Today’s guest is Mitchell James Kaplan author of By Fire, By Water (Other Press) which has received numerous awards and accolades including the Independent Publishers Award Gold Medal for Historical Fiction, the ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Award Bronze Medal for Historical Fiction, an Eric Hoffer Award Honorable Mention in the General Fiction category, and the Adelina Della Pergola “Students’ Choice” Prize for the Italian edition (a cash award that involved a trip to Venice!).
[pullquote]I am passionate about all aspects of writing—research, language, sentence construction, characters, story. I strongly believe great writing flows from love of literature and having something important to say. It does not flow from following rules or fashion. My comments about the use of Germanic vs. Latinate words are representative of this overall conviction.[/pullquote]By Fire, By Water was one of fifteen novels nominated for the Goodreads Choice Award in Historical Fiction and was selected as Book of the Year by “One Book, One Community” organizations in Philadelphia, Houston, Portland (OR), the State of Delaware, and Northern New Jersey. Writing in the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, Pamela Miller called By Fire, By Water “[a] remarkably learned and heartbreaking romantic novel.” In Ha’aretz, Matt Beynon Rees wrote that it “must take its place as one of the most important contemporary historical novels with a Jewish theme.” Tirdad Derakshani, in the Philadelphia Inquirer, called By Fire, By Water “a beautiful tapestry… Despite its epic sweep, [it] is also an intimate portrait of a remarkable individual.” Rege Behe, in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, called it “A grand novel.”
Fascinated with the history of religions, Mitchell James Kaplan is currently completing his second novel, set primarily in Rome and Judea during the birth of Christianity and rabbinic Judaism. He writes book reviews for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He is a graduate of Yale University, where he won the Paine Memorial Prize for Best Senior Essay submitted to the English Department. William Styron was his first mentor.
Connect with Mitchell on his blog, on Twitter, and on Facebook. View a trailer of By Fire, By Water here.
There Are No Ugly Words
“I never write ‘metropolis’ for seven cents when I can write ‘city’ and get paid the same.”
– Mark Twain
I
Writers should never believe anything anyone tells them about style or anything else. To be a good writer means to question everything, to look beyond appearances and fashions.
When we entered college, I and my fellow freshmen received a packet of guidelines for writing. One of these directives stated that we should use words with German roots in preference to words with Latin roots. Latinate language, we were told, was “ugly.”
Over the years I’ve come across similar advice many times, and as many attempts to justify it, the most brilliant being George Orwell’s essay, “Politics and the English Language.” Most of these arguments fall into two categories: (1) Words with German roots tend to be shorter, more pithy, less abstract, or less pretentious than words with Latin roots. For example, compare “belly” to “abdomen,” “house” to “domicile,” or “meet” to “encounter.” (2) English is derived from Anglo-Saxon, a Germanic language, so English words with German roots are more authentic or purer than other English words.
Argument #1, it seems to me, is based on an oversimplification. It’s simply not true that all Latinate words are more complex or less “physical” or “visual” than their Germanic cousins. The above list, and similar lists, rely on the sleight-of-hand of picking and choosing words to compare. How complex are “album,” “animal,” “miser,” “fetus,” or “virus,” all of which are directly imported from Latin? Sixty percent of English word roots are Latinate, thanks in large measure to William the Conqueror (who made French, a Latinate language, the official tongue of the English court). Another twenty percent are of Greek origin (e.g., Twain’s “metropolis”), and only about twenty percent are Germanic.
Besides, there are times when a character (and don’t forget, a narrator is a character, too) may want to use a more complex or vague term. Who are we to tell our characters how to talk? The best writers channel their characters, without instructing them.
A word is not just a signifier attached to a meaning. A word is a bundle of sounds, connotations, and connections to other words. A word is a node in the vast web of a language. “Fetus” is not the same as “unborn baby,” as the users of both terms, on either side of the abortion debate, well know. And Mark Twain was surely aware that “city” and “metropolis” do not suggest identical urban landscapes. To deprive English of eighty percent of its words – that is, of its non-Germanic vocabulary – is to impoverish the language.
