb, object format.  Much more interesting to throw in prepositional clauses, adverb clauses, adjective clauses, and participial phrases (using a verb ending in ing, for example).

Violence

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I am a non-violent person.  While I served in the U S Navy, I didn’t see combat, but I was involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis.  The only time I have actually been in a fight was when I was about ten.  At summer camp, I got into a fight with an older, bigger boy who didn’t like me.  (Come to think of it, I didn’t like him much, either.)  For the first couple of minutes, I was giving at good as I got, but then his superior size and strength took over, and I was beaten up.

Violence happens.  We all know that, and sometimes a writer finds himself in a position where he has to write about it.  When writing about violence, I try to keep several things in mind.  First of all, violence is fast moving, so the description has to move rapidly.  So rapidly that sometimes the reader has to fill in the details with her imagination.  Details just slow the action down, and the violence loses its horror.  To keep the action moving, I try to use short sentences, so that the action seems staccato.  When describing violence, I  want to minimise the number of adjectives and adverbs, sticking as close as I can to nouns and verbs.  This also keeps the action moving  rapidly.  Finally, I think it’s best to use hard clear (punchy) words.

Here’s an example from Fishing in Foreign Seas.  Jamie and Caterina are on their honeymoon in Mombasa, Kenya.  They are walking back to their hotel after dinner at a nearby restaurant.

The road was nearly deserted, it was hot, and Jamie had taken off his jacket, which was folded over one arm.

“Good evening to you!”  It was a male voice with a Kenyan accent.   Jamie turned slightly and saw the man, dressed in a brown T-shirt and jeans, overtaking them.

Jamie said, “Good evening.”

Then the man swerved toward them and said: “Give me your money!”  He was inches away from Jamie, who reacted without thinking.  He punched the man in his mid-section and then delivered a kick which sent the man to the ground.

“Give us your money, man!” This from another man who had emerged from the shadows in front of them.  He advanced rapidly toward Jamie, who suddenly saw the gleam of a blade in the man’s hand.  Jamie stepped back and flung his jacket at the man.  The jacket covered the man’s face, and as he came on, Jamie kicked out at him, connecting solidly with a leg.  The man sprawled headlong forward, dropping the knife.  Jamie seized the knife and stood looking down at the man.  The man rolled away, and got to his feet.  He glared at Jamie for a moment; then he said: “Come on, Joe.”  The first man struggled to his feet, and the two of them disappeared.

Then, there’s this example of bullying from Sin & Contrition.  It takes place in the boys’ restroom at school.  Gary and Gene have been demanding candy from Xing, a smaller, Chinese classmate.

“Oh hi, Chinkie,” Gary intoned with an insincere smile, “Where’s our extra candy?”

“I can’t get it,” Xing said softly, hurriedly rinsing his hands.

Gary moved close to Xing: “’I can’t get it, Sir Aramis’ is what you meant to say – right, Chinkie?”

Xing moved away and drew a paper towel from the dispenser.  “I can’t get it,” he repeated.

Threateningly, Gary said: “No, Chinkie, that won’t do.  We deserve to be treated respectfully.”  And he took a hold of the smaller boy’s shirt.

Wordlessly, Xing pushed Gary away.

“Now, just a minute, Chinkie.  We haven’t finished our conversation,” Gary said through clenched teeth, and he balled his right fist.

This time, Xing anticipated the blow, and turned so that it struck him in the ribs rather than the belly.  “Leave me alone!” he shouted, and he hit Gary in the throat with a chopping blow.

Gary recoiled, then rushed forward in a frenzy at having been thwarted.  He aimed a roundhouse punch at Xing.  Instantaneously, Xing blocked the blow with his arm, and landed another chopping blow, this time on Gary’s neck.

“You little bastard,” Gary shouted, realising for the first time that Xing knew how to fight.  “I’m going to fix you good!”  And he hurled himself at Xing, who was able to partially sidestep the rush, striking Gary in the belly.

Gary doubled over in pain, and Xing turned to go, but Gary attacked again – this time landing a solid blow on Xing’s shoulder.  Xing responded with a kick to Gary’s shin.

Gene, who had been watching, began to realise that his friend would not beat Xing in a stand-up fight.  “He’s too quick and he’s using Karate, or something,” he thought.  The two combatants jockeyed for position in front of Gene, with Gary taking the worst of it. The thought sprang into Gene’s head:  “I can’t let Gary down!  It’s ‘all for one’!”

Suddenly, Xing had his back to Gene, and Gene reacted immediately: he kicked out at Xing’s legs, landing a blow behind one of Xing’s knees.

Xing crumpled to the floor, and Gary flung himself onto the smaller boy.  In a fury, Gary began to pummel Xing, hitting him on either side of his head and in the face with his clenched fists.

