Green Hell

Shite Mountain Revisited

Being more of a swearblogger's barking, growling and snapping, and little else.

I’ve occasionally heard it said (in a belligerent tone, as often as not) that since a writer works mainly in ideas, “that other stuff” (grammar, punctuation, correct usage, etc.) isn’t especially important. Rather than accuse those who make this and similar assertions of mere laziness and/or impatience, I’ll assume that their curious belief is the result of flawed logic.

That a writer works in ideas is so obvious as to go without saying. Unfortunately, we hairless monkeys don’t communicate ideas directly (i.e., though mental telepathy). As a result of this particular handicap, we construct elaborate sets of symbols called “languages,” as substitute forms of communication. Therefore, it stands to reason that the firmer one’s command of a given language, the greater one’s ability to communicate one’s ideas.

I’ve never read a definitive, scientific study that positively established either a causal or corollary relationship between intelligence and linguistic aptitude. Empirical observation, however, leads me to believe that one exists. In my forty years on this ball of rock, I’ve noticed that in general, intelligent people are also well spoken. Why this is so, I don’t know, and won’t pretend to. Perhaps intelligent people are better able to acquire the tools needed to relate complex, subtle concepts, and more inclined to do so, as well. Perhaps an enhanced vocabulary allows one to entertain a broader, and deeper body of ideas in the first place. Perhaps they’re mutually reinforcing.

As I’ve said, I don’t know why this is so: only that it is so, and far too often to be mere coincidence. I’ve noticed that the articulate are able not only better able than the inarticulate to express their ideas precisely, but to do so concisely, as well. This leads me to believe that not only are the former group’s mental processes more orderly and precise, but actually more rapid.

A word, as we’ve established, is a sound or combination of sounds/characters that symbolizes a thought. Given this, it’s occurred to me that a man with a large number of these symbols at his disposal expresses his thoughts quickly and efficiently: he has no need to waste time and thought “fishing” for the proper word or combination of words.

Consider the following two sentences. Both express the same concepts, but the former does so more precisely and concisely than the latter.

As Bill looked up the darkened staircase, he experienced an inexplicable sense of foreboding.

As Bill looked up the thing that leads from the ground to a higher place, where there was no light, he felt worried about something that might happen in the future, even though he couldn’t tell himself why or how he felt that way.

In the first sentence, concepts are expressed in a sort of “shorthand,” in fourteen words, as opposed to the second sentence’s forty-four. I’ll allow that the example was crude, and perhaps applicable mainly to speakers of Indo-European languages, especially English. English, however, is a prefix-, suffix-, and compound-word-laden Indo-European language. Barring the omission of the words “staircase” and “darkened” from the second sentence (a deliberate exaggeration on my part), can any English-speaker honestly deny having heard children and uneducated adults express themselves similarly?

I don’t believe so. Nor do I believe that children or uneducated adults are noted for conciseness, precision, or rapidity of thought, all of which are considered components of intelligence if I'm not mistaken...

Bear in mind, Gentle Reader; that I’m speaking generally. Neither racing thought nor chattering speech is necessarily indicative of high intelligence. In many cases, both are the marks of an unfocused, undisciplined, and superficial mind. I should also mention that there are many who think slowly and deliberately, thoroughly assessing every word in terms of both literal and implied meaning, before speaking or committing them to paper. Far from being signs of stupidity, these traits often indicate meticulousness and intellectual profundity.

Most of us, though, are neither morons nor MENSA candidates. Therefore (in my admittedly prejudiced opinion), it behooves us to adopt the stiff-necked, hardnosed “Say what you mean, mean what you say –and do both correctly!” approach to writing and speaking so dear to my dour, irritable Scottish forbears.

A recent experience served to drive home the importance of this simple truth.

Not long ago, I had the chance to leaf through a student-published periodical from a local university. To say that I was shocked by the piss-poor quality of the writing would be a gross understatement – and that’s coming from an unabashed hack, swearblogger, and shit-stirrer. The few actual ideas expressed within the periodical were generally second-rate, in and of themselves, but the manner in which they were committed to paper was even more horrifying. Arguably, much of what I read actually consisted of “idea-free,” inarticulate expressions of unexamined emotion. Even the few pieces in which introspection, coherent thought -- and sincere attempts to communicate with the audience -- were in evidence were so poorly written as to nullify any potential emotional impact on the reader.

Worse still, the so-called “writers” made no apparent effort to choose their words in such a way as to create any kind of flow or rhythm. Even such time-honored devices as onomatopoeic suggestion were completely absent. In some cases, words were apparently chosen randomly, with complete disregard for meaning, whether connotative or denotative. This rendered many passages ambiguous at best, and utterly meaningless - or meaningful only to the writer -- at worst.

Writing of this sort, in my not-so-humble opinion, is pure self-indulgence, and serves no useful purpose. It makes no effort to engage the reader’s thoughts, feelings or imagination, and serves only to leave him confused, indifferent or disgusted. Additionally, most of what I read was self-consciously pretentious, obscure for the sake of obscurity (no references or tantalizing clues for the reader to follow), and – quite ironically, given the writers’ tendency to “show their asses” – possessed of an unhealthily claustrophobic, almost masturbatory quality.

I hope never to see its like again – but I almost certainly will.

Escape From Shite Mountain

Being little more than an incorrigible swearblogger's snarky, opinionated observations on the craft of scribbling.

Yesterday, my significant other posted a very sweet piece about my writing and me on her blog. I’d be a bald-faced liar if I claimed not to have been deeply moved and honored by the sentiments she expressed, but I’m afraid they’re not entirely accurate.

I understand that a number of people (Maggie included) enjoy my writing, especially the rants. As man is a social animal (even reclusive, curmudgeonly men like Yours Truly), I’m as happy to be appreciated as the next guy. The fact that someone finds a given piece of writing enjoyable, though, doesn’t make it good writing.

By my own standards, most of what I produce is outright garbage. Certainly, I’ll enjoy writing it while I’m writing it, but when I review the finished product a few days or weeks later, what I see gives me the dry heaves, as often as not. When I review it a few months later, I usually find myself in dire need of a truckload of airsickness bags and a few kilos of elephant tranquilizers.

Granted, I’ve only been doing this for eighteen months or so. In that time, I’ve noticed marked improvements in the overall quality of my output. That still isn’t saying much, though, and making the improvements has been anything but easy. When I began writing for an audience back in June of 2006, I’d been out of school for nearly eighteen years. Eighteen years, needless to say, affords one plenty of time in which to forget damn near everything one ever learned in college.

I’ll admit that I majored in English (emphasis on lit and comp) in those days, but the jobs I’ve held since leaving school in 1989 simply haven’t required using any of what I learned. Suffice to say that after the better part of two decades running commercials on cable TV, painting houses, landscaping, cutting down trees, and holding various food service and retail positions (from fry cook to Night Manager at a supermarket), I’d become more familiar with inventories than with indirect quotes.

Naturally, there are certain things one never forgets. The eight parts of speech are so firmly ingrained that I could probably recite them in my sleep. I still bristle at the sight of split infinitives, sentences ending in prepositions, dangling modifiers, quotation marks used in place of italics, and similar abominations. And finally, I don’t imagine there’s enough booze in the world to allow me to drink the functions of gerunds, participles, infinitives, and modals off my mind.

Retaining such information, however, hasn’t made the task of writing any easier, unless perhaps on a subconscious level. I’ve encountered numerous hurdles from the get-go, and – pessimistic bastard that I am – I don’t imagine I’ll ever clear them all.

The length of my sentences, for example, has been a persistent problem – compounded by the fact that I don’t necessarily want to correct it. Most of the literature I read for my own pleasure is a hundred or more years old, and I actually enjoy the long, complex sentences of a Joseph Conrad, a James Joyce, or a William Faulkner. Whereas I understand the need to be concise, I can’t help but notice that the modern mania for clipped, “See Jane run” sentences has actually exerted a subtle “dumbing down” effect, by catering to short attention-spans.

I’ve also noticed that just as the use of dynamics and rhythmic shifts in a piece of music can create several different moods within the same composition, the length and placement of sentences has a similar effect on a piece of writing. By charting and/or planning the number of words in each sentence, the writer can create numerous subtle but subconsciously perceptible patterns, ranging from a gentle “wave” to a jagged, tension-and-release rhythm.

So much for that hurdle, then. As I’ve said, I’m not especially keen to overcome it. The next one, though, is another matter entirely. Punctuation, for me, has been an unmitigated nightmare. This has been the case for as long as I can (or care to) remember. I don’t lose much sleep over periods, commas, exclamation points or question marks, mind you: their functions are largely self-evident.

