Evolution and Context by Nancy L. Eady

If you study nature, you can see the ongoing process of evolution all around you.  For example, in a city in Britain, there was a moth that was mainly white, although a few individuals were black.  But over time, as Britain became more industrialized, the moth’s primary color changed to black, the reason being that the blacker the streets, sidewalks, and surroundings became from smoke and oil residues, the easier it was for the moth’s predators to see the white moths before the black moths. 

Language and grammar evolve as well.  One of the beautiful things about English is the rate at which it conjures up new words, adds new meanings to existing words, and switches grammar rules around.  

For example, in English class in the 1970’s and early 1980’s, I was taught that if you were writing about a person who could be either male or female, you were supposed to just use the pronoun “he.”  “He” was understood to be inclusive of all genders.  

As I started writing briefs and studying the law in the 1990’s, I noticed that rather than just using “he,” many writers shifted to “he/she” or “he or she.”  

So, in the 1970’s, I would write the following sentence: 

“Mary Castlemayne got angry at the person who entered her house without wiping his shoes, no matter who he was.” 

In the 1990’s, that sentence morphed to: 

“Mary Castlemayne got angry at the person who entered her house without wiping his or her shoes, no matter who he or she was.”  

Or

“Mary Castlemayne got angry at the person who entered her house without wiping his/her shoes, no matter who he/she was.”  

In the 2000’s, as people become more aware of personal pronoun choices, that sentence then became: 

“Mary Castlemayne got angry at the person who entered her house without wiping his/her/their shoes, no matter who he/she/they were.”  

Now, in the 2020’s, I have noticed another shift, toward the sole use of the pronoun “they” in such situations.

“Mary Castlemayne got angry at the person who entered her house without wiping their shoes, no matter who they were.”  

I am torn by this latest iteration.  I do not hesitate to use it when it makes a sentence less cumbersome, but at the same time, part of me cringes whenever I do so because an atavistic voice in the back of my head keeps shouting that it’s wrong.  

So, to my official grammarians out there, and the many excellent writers who contribute to and read this blog, I would like to know if you have noticed this as a trend, and whether you think the 2020’s use of “they” instead of “he” or “he or she” or “he/she” or “he or she or they” or “he/she/they” is proper grammar?  Am I the only one who has noticed this change?  Is there another way to tackle this issue?  

Say What? by Mary Dutta

In my critique group recently, one of my fellow writers described a character as wearing tennies. I’d never heard the term, but it was clear he meant tennis shoes, or what I’d call sneakers. It got me thinking about language regionalisms and how writers use them.

Regionalisms can add specificity and authenticity to a setting. I grew up in Massachusetts drinking from a bubbler, eating grinders, and staying out of trouble on Cabbage Night. I referred to every kind of soda as “tonic,” which I now use solely to refer to the mixer I use with my gin. I buy that hard liquor at a liquor store these days but in Boston I got it from a packie. When I eventually moved to the South, I started cutting off rather than turning off lights and learned that ugly people are rude, not necessarily physically unattractive. Those kinds of details can help immerse readers in the world of a story.

But regionalisms won’t evoke a setting if the reader doesn’t know their significance. In Boston I would often stop at my neighborhood spa—not for a facial or massage but for bread or milk. Unless a reader knows that particularly Bostonian word for a corner store, they would be confused. When I moved to New York City, I stopped standing in line and started standing on line. I bet many readers would assume that was a typo rather than a regionalism, unless they’re from the New York area too.

Properly done, such area-specific language can be a useful shorthand for setting. But it can also be a lazy one. Throwing “wicked” into every sentence does not accurately reflect how people speak in New England, any more than a liberal sprinkling of “y’all” will make an otherwise generic story convincingly Southern. Regionalisms can add to a story’s setting, but they can’t do the real work of evoking a sense of place on their own.

The internet is full of dialect quizzes that will determine where you’re from by the way you speak. Do you say firefly or lightning bug? shopping cart or buggy? lollipop or sucker? I’ve always found them pretty accurate, which just goes to show how integral language is to place, and, by extension, scene setting. Writing is all about language, and regionalisms can be a powerful tool. But if you find yourself heading down a path of linguistic cliché, you’re going to have to, as they say where I come from, bang a uey.

