The Book Killers: Weak Point of View

The Book Killers: Wandering Plots

In this ongoing series, Christopher Klim, author and senior editor of the US Review of Books, takes a look at common errors that undermine books.

Perhaps the worst killers of books, albeit fiction or nonfiction, are narratives that lead nowhere fast or, even, those that meander over long periods of time. It’s a primary violation of the contract with the reader: a book that says nothing or accomplishes little. For a period leading up to the 1990s, the bookstore shelves were brimming with beautiful prose seeming to serve either the author or a higher sense of literature. They gained prizes and put us to sleep faster than a late night PBS documentary. They helped to kick the industry in the gut and, in the end, to transform mainstream publishing into what it is today, for better or worse.

While beautiful prose can be stunning in tight space—for example that which is found in better poetry—a book requires readers to stay focused for the long haul in a world with an increasingly shorter attention span. Sooner or later, the much-maligned concept of plotting will enter the writer’s thoughts, and if every book is a journey, plotting is having clues about the trip.

A story journey begins when a character asks: What do I want? Born out of internal or external pressures, it is the genesis of hope and desire. It is the bridge from that first ancient question: Who am I? Crossing that bridge poses the second ancient question: Why am I here? Strong characters take a stab at these questions. There is beauty and drama in the success and failure of answering them. In a strong plot, the story questions are presented as early as possible. Readers align with the desire of the main character and prepare for the trials and tribulations of satisfying it. When it is obscured by fuzzy plot direction or too much background information, the story is regarded as going nowhere or wandering. Those are apt descriptions.

What is drama? To paraphrase Alfred Hitchcock, drama is life without the boring bits. He understood drama. Did you ever see a boring Hitchcock movie? He sketched storyboards—sequential depictions of characters in action. He left nothing to chance, maintaining an eye on the dramatic core of each scene. Some accuse Hitchcock of being calculating and manipulative. Yes indeed, and we thank him for it.

So in the spirit of Hitchcock, who by the way was a guidepost for a young Steven Spielberg, let’s employ the Scene and Sequel technique. It’s a method that can be applied to any book to make its plot stronger.

The Scene

A scene is the basic unit of a story. It is one step in the journey. It can expand over multiple chapters, or more than one scene can exist within a chapter, but a scene is easily removed from the entire story line and analyzed for its merits. When analyzing a scene, look for its dramatic core.

What is the objective? The main character in the scene is trying to accomplish something. This is a sub-goal of the character’s greater story desire. Answering this question gives the scene focus, not to mention an agenda.

What is the problem? A known complication hinders the objective. This may be a personal flaw or problem developed in the story line, but the character cannot reach his objective, unless the character acts upon the problem.

Where is the conflict? A person or thing threatens resolution of the objective. While solving the problem, the character encounters dramatic opposition from another source, thereby threatening a positive outcome.

What is the outcome? At the climax of the scene, the character’s objective is answered in some fashion. The answer progresses the story line and changes the character’s mental, emotional, or physical state.

The Sequel

A sequel appears after a scene. It is an opportunity for the character to digest the previous action. There are three major aspects of a sequel.

Cognition: what does the character think about the previous scene? This is the character’s perception of the recent events.

Emotion: how does the character feel about the previous events? This is the emotional response.

Decision: what will the character do next? The character brings sense and reasoning together to make a decision.

The scene and sequel method is a tool. When a writer approaches a scene, he or she considers who is in the scene, what they are trying to accomplish, where the scene takes place, where it fits on the story line, where lies the dramatic core, and how everything will end up. The scene sketching method above assists the understanding process. Employ it when stuck in a scene that lacks drama. Its pointed questions will expose a scene’s particular weaknesses. Refocusing a scene/sequel or eliminating it entirely—don’t be afraid to cut when necessary—will strengthen the overall plot. It might just save a plot from dying.

