January posting meme: words and images
More from the posting meme. 
philomytha wanted me to talk about composing prose and choosing words and images, which first of all is a topic large enough for a book, and secondly something I find tough to analyze - writing about the process of writing, so difficult! - but I can probably manage some random thoughts.
I suppose insofar as one is choosing which words to use, which images to project, which themes to wrap it all around, there's head-choice and gut-choice, or decision and instinct if you want to put it that way. In my best writing, I use both, not usually simultaneously but in either order: gut doesn't always precede head. So there's conscious searching for the right words, and serendipitous finding, which is less likely to come at the word level and more at the metaphorical level, and one can lead to the other. Quite often I spend time looking for a perfect word, and then that spurs a whole new train of thought (see, if I say "train" I am immediately running over tracks with occasional jolts and sways and constant rhythmic noises, not that I would use "train of thought" if I could think of an alternative, unless it was in dialogue, and then someone would make a railway pun).
Head-choice is easier to talk about. So, first of all, yes, I do use a thesaurus (online exclusively, now), and I am not in agreement with writing advice that suggests otherwise, although I understand why people say that. You need to know what the words you choose mean, not just pick the coolest-sounding one from a list. English is a ridiculous hotpot of a language, but you can't equate all the synonyms for a word even if it's a long list. Anyway, I mainly use a thesaurus because I'm old and my memory is cranky (actually it's been cranky in this way since I was 30 or so, so I can't blame aging), and sometimes I know the word I want perfectly well but can't get it to the front of my head for access (often because something that sounds a bit similar is blocking the way). But also I'm picky about not repeating words too often; it's a judgment call whether it looks absurd to use a series of synonyms in succeeding paragraphs, and sometimes hitting a word over and over contributes to the sound and rhythm of prose, but other times it feels sticky and boring (and yes, that's me talking about gut-choice: much more difficult to explain).
Because I write time travel fiction (otherwise known as not-quite-historical-fiction), and because I have deep pockets of nitpickiness, I try to choose words (for dialogue, at least) that are appropriate to the time and place - so, yeah, I did look up most of the relevant sections of TFT in the OED, or at least particular words I had questions about. I'm sure I left in some anachronisms, but overall I hope the language choices evoke something of the period. (Plenty of surprises along the way: in one place I wanted an 18th-century character to talk about catching someone on the rebound, and was astounded to find that, with a little variation, it was fine to do that. I suppose that might work against a sense of authenticity, but I couldn't resist leaving it in.) I was a little less picky for Time and Fevers, because most of the period language is actually Dutch translated (in that miraculous novelistic fashion) into English, so I used vaguely 17th-century English but wasn't fussy about details (because, you see, the characters weren't really saying those words. If that makes any sense). Time travel lends a nice duality to all that, because I can have Olivia and George speaking period language to the people around them and then have them converse in more modern English when they're alone, and also let them react to period word choices (my favorite example is Halsey remarking to Olivia after a ride that "I wish I had the mounting of you, Miss Lake," meaning he wants to choose her horse, but, knowing Halsey, probably implying exactly what she first thinks he's saying. I stole that from Georgette Heyer, I believe).
The other thing I can touch on in without making this too long is what I talked about a bit yesterday, the carrying through of metaphors and thematic material, which is actually a bit too easy for me, because I have a tendency to release the plug on metaphorical language and let it flow; I mean, whole paragraphs awash in various forms of liquid, and so forth. And I've found myself, in the last two books, crafting chapters that read a bit like short stories, with repeated thematic elements; I guess it's okay, as long as they don't isolate themselves from the rest of the book. It works great if I am writing short stories (in my case, mostly fanfic). But driving a metaphor or image to its logical or illogical conclusion is one of my favorite things in writing, and when used judiciously it can be extremely valuable.
The best way to get into details of word choice and so forth is those DVD commentary things (which I have done a few times before and am always happy to do again). It's hard to select the perfect example from an entire novel or set of novels, so I'm going to let my previous reference to deep pockets choose for me, and make remarks about two characteristic bits of prose from chapter 24 of Time Goes By, under the cut.
Part the first:
They walked on, Philippe trying not to show he was in pain, and Rahula jabbering [a descriptive and dismissive verb that contrasts with what happens in a few paragraphs; it's what Olivia wants to think of him] away about Romanesque-Byzantine architecture, the military history of the site, and the symbolic value of the shrine to homecoming sailors. Olivia had become rather fond of the edifice that guarded the city and harbor, at least as seen from a distance; as they came closer she couldn't help thinking how Bernard would have scoffed [again, a verb that reveals more about Olivia than Bernard] at the dominating tower with its gilded statue, the massive dome, and the stripy pattern of stone used to build them. But her opinions had long ago emerged from Bernard's shadow, [a lot of shadow and sun in this section; maybe did that on purpose?] and the exuberance and grandeur pleased her.