As for Argument #2, the purity argument, in my view it represents a form of linguistic xenophobia. One of the strengths of English is its ability to absorb words from any source and accommodate them within its Germanic grammatical and syntactic structures. Many of the greatest practitioners of written English have taken advantage of this openness and plasticity. During my first weeks in that same freshman year, I had to memorize the Prologue of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. My brilliant English professor, Richard Sewall, didn’t object to Chaucer’s use of “corages” for “hearts.” Nor did he mind when, a few months later, King Lear addressed his Fool saying, Thou, sapient sir, sit here. But had I used sapient in an essay, Professor Sewall would likely have circled it, with the suggestion I substitute “wise.”
Of course, we don’t live in the fourteenth or seventeenth century anymore. Notions about style have evolved or at least changed. And I am neither Chaucer nor Shakespeare. Very few if any writers today indulge in that kind of verbal openness and playfulness.
II
Because the belief that Latinate words are more complex than Germanic ones is widespread, the rejection of Latinate language goes hand-in-hand with the modern penchant for simplicity.
In the first part of the twentieth century, American Modernism pooh-poohed the linguistic flourishes and grandiloquence that it associated with Romantic writers. American Modernists eschewed complexity, avoiding the excessive use of modifiers (adjectives and adverbs), complex sentence structures, and polysyllabic diction. Compare Hardy to Hemingway, or even Hawthorne to Cormac McCarthy, and you’ll see what I’m talking about.
[pullquote]The problem with any school of style is that when its precepts are strictly enforced, a stifling uniformity results.[/pullquote]Let me state the obvious: Hawthorne and Hardy were great writers. So were Shakespeare, Milton, Melville, Dickens, Joyce, and others throughout the ages who are not generally considered “Romantics” but who embraced an aesthetic of linguistic exuberance. If some holier-than-thou preacher of Purity of Diction were to command any of these writers to avoid complex sentences or Latinisms, they would likely answer, like the Merchant in Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors:
Fie on thee, wretch. ‘Tis pity that thou livest
To walk where any honest men resort.
The problem with any school of style is that when its precepts are strictly enforced, a stifling uniformity results. Contemporary novelists who ignore the less-is-more fashion – all-over-the-place writers like Pynchon, Franzen, David Foster Wallace, and David Mitchell – are often hailed as geniuses, in part because they dare to do their own thing.
That isn’t to say that writers who strive for simplicity and elegance are inferior. Creativity thrives within the context of discipline. But willfully limiting one’s vocabulary and available sentence structures is not the only valid form of discipline.
Style – the ways in which a writer chooses which words to put together, and how – can be learned from books like Strunk & White and the New York Times Manual of Style, and it certainly is useful for beginning writers to master a variety of styles. But at some point, as the writer practices the art of tuning her senses – her ear, her powers of vision – a personal style develops, a set of rules written down nowhere that seems to come from the unconscious, from the stratosphere, or from somewhere else.
But don’t take my word for it. I’d much prefer you question what I’m saying.
Do you agree that even accepted authorities on literary style should be questioned? Do you feel that predominant views about style (such as “less is more”) can be too constraining? Are some words inherently ugly, or not?
I think it’s more that rules are a safety net for writers, and in some cases, a sense of power. It’s a scary thing when sending a story off to agents, a rules provide a feeling of control when there isn’t any.
About a year ago now, I walked away from all the writing message boards and a lot of blogs because there were a lot of writers dictating rules. It was becoming not about creating and experimenting, but checking the box on following rules. I had to leave because, even though I knew there weren’t any, some of it was polluting my writing. “Less is more,” for example, tends to mean no description, or as little as possible, and sometimes translates to “all description is boring. Leave it out.”
