Percy Verantz: The dogged ardor of the artist

Perseverance.  To perseverate, persevere, endure, pursue, trudge on, stay the course ... to last. 

Percy Verantz is a good friend.  Once a writer has a couple decades of pen-work under his belt, you get to be on a first name basis ... in my case, Percy hasn’t been “Mr.” Verantz since, well, the Reagan Administration at least.

Perseverance often is the quality of a Marine.  In the face of the oft-shouted command, “Don’t just stand there ... DO something!” a Marine hears the voice of a wise drill sergeant who shouts, “Don’t just do something ... STAND there!”

Think about it.

Then act with purpose.  And invite Percy along for the ride.

Percy is the tortoise, not the hare.  Few races are won in the first few hasty steps – particularly if one or more missteps are included in the starting fervor.  Percy epitomizes the enduring stick-to-it-iveness that gets the race won – and gets a job done.

Percy knows that a writer must indeed sweat bullets.  A writer must think.  Create.  Re-think.  Mull.  Shape.  Turn the artwork over, figuratively, in the head – the way a whittler turns a block of wood over and over in the process of shaving away the unneeded portion.

A writer must know, in his heart of hearts, that the amazing message he seeks really does exist somewhere under layers of verbiage, grammatical gesticulation and naive disregard for the subtlety required in the process of communication.

Just like the whittler who seeks the hand-carved pony locked within the unwhittled block of wood.

Like the bullied and abused little boy who digs furiously through the fancy-wrapped box of manure – a cruel prank disguised as a Christmas gift – because, well ... “all this manure – there’s GOTTA be a pony down there somewhere!”

Percy is stubborn.  Doggedly resolute and tenacious – possessing unwavering commitment; dauntless in the face of daunting challenges.  He’s got guts, moxie, ardor, passion.

Percy is Jesus Christ’s Passion on the cross, knowing that to endure the cruelty of a handful of humans for a day would absolve humanity of sin for all time, and place us eternally in the sweet hand of God.

That’s perseverence.  Strive for it.  Strive for perfection.  The end result will not be perfect.  But it is for the striving that we are created. 

Next: President Reagan and the elusive backbeat

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Cultural literacy and the American writer

More than 20 years ago now, E.D. Hirsch Jr. authored the indispensible Cultural Literacy: What Every American Needs to Know. 

Hirsch subsequently wrote dozens of works outlining core knowledge critical for students .... but mostly targeted at what parents should be satisfying themselves that their children are learning in school.

This “proper education” is steeped in that core idea of cultural literacy.  The writer should place himself in front of each empty page with a solid concept of the likely level of “cultural literacy” his audience possesses.

In working with ESL students – mostly adults who’ve moved to America and are trying to acquire and hone their basic language skills – one of the biggest barriers is simple cultural literacy.

These intelligent, proud and hard-working immigrants can master the basic words, grammar and sentence structures.  But every so often, a blank look inexplicably crosses their faces.

Over time, it’s become clear that this most frequently occurs when the English phrase presented doesn’t make literal sense.  It might occur, for example, when a speaker unsuccessfully uses “Edsel” as a referent for a failure.

Phrases like “cat nap,” “dog-eared” and “raining cats and dogs” become clear to the foreigner’s ear upon reflection, but that pause for reflection may come at the sacrifice of the next two or three sentences.

“Remember the Alamo!” is likely to have a far different meaning – both literal and cultural – to a Mexican national.

For that matter, try explaining the meaning of the word “slang” to a relatively new English speaker, and you’re likely to find yourself confronting major issues of background experience, ethnicity and cultural variation.

For the writer facing that blank page, even native English speakers pose these kinds of challenges, to one degree or another, and more: Age and generational issues, class structure, political beliefs, sexual preference, work and job biases, for example.

Whether the writing challenge is commercial, personal or educational, the writer has more to contend with than the words he wants to communicate.

He must contend with an audience’s readiness and willingness to be communicated to. 

