Forty Words for "Looked"

Sandra Parshall

(I'm at that hair-pulling stage again, feverishly working on last-minute changes to a new book for my editor and trying to root out all the overused words that dot the landscape of my novel like stubborn dandelions. This post, which first appeared here in slightly different form back in the earliest days of Poe's Deadly Daughters, remains as sadly appropriate as ever.) 

People who keep track of such things report that the English language has almost one million words. Why, then, do I have so much trouble finding an alternative to “looked”?

Every writer will know what I’m talking about. It’s that broken-record thing your mind does without your conscious awareness. I can write a complete first draft without realizing that I’ve used a vocabulary of 200 words, tops. When I shift into rewrite mode, my inner editor is aghast to discover the same verb two dozen times -- in every chapter. She looked. He looked. They both looked. Again and again and again.

[Pause to bang head on desk.]

Out comes my copy of the Rodale Synonym Finder. Peered? A specialty word to be used sparingly, but great in certain contexts. Peeked? How many adults ever peek? Glanced and stared are easy to abuse, and like looked, they can multiply faster in a manuscript than hangers in a closet.

When I begin a manuscript with the intention of avoiding looked, some other word invariably moves in and takes over. Glared is one of my worst rough draft habits. My characters, always a high-strung lot, glare at each other, at traffic, at stormy skies, at inanimate objects and life in general, all the way through the first draft. I never realize I’m doing this while I’m doing it.

[Pause for more head-banging.]

My only remedy is to read through the first draft and make a list of overused words so I can replace them next time around. I’m dismayed at how little this list varies from one manuscript to the next. [Do you ever learn? Apparently not.]

English sometimes feels like a blunt-force weapon to me, lacking the delicate calibration of other languages. We don’t have marvelous words like Weltschmerz and Schadenfreude and hikikomori to convey complex emotional states. To say the same thing, writers and speakers of English have to string several words into a phrase or an entire sentence. Even angst and macho are borrowed from other languages.

Alaskan Native Americans have forty words for snow, to denote its many states and textures. I have three: snow, the generic white stuff; slush, what the generic white stuff becomes when it lands on warm pavement; and snirt, the dirty mounds of once-white stuff that are created by plows and always seem to last into May.

English may not have forty words for snow, but it has plenty of alternatives to said, and enthusiastic writers try to use all of them. I am no exception. Ironically, though, said is one word that should be allowed to stand in most cases, because our characters become ridiculous when they’re constantly exclaiming, shouting, pleading, crying, whispering, expostulating, etc. Said is believed to be invisible to the reader, regardless of how many times the writer uses it -- unlike, for example, looked and glared. So I often find myself striking some of the alternatives and upping my said total in later drafts. Then my editor tells me to replace most of the dialogue attributions with action.

 

I confess to feeling a mean little spark of glee when I realize that a well-known writer has failed to tame a bad word habit. One bestselling author is addicted to the word coursed. Adrenaline coursed through him. Anger coursed through her. Panic coursed through her. Joy coursed through her. And, of course, desire coursed through him. The author’s books are popular all over the world, which indicates that little or no irritation has coursed through her fans.

Are writers the only people who notice these things? Do they matter at all to readers who are not writers themselves? Maybe not. Maybe a book with incessantly glaring characters would go over well with readers. But as long as my overused words make me want to bang my head on my desk, I’ll continue to keep my list and spend days finding alternatives before I declare a manuscript finished.

"The End" Is Just the Beginning, Part IV of Four: Two writers talk about editing, critique, and craft

Elizabeth Zelvin & Sharon Wildwind

What have you learned about writing since your first book was published?

Sharon: Old habits die hard.

The word “the” should not make up 33% of an entire chapter.

Remove every qualifier (just, almost, nearly, possibly, etc) as a matter of course. Occasionally, you may replace one, but only one, and that’s usually in dialog because it reflects how a character speaks.

There are words for which I lack a gene to spell correctly, ever, under any circumstances.

There’s not enough time or space in my life for people who are rude or stupid when they critique.

