She loved expressive words, and treasured them as some girls might have treasured jewels. To her, they were as lustrous pearls, threaded on the crimson cord of a vivid fancy. When she met with a new one she uttered it over and over to herself in solitude, weighing it, caressing it, infusing it with the radiance of her voice, making it her own in all its possibilities forever.
—Lucy Maud Montgomery, The Story Girl
In a way, every word is like a precious stone, with its own particular qualities: Some words feel heavy, others light; some seem to glitter, others are dull. As writers, we need to know all we can about the words we use; in addition to getting familiar with a word’s denotations and connotations—its meanings—we also need to be able to recognize its qualities, so we can find the right word for our purpose. Just as a cook needs to know, not just intellectually, but practically, the difference between, say, margarine and butter—the differences in taste and texture and melting temperature—so a writer needs to know the difference in quality between, for instance, the word domicile and the word home, the word food and the word egg, the word surrender and the phrase wave the white flag. When we add to our knowledge of denotation and connotation a practical understanding of the qualities of words, we can make even more skillful use of their power. Knowing the qualities of words gives us an essential tool for choosing the words we want to use.
What are some of these qualities of words?
If we are writing for ourselves alone, as in a journal, it doesn’t matter which words we choose. But if we have an audience in mind for our writing, then we need to consider the degree of formality our words should have. To understand the quality of formality in writing, think about how we dress. Writing for an audience is a bit like dressing to go out in public: We have to consider whether the clothes we choose will be appropriate to the occasion. If we’re going to a job at a conservative law firm, we’ll probably have to put on some kind of reasonably formal clothes, like a suit. We wouldn’t show up for work in ripped jeans and sneakers; such attire, though, would be perfectly appropriate for a more informal occasion, like a backyard barbecue after a neighborhood basketball game.
When we write, we often need to consider the degree of formality our words should have, depending on the circumstances in which they will be read. Formal language tends to be language that is rather stiff and mannered, like a butler in a novel about the English upper classes. Words that feel and sound formal are usually Latinate words, made up of several syllables: tendentious, prepossessing, rubicund. Informal words are typically of Anglo-Saxon origin (or Norman words that have been Anglicized) and usually contain only one or two syllables. (For an introduction to the history [etymology] of English words, with practices that will show you how a knowledge of word history can improve your writing, visit my website at www.WhereWritersLearn.com.) Informal words are the ones that come to mind readily during ordinary conversation: fat, meat, walk, grab, wink, and so on. Informal language also includes slang expressions, such as: get a grip; what’s happenin’?; he’s chillin’; let’s rock. You can check whether a particular word or phrase is formal or informal by looking it up in a good dictionary. The dictionary will tell you if the word is informal, or informal in some situations.
Collect some words that you consider formal, then see if you can come up with their informal equivalents. Then try this exercise starting with informal words. Which quality—formal or informal—do you like better?
The degree of formality in the language you use in your writing helps create your voice on the page, just as it does when you speak. It also creates what’s called the tone of your work. This tone has to be appropriate, not to an occasion, but to the purpose of your writing.
Listen to the difference in the voices of these two novelists:
Nell could not help smiling at the naiveté with which Letty classed these trivialities with her marriage, but before she could make any attempt to show her sister-in-law how the very fondness which led Cardross to indulge her in small matters would stiffen his resolve not to permit her (as he thought) to throw herself away in a marriage doomed to failure, Farley, her butler, had entered the room, bearing on a salver a sealed billet, and on his countenance the expression of one who not only brought evil tidings but had foreseen from the outset that this was precisely how it would be.
—Georgette Heyer, April Lady
But by the time they reached the morgue it was too late. The ID had been completed and everyone had gone home. Rebus stood on the Cowgate and looked longingly back toward the Grassmarket. Some of the pubs there would still be open, the Merchant’s Bar, for one. But he got back into the car instead and asked Davidson to take him home. He felt tired all of a sudden. God, he felt tired.
—Ian Rankin, Let It Bleed
The differences in the two voices come in part from the way each writer puts sentences together (a subject we’ll explore in Section 4); but word choice is also key. Heyer, who is re-creating for her readers the world of upper-class Londoners in Regency England, makes use of relatively formal words like naiveté, trivialities, indulge, resolve, countenance. Rankin, who is bringing to his reader’s mind the world of an alcoholic police detective in contemporary Edinburgh, uses very ordinary words like late and looked and tired. In each case, the author has chosen words appropriate to his or her purpose—in this case, the creation of a particular fictional world and the people who inhabit that world.