Next in The Book Killers series: White Room

Previously in The Book Killers series: Dead Dialogue

Tokyo Traffic by Michael Pronko

Tokyo Traffic

by Michael Pronko
Raked Gravel Press

book review by Joel Samberg

“Hiroshi’s forensic accounting skill was helpful with most homicides, since money could be found at the root of most cases.”

This third volume in Pronko’s series about Detective Hiroshi is packed with all the atmosphere and disparate personalities readers have come to expect from his Tokyo-based stories. Pronko takes us through not just the Tokyo of movies and textbooks but one teeming with more underbellies and connections to global corruption than we might otherwise expect. This time our intrepid detective—an amiable accountant—is in pursuit of the criminals who may be responsible for a grisly murder at a porn studio. The key is likely held by a girl from Thailand who was working at the studio when the crime was committed. But now she’s missing, and Detective Hiroshi, who has a personal life as intriguing as his professional one, has his work cut out for him. Combining old-fashioned gumshoeing with modern-day social conventions, Pronko’s lengthy tale is as much a Tokyo detective’s diary as it is a gritty underworld whodunit.

Take a classic fictional detective out of a big American city in 1940—say a Philip Marlowe or a Dick Tracy—and transplant him to Tokyo in 2020 to solve a gruesome homicide. Therein lies the appeal of this crime thriller. Instead of taking us to a smoky Chicago nightclub to find a clue-laden cocktail napkin smeared with lipstick, the author might take us instead to a Tokyo internet cafe to read GPS coordinates left on a mobile device. The book, at a whopping 400 pages, requires patience and a good grasp at remembering names and places. However, it is intriguing for a host of reasons: one, the timeless, just-the-facts-ma’am crime-solving methodology of the detective; two, the appealing ways in which the author includes the daily minutiae of Hiroshi’s life; and three, the story’s revealing coverage of a true scourge of international crime—human trafficking.

RECOMMENDED by the US Review

The Book Killers: Dead Dialogue

In this ongoing series, Christopher Klim, author and senior editor of the US Review of Books, takes a look at common errors that undermine books.

There are many ways to deliver dead dialogue upon arrival. Flabby, unfocused, and unnatural conversation between characters will kill a book in the best places. Certain readers gloss over narratives, but bear down on the stretches of dialogue. It’s like bugging a nearby conversation, hoping to hear special information uncovered, but poor dialogue disappoints every time, and shakes believability in the characters. Let’s take a look at ways to strengthen dialogue.

Let Them Speak for Themselves

Forced or unnatural conversations betray both the character and writer. When a writer stuffs words and information into the mouths of those in the scene, he creates a bad drama on stage for the purposes of transporting the story. Before the characters can even talk, the writer must understand who they are. When well-drawn characters enter a scene, they begin speaking for themselves. Their cadence and word choice will be a product of their histories and what they desire. They’ll reveal secrets in the subtext. As Robert Stone once said, “All dialogue is a conversation with the soul.”

Keep It Real, But…

While strong characters have a unique manner of speech, too much of it offers speed bumps in the exchange. It forces the reader to constantly interpret to discover the inner meaning of their words. Consider sprinkling dialect and inflection indicators throughout the conversation, instead of marking every instance. Readers will begin hearing the unique voice, without the authorial stage direction. The same goes for dialogue modifiers—those fantastic adverbs that describe their tone. Well-written dialogue wrought through great characters and circumstance will imply the tone without having to describe it.

Tighten Up

In real life, not all conversation has a purpose. We sit over drinks or on the phone and pass the time, revealing nuggets of life along the way. Perhaps, all we gather is a sense of how the other person is feeling at the moment. In a written work, idle conversation is death for the narrative flow, when it should form some of the most interesting stretches.  Great authors effectively enter conversation during its key moments and exit when nothing important is said or when the central message has been delivered. Even within those moments, they trim out the fat, employing color only for impact and to illuminate circumstance and character.