Pausing on the great terrace, Rahula pointed out the statues of St. John and Isaiah [Isaiah is used repeatedly throughout the book; accident merging into conscious choice]; the latter seemed to smile expectantly back as Olivia gazed up at him. We could use a prophet about now, she thought, and turned to face outwards.
The city, ancient and modern, lay before her: the harbor that had served a Greek port more than two thousand years ago and the new docks for the commerce war had reduced to a trickle [ha, water]; forts, churches, the warren of crumbling houses in which Pierre and his revolutionaries lurked. ["warren" "crumbling" "lurked": animals, things broken down and rough] The cliffs and the valleys; the sea, broad and blue--
"The isles," said Rahula close to her ear, [in a continuation of Olivia's thought, and we are looking at Chateau d'If among other island places, which resonates] "and the inhabitants thereof. Let the wilderness and the cities thereof lift up their voice: let the inhabitants of the rock sing, let them shout from the top of the mountains." [Isaiah 42. And quoting things is a blessing and a pernicious habit.] He paused, and took a deep breath of the salty air before he went on. "O that thou hadst hearkened to my commandments! then had thy peace been as a river, and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea." [Isaiah 48. With water metaphors.] The words were English, archaic even at their seventeenth-century composition, and he spoke them not like a modern man reading from a worn leather Bible, but with the vowels and cadences in which he might have preached them to a congregation of wigs and starched petticoats, [synecdoche, I think?] from a London pulpit later destroyed by the Great Fire. [There's a lot of historical awareness in these paragraphs; this is for Reasons.] She knew that if she turned she would see the insignificant Estonian in his once-smart nineteen thirties suit, his brown hair chopped short, his hat plumed [callback to the 17th century] with seagull droppings. She kept her eyes on the water.
Part the second:
But [Max] was turning in his own little gearbox, over in the Panier quarter, powering explosions. [Lots of mechanical language in this section, reflecting some of Philippe the engineer's expressions.] An ineffectual, pale-faced soldier, fighting a war that for all he knew was over, because he cared about how he looked, because he wanted to impress a girl he'd lost, and a woman who'd pleasured him for fun, and a real revolutionary. [I'm proud of that sentence [fragment]: good words, good rhythm, and I can't come close to explaining how it got that way.] As good a reason as many had.
"A franc for your thoughts," said Philippe. ["Casablanca" quote (not that Philippe is aware of that): another through-line in the book.]
"Not worth that much," she said. "I was thinking about Max." [Which is actually a callback to a quote (Fielding? can't remember) she used in TFT, "They are not worth a penny, for I was thinking of you." Just to amuse myself.]
"Ah."
"I think... this is going to sound absurdly philosophical." Philippe managed a full Gallic shrug with three fingers and a two-centimeter lift of one shoulder; she went on. "The key to really belonging in a time and place is that your reasons for doing things are integral to that time and place. People don't really act for the sake of the future."
Philippe frowned. "Altruism, and sacrifice--"
"Yes, but not for the sake of... of children not yet born. Not even Pierre."
"You shock me. But yes, I should think his reasons were tied to here and now. Perhaps a few are even selfish reasons, tucked into the pockets of his noble garment."
"And Max has a few pockets of nobility?"
"Spoiling the line of his suit. [Carrying the imagery through, in a tidy inoffensive fashion. Well, it's offensive to Max, but he deserves it.] Is that what you were thinking?"
"No. It's got nothing to do with altruism. It has to do with finding a place."
"That Max is at home here?" Philippe asked. She nodded. "We are mooring points for him, perhaps," he said. [water metaphors…] "He is a Parisian, yes, born and bred, but more than that just now he is French. So Marseille does just as well."
"I'm not French."
"No. You are a very lovely American. Your passport makes you neutral by nature, yes?" It was the sort of oui that meant non, not necessary of correction. [A reminder that they're actually speaking French here. I tried to parallel and translate where I could, but it doesn't always work.] "Your Mr. Fry certainly doesn't think so," Philippe added.
"That'll get him kicked out of France one of these days."
"Very likely. And you?"
"They won't kick me out."
"That is not what I meant."
She turned her face into his shoulder, so he could not read it. "I have nowhere to go," she said.
"Then stay," he said quietly. Like a circuit, she thought: current on or off; yes or no. Forgetting what he'd made clear with his voice a moment back, that one sometimes meant the other. [Tying together Olivia's preoccupation with language and Philippe's instinct for engineering, I suppose.]
*
Anyway, that was fun, even if it describes my writing process insufficiently. I hope I scratched the surface of the question, which was a good one!