 

Do you use regionalisms in your own speech? Do you use them in your writing?

Combinations by Nancy L. Eady

In another life, I was a high school math teacher, which meant my major in college was math education.  One type of math problem I encountered both at college and when I was teaching was figuring out how many possible combinations of various things were possible.  So, for example, if you have a drawing for the numbers 1-6, you have 6 possible numbers you can get on the first draw.  If the number is not replaced after the drawing, then on the second draw, you can get five possible numbers.  If the number IS replaced, then you still have six possible numbers.  So, in one drawing with six people where the number is not replaced, you have a possible 720 (6x5x4x3x2x1) ways in which the numbers can be drawn.  However, in one drawing with six people where the number IS replaced, the number of possibilities increase to 46,656 (6x6x6x6x6x6). 

I would assume (although I haven’t looked it up) that the range of sounds the human voice can make is close to infinite.  But somewhere along the line, as we were evolving, humans started associating certain sounds with certain meanings.  The number of possible combinations of sounds was (I am again assuming) close to infinite but over time in different groups of humans, the sounds used to express meaning became standardized, and language was born.  

Keeping both those thoughts in the back of your mind, now, take a minute to appreciate the genius, whoever he or she was, who invented the Western alphabet.  Other systems of writing stemming from pictographs, such as Egyptian hieroglyphics and Babylonian cuneiform, were in use, but weren’t universal.  Some unknown person (a Phoenician, historians are pretty certain) decided to associate a limited number of symbols with specific sounds, and the idea caught on, revolutionizing written communications in the Western world.  Because the alphabet has a limited number of symbols, the number of possibilities to create words was not infinite, although still incredibly high.  Ideas could not only be expressed but recorded. 

And from that critical insight, developed the English language that we use today, in all of its glorious richness and versatility.  That's a good thought to take with you into a Monday, isn't it? 

When the Words Sing by Connie Berry

 

Words, Words, Words

Words are a writer's raw material, but it's how those words are put together that makes a difference. They must make logical sense, obviously, and lead the reader's thoughts to a conclusion. But words can also sing, and that has to do with rhythm. I'm thinking of words and the rhythm of the English language now as I'm finishing an e-book novella to be published in 2023. And since I have an October 1st deadline, I'm sharing one of my posts from July of 2019.

When the Words Sing

We've all had the experience of reading along in a book when suddenly an exquisite sentence or passage zings in your brain and grabs you by the heart. Some passages are beautiful because of the images they conjure; others because of their lyricism. The best combine both qualities. Here's one of my favorites:

Miss Bellringer settled herself in the chair that Sergeant Troy drew forward and rearranged her draperies. She was a wondrous sight, festooned rather than dressed. All her clothes had a dim but vibrant sheen as if they had once, long ago, been richly embroidered. She wore several very beautiful rings, the gems dulled by dirt. Her nails were dirty too. Her eyes moved all the time, glittering in a brown seamed face. She looked like a tattered eagle.

—The Killings at Badger's Drift by Caroline Graham

Did you notice how Graham varies the pace and length of her sentences, ending on that wonderful six-word statement to deliver the final image? The rhythm and pace of language create an atmosphere. Long, smooth sentences slow the mood down. Short, punchy sentences speed things up. Here's another example. Notice how the author uses rhythm, the ebb and flow of language, to create an atmosphere.

When she opens the bedroom window, the noise of the airplanes becomes louder. Otherwise, the night is dreadfully silent: no engines, no voices, no clatter. No sirens. No footfalls on the cobbles. Not even gulls. Just a high tide, one block away and six stories below, lapping at the base of the city walls.

            And something else.

Something rattling softly, very close.

            —All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

Language Has a Natural Rhythm

The rhythm of language is part of what writers call voice.

The English language has its own natural rhythm. So does every language, which is partly why I love German with those long, drawn-out sentences that clackity-clackity-clackity to the end. The most important part of writing dialect isn't getting the words right so much as getting the rhythm right.