Hear the Voices

Now, we’re dropping back before the first bit of dialogue is written, before the first character exists. Prior to drawing great characters and letting them speak, writers must become a student of voice—both specifically and in general. Everyone speaks differently and at different moments. They reveal the truth on different levels. Eavesdrop on people talking. Be quiet and listen. Learn to hear not only how people speak, but the subtext that emerges within the conversation. For example, liars or those hiding information will say much in the unsaid. Fearful or grieving people will skirt that which affects them most.

To a skilled writer, dialogue arrives fluidly. She knows how and what the characters must say. Others have an inexplicable natural talent for delivering stunning conversation on the page. Many biographers select key moments to insert a phrase or passage that brings the figure to life. This occurs also in fiction, although generally on a wider palette where exact quotations are not required. In all narrative forms, dialogue is one of the writer’s greatest tools, which cannot be overexploited, but can be poorly employed.

Next in The Book Killers series: Wandering Plots

Previously in The Book Killers series: Weak Point of View

 

 

HomoAmerican – The Secret Society

by Michael Dane
Amazon.com Services

book review by Dylan Ward

“This Secret Society, of which I am a member, is no more visible to me than I am to them.”

With the rise of noteworthy novels and biographies from LGBTQ writers such as Paul Lisicky, Noelle Stevenson, Brandon Taylor, and Ocean Vuong, Dane joins the ranks with his hefty, detailed memoir. The reader is invited into Dane’s private, life-long search for identity. With intimate detail, the author reveals a well-traveled, storied life where somewhere along the way he “stopped being a real character,” only recognizing himself in reflections. He examines the painful moments of childhood and his chaotic passage into adulthood. We follow him as he roams among outcasts, immersing himself into an invisible society that is known only to a few. Dane probes the duplexity of visibility and invisibility, like a dancer on stage in front of audiences and an object of desire, yet continuously feeling lonely and invisible. For Dane, he moves through a world of night. He wanders in shadows and “darkness, of passion and pleasure.”

Reflecting upon his upbringing, Dane considers the complex relationships throughout his life, beginning with his parents. At just six years old, he begins to understand that he is different. Growing up in the “spare, gray, cold house” in San Francisco, he fears his father’s “simmering madness” and the unruly gangs that terrorize the streets and his school. His mother’s presence offers little comfort as she too is trapped, unable to fully protect Dane with five children and “a crazy husband.” From this, the author develops conceptions of being “invisible,” of which the only solution is “isolation or amputation of the soul.” His parents’ divorce fractures his family life. He barely escapes his father’s abuse before turning to rebellion and embracing a burgeoning sexuality in junior high. At sixteen in the 1970s, he and America are on the cusp of change. Dane begins to seek out that secret society, which becomes the overarching theme of his narrative. It is dance that opens doors for him, and ballet serves as an outlet, a protective “safe haven” that provides a “magical structure.”

This newfound passion eventually leads him to the ballet schools of New York City. He is twenty but pretends to be younger. He is also vulnerable and unsure of himself, alone in a city of glamour and cruelty. That vulnerability, coupled with physical beauty and innocence, attracts the attention of both men and women in ways good and bad. He meets the half Puerto Rican, half Italian Gerard whose “sense of magic about him” brings new clarity to Dane. Their relationship is complicated as Gerard gives Dane the comfort he seeks while also enticing him into a world of anonymous sex. As Dane explores his needs and wants, he eventually gives in to the “compulsion and desire” while “trapped between mirrors in this world.”

There is a raw, lyric power to Dane’s prose that is seductive and renders the reader unto a “language of the heart.” This is most evident at the start of his memoir, and it returns again with his time in Tehran, dancing for the Shah of Iran in a “mysterious and wild terrain” amid the “snowcapped mountains in the distance.” There, he learns carnal truths and acknowledges masculinity, femininity, and the blurred lines of identity in between.