So I ignore any views on style. It’s the character’s POV in the narrative and they’re the one speaking the dialogue. If a sentence is overly wordy because that’s who they are, that’s what gets in. If they use a particularly word like “Metropolis” instead of “city,” it’s because that’s the character, and that’s how they think. And I did know a man who would have used Metropolis rather than city, because that was how he talked, and a lot of people made fun of him for it.
If we follow the “rules,” it’s easy leave out what the agents and editors are actually looking for — and what the readers want to see.
You’re absolutely right, Linda, there are way too many “Thou Shalts” in writing blogs and forums! Any time I see or hear “You must” or “You have to” or “All writers should,” my BS monitor is on high. I’ve started weeding my own lists out, too.
Like a couple of other folks here have said, if we all follow the same rules for too long, we all sound alike. The only things I believe all writers must do are read and write.
What readers want, at least what I want as a reader, is more than a story. I’m drawn the the writer’s unique voice. The WAY a writer tells a story can be as compelling as the story itself.
I’m more and more glad I never did get that English degree. I’d have a lot more unlearning to do!
I appreciated this reading. I am new to fiction writing and still struggling, still blundering through words to create the best story I am able to tell.
“The problem with any school of style is that when its precepts are strictly enforced, a stifling uniformity results” resonates. But the when, where, and how to deviate is the challenge.
Funny you mention it. I’ve been a little outspoken on this subject of rules lately. I’ve been a member of the ACFW for about 10 years now. Since this is the training ground for the Christian market, there are even more rules in place than our secular counterparts contend with. What I’ve noticed is that I cannot tell the difference between two authors based on their writing style. In our internet age, in which writers can critique, share ideas, and pass on knowledge with the flick of an enter button, we have created giant masses of writers no longer acting as separate organisms. We say that we’re not afraid to break a few rules, but when the time comes to present our work to an agent or publisher, we allow editing by committee to strip our work of any individuality. Getting back to your point, the word choice should match the author’s voice as well as the situation. A dark path through the forest described as “curvy” simply doesn’t have the same impact as “serpentine.” By all means, if the situation demands an ugly word, make it ugly.
Thanks for the post. Makes me wish I’d studied these things in college.
It’s a good idea to question any and everything when we are confused. Questioning because we disagree with another’s preference will produce a different dynamic than questioning because we lack understanding.
I neither agree nor disagree with people ATTEMPTING to dictate style.
That might change in the future, though.
Refreshing post with great perspective! Thank you!
Every single sentence of this post provokes fresh thought. Thank you! Was going to excerpt a few favorite quotes but would have had to reprint the whole thing.
It seems to me that a lot of people are so obsessed with defining rules for good writing, or, more truthfully, writing that sells, that if you take them all to heart (if that were possible – they often contradict each other), your writing becomes impersonal and formulaic, which for me defeats the purpose of writing at all.
There are no rules for writing except those you make up yourself. My personal rules are:
1. Write (I’m a big fan of Neil Gaiman’s)
2. Read
3. The story is boss and determines which words I need to use.
Andrea, Great comment. Rules are meant to be broken when it comes to writing. Every story, every character, and every writer’s voice is unique.
Hi, Andrea:
Your rules reminded me of Jim Frey’s Ten Rules of Great Writing:
1. Read
2. Read
3. Read
4. Write
5. Write
6. Write
7. Suffer
8. Suffer
9. Suffer
10. Don’t use too many exclamation points.
Quite interesting and this is my philosophy. Glad someone more notable than I said it!
Successful writers don’t consciously strive for a distinctive style. They tell a good story, and then hone it until they think it’s perfect. Style emerges automatically.
Good advice for both the novice writer and the experienced one. Although I admire the style of many authors, both old and modern, my words always come out in my own way.
Having had over 60 short stories published I can truthfully say that I have never strived for a particular syle, neither wordy nor pithy. I write the story in only one way, the way it comes out of my mind. During the revision process I often change a word or phrase, not to make them longer or shorter necesssarily, but to be clearer in what I mean. I find rules and guidelines interesting and helpful, but have not followed any one of them too exactly. Adhering slavishly to a rule may well result in a story which sounds false to the reader.