One of my professors in graduate school, an expert in seventeenth-century English poetry, claimed that the natural rhythm of English is iambic pentameter—the language of poetry, the language of song. Years ago I read that the most beautiful sentence ever written in English comes from the King James Bible, the book of Isaiah, chapter 6, verse 1: "In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and lifted up, and the train of His robe filled the temple." (NKJV) The most beautiful anything (baby, flower, sunset, landscape) is obviously a matter of personal taste, but that sentence sings to me.

I was fascinated to read an article (a bit technical) on the rhythm of language in the latest issue of Writers Digest magazine ("Poetic Thinking: Writing in Rhythm" by Barbara Baig. September 2019). When I have time, I plan to read the article again. But most of us—writers and readers—know lovely writing by ear. When the words sing to us.

Do you have a favorite sentence or passage that sings to you? How do you use rhythm in your writing?

WORDS by Nancy L. Eady

            I love the fact that English is a changing language. Based on the times we live in, recent inventions, new slang expressions and circumstances, the English language is constantly evolving, adding new words while allowing other words to become obsolete. For example, the Oxford English Dictionary, which attempts to define every word and certain phrases in the English language, has made 21 changes to its massive dictionary solely based on Covid-19—new words, sub-entries or revisions and additions to existing definitions. They moved up their normal quarterly update to catalog those changes.

            Which leads me to one of my shameful secrets—I am a hopeless word nerd and subscribe to the Oxford English Dictionary’s “word of the day” emails. The words they select to share range over a broad variety of subjects, and they don’t always mean what they sound like they should mean.  

            For example, one word was “bombogenesis.”  Looking at it, you might think the word refers to the initial stages used in manufacturing a bomb. But no, “bombogenesis” describes a sudden drop in barometric pressure in the center of an extratropical storm.

            Then there was the word “pacation.”  Since one of the earlier daily words had been “staycation,” I could be forgiven for thinking “pacation” referred to a vacation you pay for. Nope. “Pacation” is the act of calming, or pacifying someone down, or the state of being peaceful or appeasement. I’m not sure when “pacation’s” heyday was, but it is rare now.

            The word “ayuh” sounds like it was an Indian word that revolved into the English language during England’s occupation of India. Instead, it means “yes,” chiefly used in New England and especially Maine.

            Once the writers lure you into believing none of the daily words’ meanings can be deduced from the way they sound or look, they hit you with a word like “cox-combery,” which means conceitedness, vanity, pretentious affectation or [here’s another good word] foppery. That meaning is foreshadowed from the word’s spelling.

            Some words are just fun to say, like “simi-dimi,” an English word from the Caribbean, mostly Trinidad. It refers to mumbo jumbo or meaningless, elaborate rituals.

            As you will have already noticed from these words, a lot of nations contribute words to our language. For example, were you aware of “Nigerian English”?  The word “bukateria” is from Nigerian English. A bukateria is a roadside restaurant or stall with seating that sells cooked food at low prices.

            I saved the best word for last— “quank.”  A quank sounds like a confused or grumpy sub-atomic particle or a cranky duck. The cranky duck idea isn’t so far from the mark—to “quank” is to utter a harsh croaking or honking cry.

            So what are the interesting words you’ve found? 

An English Curmudgeon by Nancy L. Eady

As both a writer and voracious reader, I am a fan of the English language. I love its variety, flexibility and changeability. But every so often words and phrases creep into the language or morph into a form that drives me crazy, akin to Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe’s loathing the use of “contact” as a verb.

Phrases that have infiltrated American English that make me cringe when I hear (or even worse, use) them include “at risk,” “actually,” “reach out to” and “it is what it is.” 

“At risk” is a phrase promoted by the 24-hour news media crowd. “Your child is at risk for measles” sounds exponentially more urgent than “one out of 1000 children catch measles each year.”  (None of the children in the United States should catch measles; they should be vaccinated against them.)  If I am told I am at risk for heart disease, flu or just catching a cold, I am more concerned than if I am told that there is a chance that I could develop or catch the same thing.  What the people using that phrase don't mention is that I am also at risk for winning the lottery, flying to the moon and winning the Nobel Peace Prize - but I'm not holding my breath for any of those things to happen soon, either!  And, if you think about it, everyone who has been born as “at risk” of dying sometime.

