How Not to Write a Novel: 200 Classic Mistakes and How to Avoid Them—A Misstep-by-Misstep Guide

by Howard Mittelmark

The language of the psychiatric assessment is mixed with that of the tax form in a heady brew of four-syllable words meaning “nice.” The author’s long struggle to master the stilted, deracinated language of officialdom has left him believing that writing must be flat and lifeless to be smart. Especially indigestible is the version in which said language is employed with an intrepid disregard for its actual meaning (see “The Crepuscular Handbag,” chapter 8).

Some writers are convinced that since great modern authors like Joyce and Faulkner are difficult to understand, writing that is difficult to understand is therefore great writing. This is a form of magical thinking, analogous to the belief that the warrior who dons the pelt of a lion thereby acquires its strength and cunning.

Irony as a word and a concept has been so thoroughly stretched and abused by writers published and unpublished that it is now virtually meaningless, routinely applied to any situation in which one thing bears some relation to another thing. Try it…it’s fun! Ironically, the pope actually was Catholic. Ironically, the bear passed up all the other pastries and chose the bearclaw. “Ironically” can often be replaced with “Wow,” or “Dude, check this out!” with no change in meaning.