Mitchell–
“A word is not just a signifier attached to a meaning. A word is a bundle of sounds, connotations, and connections to other words.”
I take this to be at the center of your point of view, and I certainly subscribe to it. In particular I like your emphasis on sonics: anyone who dismisses the importance of how words sound is full of you-know-what, or excrement for the Latinists, or for those writing church newsletters, or parodying fussiness (and of course “you-know-what” is a self-parody).
“Thou, sapient sir, sit here.” Placed in context, what a wealth of meaning and nuance is conveyed by King Lear in those five words.
It’s useful to read the better how-to books on writing, but that can never take the place of reading, rereading and learning from those special novels that most capture us.
Thanks for this excellent post.
I love this post. Especially the last bit about voice.
There is a saying attributed to Picasso, about learning the rules like a pro so that you can break them like an artist. I agree with that, and I also believe that sometimes a writer can break the rules without even intending to, because that is how the story is meant to be written.
A story is etched in the psyche of the heart. The heart is eternal. Rules are written on the winds of change. Rules are born to be broken.
Dominus vobiscum:
I remember learning the canard about choosing words with Anglo-Saxon roots over Latin roots from Oakley Hall, a writer and teacher and man I much admire. Because of that admiration, I took the advice to heart for some time.
But as I grew more comfortable and confident in my own skills, I realized that voice determines diction. Period. As you say: Who are we to tell our characters how to talk? (Though, I add the caveat: If I find my characters talking in clichés or belaboring the obvious, I feel no compunction about cross-examining them, or prodding them or just waiting until they say something more interesting).
When teaching I do indeed tell my students: Less is more (unless it’s not enough).
My point isn’t about style. It’s about how much to put into a scene. The point is to engage the reader, not overwhelm them or explain every little thing to them (or impress them with your …. whatever). A question without an answer (or a delayed answer) is far more likely to engage than a prefabricated explanation, no matter how beautifully rendered — let alone a pontification.
But that’s just a correlate to another age-old truism: show don’t tell.
I think the reason these two things are repeated so often isn’t because they are absolutes but because bad writing so often results from unawareness of the wisdom at work in what truth they possess. (I think this is true of most writing “rules” — they are far better at identifying what is bad than what is good).
Now, if I may play contrarian for just a moment: I think your comment about great writing emerging from a love of literature and having something to say is the key to the issue. And note how simply it’s stated!
I studied mathematics as an undergrad, and the role of simplicity and clarity in elegance was pounded into us. (“The difference between great men and men who are not so great is that great men think deeply about simple things.”) Those who resorted to excessive verbiage were often seen as more likely to be engaged in obfuscation than getting to the heart of the matter.
I still believe this to be true — but not universally true. Intelligent people who command an extensive vocabulary and use it wisely, honestly, and with nuance need justify themselves to no one but the people they’re hoping to communicate with.
That said, though I love words, and admire those whose command of language allows them to use it stunningly, the older I get the more I find myself being impressed — or humbled — by a profound thought or powerful image rendered simply and clearly rather than by verbal pyrotechnics.
I often go back when I’ve written something I find particularly grand and ask: Am I honoring the characters and story, or just showing off?
I’ve learned to answer that question honestly. But it took a while.
Thanks for sharing your time with us, and for the lovely, thought-provoking essay.
I think that ‘Hoobastank’ is an ugly word.
Tina:
It’s a better name for a boy than a girl. :0)
Thanks for this open and refreshing post. If we writers read and followed, listened to and believed everything people write about writing–we would paralyzed at the keyboard. Beth Havey
Leaning off-topic (but my mind always leans): since you mentioned Mark Twain and Germanic roots in the same piece, Twain’s essay, “The Awful German Language,” is about as funny a dissection you’ll find of another language’s grammar and constructions:
http://emilkirkegaard.dk/en/wp-content/uploads/Mark-Twain-The-Awful-German-Language.pdf
I think word choice just comes with the flow of writing. If we mull over which word, it has to be our own mulling. Bravo, Mitchell!