Next: Percy Verantz: The dogged ardor of the artist

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Slang-bashing: The Top Ten English language idioms (Nos. 6 thru 11)

Lousy-swell – Back in the 1950s, the “I Love Lucy” show was No. 1 in America, featuring the zany antics of Lucille Ball as Lucy Ricardo.  In one episode, Lucy and her Cuban husband, Ricky, agreed to take English language lessons, both to improve her tattered grammar and his often-indecipherable Spanglish.  With neighbors Fred and Ethel Mertz joining in, the tutor began the first lesson with the admonition that two words could never be uttered in his class.

          “The first is ‘lousy’ and the other is ‘swell,’” he told them.

          “Fine,” responded grumpy, bald old Fred.  “Give us the lousy one first!”

          .... A swell way to get off to a lousy start, no? 

Bug – If something “bugs” you, it’s bothersome ... like a gnat buzzing around your nose.  But a bothersome associate can be told to “bug off!” meaning to leave (“split,” in the vernacular of the 1960s flower child).  Similarly, an Army squadron might similarly “bug out” if an enemy is approaching in overwhelming force.

You can also “plant a bug” without worrying about funeral expenses for a dead fly: A bug is what a spy or undercover police agent plants when secreting an electronic listening device in a bad guy’s hotel room.  And, if it’s influenza season, you might “catch a bug,” meaning you’ve caught a virus and are feeling “under the weather.”   If you do, your co-workers might “put a bug in your ear” to stay home in bed so they don’t catch it. 

Mission – The Alamo is a mission – a church mission – and the “mission” of the soldiers quartered there in 1837 was to defend it as a fortress against an invading Mexican army until reinforcements could arrive.  A trip aboard the Space Shuttle is also a mission, conducted, appropriately enough, by mission specialists.

Today, corporations make “mission statements” to define for employee the overarching purpose and goals of the company.  But any person who exudes urgency in undertaking a task – simple or complex – is said to “be on a mission.” 

Shower – When a mission ends, the sweaty Army officer requires a shower, perhaps rinsing away the celebratory confetti that was showered over his head .... as a bride might be showered with gifts at ... her bridal shower.

A major-league pitcher gets sent to the showers when his manager comes to the mound to substitute a reliever ... at which time the pitcher might be showered with boos from the crowd.  Meteor showers, rain showers, snow showers – so many confusing variants, so little time. 

Kill time – Finally, when a person “has time to kill,” one, naturally enough, “kills time.”  It’s unclear what weapon might be used, as is the potential punishment for the murder.  But this phrase, cannily enough, always seems politically incorrect and potentially befuddling.  After all, what did time ever do to you that you should want to kill it?

Is it fair to kill time when you’re buried in work? And what is “time-and-a-half,” anyway?  If you get twenty years in prison for killing time, do you get thirty for doing in time-and-a-half?

Next: Cultural literacy and the American writer

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Slang-bashing: The Top Ten English language idioms (Nos. 1 thru 5)

Sharing the conversation and insights about language with immigrants and others who want to bolster their English communications skills is a great joy ... and a great challenge. 

One of the greatest challenges is Americans’ seemingly fathomless propensity to set aside formal speech in favor of casual conversation.  “Slang” is not unique to Americans, but we seem to elevate the art form constantly to new and confounding levels.

(Doubters: Google the lyrics to pretty much any rap hit of the last 20 years and try to produce a dictionariable definition of every word found there)

Following is a Top Ten list of common slang words and phrases that help mold the distinctive flavor of the English language ... while confusing, amusing and befuddling us on a regular basis: 

Top Ten – A catchy way of listing “bests” or “worsts” in myriad categories.  Popularized when sportswriters started rating college football teams in the 1950s and 60s, Americans now rate almost anything from one to ten (or in the case of a particularly odious late-night TV host, from ten to one). 

OK – The ultimate Americanism, nearly two centuries old, derived from some variant of the German “oll korrect” or from the papers of President Martin Van Buren, who often approved documents with the first letters of his nickname, “Old Kinderhook.”  The G.I. Joes who liberated Europe in WWII found kids at every stop who, though they spoke not another word of useful English, had mastered the phrase “OK, Joe!” 