This entry was originally posted at http://hedda62.dreamwidth.org/74829.html. There are currently
comments there. Comment here or there.
philomytha wanted me to talk about composing prose and choosing words and images, which first of all is a topic large enough for a book, and secondly something I find tough to analyze - writing about the process of writing, so difficult! - but I can probably manage some random thoughts.
I suppose insofar as one is choosing which words to use, which images to project, which themes to wrap it all around, there's head-choice and gut-choice, or decision and instinct if you want to put it that way. In my best writing, I use both, not usually simultaneously but in either order: gut doesn't always precede head. So there's conscious searching for the right words, and serendipitous finding, which is less likely to come at the word level and more at the metaphorical level, and one can lead to the other. Quite often I spend time looking for a perfect word, and then that spurs a whole new train of thought (see, if I say "train" I am immediately running over tracks with occasional jolts and sways and constant rhythmic noises, not that I would use "train of thought" if I could think of an alternative, unless it was in dialogue, and then someone would make a railway pun).
Head-choice is easier to talk about. So, first of all, yes, I do use a thesaurus (online exclusively, now), and I am not in agreement with writing advice that suggests otherwise, although I understand why people say that. You need to know what the words you choose mean, not just pick the coolest-sounding one from a list. English is a ridiculous hotpot of a language, but you can't equate all the synonyms for a word even if it's a long list. Anyway, I mainly use a thesaurus because I'm old and my memory is cranky (actually it's been cranky in this way since I was 30 or so, so I can't blame aging), and sometimes I know the word I want perfectly well but can't get it to the front of my head for access (often because something that sounds a bit similar is blocking the way). But also I'm picky about not repeating words too often; it's a judgment call whether it looks absurd to use a series of synonyms in succeeding paragraphs, and sometimes hitting a word over and over contributes to the sound and rhythm of prose, but other times it feels sticky and boring (and yes, that's me talking about gut-choice: much more difficult to explain).
Because I write time travel fiction (otherwise known as not-quite-historical-fiction), and because I have deep pockets of nitpickiness, I try to choose words (for dialogue, at least) that are appropriate to the time and place - so, yeah, I did look up most of the relevant sections of TFT in the OED, or at least particular words I had questions about. I'm sure I left in some anachronisms, but overall I hope the language choices evoke something of the period. (Plenty of surprises along the way: in one place I wanted an 18th-century character to talk about catching someone on the rebound, and was astounded to find that, with a little variation, it was fine to do that. I suppose that might work against a sense of authenticity, but I couldn't resist leaving it in.) I was a little less picky for Time and Fevers, because most of the period language is actually Dutch translated (in that miraculous novelistic fashion) into English, so I used vaguely 17th-century English but wasn't fussy about details (because, you see, the characters weren't really saying those words. If that makes any sense). Time travel lends a nice duality to all that, because I can have Olivia and George speaking period language to the people around them and then have them converse in more modern English when they're alone, and also let them react to period word choices (my favorite example is Halsey remarking to Olivia after a ride that "I wish I had the mounting of you, Miss Lake," meaning he wants to choose her horse, but, knowing Halsey, probably implying exactly what she first thinks he's saying. I stole that from Georgette Heyer, I believe).
The other thing I can touch on in without making this too long is what I talked about a bit yesterday, the carrying through of metaphors and thematic material, which is actually a bit too easy for me, because I have a tendency to release the plug on metaphorical language and let it flow; I mean, whole paragraphs awash in various forms of liquid, and so forth. And I've found myself, in the last two books, crafting chapters that read a bit like short stories, with repeated thematic elements; I guess it's okay, as long as they don't isolate themselves from the rest of the book. It works great if I am writing short stories (in my case, mostly fanfic). But driving a metaphor or image to its logical or illogical conclusion is one of my favorite things in writing, and when used judiciously it can be extremely valuable.
The best way to get into details of word choice and so forth is those DVD commentary things (which I have done a few times before and am always happy to do again). It's hard to select the perfect example from an entire novel or set of novels, so I'm going to let my previous reference to deep pockets choose for me, and make remarks about two characteristic bits of prose from chapter 24 of Time Goes By, under the cut.
Part the first:
They walked on, Philippe trying not to show he was in pain, and Rahula jabbering [a descriptive and dismissive verb that contrasts with what happens in a few paragraphs; it's what Olivia wants to think of him] away about Romanesque-Byzantine architecture, the military history of the site, and the symbolic value of the shrine to homecoming sailors. Olivia had become rather fond of the edifice that guarded the city and harbor, at least as seen from a distance; as they came closer she couldn't help thinking how Bernard would have scoffed [again, a verb that reveals more about Olivia than Bernard] at the dominating tower with its gilded statue, the massive dome, and the stripy pattern of stone used to build them. But her opinions had long ago emerged from Bernard's shadow, [a lot of shadow and sun in this section; maybe did that on purpose?] and the exuberance and grandeur pleased her.
