Don’t Worry About the Words

They’re just not all that important.*

I’m in a mood to commit writer heresy today. So here it is:

I don’t really care about the words.

Let me repeat that: I don’t care about the words. On an individual level they really don’t matter to me. Neither does the punctuation. Even the meaning is negotiable, at least at the sentence level and paragraph level.

What I care about is the story. It doesn’t matter to the story whether something is ebon or charcoal or plain old black. Any of those or none of those might serve depending on the surrounding words, the tone, and what I want the reader to take away from the story. Even then it’s not a fixed value.

When I first write the sentence containing the word meaning (black) I could use any one of dozens of words, depending on what tastes right, or nearly right, in the moment. If I really cared about the word as a unit, this is a point where I might end up slowed down or even stopped for a long time while I found the exact right word. But knowing that it’s the story that matters, not the specific word, I can just go ahead and drop in something that approximates what I need and move on.

Sometimes the initial choice is the word that I end up using. Sometimes it gets changed on the second pass, where I move through as a reader and try to make the whole thing feel smooth. Sometime the word goes away along with the sentence or paragraph that holds it as I realize that (black) would be better placed earlier or later, or implied, or that the reader doesn’t need to know, or that (blue) would serve the story better.

It’s not until my very last polish pass before sending something out that I start to get nitpicky about the words. Even then I don’t really sweat the details too much. I have been at this for a while and I know that nothing is final until it has gone to press, and even then there might be later editions.

My agent might ask for changes. My editor might ask for changes. I might write a sequel or a related piece before the original is published, and that might necessitate changes. I might put it aside for a time and come back and make changes.

All of those changes will affect the words, shifting meaning, nudging flow, altering tone, restructuring scene and paragraph and sentence.

I don’t really care about the words.

I care about the story.

2013 update (adding in material from my comments on the original post):

1) For me looking at the words is all about story, not about phrasing. Attention paid to the words is a side effect.

2) My contention would be that story is the sum of words at the aggregate level and that too many writers spend too much time worrying about words on the individual level, focusing on making a specific sentence work exactly right rather than focusing on how groups of sentences go together to convey information.

I write poetry as well as novels, and for poetry I care about the individual words in a way that I don’t at novel length. The process of writing poetry is fundamentally different for me. It’s much harder and orders of magnitude more time consuming, because with poetry I’m looking at things at the individual word level as opposed to the paragraph or scene level.

With a novel I can usually find a half dozen ways to convey a bit of information any of which is roughly as good (in my eyes) as any other.

3) Here’s another way to look at it. Write a novel in German. Get three really good translators, one English, one American, one Australian. Have them all translate the original novel into English. There will be significant differences in the words from translation to translation, but the fundamentals of the story should come out reasonably close. That core story is what I really care about.

4) Don’t get married to one particular word or phrase.

Books aren’t static creations, not until the very last instant before going to press. Writing is a dynamic process and losing sight of that is a good way to tie an anchor around your ankle.

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*Your results may vary. All normal restrictions apply. Caveat emptor. There are a thousand ways and one to write to a book, every one right. Etc. etc. etc.

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog December 18 2008, and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)

Personal Literary Archaeology, Part III

For more explanation see Part I.

Trish was positively thrumming with excitement. In honor of the first World Who Con the science museum was setting up a Dr. Who exhibit. They were going to have all kinds of props and memorabilia from the series. It wouldn’t open for another week, but that was okay. Trish had a friend who worked in the ticket department. Eddie had called her that morning and told her that they were going to be unloading the stuff for the exhibit all day. In honor of the occasion Trish had called in sick to her job at the book store. She was going to spend the whole afternoon out behind the museum hoping to get a glimpse of the Tardis or something equally important. It had been cold and lonely but she was about to get her reward. A crane was lifting the familiar shape of a police box from the back of the big truck. She edged closer to the rail that kept people out of the loading zone. Just then she felt a hand planted firmly against the base of her spine. It propelled her forward with surprising force. Before she could make any attempt to save herself the rail caught her in the thighs and she went over onto her face. There on the ground in front of her was a sticker. It said, “There can be only one!” She had just a second to ponder that before the chain holding the police box overhead let loose and she was smashed to pulp against the unyielding concrete.

This is the last one that got written though there were ultimately supposed to be five.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog December 16 2008, and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)

Friday Cat Blogging

Are you really giving me the wand of power?

CB_1633

Is not wand, is remote!

CB_1631

Because that will make it end well…

CB_1634

Don’t care about channels, but can you change the feets? Dis batch is a little lumpy.

CB_1635

If you give me the power, I promise not to abuse it. Truly, I do!

CB_1632

Personal Literary Archaeology, Part II

For more explanation see Part I.