Fast food – Not a reference to horse meat or the flesh of rapidly flying birds, but to a wide variety of hamburgers, chicken nuggets and tacos that can be quickly ordered and purchased at chain restaurants.  Some will argue that the word “fast” has long since become irrelevant with the evolution of longer lines and ever-slower service as the popularity of fast-food joints has grown over the last 50 years.  Others will dicker over whether the sometimes bland or nasty fast-food offerings actually can be considered “food.” 

Drive – One of those English words that’s not so much idiomatic as it is rich in variant meaning.  To drive is to travel in control of a car – to go for a drive – or to strike a golf ball off the tee.  Ambitious individuals have drive, but their driven nature will often drive you crazy.  You can drive a mule team, or your team of employees; a baseball player hits a line drive, while a good businessman drives a hard bargain.  A bicycle (and various machinery) is propelled by a chain drive.  And, a drive can be a political, fund-raising or military campaign. 

Fly – Similar to drive, in many ways, the slangish uses of the word “fly” are legion: Obviously, a bird flies ... but so does time.  A flag flies, and a door is said to fly open.  A man’s fly is the zipper on the front of his pants – and the black insect that flies into the man’s gaping mouth when he realizes his “fly is down.”  To fly is to travel rapidly by pretty much any mode of transport.  Scenery or actors suspended above a stage are “flown” and the aforementioned baseball player flies out when he doesn’t drive the ball hard enough to make a hit.  We fly blind, pick up projects on the fly, fly in the face of authority and into the teeth of the wind; sometimes we fly off the handle and tell a friend to “go fly a kite” (the friend, in turn, lets fly with a barrage of angry words). 

Next: Slang-bashing (Part 2)

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More thoughts about English as a second language

Think for a moment about the challenges of learning English as a second language.

Two basic issues – vocabulary and grammar – are challenges common to acquiring any foreign language.

Yes, English has a particularly rich cultural heritage supported by something over 200,000 words – each, on average, having about four different meanings (e.g., a “cast” as a noun, covers a broken leg; as a verb one can cast aspersions, cast a play or cast a fishing line).

English grammar can be stultifying – but probably no more dishearteningly irregular for a squirming third-grader than your run-of-the-mill Farsi dialect.

Spelling – ay, there’s the rub.

Through and through, it’s a thoroughly tough nut to crack; though burrowing through alternatives at a buck a throw might yield a pile of dough tall enough to drown skyscrapers in the borough of Manhattan ... but perhaps you’ve bought enough cough medicine and hiccough remedies to last until the next major drought.

Gaught it?

No, English is a particularly difficult challenge, even for the native speaker.  But a spark of empathy for non-English speakers stepping boldly onto the road to English fluency is in order.

Bottom line: When writing anything – anything at all – consider the prospects for confusion in your work.  Editor would lack paying customers should the English-speaking world suddenly grasp the difference between “principal” and “principle.”

Or learn that “accommodate” has two “m’s” in it.

Or that a “facility” is the shack in the back with the half moon carved into the door (you really can boggle people’s minds by referring to a 25,000-seat facility, when you’re really talking about a large basketball arena – why, back in West Virginny, a TWO-seater was considered quite a luxury).

If you do not write with precision and clarity, you will not be understood.

The general public has altogether too much to read already – too many books, too many sales brochures, quarterly reports, movie reviews and comic books – for you to expect them to decipher poorly conceived copy.

Best-selling novels are translated by professionals when they are to be marketed abroad.  No one expects some poor schmuck in Stockholm to translate a Danielle Steele potboiler on his own.

Don’t make your reader translate your badly spelled, poorly worded grammatic disaster.

Write it right – all of it, all right.  All right? 

Next: Slang-bashing – The Top 10 English language idioms

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English as a foreign language

One of my passions is language, obviously, but my passion for foreign languages in particular is a little strange.

Strange, because I am passionate, but not particularly adept: I spoke Russian reasonably fluently 30 years ago, but am radically out of practice.  I’ve picked up passable Spanish over the last couple years, but no one would accuse me of fluency.

Still, the passion endures.

The challenge makes me passionate.  The opportunity to talk with people I might otherwise ignore makes me passionate.  And the lessons that can be learned through cultural and linguistic anomalies makes me passionate.