The formality or informality of the words we choose also helps us create the voices of people, other than the author, on the page. If we have people talking in our writing, whether they are real people or invented characters, the words we provide them with will help make real their individual voices. For, just as our choice of clothing creates a particular style and helps other people recognize us, so do our spoken words show who we are. Skilled writers know this, and choose words for their characters that will make sense for those particular people and will help reveal what kind of people they are.
And so, Heyer’s characters, London aristocrats of the early nineteenth century, talk like this:
“Yes, I dashed well do call it that!” replied his lordship, his eye kindling. “Besides, it’s all slum! I may have to listen to that sort of flummery from Mama, but I’ll be damned if I will from you! What’s more, it’s coming it a trifle too strong!“
Rankin’s detective, John Rebus, talks quite differently (and with considerably fewer words):
“Flower’s got a point though, sir,” said Rebus, covering his boss’s embarrassment. “It’s just that he’s got the tact of a tomcat. I mean, somebody’ll have to fill in. How long’s Frank going to be out of the game?”
Imagine a person—someone you know, or a character you invent. Collect words for this character to speak, paying attention to the formality or informality of her language. Then have her talk on the page. If you like, invent more than one character and let them have a conversation.
What do you notice in doing this?
One of the things you may notice is that you don’t have the words you need; your characters don’t have their own individual voices: They all sound alike, or they all talk the way you do. Experienced writers spend time sitting in cafés or riding buses to listen to people talk. They often collect words and phrases, or even entire conversations, in their notebooks. If you want to build your word hoard for conversation, you can follow their example.
You can also study writers whose work you admire and pay attention to how their characters speak. Collect their vocabulary and practice using it yourself for your own characters. Eventually your characters will find their own individual voices.
What is the difference between the word food and the word butter, or between the word food and the word toast? What’s the difference between the word sport and the word baseball, or the word football? When I ask these questions in a writing workshop, it doesn’t take long for someone to say, “Food is a general word; butter and toast are more specific.” You can hear, and even feel, the difference in quality between general and specific words in even the most basic of sentences. Just listen to the difference between I love sports, and I love baseball, or between We were served good food, and We were served lobster salad with fresh-baked rolls. The meaning that is transferred through general words is less vivid, less powerful than that transferred through specific words. That’s because the language of specific words is the language of detail; skilled writers—like skilled craftsmen in any medium—are masters of detail.
It’s this attention to detail that usually separates spoken from written language. When we talk, we typically rely on generalities: We had a good time or The food was delicious. Perhaps we talk this way because we’re in a hurry, we’re not sure our listeners even want details, we’ve been taught that we can’t talk too much or we’ll bore people. Whatever the reasons, most adults in this culture tend to have only general words in their word hoards. While this may not be a problem in ordinary conversation, in writing we’ll be at a serious disadvantage if we have nothing but general words to use.
That’s because general words can communicate in only vague ways: Have a nice day. General statements are often called “empty” because they contain little or no content: It was a great film. Jane is a nice person. While we can get away with such statements in conversation—though no one who speaks only in generalities could be called a masterful conversationalist—when we write, if we want to communicate well, we must use specifics. That’s because specifics are not vague; they are precise and exact. Specifics give readers sensory details, statistics, examples, particulars. They provide the substance of all good writing.
In the realm of the specific we are dealing with both content and craft. You can’t just heave specific words into your writing at random; you have to use specifics to convey some particular piece of information or some exact details. But if you haven’t done enough content research for your piece of writing, you simply won’t have available to you the information and details you need. Suppose, for instance, that you want to write a few sentences describing a lake you visited recently. You don’t want to settle for generalizations like beautiful or lovely. But as you try to come up with your sentences, you find yourself struggling. Why is this happening?
There are two possibilities. Either your word hoard is poor in words specific enough to help you make your description, or—just as important—while you were at the lake, you didn’t pay enough attention to what was around you. You didn’t collect enough sensory information—colors, quality of light, feel of the water, and so on—to be able to call the place vividly to mind now as you write about it.