The use of quotation marks has proven trickier, but mainly when using them in conjunction with other punctuation marks. The differences between Commonwealth and American printing conventions have served only to complicate this matter. After a year and a half of sweating, though, I’m finally getting close to sorting things out – and to tearing out what’s left of my hair.

In my case, the colon and the semicolon are far and away the nastiest “demons” in the veritable Goetia of punctuation marks. I understand the use of both on the most elementary level, but that’s as far as it goes.

Dave, the frustrated writer, grappled with the colon and the semicolon as he tore out his hair; filled the air with vile, shocking profanity; and wished that the inventors of punctuation marks had the products of their labor shoved up their asses sideways.

Dave, the frustrated writer, wished the following as he grappled with the colon and the semicolon: That their inventors had them shoved up their asses sideways; that his repertoire of vile, shocking profanity was larger; and that he had more hair to tear out, as he’d largely denuded his own scalp within a mere eighteen months.

I’m still working on the more advanced uses of both, alas and alack. This has necessitated relearning the basics of grammar and sentence structure on a “nuts and bolts” level. Doing so has been a pain in the ass, but it’s an absolute necessity, as far as I’m concerned. I also believe the effort will ultimately pay off, even if I never attain perfect mastery of either.

I understand that one can be a successful (and even a damned good) writer without an intellectual understanding of the mechanics of language. I’m certainly not stating as a categorical imperative that one must be an Oxford-trained grammarian in order to write coherent, enjoyable prose: far from it, as a matter of fact. I do, however, believe --and very strongly, at that – that anyone aspiring to the title of “writer” is obligated to himself, to his readers, and to the language itself – the very tool of his trade – to attain a certain, fundamental level of competence in his craft.

This is what I’ve spent the last year and six months trying to do. As I said in my opening paragraph, I’m very flattered by the things my significant other wrote of me – but I still have a long way to go.

Shameless and Pretentious Navel-Gazing

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I don’t consider myself a “writer” per se, but rather a blogger. To some, the difference may seem academic. In truth, it’s anything but. Granted, blogging is a form of writing. Generally speaking, though, the quality of writing in cyberspace is far lower than that in the print world. Writers spend years honing and perfecting their craft.

Bloggers generally don’t bother.

I’d like to make the transition from blogger to writer-proper someday. Not that I’m in any great hurry, mind you. As a dyed-in-the-wool ranter, I’ll keep spewing profane invective until the day I die -- Internet or no Internet, audience or no audience.

Admittedly, it would be nice to be able to write for a living. Shoveling shit in hell for thirty-five to forty hours a week isn’t exactly fun, after all. I don’t do this for the money. That should be patently obvious, as Green Hell is a free site, and I don’t run advertisements of any kind. I don’t do it to become popular or make friends, although I’ve made many friends since I began posting, and am glad to have done so. I don’t do it in the hopes of becoming famous – I’m a very private person – and I certainly don’t do it in order to meet women. I already have a fiancée, and bloggers aren’t exactly famed as “chick magnets” -- with good reason.

Ultimately, I post on Green Hell because I love to write. Secondary benefits of keeping up this blog include catharsis and “stress busting.” For the last two years, my stress levels have been dangerously high, and blogging – especially swearblogging – provides me with a “safety valve” of sorts.

Recently, I’ve suffered several nastier-than-average attacks of writer’s block. When this happens, I tend to become rather out of sorts, as my favorite outlet no longer functions properly. Unfortunately, the well-intended prodding of those near and dear to me has served only to exacerbate the problem. It has, in effect, proven the equivalent of pounding a lame horse’s spine with a sledgehammer, while screaming: “Run faster! Run faster!” and expecting some other outcome than the poor damned beast’s death.

Not a single one of them suffers from cyclothymia, manic-depression, or bipolar disorder, as it happens. Therefore, explaining that this kind of writer’s block isn’t a choice -- that when the really black moods set in and the words and ideas won’t come, they simply won’t come -- is rather difficult. It’s rather like trying to explain music to the deaf or color to the blind. For this reason, I shall no longer attempt to explain it.

The most recent attack was far more severe than usual. Rather than pressure myself or give in to the depression, though, I decided to catch up on my reading. I’ve been reading a great deal of history, some fiction and poetry here and there, and a good bit on writing, as well. I’ve found the last-mentioned category particularly interesting and beneficial.

After several weeks of studying writing, it became readily apparent to me that nearly all of my prior work is of abysmally poor quality. Frankly, I’m ashamed of most of it. It’s crude, sketchy, amateurish, rife with assumptions, and damned pompous, at that. It relies entirely too much upon profanity and “shock value,” and the sheer vitriol and venom (especially in my more recent posts) appall me.

This, needless to say, must change – and there’s no time like the present.

Therefore, I'll begin tomorrow, or perhaps Sunday. Well, maybe Monday...

What I haven’t mentioned yet is that I’ve also spent a fair amount of time randomly surfing the blogosphere. Should the gentle reader think I’m being harsh with myself, he should hear what I have to say about the rest of the rubbish out there.

Oh! I just said it. Moving right along, then…

This is actually a shame, as many bloggers have excellent ideas. They simply don’t articulate them well. I’ve long been of the opinion that a writer’s ultimate duty is to do his thoughts justice, in words. Sadly, this is a rare occurrence, especially on the Internet.

As a poor presentation hardly does a good idea justice, I’ve decided to get on my soapbox again, and crack the old textbooks open. Doing so probably won’t make any difference, in the long run, but why not take a shot at it?

The following items are a few more of a blogger’s thoughts on the craft of writing.

Writers do not “create,” strictly speaking: That function is the exclusive province of God. Writers rearrange pre-existing elements into new patterns – in some cases, according to established formulae. This is hardly an act of “creation,” needless to say. The overuse of the words “create,” “creative,” and “creativity” serves little purpose, other than boosting the writer’s ego. As often as not, this boost is both unnecessary and unjustified.

*****

Truth really is stranger than fiction. I suppose this is why what passes for “journalism” these days requires so much more “creativity” than literature -- and greater suspension of disbelief on the reader’s part, as well. The journalist’s job is to make oft-irrational human behavior appear to make sense, while the poor reader’s task is to force himself to believe what he’s reading.

*****

At times, I still grapple with the sheer number of purported “writers” who haven’t the slightest grasp of the mechanics of language. Hopefully, I can do something to correct this. I’ll make a few attempts in this very post.

Words are tools. They are tools of communication, just as hammers, saws, etc., are tools of construction. A writer or speaker who fails to communicate his ideas to his audience is usually guilty of misusing his tools. Every tool has a function, and the word – whether spoken or written – is no exception. Words function as symbols. Simply put: a symbol is something that conveys meaning by representing something else. Just as a flag symbolizes a nation, or a mascot symbolizes a team, a word symbolizes an object or idea.

When I say the word “red,” I’m making a number of sounds. Color is perceived visually, but by saying “red,” I communicate visual information through sound. Pardon the colloquialism, but how cool is that? I’m honestly convinced that many ancient cultures thought words possessed some inherent, magical quality, for this very reason.

Unfortunately, the intellectual vandalism called “deconstructionism” (the deliberate attempt to deprive words of meaning) has taken its toll on the English language. This, perhaps, is why so little modern literature shares the near-magical quality of many of the classics.

The fact that words are verbal symbols for objects and ideas may appear too obvious to require mentioning. Sadly, it isn’t. In the post-deconstructionist age, many seem to have forgotten that words convey meaning, whether through denotation or connotation.

*****

Words, needless to say, are a writer’s primary tools, just as hammers and chisels are a sculptor’s. Ideas are the media in which a writer works, just as stone is the medium in which a sculptor works. A sculptor who can’t make proper use of hammers and chisels will work the stone poorly, and be a poor sculptor. A writer who can’t make proper use of language will present his ideas poorly, and be a poor writer.

Unfortunately, I’ve encountered many a self-styled “Michelangelo” who couldn’t carve a pecker into a tree trunk, with a pocketknife.

*****

The next few items are dry, technical, and of interest only to my fellow “hacks,” who aspire to become actual writers.

I’ve already mentioned that words are tools, and that a writer should employ his tools correctly. Correct employment of words depends upon the writer’s understanding of his own language. This can be an especially formidable task for an English-speaker who wishes to write, as English is a rich, complex language.

Owing to its mixed origins (Anglo-Saxon and Norman French) and its speakers’ readiness to adopt loanwords, English has an immense and often intimidating vocabulary. This feature, along with the irregularity and complicated nature of its spelling and grammar, makes it rather a difficult language for foreigners to learn. One meets many foreigners who speak English, but few who speak it well. Native English speakers must clear exactly the same hurdles, and most fail, although not as miserably as speakers of foreign tongues.