Xing began to scream, and cry out for mercy, but Gary refused to stop until Gene grabbed Gary’s shoulders and shouted at him: “That’s enough, Gary!  You’re going to really hurt him!”

In painful triumph, Gary stood and looked down at Xing, whose face was bruised, battered and bleeding.  “That’ll teach you, you little shit!” he spat out venomously.

And, finally, this passage from Sin & Contrition.  LaMarr and his buddy Mason are on guard duty at a Marine base near Hue during the Vietnam War.

LaMarr was nervous.  He looked at his watch; the luminous dial said three fifty-three.  Still another two hours to go, he thought.  Quietly, he walked to the other end of his sentry position, brushing aside the invisible foliage.  Deeper in the jungle, a bird called out an alarm, and monkeys in the treetops took it up.  Something’s going on in there!  He stood still, listening.  Nothing but the monkeys, and now several birds.  Dawn was still an hour away, and he tried to peer through the pre-dawn glimmer.  Was that something moving over there – behind those trees – maybe thirty yards?  Yes!  It was something bigger than a monkey.  Now, two dark shapes.  No!  Three or four moving between those trees.  LaMarr shouted out the challenge: “September five!”  (to which the correct response would have been ‘eleven whiskey’) but there was no response. Even the birds and monkeys seemed to be listening.

LaMarr raised his rifle and fired a single shot above, but in the direction of the shapes.  Out of the jungle came a cacophony of yells and high pitched battle cries.  LaMarr could see a line of muzzle flashes ahead.  He shouted “hit the deck!” to Mason, whose position was thirty-five yards to his right.  From the ground, he realized he could see nothing.  He crawled rapidly to a large tree, and cautiously rose behind it, his M16 now on full automatic.  Peeking around the tree, he spotted the muzzle flashes again.  They were clustered right there!  He fired a burst from the M16, and paused.  There were several loud cries.  Were they orders or have I hit someone?  He heard Mason fire three bursts in quick succession, and from his muzzle flashes, he could just make him out – also standing behind a tree.  It was absolutely silent for a long moment.  Then there was a shout from the jungle.  That was definitely an order!  The battle cries and the firing from the forest resumed.  LaMarr heard bullets strike his tree; one tore off a chunk of bark just above his head.  He dropped down to one knee, but still able to see the enemy’s position, and partially shielded by the tree.  He fired until his clip was empty.  Pulling a fresh clip from his jacket, he saw Mason firing again.  “Take cover, Mason!” he shouted.

We’re bound to get some backup from camp soon!  Then he heard the shouting from the barracks behind him.  There was another period of silence from the jungle.  Suddenly, ahead and to his right a heavy machine gun opened up.  It was firing toward Mason’s position.  LaMarr fired a burst at it.  There was shouting from that direction, and then it resumed its loud, staccato chatter.  Bullets sprayed through the forest, tearing large splinters from his tree.

Mason shouted: “LaMarr, I’m hit!”

“Hang on, buddy!  I’ll be with you in a minute!”  Gotta get that machine gun first!  Rifle’s no good in this situation!

LaMarr crawled on his belly for perhaps twenty yards, hearing the clatter of the gun and its bullets flitting through the jungle growth above him.  He pulled a grenade from his jacket, and waited for the firing to cease.  Cautiously, he raised his head just it time to see the muzzle flashes as the gun directed its fire at the camp.  LaMarr pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade.  There was a loud concussion and a bright flash.  Then silence.  LaMarr could hear reinforcements pouring out of the camp, and he heard Mason moan.  Rising so that he could run bent double, LaMarr dropped down next to Mason.  “Where are you hit, buddy?”

“Here!”  Mason was covering his lower belly with his hands, and pleading.  “LaMarr, help me!  I don’t want to die!”

LaMarr said: “You’ll be OK, Mason!  Just hang in there!”  Then he shouted: “Medic! . . . There’s a man down!  We need a medic over here!”

Gently but firmly, LaMarr pulled Mason’s hands away from his wound.  In the semi-darkness, he could make out the dark stain which was spreading over Mason’s trousers.  “Let me get a dressing on you!”   He fumbled in his pack for the medical supply kit, and tore it open.  He wrestled with Mason’s belt and trousers until he exposed the wound: an ugly tear just below Mason’s navel, which was overflowing dark blood.  LaMarr tore the wrapping off the field dressing and pressed it on the wound.

Weakly, Mason said: “I can’t feel my legs, LaMarr!”

“You’ll be OK, Mason.  There’s a medic on the way.  I’ve got to get another dressing on you.”  LaMarr had seen that the first dressing was already soaked with blood, and he thought, Oh my God!  This is really bad!”

