Janise Anderson's Blog, page 10

The Outcasts and Outcasters: The Greatest Showman Insights

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I didn’t want to watch it. Thankfully my friends convinced me to go, and I found myself sitting next to my best friend, one hand in a bucket of popcorn, while the first few brilliant notes of “The Greatest Show” song boomed through the dark theater. Clapping, stomping, and singing tempered by moments of silence filled the room and beat through me. The song escalated and I leaned forward, chills spreading from my fingertips to my toes.

And for the next two hours The Greatest Showman held me captive. Mesmerized by the scenes unfolding in front of me, my thoughts did not stray from the story, from the characters, or from the emotions rising up inside me.

If you have not watched this movie, then find a theater now. It’s worth it. (So watch it first, then read this. Spoiler alert!) I didn’t want to watch it at first, because I’d never really liked circus movies. Many of them had darker undertones or showcased bullying . Some of them just seemed really weird.

And the people in this movie are weird. Weird and strange and different, but they are beautiful—beards and all. But as much as I loved the movie, my stomach sank inside me when the story climaxed with a song titled “This is Me.”

During this scene, Hugh Jackman as P.T. Barnum closes the door on his group of circus performers. He excludes them from a party celebrating his newest sensation, the famous singer Jenny Lind.

The door closes and the ‘outcasts’ step back, eyes downcast, but only for that moment, because then the first few lines of “This is Me” play and they find the strength to walk on, to face the world, and to never back down.

I saw myself in this scene, not as someone on the outside, but as P.T. Barnum shutting the door, separating his friends into two groups because he worried about what others would think.

Sometimes we are swept along in the adventure of life, and we forget to notice those standing in the corner, those who watch quietly, waiting to be noticed. Whether they are shy or nervous or just different doesn’t matter. Have you felt left out? Or have you left others out, whether it be purposeful or unintentional?

The idea of being left out seems very juvenile. Why should what others think matter to us? But it does matter, and it matters the most when it comes from our friends. We can brush off the opinion of strangers. We can ignore the crowds. But when our friends, who know us best, look at us with shame or embarrassment, pain carves deep into our heart.

If our closest friends slam the door shut in our face or let us down, we must learn to be strong enough to stand, to lift our head once more, and walk away. Like the song says, “When the sharpest words wanna cut me down/I’m gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out/This is brave, this is bruised/This is who I’m meant to be, this is me.”

I think back to when Jesus came down and walked through the crowds, seeking out the outcasts, the lost, the sinners—those we would not want to be seen with. He found them and saved them, just like He pulled us from our own sin and shame.

Let’s work together to see people not just their scars, not the sin they are entrenched in, not their past. But to look past that and see them as God does, to see them as who they really are, and who they could one day be.

What do you think? Have you struggled with this as well? I’d love to hear your comments and thoughts. Did you like the movie? Have you found something else that dealt with this topic?

Swords Dipped in Ink: English Romantic Poets Writing Against Slavery

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The shadow of slavery darkened the pages of English romantic poetry. During this era, the controversial subject caused heated debates throughout England. Influential poets such as William Cowper, Hannah More, Anna Laetitia Barbauld, and Ann Yearsley  expressed their disgust and sorrow caused by the inhumanity and injustice of slavery.

Cowper used a poetic speaker to personalize slavery for his readers.

In his poem “On Slavery,” Cowper’s autobiographical speaker expressed outrage and distress in regards to slavery abroad. Cowper criticized slave owners by writing,

“I had much rather be myself the slave and wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.”

At the thought of slavery, the speaker’s conscience burned within him. Cowper was vexed by this great evil and outraged by the injustice of it. This personal point of view effectively illustrated Cowper’s opinion on the conflict between slavery and freedom. In his satirical poem “Sweet Meat has Sour Sauce,” Cowper chose the unusual point of view of a slaver trader. He captured the heartlessness of slave owners who viewed slaves as nothing more than animals or wares.

Anna Laetitia Barbauld presented another point of view.