If more than one person says something is clunky or doesn’t read right, fix that part, no matter how much you adore it the way it is.

One of the great joys of writing it to pick up a terrific book, say to myself, “I’ve read this before,” but know that can’t be true because it’s just been published, and then realize that I read it in manuscript form. To know I was there at the beginning, before the story went public, is a gift.

Liz: With each book, I internalize more of what I’ve heard about writing fiction since I started talking with—and listening to—other mystery writers. The kind of editing I learned at my mother’s knee is essential to a clean manuscript that reads smoothly. But fiction writing—characterization, plotting, pace, “showing, not telling,” dialogue, backstory, point of view—is a whole different skill set. Crafting a mystery novel is different from crafting a short story. I hardly ever read short stories, and certainly never dreamed I’d write them, until a couple of years ago. It’s not a matter of deliberately following rules to construct these elements of the mystery. I think the information about what’s needed gets assimilated gradually and then bubbles up—either in a new intuitive ability, say, to stick to a point of view or pace an action scene—or in a new ability to see what’s wrong and fix it when you read it over.

What aspect of your craft as a writer are you most proud of?

Sharon: That little click I get in my brain when I know that a heart-breaking scene is right. What makes it even sweeter is when someone later says, “I cried when I read that scene.”

Liz: In my mystery series, I’m very proud of my protagonist Bruce’s voice. I didn’t know if I could create a male character in the first person and make him real, smart, funny, and vulnerable—and nothing like me. To me, going beyond the autobiographical is the hallmark of professionalism in a fiction writer. I’m thrilled that reader feedback indicates I’ve pulled it off.

What’s the hardest part of writing for you?

Liz: The first draft of a novel is a nightmare. I’m telling myself the story, creating a world or community and characters to populate it, and I’m never sure I’ll make it through to the end until I’ve done it. And then I have dreadful doubts about whether I can do it again. It’s a little comforting that I’ve heard highly successful and prolific writers say the same is true for them. Revision is a breeze in comparison—and at that point, I have trusted critiquers to share the burden.

Sharon: It’s like this quote from the mystery writer, Claudia McCants: “What gets in my way when I'm writing? I think the question really is, What doesn't?” On any given day, anything, even things I’ve previously done easily, can be the worst chore in the world. Writing is a matter of keeping your courage up enough to write every day, even when you are convinced that you should have taken up any other occupation.

“The End” Is Just the Beginning, Part III of Four: Two writers talk about editing, critique, and craft

Sharon Wildwind & Elizabeth Zelvin

What has been your experience with critique groups and critique partners?

Sharon: I could write a book on this. Horrible. Really bad. Great. Life-altering wonderful.

The horrible ones are the people who rewrite my story instead of telling me their reactions to it, or the ones who expect pages and pages of critique from everyone in the critique group, but never get around to doing a critique themselves. “I didn’t have time to read anyone’s work, so I made cookies instead.” The really bad are the ones with fixed rules and a condescending attitude. “Really now, dear, anyone past the fourth grade knows that you must use a comma to set off an introductory participle or infinitive phrase unless it immediately preceded, and forms part of, the verb.” Or they focus on some small detail, like the difference between American and Canadian spelling, but never make a single comment about the story itself.

The great ones—where the majority of people I’ve dealt with fall—know that critique is just one step in the process and that, as they say in the car commercials, your mileage might differ. They give a no-holes-barred view of how the material affected them as a reader, and why it affected them that way. They make suggestions and ask questions rather than giving fixed rules. “Between you and me, Chapter 2 could be better. Laurel playing with her hair is driving me to distraction. I wanted to slap her hand and tell her to pay attention to what Jonas was saying. In fact, what would happen if Jonas did slap her hand?”

The life-altering wonderful critique partnership—we need so many more of these—is like that ying-yang symbol. Each partner is ahead of the game in some areas and needs help in the areas where her partner is ahead of the game. Each partner treats the other with respect and humor. I read a wonderful line in a parenting book, “I love you just the way you are, and I love you too much to let you stay that way.”