One meets many native English speakers, but few who speak it well…

Enhanced communication with speakers of one’s own language is the immediate benefit of learning to speak it properly. The richness of the English language, though -- especially the expansiveness of its vocabulary – affords the competent writer or speaker of English the additional benefit of being able to convey subtle shades of meaning more readily than speakers of simpler, more homogenous languages.

As words symbolize concepts, the larger a writer’s vocabulary, the more ideas he can express. This, I think, explains the profound impact of the various English-speaking peoples upon the literary world.

The aspiring writer should think deeply upon this.

He should also go peddle his papers on a different street corner. I’m gettin’ off the soapbox for the time being.

Me love you longtime.

Even More Rantin' About Writin'

The Internet has proven to be a blessing to writers and a curse to readers. While providing aspiring writers who would otherwise go unread with the opportunity to expose their work to the public, it’s also been responsible for some of the most unreadable, god-awful, digestion wrecking shit imaginable making it into print.

I don’t consider myself a writer per se, but rather a blogger – specifically, a swearblogger. The gentle reader is likely to find more invective than instruction on this site, but once again I find myself playing “schoolmarm” in the interest of delivering the English language from the brutal mistreatment to which I so often see it subjected on the Internet.

Spelling

I understand that even with the benefit of spell-check, spelling and typographic errors occur. To err is human, yadda, yadda, yadda. All the same, it appears to me that a good many of the “writers” (and I employ the term very loosely) in cyberspace couldn’t be bothered with learning even the rudiments of spelling.

Admittedly, English spelling is rather complicated, owing to the changes in the spoken language over the centuries, its mixed Germanic/Romance vocabulary, and the fact that English speakers as a group are hardly reluctant to adopt loanwords from other tongues.

English spelling isn’t as perfectly phonetic as German, Finnish, Turkish, or Spanish to list a few examples, but it is a phonetic language nonetheless, and isn’t nearly as difficult as, say, Gaelic. Its rules easily grasped once one learns the “code.” Simply put: “Phonetic” means that the various letters have assigned values.

Assuming that the gentle reader/aspiring writer is at least capable of reciting the alphabet, I’ll mention that English has twenty-six letters, of which five (a, e, i, o, u, and occasionally y) are vowels, while the remainder are consonants. Generally speaking, vowels come in two varieties, long and short. Unlike certain other languages, English has comparatively few “pure” vowels, and many of its “long” vowels are actually diphthongs, but that’s not especially important at the moment.

The following pairs of words best illustrate the difference between so-called “long” and “short” vowels. In each pair, the first word illustrates the “short” value of the vowel, while the second illustrates its “long” value: cap/cape, met/mete, pip/pipe, slop/slope, and tub/tube.

From these pairs a simple, general rule may be deduced: When followed by a single or double consonant in a one-syllable word, the value of the vowel is “short”: mat, bet, slap, pit, last, grasp, sell, etc.

One may also deduce that when a one-syllable word ends in “e”, the value of the vowel is “long”: male, mate, mite, mote, mule, etc.

I’ll have much more to say in future installments of The Fucktard’s Guide to Spelling, (see the forthcoming post "A Dictionary Costs Less Than Your Daily Fix") but for now, should more “writers” memorize these two simple rules, I’d almost certainly find myself flying into near-homicidal rages less frequently.

Contractions

A contraction is quite literally that – a shortening of a noun or pronoun and a verb, or an auxiliary verb and a negative. No, in this case it ain’t what yer wife was bitchin’ about when she went into labor.

“I am a hot, sexy studmuffin” becomes “I’m a hot, sexy studmuffin.” “You are a pathetic sack of monkey shit” becomes: “You’re a pathetic sack of monkey shit.”

“Even when popping Viagra by the handful, Steve cannot screw his way through wet toilet paper” becomes: “Even when popping Viagra by the handful, Steve can’t screw his way through wet toilet paper.”

“Steve is an asshole who thinks he need not pay his bills” becomes: “Steve’s an asshole who thinks he needn’t pay his bills.”

Rules for forming contractions: When the contraction consists of a noun or pronoun, and any form of the verb “to be,” the formula is noun/pronoun + apostrophe + the last letter or two of the conjugated verb. Examples: I’m, you’re, he’s, she’s, we’re, they’re, you’re.

So stop writing “you’re” when you mean “your” or I’ll pee on your lawn until it dies.

I’ll explain the use of apostrophe + s in the formation of possessives in the future.

When the contraction consists of an auxiliary verb and the word “not”, the formula is verb + n + apostrophe + t. Examples: can’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t, didn’t, etc.

There are two notable exceptions to the general rule, but they’re easily memorized. The modal auxiliary verb “will” takes a stem-vowel change, and drops the final consonants, becoming “won’t,” and the modal auxiliary “shall” simply drops the final consonants, becoming “shan’t”.

If I even suspect that the gentle reader/aspiring scribbler won’t memorize these simple rules, I shan’t hesitate to beat him to death with a fucking claw hammer.

Welcome to the future. The contraction of a noun or pronoun and the third-person singular form of the verb “to be” and the singular possessive are identical, which leads to some confusion. This needn’t be the case, as the meaning can be easily derived from the context in which the word appears.

In the sentence “John’s driving leaves something to be desired,” it’s obvious that the apostrophe + s combination is possessive. In the sentence “John’s driving drunk as the last lords of creation, so clear the sidewalks before the crazy stewbum kills us all!” it’s obviously a contraction.

Plural Possessives

In the case of a plural possessive, the formula is s + apostrophe, as opposed to apostrophe + s.

Example: “Looking at the row of horses’ arses in the starting gate, I was reminded of Steve” vs.: “Steve’s a real horse’s arse.”

The exception to the rule consists of plural nouns ending in the letter n, such as men, women, children, etc.

Example: “Bill was a sweaty, raincoat-wearing panty sniffer who often haunted gas station ladies’ rooms” vs.: “Bill was a sweaty, raincoat-wearing panty sniffer who often got whacked on children’s cough syrup and haunted women’s restrooms.”

Repetition

I’ve bitched about this before, and I’ll probably bitch about it again. I can’t stand unnecessary repetition. Compare these two paragraphs, gentle reader/aspiring writer, and then contemplate the many ways in which the thesaurus is your friend.

Bill pulled his revolver. He jammed the revolver into the face of the clerk at the adult bookstore. The terrified clerk stared down the revolver’s barrel as Bill said, “Your porno or your life!” Cocking the revolver’s hammer with his thumb, Bill sent a message to the quivering flunky: I mean business!

Bill pulled his revolver. He jammed it into the face of the clerk at the adult bookstore. The terrified clerk stared down the weapon’s barrel as Bill said, “Your porno or your life!” Cocking the hammer with his thumb, Bill sent a message to the quivering flunky: I mean business!

Reading the first sentence, one receives the impression that either the writer has a very limited vocabulary, or he’s one hell of a Beatles fan. Reading the second, one receives the impression that the writer is at least familiar with pronouns, different levels of abstraction, and synonyms.

One needn’t take the tour de force route – Dave’s formidable manhood and boudoir stamina left his lovers gasping, “Run me through with your ‘claymore of love!’ Serenade me with your ‘bedroom bagpipes!’ Sacrifice me on your ‘standing stone’ again, you stallion of a Scots-Irish fertility god!” – but doing so is at least indicative of a certain degree of creativity.

It also inflates my ego…

Narrative and Dialogue; Formal and Informal English

Coming from a bastard who’s written entire blogs in archaic Scots, this may seem a tad hypocritical, but I’ll say it anyway: Employ formal English for narrative, and informal or dialect for dialogue, unless writing in the first person.

Unless one is deliberately trying for a “folksy” effect, the use of nonstandard English in narrative simply appears ignorant. The use of formal English in dialogue, though, often renders it wooden and inauthentic.

The following scenes are both atrocious, each for different reasons.

Bill came up the street and saw Dave.
“Dave!” he says, “I got money burnin’ a hole in my pocket, an’ I wanna get me some tail! Care to join me?”
Dave wasn’t really all that horny, and he once got VD from a German hooker when he was a kid, so he wasn’t real keen on doing strangers, but Bill usually bought booze, too, and Dave liked to get wasted on Saturday nights.
“Yeah, what the hell,” he said, “We’ll see what’s going on in Buckhead tonight.”
Then they went to Buckhead and cruised a lot of bars because they wanted to get some.

Shontavius approached DeKwandre. They exchanged the gang’s peculiar greetings, and began discussing business.
“Would you care for a tipple?” asked Shontavius, proffering a bottle of malt liquor.
“I would very much appreciate a libation, kind sir,” said DeKwandre.
Shontavius handed him the bottle, which he gratefully accepted.
“How then shall we approach the matter of the undocumented migrants who are presently compromising both our territorial imperative and our distribution network?” Shontavius asked.
“I think we should assemble our comrades and discharge our weapons at them,” replied DeKwandre. “That, I’m sure, would encourage them to take their business elsewhere.”
“I quite agree.”