Barbauld wrote a poem as a letter to Wilberforce, the famous abolitionist who fought a seemingly impossible battle against slavery. From her first line of poetry, Barbauld urged Wilberforce to stop fighting. Though she did not agree with slavery, she saw how the slave trade thrived despite the tireless work of the abolitionists. At that time, freedom seemed hopelessly out of reach. Although Barbauld commended Wilberforce on his efforts to end slavery, her poem declared that his fighting was in vain. Her poem eloquently portrayed the hopelessness of the fight against slavery. Her anti-slavery poem presented yet another opinion on the heated debate occurring in their nation.

Ann Yearsley’s poem accurately depicted the true horrors of slavery.

In “A Poem on the Inhumanity of the Slave-Trade,” Yearsley used descriptive language and imagery to show the inhumane treatment of slaves. She narrated the tragic tale of Luco, an abused slave, whose enslavement caused his family and lover sorrow and grief. Her poem brutally, but realistically, depicted the horrors of slavery. After consistent beatings and being forced to work endlessly, Luco attempted to drown himself, but seamen saved him by “dragging to life a wretch who wished to die.” Slaves were forced to live in the worst of situations. Even when Luco was tortured by fire, the planters refused to bring the fire closer and end his agony. The vivid action, detailed description, and detailed scenes in Yearsley’s poem caused her readers to witness the repulsive act of slavery.

Hannah More used logic and emotion to fight against slavery.

More’s “Slavery: A Poem” criticized the hypocrisy of slave owners, especially those who called themselves Christians. More proved the humanity of the enslaved by asking her readers:

“Does then th’ immortal principle within change with the casual colour of a skin? Does matter govern spirit, or is mind degraded by the form to which ’tis joined? No; they have heads to think, and hearts to feel, and souls to act, with firm though erring zeal.”

More believed that it was better for the innocent to die than to live in slavery. She penned the words, “They still are men, and men should still be free!” More confronted the hypocrisy of slave owners who loved their own family yet willingly separated other families by selling men and women and children like livestock. She recognized that reason and logic would not be enough to convince all her readers, but she did believe that man be swayed by emotion. Through both logic and emotion, she begged the people of Britain to see that slavery was a terrible wrong and a great injustice. She hoped for freedom for all men, not slavery.

These four great English romantic writers fought against slavery through the use of different literary devices. Their radical writings used fresh and innovative forms to challenge slavery.

These writers dipped their pens, or swords, in ink and spoke out in a time when slavery was popular. Throughout the ages, writers have used poetry, nonfiction, and fiction to speak out against various controversial subjects. The written word has the potential to influence the world for generations to come. Modern-day writers should adopt the bravery and creativity of these great English romantic poets who fought against slavery.

“If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write”―Martin Luther

**Literary quotes taken from: Duncan Wu, ed., Romanticism: An Anthology. (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012)

Long Way Home: a short story

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He heard her yelling, even before he opened the door.

Aaron jabbed his key into the lock and wrenched it to the left. With a shudder, the door creaked open. Dingy work boots stomped inside, then stopped, and a grease-stained tool bag toppled to the floor.

He saw the cans first—three of them, silver-tinted—littered throughout the cramped living room. A fourth one dangled from Dinah’s manicured left hand. The aluminum pressed against the silver wedding ring he bought her four years ago. Straightened white-blonde hair shifted over her shoulder as she leaned against the sofa.

Amid lopsided stacks of magazines and unfolded laundry, their six-year-old daughter, Keilah, sat rigidly still, arms clenched at her side. A lumpy plastic backpack slumped next to her converse.

“Keilah, Keilah, look—” Dinah pointed at the door, then draped her arm around Keilah’s shoulders.

Flinching at the full force of her mom’s repugnant breath, Keilah kept her wide blue eyes planted on the TV.

Dinah leaned closer. “Dad’s back early.”

Early, sure, if you ignored the 20-minute delay traffic had caused him.

“Hey, kiddo.” Aaron walked over to Keilah. “You ready?”

Her eyes brightened. With a click of the remote, she silenced the TV. Small hands dragged the backpack into her lap.

“Wait, what—what?” Dinah’s words tripped over each other, her volume abruptly escalating. She wobbled forward a step, her leg knocking against the end of the coffee table. Liquid sloshed inside the can she held. “I don’t want to.”

“We’re all going.” Aaron slung the plastic backpack over his shoulder. “Right, Keilah?”