The ESL program at our neighborhood church invites immigrants, mostly, to gather weekly with English-speaking volunteers.  The singular goal is to improve their usually halting acquaintance with English, which they are acquiring as a Second Language (hence the ESL).

In learning English, these brave souls tackle a variety of skills.  Invariably, idiom is the most difficult to master.

“Let’s call it a day,” said the ESL instructor, closing the paper-bound text filled with drawings, pictures and translations.

“What else would you call it?” asked a student from Tibet, clearly puzzled ... sparking a 10-minute discussion of five simple words.

Each immigrant/student present clearly understood each of those five words separate and apart from the phrase; it was the phrase that stopped them in their tracks.  There was no phrasing, in the various cultures represented, equivalent to “Let’s call it a day.”

And yet, each had a ready translation for “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”  In Spanish, for example, it is said that “It is better to have one bird in hand than 100 flying.”

Our new Tibetan friend even realized the similarity to “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”  Be satisfied with what you have.  Don’t be a dreamer.  Don’t put the cart before the horse.

Writers struggle constantly with the challenge of “being understood.”  To several generations of high school students by now, Faulkner’s Sound and Fury seems to require a translator no less urgently than War and Peace in the original Russian.

Even in English, the writer is faced with selecting some appropriate combination of formal and idiomatic language to best express his creative thought.

The study of foreign languages invites the welcoming inclusion of foreign cultures.  The aspiring writer who openly “grazes” on alien customs and unconventional ideas has found a pasture rich in excellent brain food.

Graze passionately.

Next: More thoughts about English as a second language

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Even MORE pet peeves ...

Adjectives / Adverbs.  Good / Goodly / Well .... Well!

You say poe-TAY-toe and I say poe-TAH-toe (and Dan Quayle can’t spell it either way ... now is that EE-thur or EYE-thur?) ...

I don’t feel so good.

A pet peeve that comes up less often – it arises fewer times, that is – is the distinction between “less than” and “fewer.”

As a rule, if you can count it, use “fewer.”  If not, “less.”  As in:

   I have less money in my pocket than I had yesterday.
           vs.

   I have fewer coins in my pocket than I had yesterday.

A person gets “less” sleep, but not after counting “fewer” sheep for “fewer” hours than the night before.

My young bride actually went into a major grocery chain one day and pointed out that the sign over the Fast Lane was incorrect:

   “Less Than 10 Items Please”

A couple weeks later, they’d actually changed the signs, replacing the offending “Less” with the grammatically correct  “Fewer” (the latter seeming, perhaps, pretentiously less palatable).

A similar pet peeve arises when writers incorrectly choose “between” over “among.”  When two people talk, the discussion is between them.  When three people talk, they talk among themselves.

If offered candy, a child may choose between chocolate and cherry ... or among chocolate, cherry and licorice.

So much of writing is about choices.  A writer will inevitably report a discussion between members of the President’s Cabinet ... which technically describes a discussion between two officials (the Attorney General and Secretary of State, for example), rather than a discussion among the larger group.

But sometimes (especially in politics), one settles for what one reasonably is able to achieve – “Do your best and leave the rest,” as my wife says with fewer words and less officiousness.
Take the Trumans, for example.

The story may well be apocryphal, but the President’s daughter apparently heard Harry S telling some reporters that he was going to throw some manure on the East Lawn to get it to green up.

“Mama,” said Margaret Truman, “can’t you get Daddy to say fertilizer instead of manure ... after all, he’s not a Missouri farmer anymore – he’s President of the United States!”

Bess Truman put her arm around her daughter’s shoulder and calmed her with a wise look:

“Margaret, my child, leave well enough alone.  It’s taken me 25 years to get him to say manure!”

Do your best, and leave the rest.

––––––––––

Parting Shot: The devil’s in the details ... Harry “S” Truman is the President’s real name, even though it was widely presented as “S.”  It seems Give ‘em Hell Harry’s parents couldn’t decide between two grandparental names – Solomon and Shippe – and compromised on the letter only ... no period.  And “Margaret” Truman?  Actually Mary Margaret Truman, by birth. 