A Marine (actually a U S Navy Corpsman) dropped down beside them.  “Let me tend to him,” he said.

LaMarr removed his friend’s helmet, and softly stroked his head, which was cool and sweaty.  Mason’s eyes would focus on LaMarr’s face for a few moments, and then he would seem to be looking at the sky.  “I’m not going to make it,” he whispered.

“Yes, you will, Mason!” LaMarr was pleading, now: “Help is here!  There’s a corpsman tending to you.”

Mason seemed to relax, and his eyes looked only at the sky.

The corpsman reached up to feel Mason’s pulse at his throat.  He withdrew his hand, and sat back.  “There’s noting we can do,” he said, “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

LaMarr collapsed on his friend’s chest.  “No, no, Mason.  You can’t go, buddy!  Please don’t go!”  He pressed his cheek to Mason’s and wept.

(For more information about my novels, see www.williampeace.net.)

Editing

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Professional editing of the completed manuscript is a process that most published authors have to endure.  I say ‘endure’ because it involves work on the author’s part and because it involves at least some implied criticism of the author’s work.  However, when it is completed, the process should have added value to the work, making it a better experience for the reader.

I am presently ‘enduring’ the editing of my third novel, and it has been a bit painful.  More on that later.  My first novel, Fishing in Foreign Seas,was edited by a professional, freelance editor to whom I was referred by a company I contacted on the internet.  She returned my manuscript to me via e-mail with the proposed changes tracked in red.  Ninety-nine percent of her proposed changes were perfectly fine.  They included a few spelling errors (where the spell checker let me down), punctuation changes, and some grammatical changes (I have a tendency to use ‘which’ instead of  ‘that’), and a few syntax changes.   She also inserted questions or comments for me to consider in order to improve the clarity for the reader.  Most of her proposed changes were eliminating the second space I like to put at the end of a sentence.  (I think it makes the text easier to read, but editors and publishers don’t like a second space.)  Going through her proposed changes was actually an enjoyable piece of work.  I felt that she had improved what I had written.  So, I accepted 99% of the changes and sent the revised manuscript to my publisher.  The publisher (bless his heart) sent the revised manuscript to another professional editor, who produced about fifty new changes.  Many of these new changes were incorrect, and most of the rest were inappropriate.  So, having conceded on a handful of additional changes, I reminded the publisher that the manuscript had already been edited and that enough was enough.

In the case of my second novel, Sin & Contrition, I decided to use the editor which the publisher recommended in order to avoid the double editing.  The way this process worked was different in the sense that I was expected to make a list of the proposed changes with which I disagreed, but I was advised not to alter the marked up manuscript.  So, I sent the publisher a list of well over one hundred items I didn’t agree with.  A few weeks later I got the manuscript back with all but about ten of my items suitably addressed.  A few weeks after that, the last items were addressed.

The moral I take away from this story is that publishers (or at least my publisher) likes to be in control of the editing process.  It would be a lot simpler if the publisher could bring himself to trust an editor and the author to work together to produce a final manuscript.  After all, the author and the publisher have a common objective: producing a novel which is well and correctly written, and in this process, the editor is a kind of technical adviser.

My third experience with Efraim’s Eye is much more frustrating.  The original manuscript was written mostly in Arial font, but I changed to Lucinda Calligraphy whenever a character is speaking or thinking in Arabic.  The reason for this is to remind the reader not only of the change in language, but to remind him/her of differences in culture and values.  I also like to put characters’  thoughts in italics to distinguish them from the spoke words.  This serves to highlight the dichotomy when a character’s thoughts and his words are in conflict.  It’s also useful to see a character’s reaction to a situation immediately without the need to include “She thought . . .”

Well, the publisher likes to see their books in Times New Roman, which is prefectly OK with me, except to get there, the entire manuscript was converted to Times New Roman before it  went out for editing.  So, at a later stage, I’ll have to go back and check, page-by-page, where Lucinda Calligraphy should be inserted.  Moreover, the editor didn’t like my use of italics in thoughts, so all of that has been put back to plain text.  More page-by-page work to re-instate the italics.

But what I find most frustrating is interference in the author’s creative perogative – as well as lack of professional competence.  For example:

  • making arbitrary changes to a word or phrase which has nothing to do with spelling, grammar, punctuation, or logic, but which the editor happens to prefer.  I tend to write very deliberately; arbitrary changes are seldom improvements
  • deleting descriptive passages which the editor thought were extraneous
  • putting what was intentionally broken English into correct English.  Some of my characters don’t speak good English
  • not listening to the voice of a character: e.g. adding “pm” to a sentence which reads: He said, “I’ll see you at about four.”
  • editorial errors: for example: substituting “where” for “which”, using the plural of a verb when the singular is called for, punctuation errors, failing to capitalise titles and proper nouns
  • inconsistency

There!  I’ve had my rant.  I’ll get over my frustration, and the good side of the editing experience is that the author can learn quite a lot about his craft, his novel and himself.