A smile, timid, quiet, hesitated on Keilah’s lips. Blue eyes turned to Dinah. “Yeah, an adventure, Mommy, remember?”

“Right, kid, some adventure. It’s your grandparents, not Disney World,” Dinah lifted the beer can to her lips.

Aaron sighed. He nudged Keilah’s shoulder. “Go grab Mom’s things, okay?”

“No, Keilah.” Dinah’s swift fingers jerked her back down. “You stay right here.”

“Dinah!” Unclenching his fists, Aaron forced his volume back down. “You agreed.”

Lurching forward, Dinah jabbed her painted finger into his chest. She stared at her finger, then dragged her eyes up to his face. Her lips twitched. “Guess what? I didn’t even pack.” A short laugh burst from her.

“Hysterical.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’ll have 13 hours in the car to sleep it off.” He yanked the can from her. Beer spilled over one side.

“Leave me alone!” Dinah screamed. She blinked twice, then threw herself down onto the couch. Her bare feet kicked bills and a half-empty beer can off the coffee table. The sticky brown liquid crawled across the table and dribbled onto the carpet. She clicked the TV back on.

Aaron hurled the beer can into the trash can. His eyes turned from his drunk wife to the trembling girl squished next to her. “Keilah, sweetheart, let’s go.”

“Keilah wants to stay with Mommy.” Dinah jabbed an elbow in her side. “Right?”

Aaron grit his teeth. He fingered the backpack strap on his shoulder. “Wait in the car.”

Head bent, arms folded tight across her teal shirt, Keilah slipped out the door.

Snatching the remote, turning off the TV, and pointing the remote at Dinah, Aaron shook his head. “You said you wouldn’t get drunk, this time.”

“Meanie.” She leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes.

“Whatever.” He hurled the remote across the room, then lifted up both hands. “Stay if you want.” Kicking aside his tool bag, Aaron stomped out the room and down the hall.

He slid into his truck. Socked feat balanced on the dashboard, Keilah sat in the front seat.

Shoving her backpack down by her seat, Aaron grinned and flicked the tip of her nose. “You ready for New Mexico?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Ready!”

They split a stick of cinnamon gum and set off. The battered truck rattled away from the apartment and onto the highway. Green city signs flashed by. The speedometer creeped high and higher, stretching the miles between the speeding truck and the trashed apartment.

A Sonic dinner of shakes and onion rings and three bathroom breaks later, Keilah finally slumped against the window, eyes closed in sleep. She shifted, pale blonde hair slipping down, strand by strand, to tangle across her face.

Aaron tucked her hair back, away from her closed eyes.

She looked like Dinah. Always had.

2:37 a.m. and miles to go. Aaron’s hands twitched on the steering wheel. The last of the cinnamon gum lay in crumpled wrappers on the floor. Next gas station, he’d pull over.

Twenty minutes later, he propped his shoulder against the brightly lit 7-Eleven window and watched rain leak from the dark sky and slide off the overhang. He fingered the thin white cigarette—still unlit—shoved between his teeth. He’d tried to quit—off and on, ever since a heavyset nurse placed that tiny bundle of fuzzy blonde hair and dimples in his arms.

He could see his girl now, through the rain-streaked window of his truck. Keilah lay, curled up on her side, the way black rolly pollies do when poked.

He’d bought that truck himself, a month into his senior year of high school. The day after graduation, the battered truck rattled out of his parent’s driveway. Aaron drove away from home with three one-hundred-dollar bills folded in his back pocket and his 7-month girlfriend, Dinah Muntz, leaning against the window of the passenger seat.

He hadn’t minded the silver cans then, nor she the smoke trailing from his ever-present cigarette.

But that was before Keilah.

Aaron raked his fingers through his dark hair. They needed help. Time to figure things out, without hurting Keilah even more.

With a groan, Aaron ripped the cigarette from his mouth and chucked it to the floor. The heel of his work boot ground it into the concrete.

Striding across the parking lot, Aaron jerked opened the door. Rain slashed down his white t-shirt. He tucked the pack of cigarettes under his seat. With calloused, grease-smudged hands, he tugged the fuzzy purple blanket back over Keilah.