You might find yourself in the same kind of struggle with other subjects as well. Suppose you want to write about why Ted Williams was a better baseball player than Willie Mays. Suppose you just know that’s the case—but you have a hard time explaining your view to other people. The problem may be that you lack the words you need. Or it may be that you lack information: the statistics and specific anecdotes to provide content for your argument.
For while you surely can’t communicate well without specific language, you also can’t communicate without specific information, whether that information is sensory details, statistics, anecdotes, or examples. Many people struggle to write because they simply haven’t collected enough material to work with. If this is the case for you, then, in addition to exercising and developing your ability to use words, you also need to get into the habit of collecting content material for your pieces of writing. (How to Be a Writer contains many practices that teach you how to collect and develop your material.)
Invent (or collect from conversation, newspapers, television broadcasts, etc.) some very general statements; write down as many as you can. Try to use as much general language as possible: That was a good dinner. She’s a nice person. Read some of these aloud and pay attention to what happens in your mind as you hear them. What do you notice?
Now go back through your list and pick one of your general statements. Rewrite it to make it more specific. Invent details if you have to. Then take each remaining general statement and rewrite it, using specifics.
Now read each general statement out loud again, and then read the revised version out loud. What do you notice? What’s the difference in the effect the general statement has on you and the effect the specific statement has?
The specific statement will make something happen inside your mind; the general statement will not. When we use specifics, whether the details of sensory experience or the details of statistics, we can make pictures for our readers. We can show them our meaning, not merely tell them what it is.
This technique of showing our readers what we mean is one of the most powerful ones available to writers.
The human brain is constructed to understand verbal communication most easily, to process and retain what is said most effectively, when that communication is done through pictures made out of words. In the next chapter, “The Language of the Imagination,” we’ll explore in more detail how skilled writers make verbal pictures. Professionals have a solid understanding of the qualities of words; they know that only certain kinds of words can be used to make verbal pictures. Most of the time, our “picture words” need to be specific. If we want to write like the pros, we need to become fluent in the language of specifics.
To say that the language of specifics is an essential writer’s tool is not to deny our need for general words. We would find it difficult to write without general words like sports or art or literature. What’s most important is to be aware that we have choices, and that we have the ability to decide, in any particular place in a sentence, whether a general word or a specific word will best serve our purpose. The question is not “good words versus bad words”; the question is “What do you want to do with your words?” And if what you want to do is to show, not just tell, your reader what you mean, then you will need to make primary use of the language of specifics. Here are a few ways to do that:
1. Use specifics instead of making a general statement. For example:
[Cooper] was a tall, thin fellow, with a sallow face in which there was not a spot of colour. It was a face all in one tone. He had a large, hooked nose and blue eyes. … [His] large skull, covered with short, brown hair, contrasted somewhat oddly with a weak, small chin. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a khaki shirt, but they were shabby and soiled; and his battered topee had not been cleaned for days.
—W. Somerset Maugham, “The Outstation”
2. Make a general statement, then follow it with specifics. For example:
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits [small islands] and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin …
—Charles Dickens, Bleak House
In fact, [Rip] declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor work to do …
—Washington Irving, “Rip Van Winkle”
Then, while the pedlar ate his fill of meat and curds, Cateryne put more food into his pack—cheese, and two loaves made of beans and bran, and a gourd full of ale.
—Kevin Crossley-Holland, “The Pedlar of Swaffham”
3. Give specifics, then follow them with a general statement. For example:
Defenceless villages are bombarded from the air, the inhabitants driven out into the countryside, the cattle machine gunned, the huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called pacification.
—George Orwell, Politics and the English Language
Taking the passages above as examples, try out each of the following techniques for using specifics:
What did you notice in doing these practices?
Perhaps you noticed that having to make your language more specific forced you to come up with more things to say, with more details about your subject. Most of the time, this is a good thing—most inexperienced writers rely too heavily on generalizations. But some of you may feel that you don’t want so much detail in your writing. Making choices about how many specific details to use is one more way that a writer’s style is created.
Some writers love detail. We could call their style elaborate or highly ornamented. The paragraph from Dickens is a good example.
Other writers prefer a more plain style, using the minimum amount of detail necessary to communicate and to create the effect they intend. For instance:
It was late and everyone had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.
—Ernest Hemingway, “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”
Do you want to develop a plain style, an ornamented style, or a style somewhere in between? The choice is up to you.
