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WRITE THIS, NOT THAT

A MATTER OF TIME

“Gee, Julie, what are we gonna do tonight?”

“The same thing we do every night, writer. Try to take over the writing world.”

Our senses tell us that time flows . . . passing from the right here and right now into the undecided future, every moment ends up in the same fixed past. The perception of time is one of -- if not the most -- basic of human perceptions. We tend to think the concept of time can be proven by things like clocks or age spots. We 'experience' ourselves living from one moment to the next.

Yet, the deep (and devastating) truth is that nothing in known physics corresponds to the passage of time. It's true. Neither scientists nor philosophers understand what time is or why it exists . . .  or appears to exist.

But don't panic! It's probably just that scientists haven't 'discovered' the key quality that gives time its sense of timeliness. Yup, we'll go with that one. Time is legit. Scientists just haven't figured out the science behind it yet.

So what's the nonexistance of time  have to do with writing? I though you'd never ask.

NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT

Even though time has definite intagible qualities, for readers reality is associated with the present moment. So, how do we write about something -- that may or may not have happened right now -- in the past or present or future tense that someone in the future will read in their 'now'?

The trick is to stop thinking of time as linear.  As humans, we divide daily life into the past, the present and the future. And our grammatical structure revolves around this distinction like the moon floating faithfully around the earth.

As writers we focus too much sometimes on forcing the flow of this thing called time by using every time-related word we can get away with: last summer and next fall, this week and the previous month, after midnight and before noon. Focusing on chronology, instead of what's happening right now, robs the reader of the their present reality experience.

Stop telling your readers when things are happening and just let them happen.

Examples:

Too linear . . . . Howard licked the ice cream cone, then smiled.

Better . . . . Licking the ice cream cone made Howard smile.

Too linear . . . . Before she went to bed, Alice flossed her teeth three times, as usual.

Better . . . . Flossing her teeth exactly three times, Alice could relax enough to go to bed.

JUST IN TIME

"The past, present and future are only illusions, even if stubborn ones." Albert Einstein

Perhaps there are quantum processes that lend the impression of time passing moment by moment. Perhaps not. Either way, the writer who can break free from using the past, the present and the future as a presentation format, has a better chance of engaging readers right now.

As writers we can let go of our horizontal ideas of time and -- for the sake of literature -- borrow from Eastern philosophy which subscribes to the idea that all things and events are mutually interrelated. There are no seperations of then and now, there are only different manifestations of the same reality. If you begin to consider time as something that is present and unformed yet vibrating with energy and purpose. If you let time become what it truely is -- an inseperable web of space and life -- then you may be on your way to writing prose that will make time fly!

“Are you pondering what I’m pondering, writer?”

“Yes, Julie, but I'm not sure if Bert and Ernie were childhood friends before becoming room mates.”

Narf!

WRITE THIS, NOT THAT

OVERLAPPING THE SENSES

“Gee, Julie, what are we gonna do tonight?”

“The same thing we do every night, writer. Try to take over the writing world.”

Is it possible for our readers to see smells? Taste a touch? Hear pain? Only if they're in the hands of a skilled writer.

The overlapping of senses is as common as overlapping shingles on a roof, but few people realize it.  Take taste and smell for example. These two senses are more intertwined than overlapping; it's hard to have one without the other. Just try to enjoy a bowl of no-chicken noodle soup (it's a real soul -- I'm a vegetarian) when you have cold -- very hard to do.

The sensations that evoke taste when something is put in the mouth are complex and involve much more than taste alone. And it's our jobs as writers to create -- with our words -- those same complex sensations. How? It's easy -- just unlearn what you learned in school about the five senses.

MORE THAN FIVE

We are all familiar with sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste. But wait, there's more. In recent years, some sciencetists (okay, maybe only anthropologists, but they're really smart too) have added to the list of senses: balance (internal and external), temperature (feeling hot or cold), pain (internal and external), and kinesthetic. And, of course, there's the big one that our Western culture tends to dismiss -- intuition (the gut sense).

