Writing, Clear and Simple

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Over at Brandywine Books, author Lars Walker writes about using word choice to convey emotions in fiction, and it reminded me how important it was for all writing, not just fiction. He started by talking about what really good actors do to convey emotions with just their eyes:

Last night I pretended to know something about movies, and talked about the kind of subtle acting you used to see in good films—particularly the kind of acting that’s done with the eyes. The thing about eye acting (if I can call it that) is that it’s a sort of visual subtext. It’s not like in a script, where the directions say, “Rufus goes to the window and looks out.” The eye acting is something the actor himself adds, and it probably hasn’t been explicitly written out in the script.

So how can I claim that there’s an equivalent in fiction writing? If you can’t write it in a script, you can’t write it in a story either, right?

Well, not exactly.

How many times have we heard (and said), “It’s not what you said, it’s the way you said it.”

“But that’s about tone of voice and facial expression,” you say. “If you describe those things in a story, it’s not eye acting. It’s stage direction—‘Stop!’ John said commandingly. Or ‘Stop!’ John said with an angry frown. There’s nothing subtle about that.”

Ah, but there are other ways. Chief among these is word selection. Word selection is to writing what eye acting is to film.

Much of the time, I’m inclined to go with the first word that rolls onto the page or screen while I’m writing. And while I’m working on the first draft, that’s fine; the important thing at that point is to get the words out and onto the page.

But when we’re re-writing (and we should do that with almost everything we write), we should begin questioning the words you use. Lars gave a couple of examples of how this worked (so go over and read his post), but let me expand on that with some examples of my own.

For example, I could write that someone “walked into the room.” Or I could replace walked with other words like: stride, stomp, stump, stumble, wander, amble, bounce, prance, barge, crash, waltz, or sashay. Each word conveys the same basic information as walked, that a person entered a room; but each of these alternatives adds another layer of information, both denotative (that is, the specific and direct meaning) and connotative (implied or suggested associations).

I can write that someone said something, or I can instead use murmur, mumble, moan, mutter, blurt, bleat, bark, wail, whisper, hiss, stutter, shriek, or cry. Again, these words have different definitions, and they also convey information about emotional states.

All writing, not just fiction writing, can benefit when we give careful thought to our words. A bit of creativity can go a long way, even in something as prosaic as an email message.

For example, if you’re writing a message asking someone to fill out an employee information form, is it important, vital, or urgent? Each of these let’s the reader know that filling out the form is a big deal, but each conveys a different impression about what kind of big deal it is. (Of course, in choosing your words, you have to be honest. Don’t say that something is vital unless it really is vital for the reader, and not just something that will make your job easier. Don’t build yourself a reputation for crying wolf.)

Eggcorns are peculiar linguistic beasties: they happen when someone writes a phrase but mistakenly substitutes one of the words with another. The word eggcorn itself comes from an instance in which someone referred to acorns as egg corns. In a way, this substitution—although wrong—still makes sense: acorns are egg-shaped, and they’re seeds, like corn.

Anyway, here’s a double dose of eggcorns that I recently discovered in our local newspaper.

From an article about how sled dog racers dress to stay warm:

“Mushers, handlers and spectators didn’t seem phased Friday by being out in the cold all day at the Third Crossing Sled Dog Rendevous.”

Actually, I think the mushers, handlers, and spectators didn’t seem fazed by being out in the cold all day. Faze means “to disrupt the composure of; disconcert.” Phase, as a verb, means “to plan or carry out systematically by phases,” or “to set or regulate so as to be synchronized.” However, according to The Eggcorn Database (yes, someone keeps track of these things), this misuse of phase is quite common.

The second one is from an article describing the confirmation hearings for Ed Schafer, who’s been selected by President Bush as the new Secretary of Agriculture:

“Shafer towed the administration line, agreeing with the administration…”

As soon as I read that, I asked myself “I wonder where he towed it to? ” Toe the line is a figure of speech derived from the image of a group of people lined up with their toes touching a line on the ground (at the start of a race, or in military formation, for example). Again, replacing toe with tow has become quite common, and it may soon be an accepted form.

Despite the widespread use of phase for faze and tow the line instead of toe the line, I ask you all to do me a favor and toe the line by using the correct forms of these idioms.

Scott Berkun usually blogs and writes books about project management and innovation (and he does it well, too). But he’s also passionate about good communication, and apparently about Zen.

George Orwell wrote about what happens when we misuse words. A core theme in the novel 1984 is how abuse of language enables other evils. Well the time has come: I’m stepping up to defend the word Zen.

Zen is in a sorry state of abuse in 2008. Much like innovation, the word Zen is now a placeholder for thought, used for its connotation of something positive rather than any specific meaning. People often use the word in complete ignorance. Here’s what the word means:

To practice Zen is to use meditation and other techniques to develop an understanding of oneself, and seek spiritual enlightenment

He goes on to list some things—blogs, websites, MP3 players—that use Zen in their names, but really don’t have anything to do with the philosophy and spiritual practice of Zen itself.

Words like Zen, correctly understood and properly used, are powerful things. But if we misuse them, misapply them, we sap them of their power.

Fascist and fascism are great examples of what happens to words when they are misapplied. Fascist has become an all-purpose epithet among certain groups, applied to anyone they don’t like. The substance of the views held by the person being attacked are irrelevant; I’ve seen instances of limited-government, free-market advocates being tarred by their opponents as fascists, indicating that the attackers either don’t know what the word really means, or they don’t care, and they’re engaging in ad-hominem attacks.

Words—like Zen, fascist, and my recent hobby-horse, crisis—mean things. Be sure you understand their meanings before you toss them around like candy from a homecoming parade float.

It’s another Inigo Montoya moment, and again, it’s about the use and misuse of the word crisis. From the BBC:

The public health threat posed by obesity in the UK is a “potential crisis on the scale of climate change”, the health secretary has warned.

Maybe I should cut  the health secretary a bit of slack, because he did say obesity was a “potential crisis,” and not an out-and-out crisis. But it’s still a misuse of the word, in my opinion. To quote myself:

Crisis is not a synonym for bad situation.

Here are a couple of good definitions of crisis: 

A crucial or decisive point or situation; a turning point.

An unstable condition, as in political, social, or economic affairs, involving an impending abrupt or decisive change.

You’d have to work pretty hard to convince me that obesity is even potentially at “a crucial or decisive point,” or that it is potentially “an unstable condition,…involving an impending abrupt or decisive change.” It seems to me that if the current situation with obesity goes on the way it is, it will go on the way it is.

I had a bit of an Inigo Montoya moment yesterday. Not “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” It was more like when Vizzini shouted “Inconceivable!” for the eighth or ninth time, and Inigo said “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

It happened when I saw this headline: “The US Rural Broadband Crisis”

For some reason, headline writers (along with politicians) love the word crisis. The problem is, they almost always use it to describe what is merely a bad or undesirable situation.  Crisis is not a synonym for bad situation.

Here are a couple of good definitions of crisis: 

A crucial or decisive point or situation; a turning point.

An unstable condition, as in political, social, or economic affairs, involving an impending abrupt or decisive change.

The lack of good broadband access in rural areas can be called a problem or an undesirable situation. But calling it a crisis isn’t even hyperbole, it’s just plain wrong. There is no “crucial or decisive point” involved; no “impending abrupt or decisive change” is in sight.

Crisis is a perfectly good word. Let’s use it when it’s really called for, and not to hype something that isn’t really a crisis.