Pausing on the great terrace, Rahula pointed out the statues of St. John and Isaiah [Isaiah is used repeatedly throughout the book; accident merging into conscious choice]; the latter seemed to smile expectantly back as Olivia gazed up at him. We could use a prophet about now, she thought, and turned to face outwards.
The city, ancient and modern, lay before her: the harbor that had served a Greek port more than two thousand years ago and the new docks for the commerce war had reduced to a trickle [ha, water]; forts, churches, the warren of crumbling houses in which Pierre and his revolutionaries lurked. ["warren" "crumbling" "lurked": animals, things broken down and rough] The cliffs and the valleys; the sea, broad and blue--
"The isles," said Rahula close to her ear, [in a continuation of Olivia's thought, and we are looking at Chateau d'If among other island places, which resonates] "and the inhabitants thereof. Let the wilderness and the cities thereof lift up their voice: let the inhabitants of the rock sing, let them shout from the top of the mountains." [Isaiah 42. And quoting things is a blessing and a pernicious habit.] He paused, and took a deep breath of the salty air before he went on. "O that thou hadst hearkened to my commandments! then had thy peace been as a river, and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea." [Isaiah 48. With water metaphors.] The words were English, archaic even at their seventeenth-century composition, and he spoke them not like a modern man reading from a worn leather Bible, but with the vowels and cadences in which he might have preached them to a congregation of wigs and starched petticoats, [synecdoche, I think?] from a London pulpit later destroyed by the Great Fire. [There's a lot of historical awareness in these paragraphs; this is for Reasons.] She knew that if she turned she would see the insignificant Estonian in his once-smart nineteen thirties suit, his brown hair chopped short, his hat plumed [callback to the 17th century] with seagull droppings. She kept her eyes on the water.
Part the second:
But [Max] was turning in his own little gearbox, over in the Panier quarter, powering explosions. [Lots of mechanical language in this section, reflecting some of Philippe the engineer's expressions.] An ineffectual, pale-faced soldier, fighting a war that for all he knew was over, because he cared about how he looked, because he wanted to impress a girl he'd lost, and a woman who'd pleasured him for fun, and a real revolutionary. [I'm proud of that sentence [fragment]: good words, good rhythm, and I can't come close to explaining how it got that way.] As good a reason as many had.
"A franc for your thoughts," said Philippe. ["Casablanca" quote (not that Philippe is aware of that): another through-line in the book.]
"Not worth that much," she said. "I was thinking about Max." [Which is actually a callback to a quote (Fielding? can't remember) she used in TFT, "They are not worth a penny, for I was thinking of you." Just to amuse myself.]
"Ah."
"I think... this is going to sound absurdly philosophical." Philippe managed a full Gallic shrug with three fingers and a two-centimeter lift of one shoulder; she went on. "The key to really belonging in a time and place is that your reasons for doing things are integral to that time and place. People don't really act for the sake of the future."
Philippe frowned. "Altruism, and sacrifice--"
"Yes, but not for the sake of... of children not yet born. Not even Pierre."
"You shock me. But yes, I should think his reasons were tied to here and now. Perhaps a few are even selfish reasons, tucked into the pockets of his noble garment."
"And Max has a few pockets of nobility?"
"Spoiling the line of his suit. [Carrying the imagery through, in a tidy inoffensive fashion. Well, it's offensive to Max, but he deserves it.] Is that what you were thinking?"
"No. It's got nothing to do with altruism. It has to do with finding a place."
"That Max is at home here?" Philippe asked. She nodded. "We are mooring points for him, perhaps," he said. [water metaphors…] "He is a Parisian, yes, born and bred, but more than that just now he is French. So Marseille does just as well."
"I'm not French."
"No. You are a very lovely American. Your passport makes you neutral by nature, yes?" It was the sort of oui that meant non, not necessary of correction. [A reminder that they're actually speaking French here. I tried to parallel and translate where I could, but it doesn't always work.] "Your Mr. Fry certainly doesn't think so," Philippe added.
"That'll get him kicked out of France one of these days."
"Very likely. And you?"
"They won't kick me out."
"That is not what I meant."
She turned her face into his shoulder, so he could not read it. "I have nowhere to go," she said.
"Then stay," he said quietly. Like a circuit, she thought: current on or off; yes or no. Forgetting what he'd made clear with his voice a moment back, that one sometimes meant the other. [Tying together Olivia's preoccupation with language and Philippe's instinct for engineering, I suppose.]
*
Anyway, that was fun, even if it describes my writing process insufficiently. I hope I scratched the surface of the question, which was a good one!
This entry was originally posted at http://hedda62.dreamwidth.org/74829.html. There are currently
comments there. Comment here or there.