CONNECTING THE DOTS

Okay, I think you get the picture. There are more than five senses and they are ALL connected. Here are some examples:

Seeing Pain:

Shortly after one o'clock, Norman woke up. The pressure inside his head burned bright in the darkness of his bedroom.

Smelling Touch:

Now Sylvia told him something she had never told to another soul. Reaching for his hand, she inhaled the warmth of their linked fingers before beginning.

These examples offer a bit more than phrases like "black rage" or "cold touch." We're interested in more than simply coloring emotions. Here are a few more:

Kinesthetic Sound:

"I suppose you know," her voice, surprised and upset, but in no way desperate, tripped across the room toward me.

Imbalancing Intuition:

It was the younger woman who wanted to know everything. Her eager face monopolized the conversation, tilting my confidence and leaving my many years of hard-earned hunches trampled.

Your turn. Pick two senses from the list and tie them together with a bow that sounds as beautiful as it looks -- a jingling cresent perhaps?

“Are you pondering what I’m pondering, writer?”

“Yes, Julie, but I really don't think that lady with the lazy eye can see any better than the rest of us.”

Narf!

WRITE THIS, NOT THAT

The Sound of Speed

“Gee, Julie, what are we gonna do tonight?”

“The same thing we do every night, writer. Try to take over the writing world.”

Today we’re going to focus on speed.

Not speed writing. No, no, no.

Rather, the way sounds within words generate a sense of speed versus a sense of slower movement. We know words can feel “bigger” or “smaller”. They can feel “round” or “narrow”. The connections our minds create between vowel sounds and how they make us feel has been a subject of study for scientists for many years.

Recently, researchers at New York University and University of Southern California explored how certain sensory associations can help companies create more provocative names for products. While their focus was limited to assisting companies in creating powerful brand names, there remains an expeditious lesson for writers.

Their discovery is right up our ally. Certain vowel sounds, like i in spring, are associated with swifter movement. More open vowel sounds, as in plod, dictate slower movement.

Choosing a word based on its sound is not a new trick for writers. Onomatopoeia has been slinging around words like cuckoo, sizzle and hiccup for decades. But what if we choose words based on how fast or slow they sound?

Compare these sentences for speed:

Sarah was dashing across the parking lot.

Sarah was sprinting across the parking lot.

Because they have the same number of syllables, the untrained ear may consider them interchangeable. However, to our finely-tuned writer’s brains, we clearly feel the difference in pace.

Here’s another speed tip. Scientists have learned that most adults instinctively associate O and A sounds with larger, more cumbersome objects while I and E evoke smaller, more delicate objects.

Compare these sentences for speed:

The cat ran across the yard.

The kitten ran across the yard.

Because the i sound is associated in our minds with smaller, speedier objects, in most people's minds the kitten will cross the yard faster than the cat.

It’s unknown why humans make these connections, however, as writers, noticing the corresponding differences in vowels sounds and how they feel in each sentence may go a long way in hastening our respective writing careers toward success!

“Are you pondering what I’m pondering, writer?”

“Yes, Julie, but I think Mr. Roger’s sweater was a more profound fashion statement than leg warmers ever were.”

Narf!

WRITE THIS, NOT THAT

 

Help avoiding the obvious.

 

 

 

Part 2

“What are we going to do today, Julie?”

“The same thing we do every day, writer. Try to take over the writing world.”

Hello Writers! Welcome to another installment of “Write This, Not That.”

Today we will sink our brains into a realm of reality that is often ignored . . . a place so silent, so cavernous that many writers even fear it – the sensation of color.

It’s rather sad, but visual neglect is all too common in writing. And the truth is . . . color is not a trivial subject. Yet the majority of people tend to overlook what a brilliant mystery color is.