Skilled writers don’t make their choices about how much specific detail to use simply at random. Their choices depend on their particular purpose, on what they are trying to do with their writing. If you give a lot of detail about something, you are inviting your reader to spend time with that “something,” to dwell there for a while. For instance, that paragraph from Bleak House comes on the first page of a thousand-page novel. Dickens wanted to make sure his readers were shown that fog, so that they would experience the fog-like atmosphere that envelops all the events in the story.
One of the best ways to get a feel for the power of specific language is to read the work of writers who use this language with skill. You can find such writers exercising their skill virtually any subject and in many genres. (You won’t find them—or only rarely—in academia or politics or government, where empty generalizations rule.) So take some time to read writers who can use language to show you something, and pay careful attention to the effect their words have upon you. If you like, mark passages you find especially effective, then go back later and see if you can discover which words or phrases created that effect. Write those words and phrases in your notebook, look up the meanings of any words you don’t know, and practice using them.
Do ten minutes of freewriting on whatever subject you like (or move from one subject to another). As you write, be aware of the words you’re putting on the page. Don’t judge them; simply notice whether they are general or specific. If you notice general words, see if you can make the following words or groups of words—which perhaps amplify the meaning of the general words—more specific. Keep your attention on being more specific, without trying too hard. Keep the pen moving. See what happens!
What did you notice?
Perhaps you noticed that this is hard for you to do. That would not be surprising, as the language of generalities is the language we are most familiar with. The language of generalities is easy to use; our brains don’t have to work very hard to come up with words and phrases like She’s so beautiful or That’s awesome! To practice using specifics, though, means exercising the language “muscles” of our brains. As with any other form of exercise, we may at first have to overcome inertia. A few minutes of freewriting, with the conscious use of specific language, is a good place to begin.
The rewards of developing our ability to use specific language are twofold. First, we will exercise and strengthen the parts of our brains that deal with language. Second, we will provide ourselves with words that have great power. When we can recognize and make use of words that have the quality of being specific—as well as words that have the quality of being concrete (the subject of the next section)—then we will be much more effective communicators, and we will be able to make a very powerful kind of magic with words.
Our words have yet a third quality that’s important for us to know about and be able to recognize: They can be what we call “concrete” words or “abstract” words. A concrete word is one that conveys to our minds something we can know through the senses, like tree or birdsong. An abstract word gives us something we can know only through the intellect, like justice or hope.
It’s easiest to distinguish abstract from concrete by looking at nouns. (A noun is the name of a person, place, thing, idea, emotion, etc.)
Start by collecting nouns. Then look back through your list, and mark all the concrete ones (naming people or places or things we can know through our senses) and all the abstract ones (naming things or ideas we can know only through the intellect). If you find you have collected more of one kind of noun than the other, add words to make your list more balanced. Now read your list of words aloud slowly, paying attention to what happens inside your mind as you read each word.
What did you notice as you did this practice? What’s the difference in effect between nouns that are concrete and nouns that are abstract? What happened in your mind and body when you heard each word?
When we read or hear a concrete word, what happens in our minds is this: A picture appears. Say, or read, the word dog, and you will picture a dog. Say, or read, the word woman, and you will picture a woman. Concrete words speak to our sensory intelligence, by way of our imaginations; they evoke in our minds something real, something we can see or hear, taste or touch. But when we read or hear an abstract word, no pictures will appear in our mind, except by association with the word. Say, or read, the word justice or the word belief, and the “picture-screen” in your mind will remain blank. Abstract words do not conjure up physical reality; they merely convey concepts and ideas.
To understand the difference between abstract and concrete words is to provide oneself with one of a writer’s most powerful tools.
You may already be familiar with the difference in power between concrete and abstract words. But the overuse of abstract words is such a prevailing characteristic of professional, academic, and bureaucratic writing that I want to call attention to it for a moment.
Anyone who’s ever taken a college course, or read a book by a professor, has most likely encountered writing like this:
Though an increasing interest on the part of the educational community is being shown in transpersonal teaching, the literature reflects a lack of empirically based studies concerning the teacher characteristics associated with its adoption. The purpose of this study, therefore, was to attempt to identify characteristics (values, attitudes, and teaching philosophy) pertinent to transpersonal oriented non-public school teachers and to compare and contrast those characteristics to those of public school oriented teachers.