“Actually” has become an overused meaningless filler word. Most of the time, I hear “actually” in sentences such as “I actually went to the store and bought groceries.”  Well, yes, I assumed you did “actually” go to the store; I didn't think you sent your evil twin instead. I suppose the argument could be made that “actually” is meant to indicate personal presence as opposed to “virtual” which would indicate that a person viewed or did something by computer, but most of the people who use the word interminably are not trying to be that precise. People use “actually” now much in the way we used to say “ummm...” when we didn't know what to say. Perhaps it’s time to stop “actually” doing things, and simply do them.

I started hearing “reach out” from salespeople in high-tech fields first. Legal research engines, website designers, cable providers and other such businesses’ sales representatives started “reaching out” to me to see if I was interested in any of the various products they were selling. Every time I see the phrase in an email, I have this image of a zombie apocalypse with millions of zombies stumbling towards me with their hands “reaching out.” And let’s not overlook the fact that the six words “I’m reaching out to you to…”  can be deleted from most emails without the content or intent of the email suffering in any form. For example, “I’m reaching out to you to see if you are satisfied with your data plan” means the same thing as “Are you satisfied with your data plan?” 

“It is what it is” is the English equivalent of “c’est la vie,” the spoken equivalent of a shrug. The phrase usually pops up after a minutes long discourse on an existing evil, serious problem, or irritating issue about which nothing can be done. It carries a defeatist message, doesn’t it?  If “it is what it is,” it (whatever “it” is) can’t be fixed. I like to solve problems, not let them defeat me.

I am grateful that “reaching out” and “at risk” manage to stay out of my spoken and written vocabulary. I have caught myself using “actually” and “it is what it is.” And even though I am an avid Nero Wolfe fan, I use “contact” as a verb as well as a noun. Even (or especially!) curmudgeons aren’t perfect.

What phrases or words (profanity doesn’t count; that’s a different issue) make you cringe when you hear or read them?  I’d love to know that I’m not the only English curmudgeon out there!

ON WORDS PROFANE AND NOT PROFANE by Nancy Eady

Profanity – Blasphemous or obscene language

Obscenity - An extremely offensive word or expression

From en.oxforddictionaries.com

            Among the controversies of the day, one issue rarely discussed any more is the use of obscene or profane language in fiction. Writers must decide what type of language their characters use. After all, a kindergarten teacher probably won’t use the same language as an inner-city cop working undercover on a drug case - if either of them spoke like the other, it wouldn’t be believable. The problem writers have is balancing realistic language with our readers' tolerance level. 

            That being said, I do NOT like books, TV shows or movies where profanity is used just to use it. On the other hand, neither will I refuse to read a book because some of the characters use the kind of four letter words my mother never expected to hear from my mouth. And, if I’m going to be completely honest, never have I hit my hand with a hammer or suffered some other painful injury and yelled, “Verily, verily, I hurt.” The day I slammed my hand in the door, not only my immediate neighbors but the ones three and four streets away received a rudimentary education in four letter words. Unfortunately, I slammed the door with my hand inside, and the rest of me outside, so the sound carried quite well.

            Mysteries come in all shapes and sizes, multiple genres, diverse settings, different language. For example, our own Jim Jackson has recently published his latest Seamus McCree novel, False Bottom. As Jim explains in his upcoming interview with Elaine Douts this Wednesday, “I tell gritty stories and many of my characters curse. I won’t change them.” That makes sense as the following quote from his character, the self-styled Happy Reaper, demonstrates:

He kept the radio tuned to news radio WBZ for anything useful related to Jerome Rozelle’s attack on Elisabeth. If he heard one more fucking political message, he’d shoot the jerks as a public service. Once he completed this job, he was vacationing abroad until the election was over. In his biography, Mark Twain had attributed to Prime Minister Disraeli the statement that there were three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics. When today’s politicians spoke, it was a question only of which lie they chose. He supposed that since he didn’t vote, he shouldn’t complain—still, if political ads weren’t cruel and unusual punishment, what was?

James M. Jackson, False Bottom, Kindle Loc. 3521

            Equally, it makes sense in other settings and stories, the characters don’t curse. For example, my novel, Gambits and Games, (still seeking a home, by the way) is set in the small-town South where some men still apologize if they use curse words in front of a woman. (Really, they do; as recently as two weeks ago, I sat in a meeting where some strong language was used, only to have the sentence followed up immediately with an apology to me.)