Next: English as a foreign language

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More pet peeves

A few subtle twists on yesterday’s discussion of adjectives and adverbs:

It is possible to make the request – of your high school English teacher, even – to close the door tight instead of “tightly.”  It implies that you should close it until that closure is tight.

For the same reason, feel free to tell your child to “Sleep tight”  as you tuck her in for the night.

She won’t lie there angrily cursing your improvident use of an adjective.  It’s colloquial, after all, and probably OK ... besides, how does one commit the act of “tightly” sleeping?

It’s like never ending a sentence a preposition with.  It’s something we’ve all gotten over.

And, til the day I die, I’m never going to feel comfortable replying to “How’re you doing?”

Am I “doin’ good” or what?  “I’m feeling well” always sounds a bit pretentious, and good grammar (alone) should never do that.

“I feel good” is a simple statement of being (or a No. 1 hit for James Brown, depending).  Thank heavens Simon and Garfunkel didn’t write “Feelin’ Groovily.”

To a friend, you feel good.  To a doctor, you’re not feeling “well.”

On your college essay, find a way to write around having to make the choice.

That said, you can see why pet peeves can be so much fun ... and extremely challenging at times.

Next: Even MORE pet peeves ...

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Every good writer needs a list of pet peeves

I’m jealous.

I admit it.

You see, I know the difference between an adjective and an adverb.  My kids knew the difference between an adjective and an adverb practically from the time they got out of diapers.

But sportscasters on national television – making six-figure salaries for hanging out and shooting the bull about football games – can’t make out why it grates on the ear when they note that a running back is “playing good this year.”

Drive safe on the way back to the hill country, y’all ... er, safe - LY, that is.

He’s having a good year, or he’s playing well.  Make up your mind, please.

Close the door tight.

Lee.

Read that book real close.

Lee-Lee ... really closely.

“Lee” was a more or less constant companion in our household when my girls were young.

Once they learned to be careful and speak carefully, that is.

Someone would caution us about the icy roads outside: “Drive slow!”

“Lee,” the girls would giggle back, and I would, indeed, drive slowly on the way home.

It’s in their blood, in their genes.  To this day, they know they’ve slept well and had a good night’s sleep.  Be good.  Behave well.

The artful writer writes artfully.

Heck, a baseball player can even hit a fair ball a fair piece and get a fair contract from an owner who treats him fair.

Lee.

In a nutshell, an adjective modifies a noun and an adverb modifies a verb.  An adverb also modifies an adjective (partly cloudy) or another adverb (fairly quickly).

Someone who runs fairly quickly is, after all, a fairly quick runner.

The girls?  Well, they’re good kids and they both write well.  And that’s good.  Makes me proud to be able to write proudly about it.  Proud to be able to say it out loud – to stand up and shout loud .... 

“Lee,” comes the peevish echo ... peevishly.

Next: More pet peeves ...

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A mathematical construct for writers

Good ideas just sorta happen.

Brainstorm.  Churn up the “train of thought” express.

Don’t worry that a good idea is “nothing new.”  Google the key words of absolutely any idea, and you’ll find a couple million places where it’s essentially been said before.

Many an oft-repeated phrase exhibits remarkable staying power: Umpires, for example, have cried “Batter Up!” for well over a century, yet our ear never tires of hearing those words for the first time each spring.

It’s the difference between a classic word that fits like a well-pilled cardigan, and a threadbare cliché on a dark and stormy night: If it ain’t right, it must be trite.

Millions of literary works – books, movies, short stories, TV and radio shows, stage plays, you name it – have followed one simple plot line: Boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy wins back girl’s heart.

But the devil is in the details – the plot line needs a fresh twist somewhere along the line.

Take heart though. The sheer power of mathematics is on the Writer’s side:

    • A word is a word

    • Two words can be rearranged 2 ways, three words in 6, and four in 24 ways.

    • But extend that math to a 25-word sentence, you’ll amaze yourself to discover 15.5 septillion combinations of those 25 words ... in round numbers, that’s a 15 followed by 23 zeroes (1,511,210,043,331,000,000,000,000).

