Maximum Security

Writing recently about sending articles to magazines 20 years ago, I was reminded of an assignment I gave some students back then. This was in the days when I was teaching a Feature Writing course at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh.

The assignment was to go through the part of the process where you decide what magazine you want to write for. So I had them send off for writers’ guidelines, wherein the editors specify things like topics, word count, and pay rate. (These days, you can find them online) Along with the request, standard operating procedure was to include a self-addressed stamped envelope for the guidelines.

One student got his back a week or so later, but his return envelope from Playboy Magazine had been taped instead of sealed. An otherwise intelligent guy, this student’s idea of an SASE was a self-addressed sealed envelope.

I was surprised they had taken the trouble. Apparently, they’d felt sorry for him.

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The Unspoken Contract

Have you been watching The Firm? It’s the TV version of the John Grisham novel set ten years after the movie version that starred Tom Cruise. It’s on NBC and it isn’t bad as TV shows go. They’re interestingly structured stories, with each episode containing a continuing through-line as well as a stand-alone story. But they dropped the ball last week.

A cardinal rule of fiction is that nothing can happen that would yank the reader/ viewer out of the story. No anachronisms, no factual errors, and certainly nothing boneheadedly stupid. Oh well…

Here’s what happened. (Don’t worry; no spoilers.) The brother of the main character, a private investigator working for his lawyer brother, finds a piece of paper that had been run through a cross-cut shredder. You know– the kind that doesn’t cut the document into long strips. Not confetti, just shorter strips. He says that he’s good at puzzles and will put it back together. Between him and his girlfriend, they reassemble the entire document and tape it together.

Guess what: They didn’t need to.

There were four names taking up four lines in the upper left corner of the printout, which probably amounted to two square inches of space. The rest of the paper was completely blank. Why the hell did they take the time to reassemble the whole thing when putting together just the names would have taken no more than two or three minutes?

From a storytelling standpoint, there was a structural need to draw out the time between when they found the shredded printout and when they found the four names. Otherwise, the clue would have arrived too early and that story arc would have ended too soon. But the writers (there were two credited for this episode) needed to find a better way to accomplish that, and, sadly, they didn’t. Bonehead move. I actually felt sorry for the actors because the writers made them look like fools. But ultimately, it was the writers who looked foolish.

If you’re watching a story on screen or reading one in a book and something happens that makes you think about the writer, said writer has broken the slender thread that suspends your disbelief. That’s like breaking a contract, and you, the reader/viewer,  have every right to be upset. You’ve invested your time and (probably) money in this story, and you deserve a good return on your investment.

The relationship between writer and reader has long been described as an unspoken contract. The writer agrees to lie to the reader and the reader agrees to believe it. You see, the reader knows intellectually that what’s on the page never actually happened. It’s the writer’s job to keep that disbelief suspended by not doing something to make the characters look like idiots and pull the reader out of the story. What’s the word? Oh, yeah–

Bonehead.

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Admit To Being A Writer

As time goes by, I’m less astounded at the number of people who write who don’t see themselves as writers. But I’m still moderately surprised. Is there a stigma I’m not aware of? Or is it the classic image?

You know what it is. I just trotted it out again in a recent article, but here it is in a nutshell. People think that in order to qualify for writer status, they have to be this solitary soul in a cold water walk-up shivering in a ratty bathrobe while hunched over an antiquated Underwood at 3:00 in the morning, pecking out the great American novel with an overflowing ashtray at one hand and a jelly glass of rotgut hooch at the other. Not true. The bathrobe is optional.

I’m joshing, of course, but those of you who give presentations, speak at Rotary luncheons, or give keynotes at conferences are writers. Unless you farm out the task to someone else — and I really doubt you do that — you are the creator of your work. And that means you wrote it.

You might not consider yourself a writer, but you do write. Get over it.

Read more about being a writer here. Turns out it’s not as solitary as you think.

One of my favorite topics to speak about is indeed writing. If your group or organization needs a speaker, call or send an e-mail. I could talk about writing for days, but I’ve been known to keep it as short as 30 minutes.

Contact me.

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Sorry, Gotta Dash

As of mid-March, 2011, the AP Stylebook, that bible for journalists, now advocates the elimination of the hyphen in the word e-mail. I’m against it, and not for curmudgeonly reasons, as you might think.

