Language
I have had numerous comments on the language of my novels. Yes, I use some less familiar words here and there; no, I do not use those words to impress the reader with my extensive vocabulary. I'm not a pedant, but rather a writer for maximum effect.
I select a particular word for a particular function, depending on a number of factors: (1) the primary meaning--that seems obvious enough, (2) the word's secondary meaning or meanings, derivation, connotations, or similarity to some other suggested or associated word, (3) the sound of the word in terms of phonemes and their attendant symbolic or musical value, (4) the cadence of the word in its syllabic stress.
The selection of a specific word is not really a conscious intellectual effort for me. Rather, I tend to select a particular word for use in a particular context because it just "sounds" right to me in that particular place in the text. It is only afterward--after the sentence or paragraph is complete to my repeated satisfaction--repeated, that is, after multiple readings at various intervals--that I often go back to analyze just why I chose that particular word. The writing process is largely a subliminal one, in which the language flows automatically in a way. Not always perfectly, I'll admit, but some of the best writing I do is more or less spontaneous. Whether my ear is tuned to that of the reader is a subjective question requiring a subjective answer that I neither can nor should provide. All I can say is that I write prose that "sounds" sufficiently musical, emotive, and rhythmic to my inner ear. I can't really write for a reader I don't know, so I simply have to write what pleases me. If the reader connects, so much the better; if not, I at least try to make the story itself good enough to be an adequate reward.
Let me give a couple of rather random examples of what I consider felicitous word selection. In Flocking, Pg 4 PP 3, in describing Jeremy's first vision of Marcy after seven years of absence, when at first he isn't absolutely certain of her identity, he is reminded of the girl he once knew by some indefinite 'something' about her presence there, though that presence is seen from a considerable distance. I describe it thus:
"... there shone into his disbelieving gaze those shaggy-lidded eyes of fondest memory; Not blue for certain-sure at this deceptive distance and perspective, but likely blue, promissory of blue...."
Now to me, at least, the passage has a certain satisfying cadence. If you can hear it, well and good--your ears are tuned to mine; if not, try this: Try removing the hyphenated '-sure' and reading it in comparison with the original; or, try substituting 'eyelids' for 'eyes', or 'great' for 'deceptive'. Can you see how the cadence is broken, almost as though a perfect iambic pentameter had the monkey-wrench of a couple of anapests thrown in? You can? Terrific! You can't--still OK--pay attention to the third-from-last word. Jeremy couldn't tell for certain (-sure) that the unknown female's eyes were blue--But they seemed to be; there was some indefinite something about them that suggested they might likely be. And since he probably very strongly wanted them to be, for identification's sake, for reminiscence sake, the word 'promissory' captures all of that--his hope, his uncertainty, and the beauty that he hopes he will discover when the girl's identity comes clear. For the word itself is beautiful of sound--the liquid parallel 'r''s, the sibillants separating them . I think it's a beautiful and apt word in a perfect place, and, since I need ultimately please no one but myself, it does its job just fine.
Let me give you another example. This one's from Adam's WIll, my first novel. In describing the dying old man awakening to the day of his death, I first say (Ch. 1, PP 1):
"When he awoke, it was summer." That's the line to grab the reader. I next give a poetic little description of why it feels like summer, then clarify in PP 2:
"Not that he had come to bed in any other season. No, the evening before had been summer, indisputably, warm and no less verdant. But he had slept long and fast, and what was odd now was not that it was summer, but that he had awakened to it, very late, in mid-morning, to full and ripening day, identifiable as to time of year. It was that he found exceptional on this last morning of his life."
Here you have the pretty cadence once more. Try and shift some words around, or substitute a mono-syllabic word for a bi-, or a bi-for a tri-, and you'll find the cadence breaks again, just as it did in the selection above. Each word has been specifically selected for its sound and rhythm and associative meanings. Honestly, I could write a chapter about the writing of that paragraph--or really about virtually any of the descriptive paragraphs in any of my books. But if you can't hear the poetry, the chapter would be of little use; if you CAN hear it, the explanatory chapter would be of no use at all--how much better it is to feel a sensation than to have it explained! No matter if you don't hear or feel a thing: The story is compelling, and the characters emerge as real flesh and blood. Which, all on their own, make the time spent with the novel worth it all.