Footnotes

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In Fishing in Foreign Seas there are over 100 footnotes.  Nearly all of these footnotes deal with the technology of steam turbine-generators.  At the time, I felt that if Jamie (the principal male character) was going to be deeply involved in a $300 million negotiation for two of the largest, most powerful machines ever built, I should not leave readers in the dark.

The good news is that non-technical people who have read Fishing in Foreign Seas tell me that they had no trouble understanding the issues.  The bad news is that they feel there were too many footnotes, and that some were unnecessary and distracting.  Point taken.

This raises a question: should there be any footnotes in a novel?  In the novels I have written since Fishing in Foreign Seas (one published – Sin & Contrition; one about to be published – Bitter Charity; and one roughly half finished) I have reduced the number of footnotes to one or two.  Several of these stories involve characters speaking in a language other that English sometimes.  In these cases, I change font when the character is speaking in Arabic, rather than English.  And when this first happens, I insert a footnote which reads: “this font is used whenever the words spoken, read or thought are in Arabic rather than English.”

One might ask: is this really necessary?  Can’t the reader recognise that when character A (who speaks English and Arabic) is speaking to character P (who speaks only Arabic) that the conversation must be taking place in Arabic?  Yes, the reader might recognise this, but having a distinctive font is a clear reminder of differences in not only language, but also of differences is culture and values.

Sometimes a character will  use a word which is common in (Arabic), but which would not be used in English.  For example, a character might say, “Aleesha was wearing a hijab.”  Since the average reader might not know what a hijab is, I could put a footnote which says: “a headscarf commonly worn by Muslim women”.  The trouble with this, of course, is that it distracts the reader’s eye to the bottom of the page.  So what I would typically do in this case is to write:

Abdullah remarked, “Aleesha was wearing a hijab.” (a headscarf commonly worn by Muslim women)  

In this way, the word ‘hijab’ is briefly explained, without distracting the reader, and from the structure of the sentence, it is clearly not something that Abdullah said, but rather an explanation that the author has added.  The addition by the author becomes particularly obvious if what Abdullah says (in Arabic), within the quotes, is in a different font than the rest of the line.

So, I try to minimise the number of footnotes.  If I were writing Fishing in Foreign Seas again, I would dramatically reduce the number of footnotes, probably by including an appendix which explains the technical vocabulary.

(For more information about my novels, see www.williampeace.net.)

Surprises

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Life can be surprising, with both welcome and unwelcome surprises.  And it can be predictable, featuring both desirable and unfortunate outcomes.  It seems to me that when we are reading fiction, we expect to encounter both the predictable and the surprising.  In fact, we rather enjoy reading about surprises in other people’s lives – even unwelcome ones – because it makes the reading more interesting, and because the unfortunate event(s) aren’t happening to us.  As a writer, I try to minimise predictability to keep the reader interested.  But if events become too unpredictable, the narrative loses its credibility and the reader’s interest.  So, I believe that, as in life, the narrative should have a mixture of predictable and surprising events, where the predictable isn’t just routine, and the surprising isn’t unbelievable.

Here are some examples from Fishing in Foreign Seas regarding the relationship between John (the main male character, Jamie’s younger brother) and Michele, John’s girlfriend.  John is a fancier of the  ladies, and he is somewhat mesmerised by Caterina, Jamie’s fiance.  But, at the same time, he is a bit shy about his first contact with a lady.  During a dinner dance on New Year’ Eve, there is this exchange between Caterina and John:

<“John, there’s a girl over there who’s got her eyes on you.”

“Where?”

“The girl with brown hair in the yellow dress at that table there to my left.”

“I think she’s watching you.”

“No she isn’t, John.”

“Well, maybe you’re right.”

“Why don’t you ask her to dance?  She is quite pretty.”

“No, I don’t think so – I don’t know her.”

“It doesn’t matter!  Go on, John, ask her to dance!”

Reluctantly, he took her back to their table, and disappeared across the dance floor.  A few minutes later, she saw that John was dancing with the girl in the yellow dress and they seemed to be having an animated conversation.>

That’s all reasonably predictable.  But later in the evening (in Philadelphia), this is what happens:

On the way home, after continued prodding from his mother, John confessed: “Her name is Michele, she’s French, her father works at the French consulate, and she’s a nurse at Pennsylvania Hospital.”

That’s a bit of s surprise!