The first piece is awful because it’s written in colloquial English. It sounds crude. It’s clumsy, stilted, and a grammatical nightmare.

The second paragraph is the opposite. It’s also sure to see me branded a “racist” – not that I give a shit -- so I’ll modify it somewhat. Note, though, that were one writing a novel or story concerning “gangsta” culture, said paragraph would leave any real “gangbanger” – or anyone even remotely familiar with that particular subculture – rolling on the floor with derisive laughter.

Here’s a better rendering of the first:

As he walked up the street, Bill spotted Dave.
“Dave!” he said, “I got money burnin’ a hole in my pocket, an’ I wanna get me some tail! Care to join me?”
Dave wasn’t feeling particularly amorous, and having once contracted an unpleasant disease from a German prostitute during his youth, he wasn’t at all anxious to repeat the experience. Bill, however, usually bought the drinks, and Dave enjoyed “tying one on” on Saturday nights.
“Yeah, what the hell,” he said. “We’ll see what’s going on in Buckhead tonight.”
They spent the rest of the evening in Buckhead, visiting numerous bars.

Here’s the politically correct (and far more readable) version of the second, in which I’ve substituted inherently evil, demon-possessed rednecks for noble, misunderstood gangbangers:

Cooter approached Bobby-Clyde. They exchanged greetings, and then began discussing business.
“Ye’ want ye’ some shine?” asked Cooter, proffering a jar of corn liquor.
“Don’t mind iffen I do,” said Bobby-Clyde.
Cooter handed him the Mason jar, which he accepted gratefully.
“What we gon’ do ‘bout them wetbacks what’s cuttin’ in on our crystal action?” Cooter asked.
“Shit, I say we round up the boys an’ pour the coal to them greasy li’l sumbitches,” replied Bobby-Clyde. “That’d send them fuckers packin’.”
“I sure heard that, brother!”

In the last two pieces, the reader understands that the writer is literate, even if the people of whom he writes aren’t.

Moving right along, I’d like to cover another of my pet peeves: the use of exclamation points in narrative. To my mind, they have no business befouling the printed page. In dialogue, they’re acceptable, as they indicate excitement on the speaker’s part. In narrative, however, they’re indicative of an unpardonable degree of arrogance. How dare the writer assume that the reader will give a rat’s ass about (let alone become excited over) the same things he/she does?

Bad writing: Dave kicked Steve in his atrophied nuts, while Bill hit him with a barstool!

The exclamation point is unnecessary. The reader can visualize the action and react accordingly. He doesn’t need us telling him to become excited. Besides, I’ve visited bars in which the action related in the sentence wouldn’t even raise eyebrows.

The following sentence illustrates better use of the exclamation point:

“Kick him in his atrophied nuts, Dave!" shouted Bill, as he hit Steve with a barstool.

I’ll admit that the preceding sentiments are purely subjective, and based on my own personal preferences! That doesn’t change the fact that I often see exclamation points cropping up like crabgrass in a good bit of Internet writing, though! A little more restraint on the part of the “writers” who commit this abominable infraction would do much to minimize the “gerbil on crack” quality of their work! Really! No shit!

Irritating, isn’t it?

I suppose that’s enough rambling for one day.

Take care.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

Green Hell is rather an eclectic blog, one on which I'm as likely to post recipes and gardening tips as I am to spit corrosive jets of venomous and profane invective at officials both elected and appointed, comment acidly upon national and international affairs, mock my enemies, and just-plain rant and rave about anything and everything that has my dingus in a knot at any given moment.

Opting -- at this particular moment -- to ignore the shrill and strident demands of my perpetually pretzel-like pecker (The joys of having a foul temper!), I've chosen to put GH to yet another use: blatantly plugging the work of yet another of my friends.

I do hope the gentle reader will give her work a look-see.

I give you Cat Connor. Cat is a fascinating lady who lives on the other side of the world -- quite literally. She's the New Zealand-based author of the forthcoming Killerbyte (to be released June, 2007), is the co-author of my own first attempt at writing a novel, and is just a damned fine human being in general. She and I have so much in common that it's almost frightening, and as I can't say enough about her, I'll say a word or two about her work.

Said work is rather difficult to pigeonhole, and is probably best described as "romantic suspense" -- with severed limbs, gunshots, and decomposing bodies stuffed into dumpsters added for good measure. I'd hold doors open for her, defend her honor against ruffians, and hand her a (bloodstained) bouquet any day of the week! Please do have a look at what she has to offer.

The gentle reader may not be as fortunate as I, in that he/she doesn't know Cat personally, but he could do far worse than to become a little better acquainted with her.

More Rantin' About Writin'

Being part the third of an unsolicited dissertation wherein a swearblogger holds forth on various and sundy subjects germane to his "craft."

A few more of a swearblogger's (very personal) thoughts, opinions and observations on the not-so-fine art of scribbling:

With the possible exception of a persistent case of jock itch, nothing irritates me more than "secret squirrel" writers who consider their works to be things of such beauty and perfection that any and all changes are not only unthinkable, but tantamount to blasphemy.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I revise and edit my stuff constantly, often even after I've posted it. Beyond this, I usually run it by someone else before putting it up it, as I've found it difficult to be objective when proofreading and editing my own writing.

In most cases, that someone else is my mother. Having witnessed the worst of my antics for the better part of forty years, she doesn't consider me God's gift to the human race, to writing, or to anything else for that matter, so she doesn't spare my feelings. She's not a writer, and has only a high school education, but she's extremely intelligent and honest to a fault.

If I hand her a manuscript and a pencil, I know the manuscript will be coming back looking as if a street gang with a tractor trailer-load of spray paint had been loosed upon the Great Wall of China. Words and entire sentences will be crossed out and/or replaced, question marks left upon the page to indicate confusing or ambiguous passages, etc.

Spoken commentary then follows: "Unnecessarily violent." "Too much profanity." "This part is pointless." "It's too bitter." "It's too venomous." "It sounds like you're actually threatening your readers." "Trim your moustache. You look Fu Manchu."

Lest anyone suspect me of latent masochism, I'll add the following: I'm seldom if ever satisfied with my own work. The few times I do manage to post something of which I'm even the least bit proud, I'll take a look at it a week or a month later and groan: "I can't believe I actually wrote that piece of shit!" Being edited in this way prevents me from becoming hyper-critical and removing good passages along with bad ones, as she also points out the "gems" along with the "turds."

Editing the work of others is every bit as beneficial as being edited. It's easier to approach another's writing objectively than it is to do so with one's own, and after editing a few of another scribbler's pieces, some of this objectivity "rubs off" on the writer. This allows him to evaluate his own work from more neutral perspective, and to ask the same questions of himself that he does of those he edits.

The point of editing is to streamline a work, to make it leaner, meaner and more effective. When one edits another person's writing, he eventually begins to apply the same standards to his own. This has been especially valuable for me, as two of my major failings are verbosity and the tendency to write labyrinthine run-on sentences that would leave even a Cervantes or a Bocaccio shaking his head in dismay.

*************

A recent telephone conversation with Barry Eisler left me thinking about the matter of self-discipline when it comes to writing, studying and other such pursuits. The topics of discussion ranged from methods of memorizing Kanji to personal writing habits. We agreed that in both cited cases, the only way to do is to do it. While one is watching TV (neither of us suffers from that particular addiction, for the record), he could be writing or studying. While he's surfing the internet, he could be writing or studying. While he's buying workbooks, he could be writing or studying.

When one considers how little time we actually have on this earth, one marvels at the amount of this tragically finite commodity we waste. So knock it off! If you want to write, don't talk about writing, don't dream about writing, and don't plan to write. Sit your ass down and write.

Every day.

Once again, the only way to do it is to do it. Writing isn't a spectator sport. It's a hands-on, learn-by-doing activity, and a demanding one, at that. Chances are, you're not a gifted genius who can spend most of his time sitting around doing nothing, and then lift a buttock every few days and sporadically fart beauty and profundity into the literary atmosphere. This means you need practice.

Now hop to it.

**************

A person who doesn't love language probably shouldn't write. The love of language is indispensable, to my mind. A writer should fully appreciate the power and beauty of the word, whether written or spoken. If he doesn't, it'll be apparent in his work, unless he's an exceptionally talented faker. Writing is very much a labor of love, and one forgets that at his own peril.

