Burn Your Thesaurus

Tell me everything you see wrong with the paragraph that follows.

Joey skipped backwards from the alien who canned his assault rifle with his right involvement. Plop! Plop! Inferno illuminated the dim lane. Pain flared in Joey’s pump while the warhead stuck his left shoulder.

How could anyone write something so damn confusing? The culprits could only exist as a thesaurus and a writer who trusts one. Or, to put it another way:

In what way might somebody inscribe approximately so damn blurring? The felons could only survive as a phrasebook and a critic who principal unique.

See the problem?

Writers often turn to the hellish thesaurus when they repeatedly write the same word and want desperately to adopt another one it its place.

Writers occasionally turn to a thesaurus because they falsely believe it will make their work sound more intellectual.

These writers fail to grasp how much more powerful the word “home” compares to “habitation” or “Mother” to “parental unit.”

You saw from the above examples how off-the-mark a thesaurus’s examples land. Thesauruses (especially online versions such as the one that accompanies Microsoft Word) love to group together words that almost mean the same thing.

Writers who discover that they wrote the word “ran” a few times too often will replace it with words that fail to fit. A bank robber shouldn’t “skip” from the police (unless she or he serves as a peculiar robber).

A robber likewise shouldn’t “trek” from the police. A lost cub scout shouldn’t “stroll” away from a grizzly bear or “saunter” from a masked killer.

Thesauruses offer bouquets of breaks to script the wicked words and thus deliver the sinful opinions to your bibliophiles.

What should you do, then, when you use the word “run” too often?

Consider the two paragraphs that follow.

1) Joey ran down the hall, ran smack into Tanya. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along as he ran. They ran faster and faster, while the barks of the dogs that ran after them grew closer and closer.

2) Joey jogged down the hall, darted smack into Tanya. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along as he fled. They escaped faster and faster, while the barks of the dogs that chased after them grew closer and closer.

I honestly prefer the former. Yes, the word “ran” feels repetitive, but the replacements for “ran” still feel repetitive in the latter. The second paragraph even reeks of desperation, the author’s struggles to impress her or his readers.

We already know that Joey runs. We don’t need the author to remind us. We don’t, as readers, suspect that Joey halted simply because the author went an entire sentence without the word “ran.”

Consider this revision:

Joey ran down the hall, smack into Tanya. He grabbed her wrist, pulled her along. They gained speed, while the dogs that chased them grew closer.

Another set of examples:

1) She loved him with all her heart, loved him with her body and soul. She never loved anyone so much. The love she felt swelled as a balloon within her love-filled heart.

2) She treasured him with all her heart, longed for him with her body and soul. She never adored anyone so much. The tenderness she felt swelled as a balloon within her affection-filled heart.

I admit, foremost, that an author should never tell her or his reader how a character feels when she or he could show us. A demonstration, via body language perhaps, would serve far better.

I again would rather take the first paragraph than the second. However, the following example seems better still.

She loved him with all her heart, body, and soul. She never before felt this strange swell, like a balloon within her chest.

Notice that the word “love” only appeared once, as did “heart,” and yet we still conveyed this character’s feelings without repetitive words or a single, desperate nosedive into a thesaurus.

I most prefer this example, though:

She helped him crawl into bed. He released a sudden, wet cry, vomited across her chest, and slumped. His weak legs shook. She guided him beneath his sheets and went to fetch some towels. She cleaned him first, gazed into his eyes—dulled by the chemotherapy. “I never liked that shirt anyway.”

Never tell us how a character feels. Prove it.

I find that only one excuse exists for the existence of the otherwise troublesome thesaurus. Ever experience a word on the tip of your tongue, the perfect word for your sentence, but you can’t think of it?

Think of a word similar to it, look it up in the thesauruses, and hunt for the word you actually want.

Thanks for reading.