Some months later, Caterina and Michele are sharing a room in Jamie and John’s family house.  Look at the differences in the attitudes of the two women (one Sicilian, the other Parisian) to their bodies:

Michele proceeded to strip herself naked, tossing the clothes on her bed, picked up a towel and disappeared into the bathroom.  When she returned, she toweled herself at the foot of Caterina’s bed and began to make conversation.

Caterina was unnerved.  ‘I’ve got to keep my eyes on her face,’ she thought, ‘why doesn’t she get dressed?  Hasn’t she any modesty?’

Michele was oblivious; she continued to talk about her work in the hospital, while carefully drying her under arms and her bottom.  Finally, she went to her suitcase, took out some underwear and proceeded to put it on, by now explaining to Caterina why none of the nurses liked a particular orthopedic surgeon.

Caterina had seen pictures in fashion magazines of underwear like Michele put on, but it had never occurred to her to buy anything like it for herself.  ‘It’s too provocative!’ she thought.  A yellow thong and push-up bra, both decorated with white lacy panels.

“You going to take a shower?” Michele inquired.

“Yes, I think I will.”  She got up, and took off her blue blazer, matching trousers, silk blouse, and her tights.  She put the trousers, blazer and blouse on hangers in the closet.  Picking out a fresh set of white underwear, she went to take a shower, her towel under her arm.

Michele eyed Caterina as she returned from the bathroom in her clean white underwear.

This is fairly predictable.

Several years later, John, who is still together with Michele, but unmarried, is suddenly diagnosed with bone cancer, and part of his left leg is removed.  This is the conversation between John and Caterina in John’s hospital room:

“What is it, John?” Caterina asked.

“Nothing.”

“John!  What is it?”

“Have you seen Michele?”

“No.  When did you last see her?”

“It was a couple days ago.  I called to tell her I was having the operation.”  He looked at Caterina with sad intensity.  “I haven’t seen her since.”

“Doesn’t she work in this hospital?”

“Yeah, she works in the operating theater.”

“You didn’t see her when you went in . . . ?”

“No, I was out like a light.”

“And she hasn’t called . . . or . . . ?”

“No.”  They looked at each other – dismay on both faces.

“Strange, very strange,” she said.

John’s cancer and the sudden disappearance of Michele are certainly surprises.  Caterina tracks Michele down in the hospital.  This is the conversation between them:

“Michele, I need to talk to you for a minute.”  Michele put down her magazine and stared at Caterina defensively.

“I’m on duty.”
“Come with me for a minute.”  Caterina took her arm and pulled her to her feet.  At seven pm, the corridor was deserted.

“What do you want?” Michele asked in a surly tone.

“It’s not what I want.  It’s what John wants.  He wants to see you!”

Michele’s mouth opened as if to say something; then she looked away, her lips trembling.  She tried to turn away, but Caterina took her arm again, restraining her.

“Tell me!“ Caterina demanded softly.

“He’s a cripple!  . . . I can’t. . . .  No, he’s a cripple,” Michele began to sob.

“He’s not a cripple!  He’s lost a leg.  In a month or so he’ll be walking again.  He needs you, Michele.”

Michele shuddered.  “A cripple,” she said softly.  The tears were coming profusely now.

Caterina retained her grip on Michele, looking into her face but saying nothing.

“My uncle . . .” Michele faltered

“Yes, what about your uncle?”

“He lost a leg in a bombing when he was fighting in Algeria.  . . . He used to come up behind me when I was studying. . . . I could hear his wooden leg on the floor.”  Her eyes were squeezed shut and she held her trembling hands out in front of herself in a defensive gesture.  “He touched my hair . . . and he reached around and . . . he touched me!”  She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.  Caterina put her arms around Michele and hugged her until she was quiet.  They stood motionless for a time.

“Michele, John loves you.  He is not your uncle.”

As Michele looked at Caterina, apparently without seeing her; her pager sounded.  She disengaged herself and looked at it.  “I have to go,” she said.

Then, there is one more surprise when John has just won an election as a US Congressman from Pennsylvania.  He and Michele have not seen each other for about a month. While John, his campaign staff, family and friends are celcbrating his victory in a hotel ballroom early in the morning.  Here is what happens:

Jamie saw her first, and he nudged Caterina.  From across the room, a solitary figure in a blue and white striped uniform and wearing white pointed cap was slowly approaching John.  Her demeanor was reserved yet determined.  It was Michele.  She stood slightly behind him and to his left, waiting patiently for him to notice her.  The two men to whom John was talking kept glancing at her until John turned to see who they were looking at.

“Oh, Michele . . . “ he said.  The two men moved away.