20- and 30-somethings in one on-line forum are staunchly for the elimination of the peculiar little n-dash, but I really doubt many of them know what the e stands for anyway. Now I’m all for updating and modernization, especially when it comes to my business image. I do not want to be the fellow who, to this day, has his contact information on his website listed in the following form:
phone
fax
electronic mail

(I forget his name and wouldn’t tell you if I knew it, but I swear I’ve seen it. It’s bad enough he has his fax number listed. Full disclosure: my fax number is on my business cards, but I’m trying to use them up and then re-order.)

As a student of language in general and languages in particular, I’m fully aware that a living language changes over time based on popular usage. Dictionaries are descriptive sources, not dictating the meaning and spelling of a word, but rather reflecting the majority usage. 700 years ago, the word nice meant foolish, a fact I relate in some of my seminars. But it wasn’t the result of a committee like the Academie Francaise issuing an edict. Rather it was a gradual evolution of meaning over the years.

 Since the e stands for electronic, to my mind, that makes it a compound word. As such, it requires a hyphen. I acknowledge I’m in the minority considering the fact that a Google search brings up 4.5 million hits for e-mail and nearly twice that number for email. This points to a solidification in favor of the latter choice, but I say what’s the hurry? My goal in writing is to include no usages that will blur clarity by slowing down the reader and raising questions about  my content. To my mind using the hyphen raises fewer, if any, questions.

 The Chicago Manual of Style still advocates use of the hyphen. Guess they’re as old-fashioned as I am.

For more in-depth articles, visit my Tips & Articles page, where you can access some of my archived columns.

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Don’t Let Your Emails Become an Endangered Species

Remember the story of the boy who cried “wolf?” There is so much competition in your inbox that some people feel the need to resort to deception to get you to keep reading their emails once you get started.

I just received a cordial invitation from a friend of a friend to be his “guest” at a dinner and discussion. At least that’s what the first paragraph said. Later on, the text got around to divulging that the event was being held to raise money for a political campaign and the price of “individual participation” is $500.

That’s a fairly elastic interpretation of the word “guest.” I wonder how much I would have had to fork over if I hadn’t held that exalted rank. The first paragraph is nothing short of misrepresentation to get me to keep reading, only to find out it was just another rubber chicken fund-raiser.

Don’t fall into that trap lest your emails be automatically thrown to the wolves.

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Writer’s Block?

I’ve often made mention of my contention that writer’s block is a myth, and that the inability to write something is because that certain something simply isn’t ready to be written yet. One of my suggestions has always been to switch projects and work on something else. There’s something else you can try. 

Riff. Jam. Improvise. Noodle on your instrument like a jazz musician. But what is my instrument, you ask? It’s not what you think. 

Computer keyboard or typewriter? No, that’s just what you use to write things down and preserve your improvisations. Liken it to a tape recorder to hold on to the gems you came up with so you don’t lose them. 

Vocabulary? No again; words are the arsenal, the supply closet, the quiver of arrows. Words are comparable to the notes that you combine in new configurations to create a brand new melody. 

Your instrument, you see, is your mind.

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White Sneakers

All I wanted to say was this: No matter how dirty you get a pair of white sneakers, they still look like white sneakers.

It was going to be one of those inconsequential little Facebook status updates. You business people know what I mean; just a little blurt to keep your name out there. But when I noticed its ambiguity, I figured I should elaborate.

Phrased the way it is now, it can be taken two ways. You can read it with pride: No matter how dirty you get a pair of white sneakers, by golly, they still look like white sneakers. Or you can read it with irritated resignation: No matter how dirty you get a pair of white sneakers, dammit, they still look like white sneakers.

For the record, I don’t care for white sneakers. The black ones look even geekier, but the store didn’t have the usual off-off-white Rockports I usually buy. I’m a guy, so I don’t shop, I buy. And I needed new walking shoes right then! Now you know– I have the patience of a housefly after a hit of Red Bull.

Look at the sentence again. If I say it out loud, the by-golly/dammit qualifiers are unnecessary. I can make my attitude obvious with my tone of voice and facial expression. Not in writing; that’s why writing takes more effort than speaking.

Whether it’s articles or e-mails, you have no audience in front of you to see how your attitude is manifested. You need to augment your words with qualifiers to make your feelings known. And I’m not talking about emoticons. They have no place in serious writing or business communication. They don’t make you seem communicative; they just make you seem lazy.

So make the extra effort. It’s fairly easy to get your meaning across. Getting your attitude across takes a little more work.