Dane writes largely about identity while he explores other themes with these pages, too, such as discrimination, sexuality, and freedom. Through Dane, we are witness to significant historical events that shape our political and social landscape. He carefully braids these details into the narrative that forms his coming-of-age tale. There is much to appreciate in Dane’s book as he reflects upon a diverse life. Readers might even find themselves considering their own identities in the myriad ways the author tries to make sense of his. The author’s story is a mix of harrowing moments, happy moments, and sad moments. Dane comes to terms with all that happens to make him the person he is today. His memoir is an unforgettable, absorbing read.

The Knock: A Collection of Childhood Memories

by Carolyn Watkins
Mindstir Media

book review by Kate Robinson

“I quickly learned that military kids must be flexible.”

As an inspirational memoir and a tribute to military families, this picture book for middle-graders stands out with its down-to-earth reflections by the author and tender watercolor illustrations by Lindsey Erickson that evocatively enhance the nature of the text. Watkins’ honesty about her real-life experiences fosters readers’ ability to have fruitful parent-child discussions about these emotional matters of separation and possible loss. The author stresses that her family could have shared their feelings more: “Perhaps Mom and I could have talked more about our feelings. I have now learned that sharing feelings makes it much easier to cope with them.” Likely this is why her book includes notes for parents and educators in the end matter with questions, points to consider to bolster these necessary conversations, whether at home or in the classroom. This guidance could help children feel safe to express their feelings and work through any emotional difficulties caused by missing the absent military parent or by fearing for their life.

Children with working parents everywhere face significant challenges in modern life, but arguably none more so than children in military families, who face impermanence far more often and far more keenly than children in families whose parents and caretakers engage in other professions: “When I grew up in the 1960s, my family’s life was filled with departures and transfers and moves… Our dad was in the U.S. Army and was often away for long periods of time,” the author states. The many poignant images of Watkins’ family life and her strong storytelling voice amply illustrate the courage, persistence, and moral compass needed by homebound parents and relatives to maintain a stable household for kids when a parent is deployed to a faraway destination for extended duty, or when a family makes frequent moves to various military assignments.

The experiences and research of others lend additional weight to the ideas expressed in Watkin’s book. For example, poet and memoirist Dr. Nancy Owen Nelson, whose father was a career military man, describes her early years as “one of constant change and uncertainty,” and has explored in verse and prose how difficult patterns in adult life can be attributed to the constant movement of military families. And in a paper titled “Psychiatric Effects of Military Deployment on Children and Families,” authors James and Countryman (2012) cite “recent findings with deployed service members with children have shown problems with sleeping, higher stress levels and anxiety, declining grades, an increase in maladaptive child behaviors, and increased rates of child maltreatment.”

Watkins’ experience thankfully shows how supportive and strong her mother appears during her father’s deployment to Vietnam and during his long recovery after the family receives the dreaded knock on the door. Fortunately, in the Watkins family’s case, “the knock” was not a death announcement but notification of serious injury. While this was still a worrying and profound time, it was also a relief to family members because this meant their husband and father would eventually come home. Watkins’ narrative also effectively conveys how a supportive family network is forged when her maternal grandmother arrives to help out and how her presence solidifies the children’s security during her son-in-law’s deployment.

RECOMMENDED by the US Review

The Book Killers: Weak Point of View

The Book Killers: Unfocused Openings

In this ongoing series, Christopher Klim, author and senior editor of the US Review of Books, takes a look at common errors that undermine books.

