Mastering Language in Stories

Words matter. They are the passports to fictional worlds. But, oddly, the first duty of the writer is to make them invisible. That means using the right words (not just close enough) for the intended reader. It means sequencing the ideas they convey in a way that builds and is logical. Mostly, it means doing the task without making readers reread.

Heinlein wrote about a class he took at the Naval Academy where a situation was presented to the students, and they had to write an order that was unambiguous. Each day, if the order had perfect clarity, the student passed. But, if another student could find a way to misconstrue the order, it meant failure.

I faced a similar challenge in my first job. I had to write detailed instructions on purifying valuable biological components (monoclonal antibodies and enzymes for genetic engineering) without any mentoring. The readers of these instructions were often people for whom English was a second language. I wrote over 100 of these, which was good training for clarity.

New writers get beat up over misspellings and grammatical errors, but I consider this to be borderline hazing. You should not turn in a manuscript with such errors. It makes people suspicious about your seriousness. But, ultimately, you can hire someone to make fixes, and, if you pay attention to their work, your spelling and grammar will probably rise to a professional level (unless you have dyslexia or a similar disability). Mechanics are low on the list, far below storytelling, character development, and graceful prose.

I’ll deal with storytelling later, and character mastery has already been covered in this series. Now is the time for graceful prose.

I have a bias toward hearing words. My father was in broadcasting for many years, and, as a speechwriter, I came to appreciate the value of what language can do when it’s heard. (It is immediately evident to me when a written speech was never read out loud before presentation.) I believe it is essential to read most works aloud as a check.

Now, with that in mind, many writers are not tuned to hear the difference between good prose and great prose. I think this is one of the things Stephen King recognized, and it led him to be a strong advocate for writers reading. My advice is to read more and dedicate some time to reading great, lyrical prose aloud. Include poetry in the mix, but also monologues and speeches. Read the Jaws Indianapolis monologue in isolation. Read the Glengarry Glen Ross steak knives speech in isolation, too. Read a sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

The listening mind picks up the rhythms. The listening mind (except when spellbound by the sounds) finds skips, bumps, and inversions in the progression of ideas. The listening mind finds opportunities for beauty, emphasis, and deepening emotion.

Mastery of Language 1: Learn to write for the ear (even when the words are not intended to be spoken).
Practice: Make a habit of savoring passages with beautiful language. If you read a lot of good work, you’ll probably notice glorious language. As a first step toward making it yours, just go back and read it out loud. (Notice the pauses. Notice how the words might be spoken differently.) As you strive to master the sound of language, memorize these passages from time to time.

I make a point of reading diversely. English is wonderful for that because, in addition to its being interpreted by different cultures, it has gone through wonderful permutations over time. I also try to meet a quota for reading out loud and reading or listening to poetry on a weekly basis.

Beyond the sound value is the image value of language. Use words that create visuals. This means specific,  well-chosen, clearly described descriptions. General words (beautiful) and ambiguous words (tall) create a blur. Too many words overwhelms. Every good visual is a poem that is cut to the right length. Comparisons, when apt, can help. Texture almost always adds because it combines the visual with the tactile.

Of course, an effective metaphor has power, too. It can grab a reader’s imagination and reference webs of associations and levels of experience. (A bad metaphor distracts.) Lean into metaphors and imagery that connects emotionally (first with you, then with readers).

Mastery of Language 2: Learn to write for the inner eye.
Practice: Exercise your visual imagination by recalling an image from your grade school years. See if you can describe it in a few sentences in a way that might evoke emotion. As a followup, you might create a description in your story in such a way that can stand poetically by itself. Finally, create a metaphor that fits a character, a celebrity, or someone you know well.

Thomas Mann advocated the view of the artist standing apart. He consciously worked to create a voice that was measured, almost scientifically objective, and unlikely to be noticed by readers. His was an amazing, deliberate achievement that, nonetheless, created a recognizable voice in his works.

I don’t believe that’s a problem. My guess is that the most compelling voice is the one that emerges in a calm state that is not self-conscious. Teachers love the show-off voices. Sometimes, they can be entertaining. But I think the most reliable voices tend to closely reflect voices we use in casual conversation.

Oddly enough, writing tends to bring out the pleaser or poser in many people. Amateur writers want to be seen as someone who is glib, smart, and “good.” They don’t even suspect that the hesitant, fumbling, flawed, truer self, the self the friends know, is actually both authentic and more interesting. So, it usually takes a lot of writing before a writer drops the instinctual defenses and speaks with a normal voice. It’s odd, but it takes a lot of craft to be natural.

Mastery of Language 3: Develop a unique, authentic voice.
Practice: Oddly enough, the best shortcut I know to sounding like yourself is to mimic other people. There’s something about doing pastiches of other writers that provides the tools needed to find your own voice. Writing in a lot of voices reveals how you say things naturally. I’ve also found imitating well tweaks something inside that wants to be authentic. (Enough of writing like Melville, Cather, Hammett, and Morrison,  just let me be myself!)

The best alternative I know is to dictate. It takes some getting used to. It feels odd. But, by speaking, most people are drawn to their natural voice, even if that’s not their intent. The reason is the faux voice is a lot more difficult to maintain when the pace is that of speaking, not writing. And when your whole body already knows there’s an easier way.

Of course, it’s fine to create more than one voice that’s distinctive, as long as it’s true. An obvious example is first-person narratives, where two different books coming from two different characters should sound different enough to seem to have come from different authors. But, even in traditional third-person limited narrations, a comedy should have a different voice from a tragedy. And usually the voices across genres have differences, too.

Next, I cover dialogue. Much of this post applies, but there are other elements to consider.