The written masterpiece is constructed one letter, one word at a time.  That’s true whether the “masterpiece” is a tire store’s marketing brochure, Hunt for Red October or the Gettysburg Address.

It’s virtually impossible to plagiarize without paying careful attention to reproduction of a text laying open on the desk in front of you.  Contemporary prose, after all, is nothing more than a fresh look at an old idea.

It’s true.  Cavemen no doubt grew weary hearing the same old tales of the hunt regurgitated around the campfire night after night.

Yet it wasn’t until eons later that a Jewish comic from Brooklyn made a million by scripting that most immortal of comebacks ...

Yada, yada, yada ... 

Next: Every good writer needs a list of pet peeves

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A practical lesson for writers who hate to practice

“Write what you know.” 

Mark Twain famously said it.  

Some caveman probably said it first, followed in rough order by Socrates, Buddha,

Solzhenitsyn and some White House speechwriter who stole it for a State of the Union or Inaugural. 

But then Twain also said, of speechwriting, that:
 
              “The best speech is the impromptu. ...
                  It takes me a three weeks to put together
                  a good impromptu speech.”
 
So writing can actually be boiled down to a simple mathematical sum: What you know, plus with you can find out in three weeks or less – that is, research. 

Actually, a third factor enters the picture.  Things you know to be “a stretch,” or “maybe a little bit true.”

I’ve advised often that the Writer can break rules ... as long as he knows what rules he’s breaking.  Mark Twain had a great corollary: 

“Get you facts first, and then you can distort ’em as much as you please.” 

So with Twain’s invitation to outright fabrication, the Writer is armed with:
          •  What he knows.
          •  What he can discover through research.
          •  What he can stretch to fit his own devices.
          •  What he can fabricate out of thin air and not get caught at it.

Finally, let’s stir a quote from Ernest Hemingway into the pot: “Prose, he said, is architecture, not interior decoration.”

Two points of instruction fall from there ... that pretty prose is best buried in the garden with the other fertilizer, and that building a document from what’s left requires disciplined construction technique. 

The convenient thing about telling the truth is never having to remember which lie you told to whom.  But “truth” in literature can have many shades of gray, blue, jade and purple. 

So, whether you’re writing a book report or a book, a fictional essay or some fictional promotion of your company’s hottest new product, create an architect’s blueprint first. 

List what you know in Column A, your research in Column B, shades of gray in Column C, and jaded lies in Column D. 

Column D usually proves to be highly compelling – and utterly unuseable.  But it’s good to know it’s there, in any case. 

But then again, maybe writing what you know isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
–––––––––––––––––––––
          Most writers regard the truth as their most valuable possession, 
          and therefore are most economical in its use.
                                                                                      – Mark Twain

Next: A mathematical construct for writers

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A fun lesson for writers who hate to practice

“Jeopardy” is a great TV show for writers and Writers alike.

It has a surprisingly large writing staff if you consider only that something like 500 words must be written daily to cover 61 clues.  Not surprising, though, if you consider the bent of creative, the need for impeccably accurate research and the sheer variety of topics.  And none of the content can replicate past shows.

In fact, 500 words, eight terse words at a time, is damnably tough.

Yesterday’s show had a category called “Dumb Down the Cliché,” which is a classic lesson for writers who over-write ... who use three 25¢ words when a nickel’s worth would do nicely, thankyewverymuch.

The novice writer might well practice by rewriting cliches or other well-known passages in order to experiment with combinations and contrasts of clarity and obfuscation – both of which have their place in prose presentations.

Yesterday’s first-round category went like this:

$200 – Retrieve a hare hidden within your beret. (Pull a rabbit from your hat)

$400 – My nostrils detect the aroma of a gnawing rodent. (I smell a rat)

$600 – Spending an interlude anticipating the descent of the additional slipper. (Waiting for the other shoe to drop)

$800 – Seize a male bovine with grips to its forehead protuberances. (Grab the bull by the horns)

$1000 – Pilfer from Mr. Pan in order to enrich Mr. Bunyan. (Rob Peter to pay Paul)

It’s interesting that judges awarded a correct “question” to the contestant who replied by asking “What is ‘Steal from Peter to pay Paul.’ ”  The essence of the cliché is present, to be sure, but in the colloquial spirit of the category, “steal” is one of those words you’d want to “dumb down” to “rob.”