One of the basic principles in Cognitive Therapy is that any thought containing “always” or “never” is likely to prove false at some point in time. (How’s that for intrinsic irony?)
Styron as first mentor? Holy cow, Mitchell. Way to begin a writing career!
I should have commented on the comments yesterday but I was confined to airplanes all day…
Linda Maye Adams, Thank you for your comment. As you suggest, the idea that description is bad is a particularly pernicious one!
Kari Anne Kilgore, I got an English degree, and you know what? You’re right!
Lisa B, welcome to the club. It never really gets easy.
Ron Estrada, I see what you mean about “serpentine” — especially in a Christian context!
Brian B. King, I don’t think there are any absolutes in the world of writing, except that it’s a never-ceasing struggle.
Amy Rachiele, Thank you for your kind comments.
Kathryn Craft, Thank you, too. (We writers love strokes, you know.)
Andrea van der Wilt, You’re right, the story is boss — and often, the story makes surprising demands.
Jason Bougger, Well, I’m not sure ALL rules should be broken…
David Corbett, Yep. So true. And, with regard to your longer post below, of course you’re right that characters do sometimes need our help…
Kurt Sipolski, Thanks for the props (but I’m not really very prominent).
James D. Best, A writing teacher in college once told me, “Pay attention to the forest and the trees will grow by themselves.” I’m not sure I entirely buy that, either.
Adelaide B. Shaw, I agree with you that rules — and all other discussion of the art — can be helpful as a reference and to keep us thinking.
Barry Knister, You’re right that my comment about words — their sounds, their resonance — reflects something central to the way I view the art of writing. Thank you so much for this thoughtfull comment.
Bernadette Phipps-Lincke, I agree with Picasso too (to a certain extent). Thanks for your comment.
Tina Goodman, You got me on that one — if indeed Hoobastank is a word.
Beth Havey, Precisely.
Tom Bentley, Thank you for that Twain reference! (I had read that years ago but forgotten.)
Stephanie Cowell, Thank you. And hugs to you, my dear friend.
Jan O’Hara, Thank you. Yes, I feel I’ve been blessed in many incomprehensible ways.
As a former Latin scholar, I love this post. I write by the rule that if it sounds right to my ear, it’s right. We all have our own internal sense of rhythm in writing, and word choice is a part of that. Very thought-provoking!
You’re right – there are no ugly words. Words are the writer’s tools. In my memoir, I begin at the age of seven. The only way to show growth (besides actions) is the use of language and the complexity of thought. While I don’t use words most people would have to look up in a dictionary, I change the difficulty of the words. Any unfamiliar words are shown in context. For example, during my witchcraft period, I mention someone wears a knife sheaf to hold his athame (that and how it is used hopefully lets the reader know what an athame is).
Thanks for this post. Never thought about the roots of words dictating their complexity.
Heather
This is a great piece. I wholeheartedly agree that in the zeal to figure out what “sells,” editors and agents are focusing on pithy, simple language. As Mitchell says, that can be great. But there is plenty of room for other styles. I, for one, love reading things like The Mysteries of Udolfo, by Ann Radcliffe, to remind me that literary fashions change.
Mitchell-
Good points. More important than word roots, to me, is short sentences.
Nothing against compound sentences. They’re nice to have in one’s circle, like that friend who rattles on about Japanese netsuke. But give me punch. Sentences should be muscular.
Not that I’m pushing prose that is nothing but body blows, either. Mixing it up is good. Four dollar words or ten cent slang, layered prose or Dick-and-Jane…variety, pace and an ear for composition are good things.
Ask me.
I’m a long time reader of Writer Unboxed, and this is the first time I’ve garnered the courage to reply to a post, because this is one of the first where the post resonated with something I’ve run into dozens of times over.