The old pick-up truck shuddered back onto the road. Water droplets flung violently against the windows. Aaron sighed—a deep, rattling sound—and tore open a new pack of gum. Going seventy miles an hour under the rain-soaked, star-scattered sky daughter and dad drifted closer to New Mexico.

By 6:23 a.m. blue sky stretched magnificently, touching every corner of the sun-burnt desert sand. An orange-yellow “Welcome to New Mexico” sign stretching across the road. He nudged Keilah’s side.

Her eyes blinked open. She smiled, a sleepy, drowsy lift of her lips. “Daddy?”

He lazily draped one arm over the steering wheel. “Guess where we are.”

Keilah inhaled sharply. She wiggled in her seat. “We’re here!”

“In New Mexico, yes. We’ll get to Grandma’s in a few hours.”

Around lunchtime, he turned onto Montero road. He’d grown up here, in a neighborhood where Spanish and English were interchangeable, where kids scrawled on the sidewalk with neon chalk, where his dad, Michael, would trot from house to house, knocking and beaming and chattering away. Every single Saturday, with a smile, a worn leather Bible, and a fistful of tracks.

He turned the engine off. With a squeal, Keilah jumped out, socked feet and all, and ran to the old familiar yellow front door wreathed with dried red chile peppers.

Slowly, Aaron scooped up her discarded neon pink converse. Slowly, he shoved the fuzzy blanket inside the backpack. Slowly, he stepped out of the car onto New Mexico soil.

The front door swung open and out stepped Cynthia, the same ketchup-stained apron tied tight around her curved waist. Keilah flung her arms around her grandma.

Aaron trudged over to them. “Hey, Mom.” He smiled, but kept his eyes on Keilah’s disheveled blond hair.

Cynthia flung flour-dusted hands around him, sandwiching Keilah between them. She herded them into the small house, then looked at the truck. “Where’s Dinah?”

“She changed her mind last minute.” Aaron shrugged, but finally met her eyes.

“Oh, okay.” Cynthia sighed.

They crowded into the tidy living room. Bible verses calligraphed the cream-colored walls. Framed family pictures hung in the same neat row. Nothing ever changed.

Down the hall, a door slammed. “Where’s my sweet possum?” roared the 6’4’’ heavyset man who burst into the living room. His hair was a bit grayer and thinner; his waistline an inch or two thicker, but his arms were open and outstretched.

Keilah peeled away from Cynthia and ran over to him. Michael scooped her up and tickled her face with his scraggly beard. She wiggled in his arms, laughing.

“It’s official, Dad. Your beard has more hair than your head.” Aaron dropped Keilah’s backpack and shoes.

“Ah, yes, my first born. Good to see you, son.”

“I’m your only born.”

Cynthia patted his arm. “The enchiladas’ll be ready soon.” She led Keilah to the kitchen.

Slanting his shoulder against the wall, Michael asked, “Dinah decided not to come?”

“Yep.” Aaron rubbed his hands over his sleep-deprived eyes.

“Shame. We haven’t seen her in…well, how’re you doin’?”

“Great.” Yanking off his shoe, Aaron spat out the word again, “Just great.”

“You look beat, son. Get some rest.” Michael clamped a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “I’ll go check on the girls.”

Aaron sighed, slumped onto the couch and hung his jean-clad legs off the end. Spicy enchilada smell drifted from the kitchen, along with Keilah’s high-pitch giggle and Michael’s low chuckle. Aaron shoved an embroidered throw pillow over his face. The exhaustion from the long drive after a full week of work pressed down on him.

Hours later his ringtone jolted him awake. “Hello?” He groaned, muscles sore from sleeping on the 20-year-old couch.

He heard Dinah’s voice, quiet, timid, whisper his name. She was crying.

Aaron hung up.

He knew she’d call—like she always did—once a few hours of sleep had worn off her drunken daze. But daylight apologies meant nothing after a night like last night.

At the back of the house, the screen door clanged shut. Someone tromped down the hall, then rummaged around in the kitchen. Michael poked his head into the living room.

“You were out for hours.” Hanging Aaron a vanilla coke and a plate with two over-sized enchiladas, Michael settled into his mustard yellow recliner. “Feel any better?”