Daughters of Darkwana received a sweet, succinct review, which you can read here, http://www.thebookeaters.co.uk/daughters-of-darkwana-by-martin-wolt-jr/

         Also, the third book in my series, Diaries of Darkwana, recently arrived on Kindle. You can find the entire series at http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_2?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Darkwana&rh=i%3Aaps%2Ck%3ADarkwana

Movie reviews at moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com

Short stories at martinwolt.blogspot.com

A look at the politics of the entertainment world at EntertainmentMicroscope.blogspot.com.

An inside look at my novels (such as Daughters of Darkwana, which you can now find on Kindle) at Darkwana.blogspot.com

Tips to improve your fiction at FictionFormula.blogspot.com

Viewpoint: Part Two

I discussed, last post, the importance of viewpoint in your work, especially if you decide to tell your story through the perception of multiple characters.

I wrote in regards to the importance that your viewpoint character never reveals information that she or he should not yet possess (which proves an easy error when you juggle viewpoints).

I want, today, to take this a step farther. Your characters will possess (dis)abilities and biases. These ought to color your characters’ perceptions, make them less reliable.

Let’s start with (dis)abilities. Consider the following three scenes:

1) Mark moved in perfect stealth through a world of black and bright green.

He heard something in the distance, a dog perhaps. The stone stairway sat ahead of him, one step spotted with some unknown slime.

He, lock picks in hand, glided up the stairs. The apartment building’s front door awaited him.

In and out. He couldn’t afford for anyone to see him, though even if a person stood directly in front of Mark, she or he would not likely notice him.

2) She stumbled through the dark, tried to minimize her movements. Slow and stead. She heard a dog. The front of her foot struck something—the first step in front of her apartment building? She froze.

She took a deep breath and tried to negotiate the invisible stairs. Her shoe pressed into something slimy on the third step, and she frowned with disgust. Her foot shuffled across the step’s coarse surface, tried to rub away the mystery goo.

3) Aaron couldn’t see a damn thing. Good. That meant his prey couldn’t, either. He didn’t need to see. He sniffed the air, smelled the German Shepard that barked about five hundred meters at Aaron’s six o’clock. The dog needed a bath.

Aaron crept up the stone stairs. He smelled old chewing gum, half melted, on the third step, sidestepped it in the inky darkness before he reached the (unlocked?) front door.

Our viewpoint character in the first scene wears military-grade, night-vision goggles.

Our second viewpoint character wears no such goggles, and thus stumbles in the dark.

Our third character possesses a superior sense of smell, but stands as blind as our second character.

If your viewpoint character sits in a wheelchair (or sits at all), restrict that person's field of vision accordingly.

If your viewpoint character knows nothing about the clothing of a country in which she discovers herself, you should not name the clothes but, rather, describe them through the eyes of someone who never before heard of such outfits.

I present, to illustrate my final point for this post, the following scenes. Consider the viewpoint characters’ biases and how they affect the characters’ perceptions.

You should always ask yourself how your viewpoint character’s past ought to influence her or his perceptions. A character nearly stung-to-death as a child would not hold warm feelings towards a swarm of bees.

1) Susan stared longingly through the bakery’s window. The pastries on display looked so damn inviting. She considered the few meager coins in her frayed pocket. Those treats might as well sit at the other end of an ocean.

Her stomach rumbled.

The shopkeeper treated her to a suspicious glare through the window. He looked mean. He might call the police if Susan stuck around much longer.

2) Beverly glided around the dirty woman who hunched in front of the bakery window. Her nose scrunched at the smell of stranger—likely homeless and about to ask Beverly for money.

She noticed, out the corner of her eye, the trays of pastries on display in the window. Gross! Who would eat such garbage? God only knew how many calories those pastries offered.

What some people shoved into their bodies . . .

3) David couldn’t feel the sidewalk beneath his feet. He felt as if he skipped on air. He checked his watch, performed some quick math. He would meet Judy in five minutes. He wished he possessed time enough to purchase some flowers.

He stopped short in front of a bakery shop, noticed, through its window, trays of tasty treats. Judy loved pastries.