Erik turned the car’s stereo up a little louder and pushed the gas pedal down hard. This was the last delivery of the night. Once he got rid of this pizza he would be free for three whole days. And what glorious days they would be! The science fiction channel was going to be broadcasting seventy two straight hours of Doctor Who episodes. A bunch of the other fen were going to come to his place and they were going to have a marathon viewing session. Of course there would be times when he would have to go to the bathroom or something, but that was okay, he was going to tape the whole thing. He had a fresh box of video tapes on the seat next to him for that express purpose. He grinned in anticipation and wished the night could be over. As if in answer to his prayers he spotted the address he was looking for. He grabbed the delivery bag and hopped out, pausing only to make sure that the celery on his lapel was at the right angle. You never know when you might meet an attractive femme fen. He was almost to the door when a noise made him turn and look to his left. “Pardon me,” said a deep gravelly voice, “but I think your boutonniere is wilting. Allow me to provide you with a new one.” Then there was a twang and he felt an impact in his chest. He looked down. A green bolt which appeared to be made of frozen celery was sticking out from between his ribs. His strength left him and he slumped to the ground. “Why?” he asked. “There can be only one,” was all the answer he ever got.

To be continued.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

 

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog December 9 2008, and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)

Dumb Things, Mine.

So, I’ve been having trouble getting started in WebMage book 5. It’s moving, but not nearly as fast as I need it to. Anyway, last night I wrote someone shooting Ravirn again, always a jump start moment, though I wasn’t entirely sure who pulled the trigger when I wrote the scene. This morning on the treadmill I came up with what felt like the right answer, though I couldn’t figure out who the prime mover behind the shooter was at first. After a while I had what sounded like a crazy idea that just tasted right even though I didn’t know how I would make it work (call it character X).

So, finally, I’m writing the reveal on the shooter, still unsure why I’d chosen that character and why my brain kept telling me character X had given the orders. At that point, I very consciously split off a chunk of brain to work on that problem while the front systems were writing the actual scene. Just as I get to the sentence where it matters that I know the answer (the reader doesn’t need it for a good couple of chapters) the bit of brain that’s supposed to work on the problem comes back with the reason in a very sarcastic smell the coffee, McCullough you idiot, kind of way.

Turns out that if I’d bothered to go check my $%@*&%#@ outline the answer would have been obvious. Of course it has to be character X. The reasons were already in the master plan. Hell, I even foreshadowed them in books 3 and 4. The important lessons learned here are A) read the %^@$$# outline once in a while, and, B) don’t bang your head on the wall trying to figure something clever out, just write the damned scene and get out of your own way.

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog December 3 2008, and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)

Personal Literary Archaeology

Laura and I were rewatching Season IV of Dr Who last night and it rang a very faint memory bell for me. A little work with Apple’s spotlight search and hey presto I’d dug out the three pieces of a Dr Who themed serial that I’d written for a zine called Pirate Radio Neptune back around the end of 1994, years before my first actual sale. Anyway, I thought I’d post them here as a window into the head of a developing writer. There were supposed to be two more, and some day I might even write them. Here’s the first.

Melvin rubbed at his eyes. Staring into a computer monitor for hours on end could really take it out of you. But, it was well worth it. After thirty two straight hours he had solved the Dalek riddle. Now he would have some real status in the Dr Who MUD. He got up from his desk and put on his world war two surplus trench and the real Dr. Who scarf that his mother had made for him. Then it was down the stairs and out the door. He was going to SA to grab a case of Mountain Dew and some jelly beans. Nothing like caffeine and sugar to pick you up. It was dark out. No surprise. It was close to midnight. He was about half a block from the store when he felt the tug on his scarf. At first he thought that he had caught it on something. By the time he saw the shadowy figure it was too late. Whoever they were they had a firm grip on his scarf. He felt the wool stretch tight across his windpipe. He fought, but his computer-mushroom lifestyle hadn’t prepared him for a death struggle. It was over quickly. The dark figure stood over the body and let out a harsh laugh. Then it bent and took the scarf. “There can be only one!” said the figure.

To be continued.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog , and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)

Memage

This is going around:

Age when I decided I wanted to be a writer: 23
Age when I wrote my first short story: 23
Age when I first got my hands on a good word processor: 23
Age when I first submitted a short story to a magazine: 23
Rejections prior to first short story sale: 90
Age when I sold my first short story: 31
Age when I killed my first market: 31 (my 3rd sale)
Approximate number of short stories sold: ~30 (2013 update: ~35) (it’s complicated)
Age when I first sold a poem: 32
Poems sold: 3
Age when I wrote my first novel: 23
Age when I first sold a novel: 37
Novels written between age 23 and age 37: 7
Age when I wrote the first novel I sold: 32/33
Number of novels written before that: 3
Age when that novel was published: 38
Total number of novels written: 13 (2013 update: 20)
Books sold: 6 (5 novels, 1 short story educational thingie) (2013 update: 13)
Books published or delivered and in the pipeline: 5 (2013 update: 12)
Number of titles in print: 4 (2013 update: 9)
Age when I was a Writers of the Future winner: 33
Age when I became a full-time novelist: 28 (kept man)
Age now: 41 (2013 update: 46)

(Originally published on the Wyrdsmiths blog December 2 2013, and original comments may be found there. Reposted and reedited as part of the reblogging project)