As a little background, I write both original and transformative fiction, almost entirely romance/erotic and have done so for the past fifteen years. I have a decently-sized online following for my transformative fiction, and have been regularly posting things I have written for the past ten years.
However, with that being said, I’ve never taken in-depth writing courses, at any level of schooling. I’ve read dozens of books on writing, how to write, what to write, how to say it, phrase it, etc. But I’ve had many friends correct my writing methodology, my story telling ability, even some who questioned that I call myself an author, because I never went to “school” and really learned the “art” of writing.
I’ve written and posted hundreds of thousands of words for people to read. I’ve improved, learned to phrase things in different ways and to avoid cliches, except when I don’t want to. I’ve learned what most people with a writing degree learn in classrooms by trial, error and reading. There is something to be said for earning the experience versus being taught the experience.
However, on the other hand, I do wish I had taken those courses, because writing (at least for me), has never been about the rules. Knowing the rules is great, knowing how to use the rules to your advantage is even better. But in a world where any author, with any story, with any background, can publish their work without restriction…why is there such an attempt to stay with the “rules”? I want to ask professors these questions, not because I want an answer, but because I don’t think there IS an answer.
If the writing is understandable, enjoyable and engaging….who cares how often they used adverbs as dialogue tags? With the same conditions above (understandable, enjoyable and engaging), why does it matter if I end a line of dialogue with a period or a comma? Why does the -rule- (to use a comma as long as there is a dialogue tag attached) matter?
The purpose of writing (for me) is about making someone feel something. Whether that feeling is anger, happiness, sadness, heartbreak, love, lust, you name it, that’s what I’m in this game for. That’s what I write for.
Word choice (again, for me), never comes down to the root of the word. Why should it? (I might have a thing about breaking rules…)
At the basest level, it should come down to the impression the writer wants to leave with the reader. Is the character an alien, who has stilted speech patterns? Well, then they aren’t going to use contractions or slang. A woman who grows up around two parents who are english and history majors is likely to have an expanded vocabulary compared to someone who does not.
I guess I don’t understand the school of thought behind the argument to use one “type” of word or the other. Every single word in our vocabulary “toolbox” (thanks Stephen King!) is there to leave a specific impression. As Mister Kaplan pointed out – you can say the same thing, that has the same general meaning….yet leave completely different impressions.
City IS different from Metropolis. (Even more so to comic book readers!) Town is different from Village.
I was never taught to use City over Metropolis, or vice versa. Or what I was trying to describe with either of those words. But the feeling, the mental image I get from each of those words? That is what I rely on to tell me if I made the right word choice or not. Another example Mister Kaplan gives is ‘meet’ versus ‘encounter’.
Without diving into the detailed/dictionary explanation of the difference between the two words, if I had to define my impression of them? It’d go something like this:
Meet – A longer moment of interaction – Mutual exchange of more advanced details. (Name exchange, physicality, attractiveness, eye color, hair color, smile, humor in addition to the below) Implies that if asked about the interaction, the character would be able to give beyond the basic type of details.
Encounter – A brief moment of interaction – 30 seconds or less. Basic details are remembered from the interaction. (Height, skin tone, weight, voice, clothing)
The risk I run using these impressions is that I assume people will process these words the same way I do. I’ve had pretty solid luck with that though. If it’s used commonly enough, I find my method works fine. Words like ‘domicile’ (as an example) might risk throwing someone out of the moment in the story, because it’s simply a word they aren’t used to seeing in written form. They know the word, but aren’t used to the word.
Oh damn, this got way longer than I meant to let it. Thank you for your thoughts Mister Kaplan, I enjoyed them! This was a rather roundabout way to answer your question, but I think rules restrict new and amazing things, and I’d rather throw them out the window and do my own thing and fail – because succeeding due to conformity can be (though isn’t always) a conditional success.
I hope you come back to write here again soon!