Whether you are a commercial mystery writer or a high-art literary prose specialist, very few people will stay with a book if the opening chapter does not deliver a clear message. With the growing availability of media venues, the competition for people’s attention has never been greater. Even with books, the most successful entertainment or information offerings seize our attention from the outset. Here are some factors to consider when planning, drafting, and revising your opening:

Engagement

As emerging writers, we are told to create action or drama at the opening of our stories. Nonfiction writers, especially biographers, often foreshadow a significant event in their subject’s life, while fiction writers do the same by cherry-picking a critical point on the timeline, but this is not always practical. In general, reader engagement arises by presenting an aspect of the story that generates keen interest. For example, it could be humor or tension that is exemplary of the entire book. The biggest mistake is presenting large amounts of backstory or introductory information at the start. Another version of this misstep is beginning too soon on the timeline. Both of these approaches throw water on the spark of the story. This set up information can be folded into the story at a later time or even removed altogether. In modern times, think about eliminating chapters that begin with the words Foreword, Introduction, Prologue, and Preface—or even Epilogue for that matter because they sap energy from the book. Many readers receive these appendages like homework and skip them to get to the meat of the book.

Mission

A book should have a clearly defined purpose, otherwise it’s just a long and wandering diatribe. A nonfiction book has a thesis, while a work of fiction has a story question. Don’t let any fine writing teacher talk you out of this essential element of a book. All art from poetry to painting has a point. When it’s focused—because its creator knows precisely what it is—the reader or viewer becomes involved with the piece. The writer who says “I write to discover what the story’s about” should be pushed down a flight of stairs. This statement is disingenuous and impractical. While writers discover aspects of and hone down a story during its development, there comes a time when the writer makes a firm commitment to the mission of the book and then goes about amplifying it. A smart writer makes it clear in the opening pages and sometimes even the title.

Presentation

Book openings are like a first date. The writer features what he does well and goes to it often during the course of his relationship with the reader. If the opening is phony, disorganized, or confusing, the reader will never get to the next chapter, and a match made in heaven has been squandered. Quickly establish as many of the following items as possible: the predominant point of view used, the main character(s), the typical setting, and the sequencing. While these aspects help authenticate the story, the latter involves the structure of the book. If the book darts back and forth through time, events, and/or characters, it’s critical to present a pattern from the start. As a result, your story organization will become a silent rhythm in the reader’s mind.

Tone

The tone of the story involves everything from word choice, to sentence structure, to the overall attitude of the narrative and characters. Most stories form a conundrum that ranges from solving a mystery to battling the internal complexities of the human spirit. This can be presented on a scale from terrifying to hilarious. Even if the story tone shifts for dramatic effect, the main tone should be delivered at the start. If the story is a romance, then it’s the longing of the heart. If it’s an intense mystery, then it’s a mangled corpse. If it’s an enduring quest, then the journey’s gauntlet must be cast down.

Epilogue

It’s a self-indulgent or inexperienced writer who does not recognize the trend to immediately engage the reader. In fact, it isn’t a trend, but a well-established precept of successful writing. If you are currently writing to figure out what the story is about or where the story begins, then stop! Park your pen and take a moment to do some sketching and outlining before you draft another word. Ask your characters why they’ve entered the room and what they want from the story. If they can’t tell you, then they either need to leave or you need to get to know them better before pushing them along their story line. Once you know their stories and what they want, find the first worst moment on their timeline and begin the story right there.

Next in The Book Killers series: Weak Point of View

Previously in The Book Killers series: Stilted Writing

The Book Killers: Weak Point of View

The Book Killers: Stilted Writing

In this ongoing series, Christopher Klim, author and senior editor of the US Review of Books, takes a look at common errors that undermine books.

The word stilted is defined as stiff, self-conscious, and/or unnatural. In a book, this concept is just as unwelcomed. For example…

It was a starry night. An owl flew low beneath the moon. Joe loved Jane so much that he thought his heart might burst. But nothing would stand in their way now. He swept her off her feet and carried her through the threshold of their lives together.

“Stop right there,” said the shadowy figure coming from behind the light post.

“No, not you!” Jane gasped.

“Have you forgotten about your husband?” the stranger barked.

“Sir, you must reconsider your approach,” Joe said.

The above passage forms a parade of clichés, passive verbs, hackneyed concepts, repetitions, invariable sentence structure, overly formal speech, and talking heads. Neither entertaining nor enlightening, these issues combine to stultify the reader. Let’s discuss a few of these problems.