Liz: I had one successful critique group experience back in the 1970s, when I first wrote poetry. It was a leaderless group of fine poets who were very good at constructive criticism. None of us had a book at that time, but I eventually published two books of poetry with a good small press, and one of the group is now a major poet whose name has become a household word.

I wanted very much to find a mystery critique group, but the online group I joined included an elderly lady who found my subject matter (recovery from alcoholism) “sordid,” so I didn’t last long there. I will add that one of my cherished critique partners and mystery-writer friends is someone I met in that group. As I have come to know many, many fellow mystery writers through networking in MWA and Sisters in Crime, online, and at conferences, I have found a few writers like Sharon whose opinion I respect enormously and who are kind enough to take the time to read and comment on in-progress versions of my novels.

Coming on Thursday July 16: Part IV, on the published writer’s craft

“The End” Is Just the Beginning, Part II of Four: Two writers talk about editing, critique, and craft

Elizabeth Zelvin & Sharon Wildwind

How important are the mechanics of writing: spelling, grammar, syntax?

Sharon: Absolutely, one-hundred percent, ground-zero critical. Poor word-and-sentence-crafting skills are like saying that a concert musician can ignore finger exercises, or a painter doesn’t have to know the differences between acrylics and watercolors. Writers profit by losing the myth that an editor will fix all of that tawdry stuff once the publisher buys a manuscript.

Of the three, spelling without reference and without error is being replaced by an ability to use a spellchecker, but that’s like needing basic arithmetic skills to use a calculator. I may not remember that 6 x 7 = 42, but I need to know that the answer to 6 x 7 falls somewhere between 40 and 50, so that when my calculator misfires and tells me that the answer is 167, my brain goes, “Wait a minute.” It’s the same with spelling. If I have a choice between two closely-spelled words, I have to know which one to choose.

Unfortunately, there aren’t yet any grammar and syntax programs that can be as bang-on as spell checkers. With lots of writers, me included, the banging that goes on is me hitting my head in frustration when the computer, for the 137th time, corrects a grammar usage that I’ve intentionally chosen.

Liz: I was brought up to believe that correct spelling was not optional. I know today that spelling is not necessarily proof of intelligence—or vice versa—but I didn’t learn that from my family. We were all demon Scrabble players. I can still remember my feeling of triumph at the age of nine when I insisted—correctly—that “exhilarating” was spelled with an “a” in the middle, while my mother said it was an “i” and my father voted for “e.” To this day I don’t know if they were just giving me an easy win. My mother always said “It is I” and put “whom” in all the right places. I know where it should be, but I don’t do it in casual conversation. And I don’t mind ending a sentence with a preposition.

Do you have any particular bees in your bonnet about the use of language?

Liz: My pet peeve is the split infinitive. The Star Trek slogan—“to boldly go”—drives me nuts. So does “to better understand.” I don’t know why people think that it’s okay to split the infinitive when the word in the middle is “better.” You can write or speak a perfectly smooth sentence in which you say that you want “to understand [something] better.” Thinking “to better understand” is a better locution is like thinking it’s more aristocratic to stick out your pinky when you hold a teacup—something I’ve read enough Golden Age English novels to know no true aristocrat would do.

Sharon: Carelessness, such as split infinitives. Damn it, Jim, it’s either “to go boldly” or “boldly, to go.”

“Point in time.” The action has either reached a point (a place) or a time (a when), but not both at the same time.

Business jargon. “Uniquely recapitualize leveraged web-readiness vis-a-vis out-of-the-box information,” works fine in a Dilbert cartoon, but has no place in the real world. As an aside, if you run a Macintosh system that uses widgets, download Corporate Ipsum. You can have tons of fun with the business jargon it generates.

My biggest gripe is format.


There, I feel a lot better.

Coming on Tuesday July 14: Part III, on critique groups

"The End" Is Just the Beginning, Part I of Four: Two writers talk about editing, critique, and craft

Sharon Wildwind & Elizabeth Zelvin

Where, when, and how did you first learn about editing?