Still, it’s only one word different, right?  What’s the difference?

After all, let bygones be themselves.

It’s not like it was the star-spangled flag or anything.

But maybe we should run one more idea up the flagpole and see who stands at attention ...

Nah ... Leave well enough by itself. 

Next: A practical lesson for writers who hate to practice

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More lessons for the would-be Writer

Simple lessons are the best.  Lessons we learn and internalize early on are lessons we return to – even years later when those simple skills have been transformed into virtuosity. 

When I was eight, Mrs. Alice Manzuetti handed me a book of Hanon exercises.  Along with the diatonic and chromatic scales, these exercises formed the core of my piano regimen.

Over the last five decades, I’ve played for pleasure and I’ve played to vent anger and frustrations; as an accompanist to Sunday School choirs, and to accompany drunks around a piano bar.

Never the “Piano Man” that others urged to the piano bench to experience the joy of my virtuosity, I proved competent at an eclectic array of musical styles.

Composer-pianist Franz Liszt once said that if he failed to practice for a day, he noticed; for two days, his wife noticed.  If he lapsed his routine for a week, however, the audience noticed.

And whenever my practice lapsed for a week (or a month, as it often does, or even years, as it did once), I return to simple scales and Hanon to warm my fingers and regain confidence and competence at the keyboard.

Writing is like that.  Simple exercises help the novice writer.  Returning to those simple exercises helps the expert Writer.

The cursive equivalent of diatonic scale rendition is the dictation and expansion of the five-word sentence.  Just as with notes on a piano keyboard, repetition and familiarity flow with the outpouring of letters and words and phrases.

And, just as any series of notes offer infinite variety and beauty when interwoven with dynamic and rhythmical variance, the English language provide surprising harmonies as words combine and conflict on the page.

Do this:

          •  Write a five-word sentence.

          •  Then write ten words, which offers increased 

              opportunity for intricacy.

          •  In twenty words, you’ll observe a seeming increase 

             in communicated substance, when, in actuality, the

             underlying message is substantially identical.

          •  But understand: Five words suffice.

Each time you expand and contract the word count, rewriting essentially the same content, you’re learning to stretch and compact words to suit the needs of varying circumstance.

Long sentences require lots of commas, usually, and the care to observe that, in adding length and breadth, you don’t stray from the core message, even forgetting it entirely amidst the melody of sing-song words rattling onto the page.

Short sentences enforce discipline.  Spareness. They paint a stoic portrait – Napoleon, not Tolstoy.

Medium-length sentences offer a buffer between the desert and the floodplain, a spring morning and a stormy night.

All are necessary tools in your palette. Master them.  Use them.  And never let it be said that virtuosity strained against measures of talent for lack of necessary practice. 

Next: A fun lesson for writers who hate to practice

[For personal writing assistance, go to www.fixadocument.com]

Lessons for the would-be Writer

The Pennsylvania Dutch have a wonderful way with words.

“Outen the light,” someone might say to you.  It’s perfectly clear upfront that the speaker isn’t from here (unless “here” happens to be Lehigh County, Pennsylvania).

It’s also perfectly clear, with a little thought, that the speaker would like you to flip the light switch to the “off” position (if you’re in Lehigh County, pinch out the kerosene lamp to satisfy your companion).

The ubiquity of television in the last half of the 20th century eradicated the predominance of quaint linguistic idiosyncrasies of regional spoken English.

Wow.  You could say it that way.  To make the point, perhaps, that one shouldn’t say it that way.

How about: TV showed Americans how people in other parts of the country spoke, virtually wiping out the “Texas Drawl,” for example, and even softening the “Down East” and “Boston Brahmin” dialects.

Once compelled to listen and speak to “foreigners” from other states, Americans homogenized their speaking patterns (to the detriment of Character Authors everywhere, who now are forced to insert illegal immigrants into plot lines to inject diversity in the conversation).

Does a practical lesson lie in the weeds here, somewhere?