Personally, I love the sound of musical and rhythmic prose, and I put the extra time in to give myself the great reward of producing it. If the reader 'gets' it, I've communed with a kindred spirit. If not, at least he's read an interesting tale.
I select a particular word for a particular function, depending on a number of factors: (1) the primary meaning--that seems obvious enough, (2) the word's secondary meaning or meanings, derivation, connotations, or similarity to some other suggested or associated word, (3) the sound of the word in terms of phonemes and their attendant symbolic or musical value, (4) the cadence of the word in its syllabic stress.
The selection of a specific word is not really a conscious intellectual effort for me. Rather, I tend to select a particular word for use in a particular context because it just "sounds" right to me in that particular place in the text. It is only afterward--after the sentence or paragraph is complete to my repeated satisfaction--repeated, that is, after multiple readings at various intervals--that I often go back to analyze just why I chose that particular word. The writing process is largely a subliminal one, in which the language flows automatically in a way. Not always perfectly, I'll admit, but some of the best writing I do is more or less spontaneous. Whether my ear is tuned to that of the reader is a subjective question requiring a subjective answer that I neither can nor should provide. All I can say is that I write prose that "sounds" sufficiently musical, emotive, and rhythmic to my inner ear. I can't really write for a reader I don't know, so I simply have to write what pleases me. If the reader connects, so much the better; if not, I at least try to make the story itself good enough to be an adequate reward.
Let me give a couple of rather random examples of what I consider felicitous word selection. In Flocking, Pg 4 PP 3, in describing Jeremy's first vision of Marcy after seven years of absence, when at first he isn't absolutely certain of her identity, he is reminded of the girl he once knew by some indefinite 'something' about her presence there, though that presence is seen from a considerable distance. I describe it thus:
"... there shone into his disbelieving gaze those shaggy-lidded eyes of fondest memory; Not blue for certain-sure at this deceptive distance and perspective, but likely blue, promissory of blue...."
Now to me, at least, the passage has a certain satisfying cadence. If you can hear it, well and good--your ears are tuned to mine; if not, try this: Try removing the hyphenated '-sure' and reading it in comparison with the original; or, try substituting 'eyelids' for 'eyes', or 'great' for 'deceptive'. Can you see how the cadence is broken, almost as though a perfect iambic pentameter had the monkey-wrench of a couple of anapests thrown in? You can? Terrific! You can't--still OK--pay attention to the third-from-last word. Jeremy couldn't tell for certain (-sure) that the unknown female's eyes were blue--But they seemed to be; there was some indefinite something about them that suggested they might likely be. And since he probably very strongly wanted them to be, for identification's sake, for reminiscence sake, the word 'promissory' captures all of that--his hope, his uncertainty, and the beauty that he hopes he will discover when the girl's identity comes clear. For the word itself is beautiful of sound--the liquid parallel 'r''s, the sibillants separating them . I think it's a beautiful and apt word in a perfect place, and, since I need ultimately please no one but myself, it does its job just fine.
Let me give you another example. This one's from Adam's WIll, my first novel. In describing the dying old man awakening to the day of his death, I first say (Ch. 1, PP 1):
"When he awoke, it was summer." That's the line to grab the reader. I next give a poetic little description of why it feels like summer, then clarify in PP 2:
"Not that he had come to bed in any other season. No, the evening before had been summer, indisputably, warm and no less verdant. But he had slept long and fast, and what was odd now was not that it was summer, but that he had awakened to it, very late, in mid-morning, to full and ripening day, identifiable as to time of year. It was that he found exceptional on this last morning of his life."
Here you have the pretty cadence once more. Try and shift some words around, or substitute a mono-syllabic word for a bi-, or a bi-for a tri-, and you'll find the cadence breaks again, just as it did in the selection above. Each word has been specifically selected for its sound and rhythm and associative meanings. Honestly, I could write a chapter about the writing of that paragraph--or really about virtually any of the descriptive paragraphs in any of my books. But if you can't hear the poetry, the chapter would be of little use; if you CAN hear it, the explanatory chapter would be of no use at all--how much better it is to feel a sensation than to have it explained! No matter if you don't hear or feel a thing: The story is compelling, and the characters emerge as real flesh and blood. Which, all on their own, make the time spent with the novel worth it all.
Personally, I love the sound of musical and rhythmic prose, and I put the extra time in to give myself the great reward of producing it. If the reader 'gets' it, I've communed with a kindred spirit. If not, at least he's read an interesting tale.
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