“Yeah.” Aaron ate, half-listening as Michael attempted small talk. Then he set down his empty plate and asked, “Where’s Keilah?”

“Outside with your mom. We’ve been hunting up some worms for tomorrow’s fishing trip. The count so far is five earthworms.”

“Earthworms, huh?” A grin flashed across Aaron’s face, but faded just as quickly. He fingered his phone, then slid it into his pocket. “Can I ask you something?”

Michael leaned back. “About earthworms?”

“No, it’s a bit messier than that.” Aaron pushed his fingers through his dark hair. “Everything has been getting worse. With Dinah. I hate it, but nothing changes.”

Michael nodded quietly.

“Yesterday was rough. And we’re hurting Keilah, you know. That’s the problem.”

“Have you talked to the pastor I told you about? Pastor Ramon?”

“Dinah and I already barely talk. Bringing some stranger in won’t help. Dinah’d hate it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “We just, Dinah and I, need time or something, to work things out.” Aaron clenched and unclenched his hands. His eyes fell on the plastic school backpack by the couch. Somewhere outside, hands sunk in New Mexico red dirt, Keilah played with her grandma. Not worrying. Not hurting. Not scared.

“I’ve been thinking.” Aaron closed his eyes. The words he was about to say seemed to tear from him, through him, carving a hole inside him. “Could Keilah stay here? Just for a few weeks.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s what’s best for her, isn’t it? We could tell her it’s a special summer vacation.” He heaved a sigh, his eyes catching on the worn Bible on the coffee table. His mouth twitched in a sad attempt to smile. “Still praying for us?”

Michael leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Every day. You know that, son.”

Standing, Aaron pulled his shoes on. “I’m driving back tonight. I’ll explain to Keilah.” “Tonight? At least until tomorrow.”

“Dinah needs me now.”

Michael struggled to his feet. “Cynthia’ll worry, but she’ll understand.”

“Tell her I’ll bring Dinah with me in a few weeks—when I come for Keilah.” Aaron looked at the familiar Bible, at the verses on the walls, at Michael’s earnest eyes. When a man prayed, when he cried, like Michael did, then wherever God was He had to have heard.

Aaron met his Dad’s blue eyes. “Don’t stop praying, Dad.”

That night, alone in his pickup, Aaron drove home. He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn on music. He stared out his smudged windows. Eyes on the Texas license plate of the silver Lincoln in front of him.

Somewhere inside, under the tightening noose of worry, away from the ache of regret, somewhere through it all, he turned his thoughts to the God of his dad, the God of wrinkled Bible pages and rough folded workman hands.

The next day, Aaron pulled in front of his apartment. He turned off the engine. His fingers reached under his seat. He chucked the package, rattling with 19 cigarettes, onto the swollen trash bag next to the curb.

He shook out his hands, inhaled deeply, and walked inside. Heart pounding, he knocked on his front door.

***I hope you enjoyed reading my short story about family. I’d appreciate hearing your thoughts on my story.***

Mountains to Climb

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In life, we all have mountains we must climb, but it is up to us whether or not we conquer them and get to the view.

I grew up in the crowded valley of La Molina, Lima, Peru. My childhood home was built on a rocky mountainside. My dad would guide us four kids up the mountain (ok, some may call it a hill, but for a kid it was a full-fledged mountain). Then together we’d climb up the string of mountains slanting around the valley. I remember one time we went far enough to turn around and watch as the distant sun slanted into the ocean stirring against the horizon.

Two Saturdays ago, two of my cousins, my sister, and I decided to climb up the mountain again. We began by spending half an hour trailing through nearby neighborhoods, searching for a suitable empty lot that led up the mountainside. At last we found one.

We climbed together up the mountainside and we kept climbing, next to barb wire fences and over crumbling rocky ground. A stray dog tailed us, and cacti spiked around us, but we kept climbing until we stood on the mountaintop and brush our fingertips against the gray Peruvian sky. Below us lay white boxy houses measured with green tufts of trees.

We were not high enough to see the ocean, but we were high enough to see the world. 

I love that feeling of looking up and seeing nothing but sky. The world lies beneath you, like it does when you lean against the window in an airplane and watch the houses and cars and people shrink into boxed off shapes of greens and browns. Up there in the sky, you find clarity. It’s hard to worry about the little things of life once you see how little they actually are.