Liz: I literally learned to edit at my mother’s knee. She graduated from law school in 1924, when it was hard for women lawyers to get a job, and eventually made a niche for herself as a legal writer and editor at a major publisher. She left to raise a family, but went back to work as a home-based freelancer when I was 10. In those days, the publisher would pay extra for the author to create her own index. She would type each index item on, yep, an index card, a white 3x5, and I would alphabetize them for her, laying them out on the dining room table like a deck of cards for solitaire. My mother did a contributed book, an encyclopedia of real estate appraisal (a topic on which she knew nothing when she started), that became a long-term bestseller, paying royalties for decades. She left nothing to chance with the real estate experts who were her contributing authors. She sent each of them a well-planned outline, hounded them to stick to it and turn in their manuscripts on time, and in many cases then rewrote each chapter from scratch.

Sharon: I had one technical writing course back in dim mists of university, and I did business writing for a number of years. That gave me a good grounding in the nuts and bolts. My fiction editing was strictly on-the-job training, exchanging on-line critiques with a number of people. Of course, I have the requisite Strunk and White on my reference shelf, along with both of Karen Elizabeth Gordon’s books—The Well-Tempered Sentence: A Punctuation Handbook for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed and The Transitive Vampire: A Handbook of Grammar for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed—and most recently a second-hand copy of Eats Shoots and Leaves.

At what point do you invite critique on a manuscript?

Sharon: As soon as I get the itch to share. I send out my first chapter, to a select group, as soon as possible. My accompanying questions are “Did the story grab you? If so, on what page? Why or why not? Where do you hope the story is heading?

My husband reads every word of every draft as soon as it comes out of the printer. We’ve agreed that he’ll make general comments, like “This is a funny chapter,” or “There’s not a lot of tension here. You might want to rethink it,” unless I ask him specific questions. Poor man, by the end of the book he can’t remember what’s been included and what dropped, which I suppose is a good thing, because when the advanced reading copy arrives, he’s as surprised as anyone.

I also ask for critique when I’m about a third of the way through the first draft; when I’ve included technical information in an area outside of my personal experience; or when I’m stuck and the plot seems dead. Finally, I have a small group of dear friends and gentle people from whom I pick one to read the entire next-to-final draft before I do the final tidying.

Liz: I don’t show anybody the first draft. I don’t outline, so I’m telling myself the story, creating plot and characters as I go, and I can’t afford to feel inhibited or self-conscious. When I have the whole novel on the computer, I print it out and read it through with pen in hand. I put the first set of revisions on the computer, print it out again, and then either make more revisions or ask a trusted critique partner to take a look.

The only time I broke the full-first-draft rule was recently, when I sent Sharon (my gold standard for critique!) 60 pages of a manuscript I didn’t think was working. She didn’t think it was necessarily hopeless, and she had some excellent suggestions. But she asked a great question: “If your publisher went bankrupt tomorrow, would you still want to write this story?” The answer was “No,” so I put it aside and started a different story.

On Thursday July 9: Part II, on spelling, grammar, and the use of language

Blind Spots

Chris Roerden (Guest Blogger)

I'm puzzled by the way some writers misinterpret a less-than-enthusiastic acceptance of their submissions. Okay, I'll call it what it is — rejection — but it's not the I'd-rather-swallow-a-snake form of rejection.

Some years ago I met a writer who worked for a successful producer of online games. Lynn's first attempt at a novel and her first rejection letter brought her to me. "They hated my work," she wailed. "This—this agent simply hated it." I read the letter. It began, "I like your writing style—"
"She lies," Lynn said. "If she liked my writing, she wouldn't have rejected it." Blind Spot #1: equating a compliment or encouragement with a willingness to make a financial investment in every book that's likable.

The letter continued. "Though this novel isn't for us, I hope you'll let me see your next one." Despite my translating what "isn't for us" means in publishing, Lynn was unconvinced. Even my pointing out the rare invitation to send the agent her next manuscript didn't overcome Blind Spot #2: a crippling determination to feel rejected, no matter what.