—quoted by Richard Mitchell, The Graves of Academe
What happens in your mind when you read these words? Take a closer look at this passage: How many concrete words has the author used?
Now read this passage:
Meanwhile, at home, we should try to keep out of reach, and even out of sight, valuable or dangerous objects that we don’t want children to touch. At the same time, we should keep on hand a good many objects cheap and durable enough so that a child can touch them and use them; we shouldn’t have to worry if they get broken. Many ordinary household objects would be good presents for small children; an eggbeater, a saucepan, a flashlight. After all, it doesn’t make much sense, in a family that will later spend tens of thousands of dollars on the child’s education, to get upset, and to upset him, because he may ruin something worth twenty-five cents.
—John Holt, How Children Learn
What happens in your mind when you read these words? How many concrete words has the author used?
The differences in style between these two passages (both written by educators) are not created by word choice alone, but it’s worth taking careful note of the difference in effect between the first author’s obsession with abstractions and Holt’s more judicious use of them. Can you understand what the first writer is saying? What about the passage from Holt’s book? If you’re like me, you found Holt’s writing clear and comprehensible and the other passage impossible to understand. Holt has successfully communicated, transferred what he had to say from his mind to ours; the other writer has communicated nothing.
Does this mean that we should never use an abstraction? Of course not! Where would we be without words like love or justice or peace? But we need to devote special care to using these words. Abstractions are not precise; they are not specific. They are what I like to call “suitcase words”—words that contain many possible meanings and ideas. (This is why they are such useful tools for writers who want to disguise or hide the truth.) If you want to use abstractions well, you have to know not just their dictionary meanings, but what you mean when you use them. If you write, In this situation, we all want justice to be done, or Everybody needs love, you need, first of all, to be sure of your own meaning: What are you trying to say through the abstractions justice or love? Then you need to make your meaning clear to your readers.
Since abstract words, like general words, are vague, the best way to make your meaning clear is to get more specific. Show your reader what you mean by those abstractions by giving specific examples, details, or statistics.
Pick out an abstraction or two from the list you made earlier and write a sentence using it. Start with a short, simple sentence; then rewrite this sentence as many times as you need to, adding more sentences, if you like, and making clear to your readers how you want them to understand the abstraction in this particular situation.
What did you notice in doing this?
Here’s something else to try: Bring an abstraction to mind, then try to write some sentences that will convey that abstraction to the mind of your reader without including the abstraction itself in your sentences.
To do these practices, you had to dig into your word hoard for concrete words. Let’s play a little more with these.
Collect some concrete words (via internal collecting or from your reading), and make sure you know what they mean. Then play with using some of these words to make sentences.
What do you notice in doing this?
One of the things you will notice, I suspect, is that using concrete language unencumbered by abstractions makes you feel more connected to the real world. Concrete language is the language of sensory reality, and to write about the little brown dog or the red and orange sunset puts us directly in touch with that reality in a way that abstract language—the cute dog, the gorgeous sunset—does not.
To use concrete language well is to make a very powerful kind of verbal magic, one we’ll explore further in the next chapter.
Select a passage from a favorite writer, and examine it for abstract and concrete language. What do you notice?
Do some freewriting and be aware of whether your words are abstract or concrete; try to concentrate on one or the other. What do you notice in each case?
As you do the practices in this section, you may notice that abstract words are often general, while concrete words are often specific. This is not always the case, though. A word can be general and abstract, like humanity; or general and concrete, like food. A word or phrase can even be specific though abstract, like an on-base percentage of .400.
A word’s particular qualities, be they abstract or concrete, general or specific, give that word a particular power. To make good use of this power, we need to think, not only about what we want to say with our words, but also about what we are trying to do with them. Simply putting our thoughts and feelings into words, though it may satisfy us and teach us something, is not enough when we are writing to others. When we write for readers, we have to think about what we want our words to do to them.
Although it’s essential that readers understand what we’re trying to say—confused readers stop turning the pages—it’s equally important that our words move them in some way. Do we want them to laugh? Cry? Hold their breath? Then we need to know how to make use of the different qualities of words. When we can move easily between formal and informal language, general and specific, abstract and concrete, we have the foundation for mastering “the language of the imagination,” the subject of the next chapter.
Take some time to reflect on paper about your experiences doing these practices. What have you learned? What do you still want to learn?