The bell above the door jingled while David strolled inside the bakery.

The pleasant man behind the counter smiled warmly at him. “What may I interest you in, sir?”

Thanks for reading.

Tonight, the third book in my novel series, Diaries of Darkwana will, at long last, arrive on Kindle.

I celebrate with a sale, each of the three books (the completed, first volume of the series) now costs only three dollars!

Don't miss my other blogs:

martinwolt.blogspot.com for short stories.

entertainmentmicroscope.blogspot.com for a look at the entertainment industries.

darkwana.blogspot.com for an inside look at my novel series (and upcoming card game).

moviesmartinwolt.blogspot.com for movie reviews.

Viewpoint Part One

I would like, before we begin, to remind you of one simple rule: Rules exist as guidelines. At least one talented author managed to successfully shatter every “rule” I shall share in this post (or any other post).

However, master the “rules” before you break them. You must understand gravity before you build a rocket.

I want to discuss viewpoint in today’s post (and a few of the posts that shall follow). Note, I didn’t say “points of view,” (first, second, and third person points of view) which you already ought to understand.

Okay. I shall, lest you never heard of points of view (what, if anything, do they teach you in school, these days?), explain them very briefly.

You write, in first person point of view, as if you, the writer, exist in your story.

You would write, “I knocked on the door, realized it stood unlocked. I squeaked it open a few inches wider, peered through the crack, witnessed only darkness and smelled only the unmistakable rot of dead meat.”

You write, in second person point of view, as if the reader exists in your story.

You would write, “You knocked on the door, realized it stood unlocked. You squeaked it open a few inches wider, peered through the crack, witnessed only darkness and smelled only the unmistakable rot of dead meat.”

In third person point of view (the most common), you write from the point of view of a character (or omnipresent narrator) in your story.

You would write, “He knocked on the door, realized it stood unlocked. He squeaked it open a few inches wider, peered through the crack, witnessed only darkness and smelled only the unmistakable rot of dead meat.”

Let’s look at some of the “rules” of viewpoint. Many people will insist that you must tell your story from the viewpoint of only one character. I actually disagree with this. Completely.

I do consider it vital that your reader understand through whose eyes she witnesses your story. You can switch points of view, but you must make the switch obvious.

I, in my own novels, signify a switch with the following paragraph break:

*                      *                      *

I remain consistent with this gimmick, so my readers learn that whenever they see such a paragraph break, I might’ve switched viewpoint characters (though I might’ve broken the paragraph for another reason entirely).

The reader ought to know, within a few sentences at most, through whose eyes (which character’s) she now reads the story (unless I possess a very sneaky and rare reason to withhold this information).

Consider the following example:

Joan slowly approached Teddy from behind. She walked lightly, felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She wanted more than anything in the world to run away, but Teddy needed to know the truth.

*                      *                      *

He spun around, spotted Joan. He felt his eyes narrow with suspicion. “What do you want?”

She just stood there, eyes wide, probably up to no good.

His foot tapped. “Spit it out already!”

You can tell that I wrote the first paragraph from Joan’s point of view. We feel the knot in her stomach. We know what she wants (to tell Teddy the truth) and why (because he needs to know).

You notice that the second paragraph comes to us through Teddy’s point of view, even though I never gave you his name.

He turns around to notice Joan, who, we know from the previous paragraph, approached Teddy from behind.

Once we enter Teddy’s point of view, we cease to feel what Joan feels, know what she knows. We now only see and feel what Teddy sees and feels (and thinks).

When you write a story with multiple viewpoints, keep track of which characters know what information. You can’t allow one of them to think something based on information she shouldn’t yet possess.

Names fall into this concern.

If no one introduced Ron to Debra, then Debra shouldn’t know Ron’s name (not without a good reason). If you switch to Debra’s viewpoint, you can’t call Ron by his name until someone sorts this information out for Debra.

We’ll discuss viewpoint further over the next few posts. See you then.