To the writers reading this, let me know what you make of all this. Maybe Lynn's reaction was related to something editor Anne Mini reported: More than half of agent invitations to revise and resubmit are not acted on. Yet these invitations are for manuscripts already inside the door, if the writer chooses to step through it. So I'm not sure of the reason for Blind Spot #3: not following up on a request to revise and resubmit. Does the revision suggested by the agent seem too difficult, too much work? Is that why my silent auction donations to edit the first 10 pages of a mystery, good for a year, remain unredeemed by three-quarters of those who've paid a dozen conferences for their winning bids?

What I do understand is the reaction of an author to being edited. I'm not talking about those heavy-handed copy editors who change dialogue for characters they don't relate to, or perversely swap the punctuation of every "it's" with "its" — and vice versa — as happened with a manuscript I'd edited between the time I sent it to the publisher and got it back for proofreading.

No, I'm talking about a thorough developmental and line edit. One's baby, red slashed across its face, would overwhelm anyone. (Which is why I use pencil.) Then comes anger: that stupid, evil editor! "Murderer!" Eventually, professionalism prevails and the author recognizes the validity of perhaps 75 to 98 percent of editorial suggestions.

I doubt that this understandable reaction is related to Blind Spot #4: a conviction held by some that their work is perfect as is. Here's but one of many stories I can tell you. (I've quite a few.) A New Jersey radiation oncologist who planned to self-publish had the perfect reason: she could market her nonfiction book directly to cancer patients.

She had her manuscript expensively typeset and composed, with dozens of medical photos, and took the finished page proofs to a top-level publicity outfit. They read the work, said they would not accept it unless the doctor had it professionally edited, and referred her to me. I was still editing full-time then and willing to postpone a mystery manuscript to take on a technical edit.

I requested a sample and received the autobiographical chapter. Impressive credentials, well-written. So I asked for my deadline, half the fee, and the pre-typeset, pre-composed manuscript files. The writing was dreadful. I edited and rewrote 1,500 sentences, inputting all of it to the e-file. For hundreds of ambiguously described medical procedures, too muddled to guess at, I queried. And I met my deadline.

Her complaint? Too much editing. "It took me 12 solid days to get through the edited manuscript and make the changes you suggested. You made me miss my deadline." Surely the doctor found merit in my queries since she chose to address them instead of meeting her deadline (self-imposed).

What's too much editing for a book intended to make cancer patients better informed, less fearful? I could reveal this New Jersey radiation oncologist's name, since my legal judgment against her for nonpayment of the balance is a matter of public record. But I don't need to. My point is the blind spot. Only some writers have it, along with some inventors, musicians, and artists. Not editors, though. You think?
_______________________
Chris Roerden is the author of DON'T SABOTAGE YOUR SUBMISSION, the all-genre version of DON'T MURDER YOUR MYSTERY, winner of the Agatha Award and nominee for the Anthony and Macavity awards. Authors she's edited in her long career are published by St. Martin's, Berkley Prime Crime, Midnight Ink, Viking, Rodale, and many others. Visit bellarosabooks.com for more information.

Editing 101

by Darlene Ryan

Winners! We put all the names in my lucky Law & Order hat and we have two winners. Winner of The Right to Write and chocolate is Elise. Winner of Murder is Binding, Demons are a Ghoul's Best Friend and chocolate is Jen. Ladies, please email your mailing addresses to darlene at darleneryan.com (change the "at" to @) Thank you everyone for your comments. Come back tomorrow to talk about finding the time to write and for two more giveaways.

Step One:

Write the dang book. The entire book. All the way to the end. Finished. Done. Completed.

Step Two:

Go back and read Step One. Finished means the whole story has been written, not just the beginning and the ending, and some notes about the abyss known as the middle. All of it. It doesn’t matter how badly it’s written. You can’t edit what hasn’t been created.