“Congratulations, John,” she said, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands.  “You did very well!”

He said eagerly: “It’s great to see you, Michele.”

At that, she dissolved and the tears started.  “Oh, John, I’ve been so stupid. . . . So very stupid.  . . . . Will you forgive me?”  She stood looking at him, her cap slightly awry, dark streaks of mascara on her cheeks, her hands at her sides and an expression of pure sorrow on her face.  John leaned forward on his crutches and embraced her.

“I’m so sorry, John, I’m so sorry!” she said softly.

“I love you, Michele!”

She began to weep in earnest: “I don’t know why. . . . I don’t deserve it.”

(For more information about my novels, see www.williampeace.net.)

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Words

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While there is no means of finding an exact count, it has been estimated that there are at least a quarter of a million words in the  English language.  The largest dictionary has over 400,000 entries, but should all of these entries be classified as words?  Many words are considered obsolete or archaic.  There are words like ‘hotdog’ that are combinations of two words, where the combined words have a different meaning than either of the elemental  words.  It is thought that about half the words in the English language are nouns and about 15% are verbs.  This leaves plenty of space for adjectives and adverbs.  But how many words does the average person know?  It has been estimated that the vocabulary of the average English-speaking college graduate is 20,000 to 25,000 words.  Professor David Crystal (linguist, author, academic) has estimated that a more accurate estimate is 60,000 active words and 75,000 passive words.  Estimates of Shakespeare’s vocabulary range from 18,000 to 25,000, depending on what one considers a word.

No matter what word count one adopts, it is fair to say that the writer has plenty of ammunition from which to choose.  Why is it then that we encounter so many cliches in writing?  How about:

  • He swept her off her feet
  • It was love at first sight
  • She quickly recovered herself
  • The dinner was well served and very tasty
  • There was a silver moon in the sky
  • He played a good game of tennis
  • etc.

While I can’t say that I am immune to the disease of cliches, I try hard to work around the traps that they represent.  Why traps?  They are traps because they are easy to fall into, and they add no value for the reader: they are vague, uninformative, and any emotive element they may have had at one time is long since washed out.

On my writing table beside me is my Oxford Thesaurus of English, and it rescues me whenever a cliche threatens, or I feel: that’s not the right word; it’s close, but it’s not right.  To avoid cliche, one has to be more specific.  Rather than say, “He swept her off her feet”, it would be more informative to say something like: “She was captivated by his languorous, baritone voice.”  ‘Beautiful’  is a word that I try not to use: it is so overused that it is hopelessly vague.  Depending on the situation in which ‘beautiful’ would otherwise be used, I might use ‘glamourous’ or ‘stunning’ or ‘beguiling’.

My thesaurus has a useful wordfinder, I can find onomatopoetic words like ‘judder’ (a rapid, forceful vibration) and ‘whoosh’ (the rushing sound of fast movement).  One can find foreign words and phrases like ‘al dente’ when one is writing about pasta, or ‘faux pas’ (socially embarrassing blunder), for which the equivalent English phrase is awkward.  And then, there’s the main section of the wordfinder where one can find a particular colour, or bird, or name for a district of a city, or card game, or . . .

One should try to choose words that convey specific meaning, are evocative, without being contrived, and without (hopefully) leaving the reader to think “I wonder what that word means”.

Endings

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Some of us like happy endings in the novels we read.  Others prefer an inconclusive ending, where the reader can invent his/her own ending.  Sometimes we are stimulated by a message the author has given us: about life, or about being human.  I have to confess that, when I’m writing, I prefer to write happy endings – probably because I’m an optimist about life.  Fishing in Foreign Seas has a happy ending.  There’s plenty of trouble stored up before the ending.  Jamie, the principal character, loses a huge order.  His wife, Caterina, hates where they are living, is furious at her husband for being tempted by his PA, and her sex life isn’t working well.  Moreover, they have a Down’s Syndrome child.

With Sin & Contrition, it wasn’t really possible to write a happy ending.  Instead, I gave each of the six characters a chance to have a final say.  Some of them come off rather well; others less so.  The message is that all of us are actually sinners.  The extent to which we are forgiven (and forgive ourselves) depends on the extent to which we admit our mistakes and try, conscientiously, not to repeat them.

Recently, I’ve taken the view that the ending of a chapter is important, too.  In the post about Beginnings, I made the point that the writer must try to intrigue the reader with the first few sentences.  If one assumes that most readers pause their reading at the end of a chapter, I think it’s a good idea to leave the reader uncertain about what will happen next.  S/he therefore has an incentive to pick the book up sooner – rather than later – to find out what happened.  I’m not a fan of any particular soap opera, but it seems to be a universal technique that the viewer is presented with a twist in the plot at the end of  an episode, and the viewer hears, “Tune in next Tuesday to find out how Sally copes with . . . ”  Of course, if the author presented the reader with this kind of a teaser at the end of every chapter, the reader would begin to feel that the story is too contrived.  So, I’m only suggesting that the writer give a thought about how to bring a chapter to conclusion in a way that keeps the reader’s interest.

