X#%&*@$! (Profanity)

I made a vow to stop cussing when I was 23 years old—not sure why. I hadn’t become a christian at that point—didn’t carry any conscious guilt feelings—certainly had no peer pressure—and I was pretty good at it. I suppose it seemed unnecessary to me. I was reading more at that time and becoming more engaged with words (raise your had if you ever had a new-word-of-the-day tear off calendar). We used swear words so generally—could fit them into almost any sentence. I kept the vow pretty well—it wasn’t that hard. (Yes, I’m sure I’ve cussed since I was 23, but very rarely—don’t be a Pharisee!)

When I wrote the rough draft of my first novel, The Whole Nine Yards, my protagonist Storm Russell had a very foul mouth. I thought that was the way teenagers, especially boys trying to be cool, talked. I wanted realism. My sister, a junior high librarian, advised me to cut it down. When my publisher at Dell said they wanted to buy it, he told me to cut it out almost entirely. His reasoning: “Why would you want to keep your book out of high school libraries?” Here’s the thing: when I made the cuts, it didn’t affect Storm’s personality at all—it just made him a little more likeable. (And I wanted you to like him—he was me, for goodness’ sake!)

That same sister who advised me to cut, along with her husband, subscribed to the theory that words were words—neutral—and that whatever value you attached to them was due to your own neuroses—hang-ups. So on a visit, he would hold up my six-month-old daughter and say, “Hello, you little fucker, how you doing today?” I would swallow my tongue as I felt my wife’s psychic energy meter go bonkers.

My wife, on the other hand, only cusses when she is angry. Extremely. It is her signal. I could probably count on one hand the times she has cussed at me—and it wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn she has never cussed at anyone else. It wasn’t fun.

So you can see where I am going with this. This is my thesis: (I’m not supposed to say that, am I?) Profanity almost always casts a negative vibe on the room. Subtle, miniscule, unnoticed—but negative. Like my publisher said: Better left out.

Don’t misunderstand: I don’t think there is anything more wrong with profanity than potty humor than puking than farting. Not evil—I guess I can be accused of my own prejudice here—just unappealing.

I played golf with one of my friends the other day—a really good guy. This man brings a box of dog biscuits to the course with him every time he plays (our course is lined by backyards). The dogs wait for him with joy. Then he hits a terrible shot on #13 and unleashes a stream of invective aimed particularly at the Father and the Son. It was so discordant—shook me up a little.

So if you are reading this and it is ringing any bells, ask yourself why you cuss. I will issue a challenge: take the vow for one day (a twenty-four hour period). Was there any appreciable difference in the tone of your day? Was it hard to do? I’d love to know.

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