By golly.

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And the Winner for the Most Boring Highway Ever: The Envelope Please

Have you ever driven on the Florida Turnpike?
Have you ever been in a coma?
They’re the same thing.

I don’t mind driving long distances. There are usually interesting sights to see, and I always have plenty of things to think about. But the Florida Turnpike is a stretch of road like nothing I’ve ever encountered.

Excuse me. I mean Florida’s Turnpike. They seem to be quite possessive about it because “Florida’s Turnpike” is how it’s displayed on state road signs, maps, and my GPS, apostrophe and all. Back in mid-July, I drove from Orlando to Boca Raton, some on I-95, but most of the three-hour trip on the turnpike. I took off the last day of the National Speakers Association convention and drove south to interview a client whose book I’m writing. 

Florida is famous for things like alligators and palm trees, as well as its terrain. I live in Pennsylvania, so my car and I are accustomed to major hills. Florida is a little different. The first feature to suck the interest right out of you is the road’s flatness. As in no hills. Sure, once in a great while you get to cross a raised causeway over a river or marsh, but please. There is nothing to see on either side since it’s bordered by trees the whole way. I like trees as much as anyone, but after a few minutes, they all look alike. Oh, wait– they are all alike.

If you ever have the occasion to drive it, here’s how you’re likely to spend your time:

*You’ll change lanes just for something to do.
*You’ll find yourself saying things like, “Oh boy, a curve.”
*You’ll liken a service plaza to an oasis in the Mojave.

Please understand: the highway itself is excellent. It’s well-maintained, clean, and roadkill- and pothole-free. But that does nothing to alleviate the monotony. In fact, these sterling qualities probably exacerbate it.

At least the trip back to Orlando seemed shorter, as most return trips do. This was good, as I was racing to get back in time to attend an awards dinner at the convention. But I paid for the privilege: ten bucks and change each way.

And I didn’t even get to see an alligator.

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In Defense of Big Words

I’m a long-time fan of communicating clearly and concisely and not using a ten-dollar word when the dime version will do. And yet sometimes it’s necessary to call up the big guns for just the reasons I mentioned: clarity and conciseness.

A recent addition to the lexicon of over-used and over-mocked words is paradigm. True, many blowhards trot it out in order to come off as being cool and with it without knowing its real meaning. Or at least having only a hazy concept of same. A paradigm is a pattern that all things in a given category match. In learning a foreign language for instance, the conjugation of one regular verb is the same for all other regular verbs. (You want irregular verbs, look them up.)

But even when you use the word properly, a few mavens-in-waiting will pounce on you and scold you for being pretentious. Paradigm means a pattern or model. Folks might ask you, “Then why not just say pattern or model?”

Here’s your answer: Because, chucklehead (optional), model can refer to a scaled down replica of a structure or scene, a human being showing off the latest clothing designs, a version of a car, and many other meanings. Pattern can refer to a series of human behaviors, instructions to make a dress, a path for an aircraft to follow, and many other meanings.

Paradigm means just the one thing. Be bold: Use it and any other word like it if you want to be precise.

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To Be Continued. Phooey!

You can tell when the story on a TV show is going to be continued in the next episode because you’re looking at your watch and it’s getting close to the top of the hour and you just know they can’t tie up all the loose ends in the little time that’s left. But at least you only have to wait a week. Unless they pull that stunt in the season finale.

But now two of my favorite writers are doing it in novel-length books. Connie Willis is an excellent science fiction author who writes with a masterful mix of humor and plotting and does some stellar things with the concept of time travel. Lee Child writes the series of unputdownable Jack Reacher mystery/ adventure novels about a former MP who roams the country righting wrongs without the benefit of a car or a suitcase.

This concept violates the main rule of fiction, and it’s a prime motivation for reading it: the problem is resolved. We like to read fiction because, unlike real life, the problems in the story don’t drag on interminably but are resolved by the time you reach the last page. The formula is so simple I feel I’m insulting your intelligence by saying it, but here goes: At the beginning of the story, a hero we can root for gets her/himself in a pickle, has a series of setbacks and escalating complications throughout, and at the end, we find out how and if s/he gets out of it. Period. End of fiction writing seminar.

And that’s the way it should be. Or am I being a curmudgeon again?

(Read the expanded, article-length version of this post in the Legacy Road Communique archives. Click on the archive link.)

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