Writing stew
As I was checking the clock every 45 minutes last night when I should have been sleeping, I got to thinking how much writing and cooking have in common. And no, this isn't simply related to my post about how lessons from Top Chef apply to writing, either.
A brief digression: The other day, I made beef stew. The ingredients were beef chuck, flour, water, salt, pepper, carrots, onions and potatoes. Oh, and a little oil to brown the beef in. When they went in the pot, they all looked just like themselves. Later on, the meat and vegetables looked like cooked versions of themselves. But the water was completely transformed. It had become thicker, richer, deeper in color and flavor, and extraordinarily tasty, because it had taken a bit here and there from all the other ingredients. It was no longer water -- it was deliciously thick broth.
Writing is a bit like that, I think. You start with large amounts of nouns and verbs, and you try to find the best specimens you can. Instead of "thing", you look for the precise word to identify the "thing" you're writing about. Instead of "noise", you embellish with adjectives or adverbs to find the precise type of sound you wish to describe. Hopefully you look for the juicier verbs as well, and ditch all those gerunds and weaker forms. None of this "went quickly" business, when there are evocative words such as dashed, darted, sprinted, flew, or raced.
And in writing, adverbs and adjectives are your seasoning. They are necessary, of course, because in the absence of seasoning, some dishes and stories are a little bland. But you only need a pinch here and there, a soupçon if you will (because it's so much to say and spell). If you're too heavy-handed with them, the person devouring your book will shake their head. If you're Dan Brown and can write a rip-snorting great story, then they might read on anyway, but they will know that what they read wasn't terrific writing.
For today, I'm going to write some stew and see how it tastes. How about you?
A brief digression: The other day, I made beef stew. The ingredients were beef chuck, flour, water, salt, pepper, carrots, onions and potatoes. Oh, and a little oil to brown the beef in. When they went in the pot, they all looked just like themselves. Later on, the meat and vegetables looked like cooked versions of themselves. But the water was completely transformed. It had become thicker, richer, deeper in color and flavor, and extraordinarily tasty, because it had taken a bit here and there from all the other ingredients. It was no longer water -- it was deliciously thick broth.
Writing is a bit like that, I think. You start with large amounts of nouns and verbs, and you try to find the best specimens you can. Instead of "thing", you look for the precise word to identify the "thing" you're writing about. Instead of "noise", you embellish with adjectives or adverbs to find the precise type of sound you wish to describe. Hopefully you look for the juicier verbs as well, and ditch all those gerunds and weaker forms. None of this "went quickly" business, when there are evocative words such as dashed, darted, sprinted, flew, or raced.
And in writing, adverbs and adjectives are your seasoning. They are necessary, of course, because in the absence of seasoning, some dishes and stories are a little bland. But you only need a pinch here and there, a soupçon if you will (because it's so much to say and spell). If you're too heavy-handed with them, the person devouring your book will shake their head. If you're Dan Brown and can write a rip-snorting great story, then they might read on anyway, but they will know that what they read wasn't terrific writing.
For today, I'm going to write some stew and see how it tastes. How about you?