Clichés, passive verbs, repetitions, overly formal speech, and even hackneyed concepts boil down to laziness on part of the writer. To complicate their existence, writers may become comfortable with these phrases and scenes during multiple readings to the point where a false sense of confidence in the prose arises. This is why cooling off periods—days or weeks if allowable between revisions—are vital to identifying problematic writing. Try to think of these issues as placeholders that will be replaced with stronger phrasing and construction. If the writer is not surprised or energized by his/her words, then no one else will be.

Talking head syndrome occurs when the characters provide information that either they should already know (i.e. “Hello, I’m Bob, your uncle.”) or barely relates to the conversation. This happens when the writer tries to relate narrative information through the character’s mouths. It is always obvious, and it saps momentum and authenticity from the work. In the example above, the entire dialogue should be replaced.

Invariable sentence structure, which is typically a repetition of subject-verb sentences without changes in presentation or structure, reveals the writer’s skill level or lack thereof. Fluctuations stimulate the reader’s mind. Changing sentence structure also is used in relation to the tone of the story. For example, short and quick sentences work for action scenes and humor, especially punch lines. Longer sentences can be found in romantic prose. Leading and trailing phrases form a variety of transitions. The list here is long and can be observed in any good literature and nonfiction narrative.

Many early writers are so eager to get their ideas on paper that they overlook the words themselves. On face value, that statement seems like a paradox, but it is only the normal course of a writer’s development. Skilled writers won’t accept stilted writing in their work, and during the revision process, they learn to identify their particular bad habits and eliminate them.

Here’s a cliché: All writing is rewriting. It also happens to be an axiom of the process.

Next in the The Book Killers series: Unfocused Openings

Previously in The Book Killers series: Inferior Word Choice 

A Critical Investigation into Precognitive Dreams: Dreamscaping Without My Timekeeper

by Paul Kiritsis
Cambridge Scholars Publishing

book review by Jonah Meyer

“Quite simply, while passive observation of past and future events may, under certain circumstances, be possible, direct participation in them is impossible.”

In this detailed and wide-ranging book, the author is primarily concerned with the phenomenon of precognitive dreams—that is, the study of dreams which contain a premonition or subconscious inkling of something which has yet to be but does, in fact, take place in the future. The future, as it were, may be less than 24 hours later, days or weeks later, and may even range into years. The closeness in resemblance between the event, object, person, etc. in the dream and its real-life waking counterpart can vary widely, from a vague symbolic resemblance to more extreme cases of actual equal identification. Additionally, sometimes dreams of precognition can be on a personal level (which is the more common type, such as one dreaming a relative will pass away and then precisely that happening in real life), or of a collective nature (such as precognitive dreams involving natural or man-made disasters, airplane crashes, and the like).

Intertwined with the author’s engaging analysis and exploration of the primary subject matter at hand, he positions the phenomena—and why we generally, in the Western world are reticent to accept such a concept as precognition via dreaming—in the larger context of a comprehensive analysis of scientific thought and general worldview assumptions over the millennia (including especially our accepted understanding of time and space), focusing primarily on the history and tendencies of science and Western thought over the past few centuries. Necessarily, various intellectual disciplines and scientific pursuits are examined, along with many key players in the various fields, in positing the author’s argument that there are large cultural forces at work which have over time led us, collectively, to a place where any such mention of the questionable realms of telepathy, extra-sensory perception, precognitive dreaming and the like are at once dismissed by society at large as paranormal gobbledygook and as downright blasphemy by mainstream intellectual heads of thought in the “accepted” sciences.