So you’re working on the book. What happens if a third of the way through you suddenly realize Rick should be Rhonda? Or the cabin where you set the story needs to be by a river instead of a lake? Keep going making the change from where you are forward. From now on Rick is a petite blonde who hides tofu ice cream bars in the freezer and can’t walk in high heels, instead of a six foot three African-American with an addiction to Boston cream donuts. And from now on the cabin is next to a rushing river, swollen with the spring run-off, instead of a lake so still the surface reflects the trees like a mirror. On an index card or a notepad write a reminder: Chapters 1 – 6 change Rick to Rhonda, Chapters 2 – 5 cabin on river instead of lake.

Step Three:

Once a book is finished I try to take two or three days off before I start any editing. That breathing room helps me look more objectively at what I’ve written. When I’m ready to edit, the first thing I do is look at my notes and see what things I need to fix. This is the point at which I go back and give Rick a sex change, turn the lake into a river, and do any foreshadowing I forgot in my outline.

Step Four:

I like to do my actual editing on a printed copy of the manuscript—for some reason I catch more mistakes on paper than I do on a computer screen—but before printing anything I run a spell check to look for grammar and spelling errors. And I use Word’s Find feature to search for words I tend to overuse, like very, just and almost.

Because I’m always looking for ways to use less paper I print this draft out on what I call scrap paper—pages that have already been used on one side. Then I sit down with my copy of the manuscript, a pencil, and a notepad.

As much as I can, I like to make all my notes on the printed copy of the manuscript. The one exception is notes about any new scenes I need to write. I’ll mark the manuscript where a scene needs to be inserted, but notes about the scene go on my notepad. For example, let’s say I decide I need to add a scene at the end of Chapter 3 that shows Rhonda’s fear of heights. In the manuscript, at the end of the chapter I’ll write “A.” On my notepad I’ll write A again but with an explanation: Scene with Rhonda in the attic showing her fear of heights. If I need to add another scene it’s labeled “B” and so on.

Step Five:

Once I’ve been all the way through the manuscript it’s back to the computer to write any new scenes and type in all my revisions. When I’m finished I run spell-check again and print out a new, corrected copy of the manuscript. This copy I read out loud. It’s the best way I’ve found for catching mistakes. I make corrections on the pages as I read and then on my computer copy.

Step Six:

I only use this step when there’s something that bothers me about a book. Maybe it’s just one scene that reads “wrong.” Maybe it’s an entire chapter. I copy the pages into a new file and send it to my friend Susan with a whiny email that says, “This sucks. I’ve forgotten how to write and I’m going to Wal-mart to apply for a job.” In a couple of hours I’ll get an email back written in the same tone one would use with the very young, the very old, and the very deranged, with a reminder that a blue vest would not flatter my figure and a suggestion such as, “Do you have to kill this character?” or “The transition between scenes was a little abrupt.”

And I realize she’s right. (She always is and I always smack myself in the forehead and think, why didn’t I see that?) I fix the problem scene, make sure the pages are numbered properly and everything is formatted the way it should be, and then send the book off to my editor.

Now right before your manuscript leaves your hands or your computer on its way to an editor, you may be hit with the urge to read it just one more time. I know a writer who ended up re-reading the first chapter of her manuscript twelve times looking for errors.

(Okay, that was me.)

Have confidence in your ability and try not to give in to the feeling. The best advice I've ever heard about writing came from Billy Crystal's character in Throw Momma From the Train: A writer writes.

For a list of more workshops to inspire you visit: Paperback Writer

There are two giveaways today. One for inspiration and one for entertainment.

To inspire you: The Right to Write by Julia Cameron and a Laura Secord frosted mint chocolate bar.

And to entertain you: Murder is Binding by Lorna Barrett and Demon’s are a Ghoul’s Best Friend by Victoria Laurie and a Laura Secord premium white chocolate bar.

(Disclaimer: Lorna Barrett is a writing friend. She's done a great job with Murder is Binding, the first in the Booktown series. Even though I know Lorna--and her alter ego, Lorraine--if I didn't like the book I wouldn't say I did.)