            For example, my protagonist, Penny, makes the following observations about a politician as she walks into the courtroom:

A pit opened in my stomach when I saw Jim Krey, the state’s Attorney General, sitting at the prosecution table. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t stoop to handle a local prosecution. I wondered if he wanted to use William to punish me, but then dismissed the thought. Jim Krey had made it obvious for years he considered me beneath his and his family’s notice. A stranger observing him at the counsel table would see only a conscientious public servant. I knew better.

However, the unwritten rules of court etiquette in Alabama require opposing counsel to greet one another cordially, so as William sat, Boyd and I walked over to the prosecution table.

            But the fact that my characters in this book don’t use a lot of swear words doesn’t mean that down the road I won’t write another novel or story where characters do.

            The language our characters use gives the readers a clue both to the world the characters inhabit and to their own personality traits. The language the characters use both to speak with and to think with is an artistic choice the writer makes to help accomplish those twin goals.

            What is your tolerance for profanity? Would you refuse to read a book based upon the language used or not used? Have you read a book that is outside of your comfort zone where the language contains more or less swear words than you would normally encounter, and if so, what did you take away from the experience?

Writing a Blue Streak

Hi, my name is Sarah, and if you ever read one of my mysteries, chances are you’ll see an F-bomb by page five.

This is not for shock value, or to give me street cred, or to make you think cutesy blonde me is trying way too hard at being taken seriously.

No, I’m not trying to be vulgar when I write a four-letter word in my manuscripts.

I’m trying to be real.

Mystery writers strive to make sure our murders, motives and investigations are accurate and logical—and I don’t think the language we use should be any different. If you’re going to have a character absorbing and investigating a murder, there’s most definitely an appropriate time for profanity.

Up until recently, every main character I’ve written has been either a cop or a journalist. And if there were two dignified professions going head-to-head in a national bowl of “how to curse on the job,” it would be those two.

An example: I once had an executive editor so enamored with the F-word that he used it as often as normal people would say “and” or “the” or “I.”

Yes, I’m effing serious.

And though my life experience doesn’t exactly parallel my fictional reality, I honestly think it’s ridiculous to pretend that in the heat of an investigation—either of the journalistic or criminalistic variety—words you wouldn’t say in front of Grandma wouldn’t slip out. Or be thought. Or be uttered by at least a side character.

As the bumper sticker says, stuff happens.

That’s not to say I believe in throwing those words around willy-nilly. Profanity is like salt: use too much and it loses its impact. It blends in with the ether, and the meaning and spark behind it are gone.

But I do think that, as necessary, a curse word is a good thing because it brings a dose of reality to your fictional universe in the same way real places or items or events do.

That said, I’ve been thinking a lot about curse words lately. And how the use of them—or the lack thereof—is important in the creation of character’s particular voice.

Right now, I’ve got two projects going at the same time involving three first-person narrators. This makes me sound like a sadist, but I’m not, I promise. I just like a good challenge. And, boy, have I given myself one.

One of the projects has alternating first-person, past-tense narrators: an FBI agent from Boston and an agent with Wyoming’s DCI. Here, not only do we have two investigators, but we have a man and a woman, both from different areas of the country, and both needing to have distinct voices.

When drawing up how they should “sound,” I decided that the slightly jaded male FBI agent would cuss more often than the female agent. I’m not saying she won’t curse at all—because, again, I don’t think that’s true-to-life—but in my mind, he’s got much more of a potty mouth than her, and is much more in line with the other characters I’ve written. (Note: I don’t think women cuss any less than men.)

The other project is a first-person, present-tense, young adult mystery I’m co-authoring. It’s my first foray into YA, and, though teenagers curse in real life, the worst of that language is most often kept to a minimum in print. If you drop the F-bomb, there better be a darn good reason.

Writing all these characters at once has made me really consider when and how and why to use profanity and different ways to do it and still stay true to the character, story and what I’m trying to accomplish with voice and structure and tone.

Do you allow your characters to curse? Why or why not?