If you have a mountain to climb, or maybe one you’ve been climbing, don’t tire of the seemingly endless hike. It may be hard, but once you get to the top, it’ll be worth it. One of my favorite verses is found in Isaiah 40:31.

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

When we wait on God, He renews our strength and He gives us the wings to fly, swift and sure as eagles do. So the next time you have a mountain to climb, whether it be financial debt or academic struggles, emotional hurdles or fears that overwhelm your heart, look to the One who made the mountains. Ask Him for strength and He will renew your heart. Ask Him for wisdom and He will fill your soul with peace and understanding.

Then climb your mountain, all the way to the top, until there is nothing but sky above, and the world is beneath your feet.

Push Your Limits

Push Your Limits

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My body knocked against the door, pushing it open. I stepped inside and at once the tired (more like TIRED) hit me. Ripples of exhaustion worked down my arms and legs. I hadn’t felt the ache until after I’d decided I was done, after I had gone back home, and stopped long enough to realize how worn out I was.

I had almost backed out two hours before. I hadn’t done anything all day and by the time 6 p.m. rolled around, I didn’t feel like changing that. I hadn’t felt like going, but I did. And once I was there, I pushed my limits. The hour of Aero Silks, which involved climbing and spinning and stretching—and, yeah some screaming—made me feel utterly exhausted and completely alive.

During last semester, my two closest friends had challenged me to try Aero Silk. In Peru we call it telas. I’d never been interested in climbing the stretchy neon green strip of fabric tied up in their backyard, but after reading books like Love Does by Bob Goff and Young and Beardless by John Luke Robertson, we had all decided to stop dreaming and start doing. Our ‘doing’ began simply enough: challenge ourselves and each other to try new and different things during our Christmas break.

So now here I was, a girl whose workout level is usually negative, but now my arms ached, joints in my fingers ached (how does that even happen?), and everything felt sore. What was the point? Why did I get out of bed, turn of the TV, and push my limits? Why bother doing hard things or trying new things when we know we’ll fail?

We try because we learn from failing. We grow when we stretch ourselves outside of our sweet little comfort zone. We succeed when we push our limits.

How can you push past your limits today? Why don’t you bike somewhere different? Or use Duolingo to learn a new language. Read a book you wouldn’t usually pick up—something beyond your favorite genre.

PUSH YOUR LIMITS—and do something great.

 

Mr. Collins vs. Mr. Darcy

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Mr. Collins vs. Mr. Darcy? You’re kidding, right? How is that even a competition? I’d like to believe I am not exaggerating when I assume that most people who have encountered Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice love Darcy and love to hate Collins. Why is this so? What’s the big difference between these two eligible bachelors? Both of them propose unexpectedly to Elizabeth Bennet, Pride and Prejudice‘s witty main character. And guess what? She rejects both of them, initially at least.

Here’s a quick outline of Darcy vs. Collins in what they READ, WRITE, and SAY.

Read: Oh sure, Collins looooves to read. Why else would he settle in Mr. Bennet’s private library and crack open the biggest book? Unfortunately for Mr. Bennet, Collins mostly ignores his book and chatters away without stopping until he gets the chance to abandon his book. On the other hand, Darcy actually does read, quietly and attentively, even in the presence of friends and a certain determined female who wishes to distract him. Caroline Bingley may try, but Darcy’s eyes are only on his books, though they may stray once or twice to the fiery dark-eyed beauty across the room.
Write: Austen introduces Collins to the Bennets and her readers with a letter full of empty words, repetitive apologies, and flattery. He brags about how humble he is “to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh” (Jane Austen, Her Complete Novels, pg. 207). Darcy’s letters completely oppose Collin’s manner of presenting himself. Darcy may come across as rude, but he refuses to change his behavior only to please those around him. In his letters, his apologies are genuine, his words respectful, but brutally honest.
Say: When Collins shows Elizabeth around Rosings Park, “every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind” (Austen, pg. 251). The many, many, many words he says show his shallow, self-absorbed nature. Full of flowery apologies and not-so-subtle insults, Collins’s speech habits reveal his true self. Darcy is stubborn. He knows what he thinks and he does not shy away from revealing his true opinion. At Rosings Park, Darcy remarks that of him and Elizabeth “we neither of us perform to strangers” (Austen, pg. 260). Collins’s expertise lies in performing constantly for those around him. By the end of the novel, Elizabeth teaches Darcy how to maintain his honest opinion while acting like a conscientious gentleman.