Perhaps the most enjoyable section of the book appears a bit less than halfway through, where Kiritsis shares with the reader detailed results and commentary on an experimental study he conducted on the subject of precognition in dreaming. Fifteen subjects (five males, ten females) were provided with participation forms gathering personal information and detailing a simple set of steps for their transcription of dreams alongside the identification of any self-perceived associated waking-life experiences. Participants were asked to self-manage their own trials for four or five consecutive days and returned the data to the author via email. “Subsequently,” writes Kiritsis, “the correlational quality of each dream-associative waking experience set was determined using a unique categorization system with precise diagnostic valuations for very powerful correlations (‘excellent’), powerful correlations (‘good’) and some correlation (‘average’).” The complete report was then subjected to statistical analysis. For each entry, summaries of the dreams were described by the subjects, followed by the corresponding real-life experience(s). Based on certain relevant criteria, the resemblance (if any) between the dreams and characteristics of events unfolding in reality for the dreamer were examined, and each example placed into one of the three above-mentioned corresponding categories.

Kiritsis happily notes that there was indeed some consistency across the 51 precognitive dream fragments collected in his 2014 study, wherein the primary and most potent extrapolation one can glean is that “precognition isn’t the prerogative or exclusive dominion and property right of mystics and seers. In fact, it is enabled by our neurocognitive hardware and woven into our dream tapestry—an ordinary feature of human consciousness.” In other words, despite the naysayers and skeptics, the author maintains such dreaming is actually happening, to one degree or another, all the time for much of the population. We simply often fail to make the connections because we are not on the lookout for them.

While the marketplace is saturated with plenty of books on dreaming, dream interpretation, and interpretation of symbols and artifacts that are present in dreams, Kiritsis’ book is unique in that the focus is specifically on the study between events, objects, people, conversations, etc. that people have reported having dreamt about, with a later manifestation of the same phenomena in waking, day-to-day life. Kiritsis has dedicated his research to such precognition dreaming, and the resulting book, without doubt, provides a unique, well-researched academic study of this most interesting of windows into the human psyche.

RECOMMENDED by the US Review

The Book Killers: Weak Point of View

The Book Killers: Inferior Word Choice

In this ongoing series, Christopher Klim, author and senior editor of the US Review of Books, takes a look at common errors that undermine books.

A weak vocabulary is exposed not only by the range of words used, but also by their poor application within a sentence. In both fiction or nonfiction, strong word choices reveal a skilled writer. Word choices show the author’s character and talent, but mostly his or her level of discipline. Let’s investigate areas of concern, including examples of inferior word choices.

Invented Words

Demonstrating the worst abuse of language, lazy writers invent words that do not exist. Other writers hyphenate ridiculous combinations of words rather than construct a more intelligent sentence or employ the single word that relates a similar meaning.

Jane went on a date with Bill, irregardless of his past. (Not only is irregardless not a real word, it is no different in use or meaning than regardless.)

Because he was crazy-excited, Bill advance-planned for his date with the super-good-looking Jane. (A writer with a fifth grade vocabulary might say: Nervous, Bill prepared for his date with Jane, the beauty.)

Misused Words

When a word is misused, the writer either doesn’t understand its meaning or is working with an alternate definition so far down the dictionary that no one but an experienced linguist understands how it applies. The wrong word choice misleads the reader and creates absurd results. Some word choices fall out of context, running askew of the narrative or theme of the book.

Jane delineates that Bill will make a suitable companion. (Jane seems like a real warm and cozy person.)

The caveman chased the mastodon like a bus at rush hour. (This caveman appears to possess the ability to time travel.)

The coffee table size book fits nicely in any collection. (That giant book will fit in no collection.) 

Ambiguous Words

Many words are meant to be vague, and a number of reasons exist for employing them, not the least of which is diplomacy. Good writing shuns diplomacy, displaying the courage of precision whether it disturbs the reader or not. On the other hand, ambiguity summons boredom.

Jane realized that Bill had an unpleasing smell. (Does Jane like stinky men or not?) 

Bill would prefer not to deal with Jane ever again. (Bill is so boring that she’ll forever avoid him.)