My favorite way to experience color is through the intensity and frequency of electromagnetic radiation waves that are between 390 nm to 750 nm in length. I suspect that’s your favorite way to enjoy color as well, since that’s the definition of visible light. Letting yourself feel the limitations inside the grey hues cast on the wall of a cave or soaking your attention in the undertones of your lover’s eyes . . . either way, seeing it for ourselves is how the adventure of color was intended to be.

Unfortunately, unless you’re writing a picture book, readers have no hope of perceiving the intensity of spectral color that exists within the 390 to 750 nm range. They can only see what you allow them to see. In order to allow your readers the ultimate 390 to 750 experience, here are some tips:

1. Become familiar with the color table. The names of colors are often luscious themselves. Just beyond red, blue and green are crimson, cobalt and olive.
2. Avoid obvious color words such as rainbow, shade, dark, light, bright, shadow, blah . . . blah . . . go for the unexpected instead. The next time your protagonist leaves behind a dark coffee stain, clean up his mess and rewrite the scene until he leaves behind an onyx splotch embedded in the tabletop.
3. Color can’t happen without light, so use it to your advantage. Light is life. It scatters, dances, and refracts. Objects transmit light, reflect light and absorb light. When you tie together the movement of the light with the ambient depth of the color spectrum, you may get something like this: When I spotted her, the shine of her blushing smile scrambled across the room.

Hurry, before the world remains visually lost forever, I challenge you to seek out unique ways to dialogue the world of chroma and pigment with your readers.

“Are you pondering what I’m pondering, writer?”

“I think so, Julie, but I’m not sure why the shampoo bottle is always empty before the conditioner.”

If you missed, Write This, Not That (Part 1), click here.

WRITE THIS, NOT THAT

 

Help avoiding the obvious.

 

 

Part 1

“What are we going to do today, Julie?”

“The same thing we do every day, Writer. Try to take over the writing world.”

Just like Pinky and The Brain, writers have a tendency to be focused on one thing: writing the greatest words ever written.

Throw a writer a bone and they'll create a sonnet with perfectly placed skeletal nouns, adjectives infused with osseous matter and drifting verbs that lick each osseous process . . . all without ever realizing that they've just wasted perfectly juicy parts of speech on the endoskeleton of vertebrates.

Writers obey the motions of their own minds, it's true. However, there are times when they need a nudge or an overdose of "right before your eyes" in order to Write This, Not That.

HERE'S YOUR NUDGE

I used to believe that language was something I used to say how I live. But I've also learned that it can be accurate to think of language as a tool that tells me how to live.

For example, social sentiments bind speaker to hearer. "How are you?" "I'm fine, thank you."

Phatic utterances are another form of free and aimless social intercourse. "Nice weather we're having today." "Yes, it is."

These prefabricated phases, although they are completely devoid of meaning, script all of our lives in a very precise way. It's language forcing us into roles.

A few other ways language shapes us is when it gets specific about how we experience yourself and others. It's language telling us that lady is a snob when we hear her say, "Regard with deference and esteem those who are your predecessors."

It's language that gives our own morals a wallop when we hear the curt phrase, "Respect your elders."

HERE'S YOUR OVERDOSE

So, is it possible for language to be re-reflexive? Can language turn back on itself? Can it be reshaped? Recombined?

What if we wanted to experience language differently? How could we go about writing this and not that regarding snobby ladies?

I know what I’d do . . . I'd force language to bow to my careful design. I would pressure language to isolate the snobby lady by a power she didn't want:

“Those who are superior should be given preference. I learned that lesson behind a locked closet door and you will learn it too. One way or another, you’ll learn.”

What about you? Where would you start? What rhetorical device would you pull out of your writer's toolbox? Would you reach for an epistrophe and throw it in the center of a paragraph? Twist it around the end of a paragraph? Or allow it consume the entire paragraph?

Now it’s your turn. I’ve thrown you a bone. So . . .

“Are you pondering what I’m pondering, Writer?”

“I think so, Julie, but pants with suspenders never have looked good on me.”