Collins and Darcy show their differences in their reading habits (or lack thereof), in the letters they write, and the words they say (or don’t say).

Collins embarrasses and offends others with his overly polite words. Though the society looked down on Darcy when he refused to mask his disdain and disapproval, Darcy’s honesty, sense of humor, and even his stubborness perfectly compliment the novel’s witty protagonist. Darcy’s strength of character is further demonstrated through the flaws and weaknesses of Collins.

Make Words Come Alive

[image error]Words come alive every time I open a book.

Maybe not every time.  Let’s be honest. Some books draaaaaag. Words cling lifeless and limp to the pages. My brain strains to uncover some meaning in the jumble of sentences.

And sometimes…nope. Nothing there.

Shouldn’t words explode from the page in brilliant streaks of beauty and imagination? Writers must dream, write, and majorly rewrite for their idea to become reality and for their readers to become the characters.

Markus Zusak masters words in The Book Thief. Bold, brave, unforgettable words burst across the pages. Instead of distracting the reader from the story or weighing down the page, his words propel the story along. How does he do this? How can we write words that come alive? What obvious mistakes do we make as writers?

3 Secrets to Make Your Words Come Alive


Be Specific:

Details Matter. It’s your story, so don’t be vague or general. You should know exactly what you have to say, then have fun saying it. Don’t shy away from specifics. Instead embrace details and weave them into your story.

Don’t say: Dinah fell onto the couch and turned the TV on again.                            Instead elaborate: Dinah blinked twice, then threw herself down onto the couch. Her bare feet kicked bills and a half-empty coke can off the coffee table. The sticky brown liquid crawled across the table and dribbled onto the carpet. She clicked the TV back on.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Our job as writers is to give the readers details that matter, specific facts that will leave no doubt in their mind. These details must move the story forward. Look through your manuscript or short story and highlight vague, general words that don’t tell the reader something specific and important. Rewrite those sentences and words with specific, necessary details.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Turn gray into graphite or charcoal. Turn gum into half a stick of cinnamon gum. The reader needs these details or they’ll never encounter the story that vivid and complex in your imagination.

Be Confident:

Your words shouldn’t hint at an image, but should paint your reader’s mind with brilliant strokes of a crimson and sage and cerulean.  Approach your story with the confidence that comes from rewriting and editing. Explore beyond the obvious choice, beyond the overused words that come easily to you. Take risks.                                                                                                                                                                                Often weak, meaningless words like just, so, and really threaten to bog down my sentences. While writing my rough draft,  I often unintentionally lean on these words and use them as a crutch. Instead of searching out a more fitting, suitable word, I settle for a weak substitute.

But for words to come alive, I must be confident in my word choice and find the strongest alternative. For example, learn to replace very pretty with words such as alluring, attractive, enchanting, etc.

Root out other sneaky crutch words that infiltrate your writing. Eliminate the weaker words and chose fitting, expressive, specific words that will allow you to tell your story with confidence.

Be Creative:

Water fell from the pipes.

Anyone could write that sentence above, even a robot. You are not a robot! You are a unique, creative storyteller. Your story should stand apart from all other stories. Be deliberate and creative. Let your style shine through every phrase and word choice.

In the sentence above, consider whether the water refers to droplets of rain or to a muddied sludge? Describe how the water falls. Does the water drip or trickle or slip? When you write your own story, be creative with your sentences. Branch out from the obvious.

Play around with the words. Hear the sounds of each word and how they fit together in a sentence. Use words that create certain sounds in the reader’s mind. Use onomatopoeia: words that sound like what they mean, such as clack, clatter, or creak. Be creative and have fun.

 

So…

What do you think of these three tips for making words come alive? Do you have any ideas or suggestions for future blog posts? I’d love to hear from you. Happy Writing!