If you'd like a chance to win one of these two giveaways, make a comment on this workshop (or just say “Hello” in comments) before eight PM eastern time today, August 2, 2008. The munchkin—who cannot be bribed, even with chocolate—will draw two names from everyone who comments. The draw is open to anyone, anywhere, even if you’ve won something here before. Good luck.

If you haven't checked out the Forgotten Books Project http://pattinase.blogspot.com stop by this coming Friday and read more about my favorite forgotten series, Meg O'Brien's Jessica James mysteries, and then look through the archives for more books you may not have read but probably should have.

Weed Words

by Darlene Ryan

A couple of months ago Lynn Viehl had a great post about weed words—words that come up over and over (and over) in our writing. Most of us are probably guilty of overusing the same few descriptive words—really, terrific, great, wonderful, exciting and probably. What Lynn was talking about were object words. Things. She admitted to what she termed “my obsession with doors. You can tell when I've rushed too much on editing one of my novels because of the thirty or more door references in the story.” She also admitted to a fondness for water and window sills.

Sharon Wildwind says if she’s not vigilant her characters tend to shiver a lot. Janet Koch confesses in her last manuscript “I had people whirling and spinning all over the place. And lots of throats were mentioned--throats being cleared, breaths being caught in throats, fear rising in throats.”

My most persistent weed words are action words; hands running through hair, walking and very weirdly, vomiting. People in my books tend to have a lot of hair and they’re always running their hands through it. It makes sense that hair would show up a lot in my writing because I am a little hair obsessed. What I dream of is hair like Angelina Jolie’s or Jessica Simpson’s. What I have is hair like Clay Aiken circa the early American Idol days. Which my mother tried to remedy with a succession of Toni home perms. Picture Clay Aiken with an afro and you’ll get the picture. No wonder everybody in my books is always touching their gorgeous hair. (Note: the results of all those home perms have nothing to do with the actual Toni home perm and everything to do with the fact that my mother believed if twenty minutes would result in soft, gentle curls then forty minutes would yield fabulous, bountiful curls.)

All the walking that shows up in my writing has a certain logic as well. I walk a lot. I always have. What I can’t figure out is why my subconscious always has to have someone heaving in a book.

I never seem to see my weed words when a book is in manuscript form. When I’m doing re-writes I’m zealous about looking for the overuse of words such as probably, slowly, a lot and really. But I don’t seem to see the all the times a character is walking along pulling her hands through her hair. Or vomiting. Or maybe the truth is that I see them but every single occurrence seems essential to the story. At least at the time.

So what are your weed words? Do your characters whirl or shiver? Do you have a thing for hair? Or doors? Or queasiness?

Forty Words for "Looked"

Sandra Parshall

People who keep track of such things report that the English language has almost one million words. Why, then, do I have so much trouble coming up with another way to say looked?

Every writer will know what I’m talking about. It’s that broken-record thing your mind does without your conscious awareness. I can write a complete first draft without realizing that I’ve used a vocabulary of 200 words, tops. When I shift into rewrite mode, my inner editor is aghast to discover the same verb two dozen times -- in every chapter. She looked. He looked. They both looked. Again and again and again.

[Pause to bang head on desk.]

Out comes my copy of the Rodale Synonym Finder. Peered? A specialty word to be used sparingly, but great in certain contexts. Peeked? How many adults ever peek? Glanced and stared are easy to abuse, and like looked, they can multiply faster in a manuscript than hangers in a closet.

When I begin a manuscript with the intention of avoiding looked, some other word invariably moves in and takes over. Glared is one of my worst rough draft habits. My characters, always a high-strung lot, glare at each other, at traffic, at stormy skies, at pets and inanimate objects, all the way through the first draft. I never realize I’m doing this while I’m doing it.

[Pause for more head-banging.]

My only remedy is to read through the first draft and make a list of overused words so I can replace them next time around. I’m always dismayed how little this list varies from one manuscript to the next. [Do you ever learn? Apparently not.]

English sometimes feels like a blunt-force weapon to me, lacking the delicate calibration of other languages. We don’t have marvelous words like Weltschmerz and Schadenfreude and hikikomori to convey complex emotional states. To say the same thing, writers and speakers of English have to string several words into a phrase or an entire sentence. Even angst and macho are borrowed from other languages.