Clichés

We’ve all heard clichés and used them too many times. This is how they become cliché—tired, overwrought words and expressions. While conversation tolerates this fault, a written work attempts to inform and illuminate through saliency. By the way, repetition—using the same words over and over, no matter what the words are—create a self-contained cliché within a narrative.

The next time Bill saw Jane, he would give her a piece of his mind. (If this were a horror story, it might actually turn out to be interesting)

Jane was really steamed at Bill’s attitude. (Jane is apparently angry, but we fell asleep during her narrative.)

Jargon and Slang

Like dialect, jargon and slang add color to a book, but when the terms are esoteric or regional, their meanings can be obfuscated. Furthermore, too much jargon or slang make the narrative appear like an alternate language. Unless it is essential to the story, avoid this whenever possible. Instead, sprinkle colloquialisms and obtuse terms into the narrative, and the reader will gather its flavor while comprehending the actual meaning.

In full techie-mode, Bob found the SIMM and gave the SOB gizmo another reboot before 86’ing it altogether. (Translated: Bob found the missing memory card and restarted the hateful computer, longing to dump it in the ocean.)

Weak Verbs and Nouns

Journeyman writers activate weak verbs (i.e. is, was, had, be, are, etc.) wherever possible by replacing them with powerful and specific choices. Unfortunately, some writers remedy this by arranging verbs and adverbs, as well as nouns and adjectives, into shotgun marriages on the page. Still others assemble them like boxcars extending for miles. This wordiness prompts readers to skim the page. Collapse these combinations into precise verbs and nouns to gain a tighter and more lucid sentence.

The small, soft, and squishy Mediterranean citrus with loose skin had briefly wobbled on the edge of the stairs before it quickly bounced along the steps and stopped at the base near the front door with a forceful bang. (Revised: The overripe Clementine teetered and then skipped downstairs, crashing into the entrance.)

In Conclusion

The previous suggestions all boil down to cogency—being clear, logical, and convincing. Great word choices ring so true that they go unquestioned, achieving deeper meaning within the narrative. During the revision and editing process, writers scrutinize word choices for exactness, so that the truth of their sentences appeals to the reader. A master writer develops a control system (i.e. a vocabulary relating to the character, scene, and theme) that supplies a language for the reader to understand a particular book, and this changes from book to book. However, that is a discussion for another time.

Next in The Book Killers series: Stilted Writing 

Previously in The Book Killers series: Amateur Covers

The Latecomers

by Rich Marcello
Moonshine Cove Publishing, LLC

book review by Carol Anderson, D.Min., ACSW, LMSW

“When its members are in harmony, there is nothing in the world they can’t do together.”

This is a wondrous story that encompasses the here and now with the time-honored connection of mystery and spirituality. We learn about Maggie and Charlie who embody the boundaries of life with the expansion of the soul. In their journey through trials and tribulations, they share the depth of eternal love. Written in the first person by both protagonists, the story focuses on symbols and sacredness, their beloved friends in the moai, and includes the goddesses and the spirits that accompany them. When Charlie goes on retreat to a beloved center, the story offers a glimpse into the necessity of dealing with his restlessness, a restlessness that Maggie saw through her paintings of him. The journey into the mysticism of life regarding their findings from a secret book of symbols, as well as magical plants, leads the group of five on a path of helping others.

Beautifully written, the narrative is poetry as prose, as the words caress the reader in this journey of life and love, aging and generativity, joy and loss, and with a spirituality that exudes from the very first page. The power of stories within the story is creatively done. The book also nicely connects the symbolism of their own works of art, a retreat center, a door that has embedded symbols, a pendant, a symbol on a rock, cave drawings, and tattoos. All are works of art—art as passion, metaphor, and spirit. The deep detail, from that of a dusty room to the descriptions of the beauty of the outdoors, offers another example of the depth of this book. With Marcello’s lyrical writing of an exceptional story, this book is sure to be on the reader’s top list of books for the year.

RECOMMENDED by the US Review