If one reads the work of poet T.S. Eliot, that of novelists G.K. Chesterton and Joseph Conrad, or even that of Ray Bradbury -- the undisputed master of the fantasy short story, in my opinion -- one notices that their subject matter and their approaches to presenting it couldn't be more different. There is, however, a common element in their efforts. Upon reading any of their writing, one goes away with the same feeling he experiences upon seeing that rarest of sights; a man and wife who've been married for forty of fifty years, and are still madly in love with one another. I can think of no other way to describe it.

***************

There's no place for jealousy in this field. If one has time to be jealous, he's not spending enough time writing. One shouldn't view a superior writer as a source of jealousy or as a rival, but rather as an inspiration and a teacher.

I've been complimented on my writing, but realistically, I'll probably never write thrillers as well as a Barry Eisler or a Rex Miller. I'll probably never write horror as well as a Stephen King or a Liam Jackson. I'll probably never write fantasy like a Bradbury, or sci-fi like a Heinlein, or humorous historical fiction like a George MacDonald Fraser.

And if ever I attain a tenth of the skill of a Conrad, a Chesterton, a Twain, a Bierce, a Poe or a Mencken, I'll go to my grave happy. They were giants. I'm just a man.

This bothers me not a whit. As Popeye said: "I yam what I yam, an' that's all what I yam." Huk-guh-guh-guh-guh! Toot! Toot!

In my opinion, if one really loves words, language and writing, he doesn't become jealous of others' work. Can anyone reading this honestly say he'd want to live in a world in which he considered his own work the ne plus ultra of all writing? To know, as a reader, that he'd never read anything better or more enjoyable than the best of his own efforts? What sane person would want that? To my way of thinking, that would be a form of damnation. Putting it bluntly, it would be enough to get me hooked on smack.

Not long ago, my best friend, "Obi Wan Sluggo," and I were running up our phone bills, when he began reading me an excerpt from a piece of his writing. For the record, he's a much better writer than I am, and has a very distinctive voice -- both on the printed page and in "real life." Now I don't just like to write, I like writing, period. Given this, when he began reading his work to me, I found myself as transfixed as if I were a specimen in some kid's bug collection. The experience was akin to hearing a recording of Eliot reading The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

The man's use of language is such that he could make his grocery list interesting. One simply can't be jealous of that kind of talent. One can only regard it with a mixture of admiration, respect, wonder, gratitude and outright love.

***************

"There" indicates location. "Their" indicates ownership. "They're" is a contraction of the pronoun "they" and the verb "are". Any questions?

***************

One lesson I've learned -- albeit slowly -- is the importance of breaking out of "comfort zones". Doing so is well worth the effort, as it builds guts. "Guts," by the way, doesn't mean not being afraid. "Guts" means being afraid, but acting in spite of the fear.

For me, "going public" was an act of departure from a comfort zone. The next step was returning to writing fiction, a far more difficult undertaking than passing along opinions or anecdotes. Beginning work on a novel (I'd only written short stories before) was yet another, and I suppose poetry might be the next step, although I'm not sure I have much aptitude as a poet. Although I read poetry often, I haven't formally studied the medium since college (nearly eighteen years ago), so I'll have a good bit of "brushing up" to do. Next, the question of whether poets are born or made rears its ugly head.

Time to leave the comfort zone and find out.

*************

The requirements of writing are much like those of gardening. One must have good soil -- in this case, a knowledge base. "Write what you know" is, after all, one of the cardinal rules of the game. One must have viable seed -- in this case, definite ideas or feelings. What is writing, if not the expression of one or both? Last, but hardly least, one needs the proper tools, a matter I believe I've already discussed.

I could draw other parallels, as well. One must be able to weed (edit). One must fertilize and condition the soil (broadening his experiential framework, absorbing new ideas, etc.). One must become adept at crop selection (determining and understanding the media and/or genres to which his particular temperament and talents are suited).

**************

If a writer fails to establish rapport with his readers, he won't have readers for long. One way of establishing rapport is appealing to what practitioners of Neuro-Linguistic Programming refer to as "preferred representational systems." The PRS is means of coding information. NLP recognizes three major preferred representational systems: visual; auditory; and kinesthetic.

Whereas no one relies solely upon any given representational system, most people prefer one or another. A person who often uses the term "I see" to mean "I understand" probably prefers the visual system. One who expresses the same idea by saying "I hear what you're saying" -- or something similar -- probably favors the auditory system. One who "grasps" concepts or ideas probably leans toward the kinesthetic system.

A recognized technique for building rapport is, as stated, determining which system a person prefers, and then appealing to that system through one's choice of words. As a writer is addressing a broad audience, and can't make that determination on an individual basis, it's important that he employ all three major representational systems evenly, in order to establish the broadest possible appeal.

A sure-fire way to "lose" the reader, though, is to mix representational systems within a given sentence -- especially a comparative phrase -- as this creates sensory incongruity. Incongruity, of course, can be used as an effective literary device, but it's best to avoid it until one has a fair idea of what he's doing.

"What are you going on about now, Bean?" asks the gentle reader. ""You been smokin' those banana peels soaked in airplane glue again?"

Here's an example of the theory put into practice. Which of the following sentences is the more effective?

"Bill [Yes, Bill's back. The bastard certainly gets around, doesn't he?] seemed to light up every room he entered, like a small sun, but I was more like a fart in a church."

"Bill seemed to light up every room he entered, like a small sun, but I was more like a burned-out taillight."

In my opinion, the second is the more effective, as the narrator's choice of similes targets the same representational system. The first, on the other hand, has a jarring quality. Its overall effect is much like that of a mixed metaphor or a non sequitur.

***********

I've noticed that the pieces which elicit the largest number of reader responses are the ones that are actually painful to write. Interesting.

More later.

On Writing II

A few more of a blogger's thoughts on writing:

Let's discuss redundancy (unnecessary repetition) again. In my last post on this thread, I became so caught up in the repetitious element that I slighted the unnecessary element.

Whereas a certain degree of redundancy is employed as a stylistic device in the first sample paragraph (the second is simply a crime against humanity), both technically contain unnecessary repetition. In the first, we understand that Bill is looking for a letter, whether we say he looks, seeks, searches, etc. In the second, we understand that ol' Bill, ever the busy little beaver, is out and about, boppin' from place to place.

That he's "goin' mobile," as the Who sang, is understood. There's no need to keep telling us, unless the specific means of locomotion he employs somehow serves the ends of the story, whether by building atmosphere or by telling us a little more about Bill.

"Having driven his stolen Lambourghini to a parking garage, Bill removed his pogo stick from the trunk and hopped two blocks to the Vietnamese massage parlor," tells us a little something about Bill. The mere fact that he's in motion doesn't.

**********

When writing, one should make two basic assumptions, even if neither is strictly true. First, he should assume that he's a terrible writer. Second, he should assume that he doesn't know much of anything.

Given our current "feelgood" culture, with its overemphasis on self-esteem and "empowerment," and characterized as it is by a shocking lack of humility, this advice may sound counterintuitive at best, and counterproductive at worst.

It's neither. When a person assumes that he's "all that and a bag of chips," and that he knows everything, he can neither improve his writing technique nor expand his knowledge-base. As -- in his own mind, at least -- he's already a master of his craft, and already knows everything worth knowing, he has no incentive to do either.

In my opinion, a writer -- like a martial artist -- should always possess the "beginner's mind."

********

Write because you love writing, or because you feel the need to express something. Don't write because you want to be rich, famous, loved, or admired. You may achieve all four goals (or any number of others), but you'll still be a hack, and deep inside, you'll know it until the day you die.

I'm not as fond of Ayn Rand's work as once I was, but her novel The Fountainhead examines this matter in depth, and very nicely at that. In the book, Howard Roark is the better architect, while Peter Keating is the more renowned. Roark designs buildings for the love of designing buildings, while Keating designs them for a host of superficial and purely secondary reasons.

Roark pursues his craft and lives his own life, weathering its travails in a state of almost Zen-like tranquility, while Keating, knowing that his own prestige is undeserved, eventually becomes a "train wreck". Roark couldn't be bothered with Keating, but Keating -- rather like the character Salieri in the film Amadeus -- develops an unhealthy, love/hate obsession with Roark and his work. As he divides his time between fixating upon Roark and pursuing goals not germane to the field of architecture, he never develops whatever native talent he may have had.

"Study deeply upon this," as Musashi wrote.

************

Study poetry, even if you don't intend to become a poet. The constraints of poetry force the poet to convey the essence of his message in a very limited space, and the discipline he develops in the process is invaluable. When one reads T.S. Eliot (admittedly, my favorite poet), he finds that the amount of information Eliot imparts upon the reader in the miniscule amount of paper he uses is breathtaking.