Alaskan Native Americans have forty words for snow, to denote its many states and textures. I have three: snow, the generic white stuff; slush, what the generic white stuff becomes when it lands on warm pavement; and snirt, the dirty mounds of once-white stuff that are created by plows and always seem to last into May.

English may not have forty words for snow, but it has plenty of alternatives to said, and enthusiastic writers try to use all of them. I am no exception. Ironically, though, said is one word that should be allowed to stand in most cases, because our characters become ridiculous when they’re constantly exclaiming, shouting, pleading, crying, whispering, expostulating, etc. Said is believed to be invisible to the reader, regardless of how many times the writer uses it -- unlike, say, looked and glared. So I often find myself striking some of the alternatives and upping my said total in later drafts.

I confess that I feel a mean little spark of glee when I realize that a well-known writer has failed to tame a bad word habit. One bestselling author, for example, is addicted to the word coursed. Adrenaline coursed through him. Anger coursed through her. Panic coursed through her. Joy coursed through her. And, of course, desire coursed through him. The author’s books are popular all over the world, which indicates that little or no irritation has coursed through her fans.

Are writers the only people who notice these things? Do they matter at all to readers who are not writers themselves? Maybe not. Maybe a book with incessantly glaring characters would go over well with readers. But as long as my overused words make me want to bang my head on my desk, I’ll continue to keep my list and spend days finding alternatives before I declare a manuscript finished.

Writing VS Re-writing, sigh...

By Lonnie Cruse

Oh, the dreaded first draft. So much harder than re-writes/edits. I recently finished the first rough draft in the fifth book of the Metropolis Mystery Series. Throughout the writing process, I always struggle to turn off what writers call “The Inner Editor” which tells me my work stinks (Maybe it does? Eeeek!) That nobody will read it. (Maybe they won’t??? Eeeek!) That I should give up writing and go back to needlework. (Maybe I should? But then I’d miss writing! Eeeek!)

During the rough draft process I keep thinking how much easier the re-writing/editing process is, and I can’t wait to get there. Because while I know the beginning of the story, and usually the ending, I don’t have a clue how to fill the two hundred to three hundred pages between! What am I going to write? Where will I take my characters? What will happen to them? Can I pull it all together? Will it make any sense if I do? Yes, the re-write/edit will be MUCH easier. Can’t wait to get there. So, I plod along, trying to write a story that does make sense, that will catch the reader’s attention. I make notes along the way to remind me what to research and which errors to fix when I realize I’ve made them. And I worry and fret. Then the story is done and I write those magic words THE END.

Someone on the DorothyL discussion list recently asked if writers always type the words, THE END. Nearly all said they type something to indicate that the story is finished. Might be the words, or it might be some journalism sign, but they do type it. It gives the author closure, indicating the story really is done, and now it’s time for re-writes/edits.

Oh, the dreaded re-writes/edits. Once I’m in that stage, I suddenly remember how easy it was to write the first draft and how difficult to edit it. How long will the edit take? Can I make my deadline? Can my critique group critique it by my deadline? Will my publisher love it or reject it? What if I miss something that the reader catches, after the book is in print, for the whole world to see? What if people fall in the floor, laughing at my stupidity? Eeeeek!

Whatever stage I’m at in my writing, that stage seems to be the toughest, and other writers seem to feel the same. And I hate writers who swear their first draft is always suitable to send to their editor. Without editing it (they claim they edit out errors as they type) without anyone critiquing it first. Nearly ready for publication. I rank them with women I’ve met who didn’t have stitches when they gave birth to their children, and who swear those same children slept all night from the very day they came home from the hospital. Snort.

Well, sigh, time to get back to the dreaded edits. But, I do have an idea for a new manuscript I’d like to start. Perhaps I should do that first? Surely that first draft will go quickly? Maybe I won’t even have to edit it?

Wow, anyone else see the pig that just flew by my window?