I Keep Trying
I’m a neophyte to the world of fiction. Something about it eludes me. Maybe it’s the “he said” and “she said” that stops me. How many times can anyone keep repeating that stupid notation? In my search for a style, I went back to the basics.
Anyone who has ever graced the halls of academe (or staggered within them) knows about Strunk and White’s little book, the Elements of Style. This compact work lays out the essential rules of English that even gifted writers follow—mostly. Good writers remember well this admonition:
Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that he make every word tell.
I was aware of these two intruders back in my school days, but I didn’t follow their advice very well. That fact alone likely accounts for 80 percent of all those red diacritical marks that were strewn about on my otherwise masterful compositions as a student. Perhaps I have misused or abused the term “masterful.” That could be a memory issue.
Style is a different matter. Neither of these two gents passed on much about how to develop a style that others might find readable and maybe even enjoyable. Mark Twain created that mold, crafted it like putty in his hands, and then he pretty much took it with him when he departed this world. How sad. The world could use more wit, charm, and humor among its fiction writers—if I dare say so myself—and I do.
And that brings me to one of my pet peeves among the brethren of do-it-yourself composers of written compost—the overuse of adjectives and adverbs. To wit: “He looked at her erotically and she ran frantically down the stairs.” No shit. A third grader can do better than that. How about this: “Bruce thought he was a lady killer as he adjusted his 1950s style bowtie, slapped a wad of grease in his hair, and slithered sideways toward Gloria. But Gloria was having none of that crap. She whipped out her taser, pointed it at this Frankenstein on steroids, and commanded: “Freeze, Bozo, or I’ll zap your nuts like fried eggs right where you stand.”
Yeah, I know. Cool writers can do much better. And that is why I hesitate when it comes to fiction. But you get my drift. “Laughingly, knowingly, stupidly” and other contrived adverbs are not good substitutes for the visual that is invoked when someone gets zapped in the nuts with a taser.
“He was a cool dude,” or “she was breathtakingly beautiful” are two more examples of trite phrases that don’t rattle my cage, and don’t tantalize my testosterone level. Lay it on me thick; douse my feeble brain with original phrases, even if they’re stupid. I can handle it. If that takes too much effort, more likely than not, reading too many terms from an old crock of worn out phrases will take more effort than I am willing to put into it. Here’s my version of cool:
An eerie calm settled over the room as the door swung open, and Bruce the Beast stepped in. His eyes darted back and forth like a radar beam in search of the enemy. He stopped scanning when he saw her. Memories of that explosive night three weeks earlier criss-crossed his mind. It was her breasts. They heaved one by one, out of synch, yet each fired jets of hot molten steel at him. He winced once, but held his composure. By now every patron in the restaurant had their eyes riveted on him. Yeah. He had the physique, he had the moves. He looked tough. The ladies sighed; the men looked like lost boys in a forest of wolves. Could that t-shirt that outlined his pec’s have anything to do with it? Nah. It just stated the obvious: “Swag Ain’t Easy.”