The poet's overall approach to his craft can also be applied by the writer of prose. As a matter of fact, some prose -- I'll cite Wolfe and Joyce as specific examples -- has a poetic quality of its own. Poetry and prose aren't polar opposites, and shouldn't be treated as such.

************

In order to communicate with others -- the goal of writing, after all -- one must be able to reach others. This demands a genuine concern for other human beings, and the ability to empathize with them. In this respect, the writing abilities of the self-absorbed and psychopathically inclined are limited by their very natures. A writer who lives entirely "inside his own head" can't get into the heads or hearts of others.

*************

Write to express, not to impress. When one writes to express, he shows consideration for the reader. He says, in essence: "I have something important to tell you, and I care enough about you to ensure that you understand what I'm saying." This approach lends his writing depth and sincerity. When one writes to impress, he says, in essence: "I don't care about your feelings. I simply want to overwhelm you with my 'greatness'." At best, this approach renders his writing shallow and superficial. At worst, it leads to the pompous, overdone buffoonery of an A.E. Waite. Like Aesop's jackadaw, this kind of writer unknowingly makes a clown of himself in the eyes of the more discerning reader, while impressing only the ignorant and himself.

************

On a related note, take your craft seriously, not yourself. The work of a writer who can't laugh at himself has a stiff, brittle quality and is ultimately boring. Commenting upon my "Moose" pieces, in which I honestly ran the risk of overdoing the sentimental and romantic elements, my best friend -- the ever-mysterious "Sluggo," who is a much better writer than I am, actually --sent me an email in which he referred to the pieces (and, I assume, The Homecoming Queen, as well) as "Harlequin Noir." The remark was so funny and so true that I laughed my ass off, if I may be blunt.

Twenty years ago, I probably would have been mortally offended. Of course, twenty years ago, I couldn't have written anything that elicited some of the responses these pieces did, either. There's a lesson in there somewhere, methinks…

What saves these pieces from becoming overly maudlin or wistful is the fact that they all contain humorous elements, even The Homecoming Queen, which is otherwise a very dark story.

************

A narrow emotional "spectrum" leads to narrow appeal. Based on feedback I've received, I think the best pieces I've put up "work" because I tried to express a number of emotions: pain, fear, confusion, joy, wonder, love, hate, anger, nostalgia, tenderness, etc., all in the same story. This is a purely personal observation, though, so I'm not presenting it as a hard-and-fast "rule."

In order to convey emotions convincingly, one must actually be able to feel them. I can't emphasize this enough. A writer who occupies a single emotional "space" 24-7 (in addition to being an emotional cripple, and very probably insane) will find his expressive capabilities severely limited by his handicap. It's important to be able to express what one feels, but the ability to do this predicated by the ability to feel things in the first place.

One of the most flattering comments I've received said: "You made me laugh and cry in the same piece." To me, that's a true compliment. It suggests that I was "broadcasting" on a number of "frequencies," and doing so in such a way that the reader could "receive" on a few or all of them, as well.

**********
Last, but not least, take what I've written with a large grain of salt. I'm still in the learning process myself, and just sharing what I've picked up along the way.

More later.

On Writing (Not for the Easily Offended)

"Now just a damned minute, Bean!" snaps the gentle reader. "What could a mere blogger -- and a swearblogger at that -- possibly have to say about writing?"

I'll let him/her read on and judge for himself, but first, let me rephrase the opening paragraph for him.

It should read: "Now just a fucking minute, Bean, you gobshite son of a bitch!" screams the outraged reader, spraying his monitor with flecks of spittle. "What the hell could some fucktarded nutsack of a swearblogger have to say about writing? You probably don't know jack shit about the subject, you fuckwitted fleck of cunt lint!"

There. Now I feel more at home.

I am a swearblogger, after all. I may not be in the same league as Mr. Eugenides, The Long Rider, or the inimitable Devil's Kitchen, but I'm a related form of critter.

This being the case, penning a piece on writing is probably as odd an experience for me as is reading a piece on writing -- composed by a blogger -- for the gentle reader. We're both in the same boat, when one gives the matter some thought.

I'm a blogger. I think of and refer to myself as such, and not as a writer. The simple fact, though, is that blogging is a form of writing. Therefore, I suppose a blogger is technically an element of the set of writers. This would make me a writer of sorts.

I've been blogging on MySpace for a little over a month now. I came here on the advice of a good friend, Barry Eisler, in the interest of networking with other writers. Before joining (and also with Barry's encouragement), I began blogging in June of 2006, on my main blog, Green Hell and my long-neglected "bad hair day" swearblog, Redneck Redshank Redbaiter. I also contributed the occasional short piece to Blue Collar Republican, a site dedicated to the interests of pissed-off, middle- and working-class freedom-lovers who feel abandoned by both of our country's major political parties.

I had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the "Blogosphere" by Barry and my best friend, as I considered the prospect terribly intimidating. When the initial fear wore off, I found that I genuinely enjoyed it, and I've been doing it ever since.

I've been writing longer than I've been blogging, though. Prior to becoming a swearblogger, I gained a small degree of notoriety as Rebel Redneck Dave, the potty-mouthed, hayseed ranter of Marc MacYoung's Animal List, which I joined in 2000 or 2001, so I've been writing for one audience or another for nearly seven years now.

I actually began writing back in 1979, at the age of twelve, and never stopped. My first effort was fantasy piece -- a shameless Lord of the Rings ripoff. I'll never let anyone read it, but it's one of the few chunks in my veritable flood of ink-stained vomitus that I still regard fondly and affectionately.

Throughout high school and college, I continued to write. Most of my shameless violations of virgin paper consisted of (bad) sci-fi, horror or fantasy, and the occasional piece of (equally bad) historical fiction or poetry. None of this dreck will ever see the light of day (unless I decide to pick it apart to illustrate why it's bad writing and what makes it bad) as I had the good sense to burn most of it years ago. The only things I'm actually proud of having written in those days are a few pages of parody/satire (I had rather a caustic sense of humor for a teen), and one exercise in absurdist/surrealist outrage that reads like the unholy (and untutored) bastard offspring of Ishmael Reed and Lewis Carroll.

In college, I majored in English, with an emphasis on composition and literature.This course of study provided me with a certain level of formal training, and reinforced whatever native ability I may have possessed. At that time, while attending Georgia State University, I had the extraordinarily good fortune of favorably impressing one of my professors -- the head of the English Department -- with a composition I'd written. This led to his taking me under his wing, providing me with encouragement and guidance, and generally serving as a mentor. The first piece of my work ever to be published was a poem (of all things!) entitled November Images, which I'd submitted to the Georgia State Literary Review at his urging.

During my twenties my life essentially became a series of disasters, and I turned to writing as an alternative to suicide. Being a hardcore Anarcho-Libertarian at the time, I usually wrote political rant tracts and "poison pen" letters to various politicians and publications, plus the occasional piece of fiction, albeit fiction of a much darker, far grittier, more sardonic, and often more surreal kind than I'd written as a kid.

Now that I've established my credentials (or lack thereof), the gentle reader can make an informed decision as to whether or not he cares to read a blogger's thoughts, feelings, musings and observations on writing.

For the record, little or none of what I have to say will be of value to published authors. This piece (or series of pieces) is intended to address the concerns of complete beginners, fellow internet malcontents, and weirdos wanting either to make their first forays into blogging or to lend a degree of polish to their prose.

********

Words are a writer's tools. This should go without saying, but unfortunately, it doesn't. In the "real" world, when attempting to accomplish any given task, one must have the proper tools for the job. This is no less true of writing. A writer's task is that of expressing an idea or feeling. Simply put: In order to write, one must have the tools (in this case, words) with which to do so. This means the would-be writer must not only have a larger-than-average vocabulary, but understand the sense -- both connotative and denotative -- of any given word he employs.

Let's take the following sentence and play "switcheroo" with adverbs.

From his perch atop a folding stepladder in the handicapped parking space, Bob scratched his crotch and armpits excitedly.

From his perch atop a folding stepladder in the handicapped parking space, Bob scratched his crotch and armpits exuberantly.

From his perch atop a folding stepladder in the handicapped parking space, Bob scratched his crotch and armpits enthusiastically.

From his perch atop a folding stepladder in the handicapped parking space, Bob scratched his crotch and armpits agitatedly.

From his perch atop a folding stepladder in the handicapped parking space, Bob scratched his crotch and armpits animatedly.

The difference in each sentence is only one word, but that word -- the adverb -- changes the sense of each considerably, doesn't it? For this reason, a dictionary is essential. Not a cheap, paperback dictionary, mind you. A good, solid, unabridged, hardcover dictionary. Webster's Collegiate, the American Heritage Dictionary, and the Oxford Reference Dictionary are all wonderful choices (I own one of each), as is Funk and Wagnall's. Being a "word freak," I prefer etymological dictionaries, but that's a purely personal matter.