For example, here is the conclusion of Chapter 9 of Fishing in Foreign Seas.  Valerie is a sales engineer who works for Jamie.  She has just turned in the big bid, and she invites him for a drink.

 

Valerie was interesting company.  She talked about her family, what she did during the summers as a teenager, and she had some funny stories about her friends.  On her second drink, she told him about her ex-boyfriend.  Apparently, he had been very ‘fit’ (read ‘sexy’), but he had tried to manage her life, and she had dumped him.

“I prefer a more mature man who’ll give me some space, and rather likes having a woman with a strong libido around.”  She looked at him meaningfully.

“Yes, I see,” he said, vaguely, and asked the waiter for the check.

“How about I buy you dinner?  After all, this was supposed to be my drink,” she suggested.

“I have to get home, and get my beauty sleep, ready for Arizona Electric at seven tomorrow.”

“OK.”  She paused.  “Do you like Margaritas?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I make a great Margarita!  Next time at my place.” 

 

Does Valerie get Jamie to her place?  You’ll have to read more to find out.

Beginnings

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I think it’s very important to catch the reader’s interest at the very outset of a novel, so, in my opinion, the first page of the first chapter should not be an ‘introduction’ to the novel.  I believe it should plunge the reader right into the action, so that by the end of the first page, s/he is emotionally and intellectually involved.

For example, here are the first three sentences of chapter one which appear on the screen of a Kindle reader on the Amazon website.  (I have no idea what the book is.):

“The churchyard was peaceful in the summer afternoon.  Twigs and branches lay strewn across the gravel path, torn from the trees by the gales which had swept the country in that stormy June of 1545.  In London, we had escaped lightly, only a few chimney-pots gone, but the winds had wreaked havoc in the north.”

There is a similar beginning on the screens of Kindles on advertising posters in the London underground.  The first sentences are about a river and how the river is the beginning.

Do these beginnings engage your interest?  Mildly, perhaps.  By way of contrast, here is the beginning of the first chapter of Fishing in Foreign Seas:

“The phone on Mary Beth’s desk rang.  She picked it up, and cocking her head to one side, put the instrument between her blonde hair and her ear.  “Sales and marketing, Mary Beth speaking. . . .  Oh, hi, Eddie what are you up to?” with a sassy smile.  “I’m sure it must be more exciting than that in St Louis! . . .  Who, me?  I’m just a good little girl!” feigning a priggish face for Jamie’s benefit.  Jamie started to grin.

‘There’s a lot of information in this brief paragraph.  There are three characters: Mary Beth, Eddie and Jamie.  We know that Mary Beth is blonde, she alternates between being sassy and priggish, and claims to be a ‘good little girl’.  We know that Eddie is in St. Louis, and that he has apparently told Mary Beth it’s not particularly exciting there.  Then there’s Jamie, who grins when Mary Beth pretends to be priggish.  Hmm.  Wouldn’t the reader like to know more about these characters?

Then there’s this opening paragraph of Sin & Contrition:

“‘It’s hard to tell’,LaMarr thought, ‘what angle I should fire the shot.  Can’t see the road.  Not really sure how far it is.  Maybe about like this.’  He drew back the small leather patch which was attached to the arms of the slingshot by strong rubber bands, and extending his left arm upwards at an angle, he released the shot.  He could not see it, but he heard the marble pass through the leaves of the trees overhead.  He waited, listening for the marble to strike.”

Something strange is going on here.  LaMarr is using a slingshot to shoot marbles up through the trees, apparently trying to hit a road which he can’t see.  Why is he doing that?  Wouldn’t the reader like to know?

But, I think that a new chapter should similarly engage the reader’s interest.  If the reader sets the book aside at the end of a chapter, and picks it up at the beginning of a new chapter, s/he will want to be drawn into the situation right away.  Consider this opening paragraph of chapter two of Fishing in Foreign Seas:

“He saw her across the bar-lounge of the Teatro Massimo in Palermo.  She was the most incredibly beautiful woman he had ever seen.  She was tall – about 5 feet 9, he guessed, with jet black hair down to her waist, but gathered by a blue ribbon at the nape of her neck.  She was wearing a white pleated linen dress, belted at the waist to emphasize her slim figure.  She was sipping champagne and surveying the crowd around her.  He had to meet her, even if he made an idiot of himself because he didn’t speak a word of Italian.”

