Writers are always teaching me, whether they know it or not.
I’ve been editing and beta-reading manuscripts for a number of people this
summer, and their words make me re-evaluate some ideas I held firmly for some
time. And I keep coming to the same dilemma: at what point does trimming text
and adhering to the current stylistic conventions begin to trample legitimate
expressions of writing style?
Every writer has heard of Elmore’ Leonard’s “Ten Rules for
Good Writing.” You can Google them easily enough.
And it seems to me that the “rules” thrown around by those
who claim to be publishing professionals and insiders are often contradictory.
For instance, real professional authors don’t use adverbs much, if at all. I
once heard an author in a radio interview claim proudly (there’s another
adverb, damnit!) that he only had three or four adverbs in his whole book.
Then there’s the dilemma over dialog. “Never use a word
other than ‘said’ to describe dialog,” advised Mr. Leonard. Also, never modify “said”
with an adverb.
Meanwhile, I read some time ago that a large number of
grade-school teachers across the US encouraged their pupils never to use “said” in their
compositions. They could use “exclaimed,” “asked,” “replied,” “retorted” or
anything else that made sense, but not “said.”
In providing a beta-read for a good friend’s new manuscript,
I couldn’t bring myself to follow either rule. Now, there were times that I
thought “said” was the right word, and I suggested that to my best-selling
friend. But sometimes, as a writer, you want to describe how someone spoke. So you need either a stronger verb—which breaks
Mr. Leonard’s Rule #3, or you need to describe with an adverb, which breaks
rule number 4, or longer description, which breaks rule number 9 (“Don’t go into
great detail describing places and things”).
Probably Leonard’s most famous rule is “Never use the words ‘suddenly’
or ‘all hell broke loose.’” Usually, it’s good advice. If something happens
suddenly, then you can usually find a stronger verb to describe it.
He came in suddenly.He burst into the room.And you never need to write “it burst suddenly.” A burst is
a sudden thing.
But sometimes, “suddenly” is the
right word. Here’s an example from my first book, The Bones of the Earth:
[Photius’] staff was glowing
white, and [Javor] suddenly understood it had been the source of the white
flashes.
I suppose I could have written it
differently, but this phrase most efficiently conveys the meaning to the
reader—that the character understood a cause-and-effect relationship in an
instant, after a period when he did not. I could have written “the glowing
stick made him realize in an instant….” But that would have taken more words.
In praise of the cliché
In my own writing, I try to avoid
clichés (like the plague, right). For a new client, I explained that removing
or replacing clichés was part of my standard level of service, and she stopped
me immediately (damn, another adverb). Clichés are part of her style. They’re
part of the way she speaks and she wants her little expressions in her written
work, too.
That made me think about clichés,
and alter my opinion. Really, they’re a form of jargon. Words can have more
than one meaning, and any phrase, sentence or longer writing works on several
levels. It conveys the literal message, as well as memories and associations. That’s
how advertising works—by associating a word, a message or an image, or a
combination of them, with positive feelings. “Buy this stuff and you’ll be happy.”
We can think of clichés as our
modern social jargon. Jargon does more than convey a specific meaning within a
narrow group: it identifies the speaker or writer as someone in the know, part
of the club. Current slang and clichés serve the same purpose. They tell the
audience that the user is up to date, part of the in crowd. Using last year’s
slang is also dangerous—it tells the audience you’re out of date.
In fact, using a cliché well may
be the most efficient way to achieve your communications goal: to get a
particular reaction from your audience.
And the way people use quotation
marks in writing, or air quotes when the say a well-used phrase, is akin to a
bibliographic entry. Quotation marks essentially mean that the words they
contain are not the writer’s original work, but someone else’s. The writer or
speaker who uses them is giving credit, or at least, admitting they’re using
another person’s expression.
Maybe there is room in the
professional, credible publishing world for description, for using clichés and
words other than “said.” If we all follow the same style conventions, isn’t all
writing going to seem the same? Isn’t diversity what we want?
Have I blown my credibility out
of the water by daring to support that pariah of the writing world, the cliché?
By arguing against Elmore Leonard?
“That’s just the way I roll,” I
thought suddenly.