I also own copies of Ballantine's Law Dictionary and Black's Law Dictionary, but that's because much of my fiction is gritty and noir in tone, and features characters who often interact with the (American) authorities in one way or another. Both are excellent additions to the would-be Grisham's "tool kit."

*************************************

We all make grammatical errors at some time. Given that English grammar is very complex and somewhat artificial in nature, there are no exceptions to this rule. If you write, you will make a mistake someday, so just accept it. There are different degrees of mistake, though. Some are so slight that only a grammarian could spot them, while others are so glaring as to be readily apparent even to an eighth-grader. Sadly, much of what I read on the internet and in self-published literature is rife with the latter kind. For a person who bills himself as a writer, there's no excuse for this. None whatsoever.

A writer must possess a basic knowledge of English grammar. End of story.

At the very least, he should know the basic parts of speech and their functions, subject-verb agreement, person, and the tense forms of the various regular and irregular verbs.

I recommend Hodges' Harbrace College Handbook, but again, that's merely a personal preference. I'm sure you can find Grammar for Dumbasses or a similar title at your local bookstore.

Buy one, and I mean now. I'm sick of reading the likes of this:

"Just between you and I," said Elroy in a husky whisper, pausing dramatically and inserting his tongue into Tabby's stoma before continuing, "I think quadriplegic snowboarders are hot!"

Elroy sounds like my kind of guy, but "Just between you and I" is an abomination.
It should read "Just between you and me," as in this case, the first person singular pronoun is the object of the preposition "between," and therefore takes the object form. You wouldn't say: "Just between we," or "It's between the two of they," would you? Of course not. You'd sound like a foreigner or a mo-tard. So why say: "Between you and I"?

A writer should be aware of these things. I'm not being self-righteous here, so please don't take it that way. For my part, I'm of the opinion that punctuation was invented by Satan himself, for the sole purpose of inducing me to tear out my thinning hair by the fistful. Yes, that means I have quite a bit of trouble with punctuation. I think in words and images, not in commas, colons, semicolons and hyphens. That's why I own a copy of Hodges'…

*******

Redundancy irritates the shit out of me. Certainly, it can be used productively -- setting up a sequence of events, luring the reader into a sense of near-boredom and then introducing a jarring and unexpected change, but most of what I see on the internet and in self-published literature appears to be unconscious or sloppy redundancy.

In my opinion, this is a decent paragraph, one in which redundancy is employed as a device:

"Where the hell is that letter?" Bill asked himself. He looked in the bureau. He looked in the dressing table. He looked in the nightstand. He looked in his desk. He looked in Carol's vanity. He felt nothing when the bullet smashed through the base of his skull, instantly and permanently ending his search.

This one, on the other hand, "sucks and gives change," if you'll pardon the colloquialism:

Bill went to the gas station and bought a soda. He then went to the drugstore and pilfered a bottle of a popular remedy for penile scabies. He went to the Post Office, but when he saw his own photograph hanging on the wall, he quickly went back outside. He then went to the bank. He felt a tinge of sadness when he went to the movies. The theater -- as it always did -- reminded him of his long-lost love, Bertie the trans-gendered hermaphrodite, who went insane just before Bill went into the army. As he went past the graveyard on his way home, his thoughts went to his past. Then he went…

By now, it's high time Bill went straight to hell and fucked himself along the way, as far as I'm concerned. He's just succeeded in boring me to tears, and needs to pay for it!

Bill certainly does his share of going, doesn't he? It seems he does little else. Owing to his going, one wonders if he doesn't have entirely too much fiber in his diet, or perhaps a kidney infection. He simply goes everywhere. He's as bad as an un-housebroken puppy, for Pete's sake! He never drives, runs, walks, proceeds, trudges or rides. He just goes.

Let's buy a package of Depends™ for Bill (I suppose doing so is more humane than taking out a contract on the boring, predictable baw'bag, after all…) and a thesaurus for the aspiring writer, shall we?

I prefer the "classic" (Roget's), but others are available. Aside from a dictionary, a thesaurus is the most essential tool in a writer's kit, and when used in tandem with one, is more an addition to his arsenal than to his tool kit. The list of synonyms provided by the thesaurus, in combination with the literal meaning and sense of any given word listed in the dictionary, provides him not only with the ability to avoid redundancy, but the ability to do so decisively and meaningfully, as well.

So buy a thesaurus. Should the gentle reader do so, he can prevent himself from ever having to read words to the effect of:

A Roswell man, Dave Bean, went completely batshit this morning, and, in a crime of savage and shocking brutality, went to the home of a blogger whose style of writing had offended his aesthetic sensibilities and, in Mr. Bean's own words: "done gone to town on the sumbitch" with a chainsaw, a sand-filled whoopee cushion, and a pair of salad tongs.

When questioned, Mr. Bean -- his eyes glowing like coals -- hissed: "If you use the simple past tense of the verb 'to go' more than twice in the article you're fixin' to write, I'll bite your nuts off and spit 'em down your throat, you pencil-necked dick puller!"…

And as Mr. Bean actually wrote the last two paragraphs, I think it's well past his bedtime.

More later.

Openness

Every so often, someone will ask me a question to the effect of "How can you feel comfortable putting ______ on the internet?" One may fill in the blank with any of the following items: 1.) the details of your personal life; 2.) the awful things you did when you were younger; 3.) all those pictures; or any number of things.

The answer is simple. I do what I do in the interest of openness.

For a writer, the Internet is, in many respects, the greatest boon ever given him. It allows him to communicate, to express his ideas -- and what is writing if not the expression of one's ideas? -- to a potentially vast audience with breathtaking ease and rapidity. The downside of the Internet, though -- and what I hate about it the most -- is the anonymity it offers the creeps of this world. In certain ways, my openness is an act of rebellion against this downside.

If a person is going to take the time to read something I've written (and if I didn't want anyone to read my work, I wouldn't post it, now would I?), I think that person has a right to know something about the man who wrote it. When I put up a blog on my aunt's death, or my father's illness, or my first love, or the often insane things I've done over the course of my life, I'm saying, in effect : "This is who I am."

When I joined MySpace, I let it be known that I was joining for all the listed reasons: dating, serious relationships; friends; and networking. I understand that a certain degree of "salesmanship" -- as it were -- is a necessity in all four pursuits, and I understand the importance of "putting one's best foot forward."

Nevertheless, "salesmanship," when combined with the anonymity afforded by the internet, rapidly degenerates into mere bullshitting. A person one has never met - provided that said person is sufficiently clever -- can often construct an elaborate fantasy persona and foist it upon the unwary reader.

Our fake then begins telling him/her what he/she wants to hear, pretending to be something he/she is not, preying upon the reader's vulnerabilities (and like it or not, we all have them), and engaging in all manner of deceit. Needless to say, I find this extremely distasteful, as I myself have been "suckered in" on occasion, and didn't exactly enjoy said experiences. As I don't like having things of this sort done to me, I try like hell not to do them to other people.

As an example of my choice not engage in the not-so-fine art of bullshitting, I'll submit the following: In taking a good, hard look at myself, I've come to realize that I don't handle grief or anger very well at all. Everyone who knows me knows the same, and these traits will soon become glaringly obvious even to people who are just becoming accquainted with me. Therefore, I've reasoned that it's best just to be honest about it, and not provide potential friends with any nasty surprises in the future.

The opposite of what I do (and something that pisses me off to no end) is taking the "Prince Charming" approach, and passing oneself off as some kind of lofty, noble being who pisses ginger-ale, shits rose petals, and awakens every morning with unmussed hair and minty-fresh breath. Whether said forcefully or subtly, this amounts to "I'm perfect," and frankly, that's utter bullshit and we all know it.

None of us is perfect. End of fuckin' story.

I've been "spitballing" this topic for the last few days, and I'm thinking of examining it in detail, in a post tentatively entitled "Moose, Ayn Rand and the Ideal Man," in which I'll expound upon "Mr. Right," the notion of "ideal" men and women, and whether or not any of us ornery bipeds even deserves an "ideal" person.

OK, let's move along, folks. Nothin' ta see here.

Another reason I tend to be as open as I am is purely pragmatic. Everyone has a past, myself included. People know us, folks. Someone somewhere has "the goods" on all of us, and since I've put my work -- and therefore myself -- into the public eye, I'd rather get the skeletons in my closet out into the open than have someone else do it for me. Being the kind of guy I am, I'll probably tie strings to said skeletons and use 'em to put on a semi-pornographic puppet show, but that's beside the point...

That wraps it up, as I suppose. Y'all take care.

Me love you longtime, warts and all.