This passage prompts the questions in the reader’s mind: will he meet her?  will he make an idiot of himself?

Or this from the beginning of chapter two of Sin & Contrition:

“Ellen Weybridge was lounging against the headboard of her queen-sized bed, a pillow behind her.  Her friend, Josie, was sprawled, carelessly, on the bed to her left, while Bettina, the third girl in this close-knit trio, sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed.  All three thirteen-year-olds, classmates at Dorseyville Middle School, were similarly dressed in jeans and sports T-shirts.”

Why are they there?  What are they up to?

Explicitness

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This is a follow-up on my post regarding sex.

A lady friend of mine (probably in her sixties) told me she was put off by the chapter in Sin & Contrition which is entitled Finding Out. This chapter deals with teenagers discovering sex, and their reactions to their discoveries.  There are various reactions: disgust, fascination, bravado, feeling left out, etc.  While she didn’t say so, I think what put my friend off were the descriptions of three boys discovering heterosexuality, and of one boy achieving sexual maturity.  She said, “It was just too much.  I had been through some of that with my sons, and I didn’t want to be reminded of it.”  Naturally, I didn’t ask her about her experience with her sons, but evidently it wasn’t good.

In thinking about this feedback, I’ve had several thoughts.  First of all, I didn’t intend to offend any one’s sensibilities.  I had been through what I wrote about (many years ago), and there’s nothing exaggerated in any way.  I remember it clearly, and I remember feeling much as LaMarr is reported as feeling.  In retrospect, it’s neither good nor bad; it’s just part of growing up.

My second thought was, ‘maybe I should have made it less explicit’.  (What happens is pretty clear.)  But it’s not erotic.  Some readers might consider it ‘disgusting’, but on this basis, lots of body functions would be so labeled.  The problem with making it less explicit, is that it loses its emotional impact.  LaMarr experiences his first ejaculation.  He sees it; the reader sees it.  He reacts emotionally, and the reader has an opportunity to empathise.  If it is written in such a way that what he sees is vague, it becomes more difficult for the reader to share his feelings.

As I said in the previous post, I don’t believe in explicitness about events that please or feel good to a character.  With a little hinting, we know what he or she is feeling.  But for strange or painful events, I think it is harder for us to tune into what the character is feeling.  We have a natural tendency to deny difficult or hurtful things.  So for these events, I may feel the need to be explicit. 

The battle scene in Sin & Contrition in which Mason is killed and LaMarr lies weeping over his friend’s body is  another example.

(For more information about my novels, see www.williampeace.net.)

Sex

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Those of you who have read my novels will know that there is a fair amount of heterosexual activity  included.

I think that, for most adults, sex is something we enjoy, and we have a natural curiosity about the experiences of others (short of being voyeuristic).  But, from a writer’s point of view, there is more to it than that.  What we do, with whom, when, how, and the way we feel about it are character-defining aspects.  For example, Ellen’s first real boyfriend in Sin & Contrition  is Rick, whom she admires greatly: he is good-looking and two years older than she.  She engages in some heavy petting with him, but she dumps him when he pressures her to go further.  Later, however, with Rick’s younger brother, Gene, she lets down all her barriers.  Ellen is self-confident and intelligent; she recognises that Rick wants to use her, while Gene really loves her.

Also in Sin & Contrition, Gary, who is bright and has a big ego, but not much common sense, makes his life-defining mistake: he cheats on his wife.  She takes their daughter and leaves him.  He slips  into alcoholism.  But, with the prospect of getting her back, and, with a little help from his friends, he gives up alcohol, and becomes a model husband and father.

In my opinion, the problem for a writer is: how far does one go?  At one extreme, one doesn’t ‘go there’.  This is the ‘romance but no sex’ school of thought typified by Victorian and earlier novels, where two characters get married, and the story resumes a month later.  I can guess what might have happened, but I’d like to know!  People are capricious and unpredictable.  That’s what makes them so interesting.

At the other extreme, one goes there and wallows in it.  This is the ‘sex before romance’ school of thought typified by some chic lit, where even the size of the equipment is described.  This is probably intended to arouse, but for me, it gets confusing.  I wonder, “am I reading something arousing, or am I reading something enlightening?  Which is it?  It can’t be both!”

So, I struggle to steer a middle course, trying not to let the reader doubt what has happened, in at least a general sense, but more importantly how the characters feel about it.  I don’t use slang words, except when a character would be out of character not to use them.  I try to keep the passage somewhat oblique and non-descriptive, using non-traditional words.  In a later post, I’ll discuss some rare instances where I’ve written explicit (but brief) passages, and I’ll explain why I did so.

Comments from the readers are welcome!