SLS Guest Post: Running Things Over for Fun and Profit

Howdy, folks! It's both an honor and a pleasure to introduce you to a good friend of mine, a bright young man with the Celt's native gift of storytelling. Oh, and the stories he can tell! Reading them leads me to wonder if he isn't a distant relative of the Heathen Horde and/or the Bean Boys!

At present, his professional obligations prevent him from becoming an official member of the Southern Literary Syndicate, but I see no harm in bestowing honorary membership upon him.

Without further ado then, I give you Aaron.

I hail from Eastern Tennessee. I smoke a pipe, listen to Waylon Jennings, know how to make moonshine, and call my family by appellations such as "Daddy", "Pop", "Pappy", "Granny", and "Paw". I've hoed rows of corn, made jam and applebutter over a fire, and said things to the effect of: "I'm goin' out t' back yard, t' kill sommat fer' supper", and then done so.

I am, in a word, Southern. A good ol boy. An' damn proud of it, mind you.

As the song says, we Southern boys tend to "Talk too slow, drive too fast…" If you couldn't complete the lyrics to that, I don't want to talk to you. Quit reading this, now. You should be tending to your education.

Like I'as sayin'…driving too fast. Driving too fast on the wrong side of the road, driving too fast down dirt roads at midnight with the headlights off, driving too fast along dirt trails at which most deer look nervously before finding another route, seeing if that seven foot drainage ditch can be jumped, "goin' muddin' up the place past the dump", having two-, three-, and four-car races down two-lane country roads…

Well, they say God loves children and fools. Musta' really loved me, as I fit both categories.

But sometimes, in order to keep one's Professional Redneck License (necessary for construction of home-made explosives, vehicular repairs involving duct tape, discounts on Red Man "chaw", and getting out of jail because a body was "just funnin', and didna mean no harm") one has to drive a pickup truck.

I think there's a three thousand mile per five year requirement, but I'm not certain. I'll have to check the Eight-track Rule Tape (what, you thought we'd have a book?) If memory serves, that part comes right after the section pertaining to minimum beer consumption, and just before the guide on sliding price scales for annoying Yankees needing their "Beamers" repaired.

Point is, with a pickup, you really can't drive as fast as with a car.

"NOOOOOO!!!!!!", come the howls of anguish. "But what about my F-150 Lightning, with my new Weber exhaust system, Massflow air intake, and 5" exhaust pipe?" demands the shocked reader.

"Suck my 'exhaust pipe'!", responds Aaron.

First, that truck was timed for a certain amount of back pressure from the exhaust system when you bought it. Mess with the manifolds and the pipes, I hope you have a degree in automotive engineering to reset the timing computer, because odds are you just gained 130 decibels and lost 25 horsepower. And we haven't even gotten into what that did to the power bands the gearing is set for.

Asshole.

There's more to going fast than power and accelerative capability. You have to keep the damn thing on the road, pointed in the right direction. There is a reason the Craftsman trucks are in a different class than the cars, folks. Slam 'em to the ground, warp the body as much as you can and still call it a truck, screw with the suspension to the point it doesn't even bear more than a token resemblance to the truck whose name the title carries, and you only approximate racing performance. So you made a truck act like a car.I don'tt admire your half-baked engineering skills; I think you're stupid for not just starting with a car.

That being said, however, pickups are good for fun all of their own sorts. They can haul things, tow things, drive off-road much more easily, and some women really dig 'em -- my wife, for one. Pickups are also much more suited to running things over. You just don't realize how many things there are out and about in your everyday travels, that need to be run over -- until you have a pickup with which to run them over.

My first pickup was a 1979 Chevrolet Silverado. M' Daddy's, actually. If he reads this, he may kill me, but that's a chance I'll have to take. Other than incipient demise from Daddy choking the life out of me, I think the statute on the rest of this has expired…

The truck, that's where I was!

Gray, with the same stripes as Lee Major's truck in _The Six Million Dollar Man_. 406 cid engine (for you car nuts out there going "WTF?" it started as a 383, got bored out a mite, and turned over a mite more. M' Daddy is good at such things), roll cage, KC lights, four inch steel pipe brush guard, 4x4, eight track player with Willie Nelson's Whiskey River permanently stuck in it, rust on
the fenders, and cheap rubber floor mats…it was beautiful. It was, as I lovingly called it since I was two, the 'Normous Gray Truck.

One day I was riding with a friend of mine -- to protect the guilty, let's call him "Fred" -- and we decided that we were hungry. Hell, we were sixteen. When were we not hungry?

And do I digress easily, or what?

So we decided to stop in at Arby's, and get a couple of those "five for five dollars" deals they used to have before Satan took over the fast food market and jacked up the prices on everything that doesn't taste like deep-fried shit. So we head downtown (always a sign of trouble to come), and get caught up in traffic. Traffic is a problem in the 'Normous Gray Truck, as it is large, overpowered, and licensed as an agricultural vehicle. Steering is approximate, at best, and braking is a "plan ahead" type of affair.

Do I have to come out and say that my parents would have shot me on sight, had they known I was driving this thing on the streets?

I turned right into the Arby's parking lot, overdoing the accelerator a bit toward the tail end of the turn to bring the rear wheels in line with a little howl of burning rubber. At least, I thought it was the Arby's lot. Upon closer inspection, it turned out I was in the parking lot of the neighboring establishment, a motel of some sort -- one of the national chains. I don't remember which one.

This being East Tennessee, and East Tennessee being somewhat on the hilly side, the motel had leveled their parking lot by way of constructing a retaining wall, and piling debris against it until they were ready to pave.

They prettied it up a bit by making the wall offset, so that it wasn't a straight up-and-down job. It staggered back about four inches with each course of decorative brick. They also planted fir trees along the length of the wall-whichever type of fir grows tall and skinny, with a relatively small trunk. My problem was: The retaining wall, all seven or eight feet of it, was between me, and Arby's.

Some people would have solved this problem by turning around, pulling out, and then turning into the following lot. I can't say as I gave that option one damn bit of thought at the time, though. I was in a truck! What kind of dickless pissant needs a road when he's in a truck?

I never even slowed down.

Right over the embankment, engine roaring as the wheels spun free in the air, into a tree, snapping the trunk and folding it under the truck, neatly into the parking spot in front of the door. The one adjacent to the handicapped spot, that is; I was raised to be considerate of others, you know.

Fred didn't even blink.

We got out, walked into the Arby's and up to the counter. Folks were staring at us like we had just raped a virgin poodle in a puddle of pig's blood, while flinging our own feces at the church choir and chanting the Nicene Creed to Black Sabbath chords. We didn't say a word, didn't crack a smile, just acted like everything here was perfectly normal, and as if folks always looked at us with a mix of horror, bewilderment, shock, and revulsion on their faces. Actually, folks frequently did just that, so that part was a bit easier than it might otherwise have been...

We collected our food from the girl at the counter, and as we walked out, Fred -- God bless his soul -- said, deadpan as you please, "Next time, let's take the drive-through window." We drove off like nothing ever happened, and made it almost two blocks before we had to pull over for laughing so hard.

Same truck, same friend, different day…

We were driving around later that year, after school had started. Neither of us was especially enamored of school (or truancy laws), so we routinely elected to vote against such with our feet. In other words, we skipped class fairly often.

It was a cold, wet, day --maybe thirty-five degrees -- with rain pelting down and a wind that was gusting up to thirty. I knew the house would be empty, so we went back home and switched vehicles so we could go out "muddin' " in the woods behind Fred's place. We spent a couple hours doing power slides in huge mud puddles, jumping small ditches, and generally screwing around. Time went on, and I knew that the time was approaching when Daddy would be making his way back home -- remember the part about this being an agricultural vehicle, and my not using it? -- so we headed back to re-switch vehicles again, and on the way we passed a road construction area.

Now, it was way too miserable a day for the crew to be out doing anything. But they had marked off their work area with those nice orange barrels… We're going about sixty-five, and Fred says to me, "Betcha five ya won't run o'er one 'a 'em barrels." At the time, I didn't know that those barrels are weighted down with sandbags in their bases.

I found out right quick-like, though!

Wrong!

With the most God-awful boom (the Space Shuttle isn't this loud, people) the upper and lower portions of this barrel separated, and it went flying forward, bottom rising up into the wind -- which caught it in a tremendous gust at that very moment -- and hurled it back into the brush guard. It then turned three
lengthways somersaults up the hood, the windshield, and off the roll cage.
For the next thirty to forty seconds, we drove in silence, eyes still wide as tea saucers and fixed unblinkingly forward. After my heart started beating again, I croaked from my dry throat:

"Fred?"

"Yeah?"

"If you don't have five dollars for me right now, I will kill you..."