Well, novice writers must decide what they want to “sound” like.  At first, this is a wholly unconscious decision: Your writing “sounds” like whatever words have hit the page.

But the wise novitiate studies his completed work (if written works ever can be deemed “completed,” for even when published, their interpretation and historical context is constantly emerging and reemerging).

Like a football coach scouting an opponent, the writer should note his tendencies and observe which tactics seem to produce consistent results.

And, like successful coaches, the writer never gets stuck in a rut, calling upon the same tired strategy, even though it’s long been “defensed.”  Readers and commercial prospects, after all, quickly learn to throw up “defenses” against the same tired plots, the same tired sales ploys, the same tired anything.

The writer must be flexible, adapting to new situations, new conditions, new opportunities as they present themselves ... like the dentist in an old Pennsylvania Dutch joke: 

          A young brunette goes in to see the dentist, who is much

          impressed with his young patient's wicked beauty.

         "Doctor," she says, "you know I think that I would chust

          as soon have a baby as have a tooth pulled."

         "Well," replies the good doctor, "Chust let me know, lady,

          so I can adchust the chair."

Perhaps it’s lost in the translation, but a little miscommunication sometimes goes a long way.

Next: More lessons for the would-be Writer

[For personal writing assistance, go to www.fixadocument.com]

Lessons for the novice writer

What kinds of skills does a “novice” Writer need?

Regular readers will know that I’ve consistently (more or less) made a distinction between a “writer” and a “Writer” – the former being anyone who commits pen to paper (fingertip to keyboard), the latter, capitalized denotation reserved either for those making a living at writing, or with a superior command of the craft.

A “writer” needs a pen and paper (or pencil, or laptop ... whatever).  Being a writer is largely a question of opportunity.

A “Writer,” on the other hand, needs discipline, courage, a strong work ethic, introspection, resilience and a passing acquaintance (at minimum) with inspiration and even genius.

A Writer tends to be experienced, both a writing and at Life.  More than an observer, more than even a trained observer, the Writer is an avid observer ... to the point of voyeurism.

A Writer is critical.  He looks at the human condition, yes, observes and notates.  But he also analyzes the verity of his observation, and the accuracy and completeness of his notation (i.e., he’s an Editor, Copyreader, Proofreader and Critic).

A Writer is realistic – knowing that 500 words do not magically appear on the page each day ... knowing that 2,500 will magically appear on some days ... knowing that 25 words is sometimes better than 250 – even if you really liked the 225 that you have to expunge for reasons of clarity, digression, budget, space or general principal.

A Writer knows how to spell “principle,” and how to spell “principal,” and the difference betwixt the two that shall inevitably meet inside the brain and effect confusion.

A Writer know how to spell “affect,” and uses the word with good effect, eschewing all affectation, no matter how vexingly it affects his creativity.

A Writer knows which words have an impact on the course of human events, and which impact events adversely – no matter how tempting it may be to utilize “impact” as a transitive verb.

“Lessons” in this blog, will generally have practical application to the writer/Writer’s craft.  This lesson has only a smattering of such practical application.

But until the “writer” begins to care about these kinds of issues, he will forever remain uncapitalized. 

Next: Lessons for the would-be Writer

[For personal writing assistance, go to www.fixadocument.com]

A different kind of Ride on the Reading

A couple days ago, we took “A Ride on the Reading” as part of our Seven Days of New Years resolutions. 

This particular New Year’s resolution contains a double-entendre – but no, it’s not risque ... and not even risky. 

Taking a Ride on the Reading, on Tuesday, was all about “Train of Thought” writing – riding on the train out of Imagination Station, with a stream of consciousness plume of stream trailing behind. 

Today, “Taking a Ride on the Reading” concentrates on the long-e pronunciation: It’s all about the fine art of Reading – reading a book, for example, a magazine, eZine or blog.  Heck, read a billboard if it fuels the creative juices. 

I’ve mentioned before several excellent books and authors.  I’m old.  I tend to read fiction. 

Because I find myself with less and less control over the nonfiction world around me, I find it comforting to retreat to the realm of make-believe.

Used to read Time.  Ain’t got the time no more. 

Used to read Newsweek.  Find them weak on news and long on opinion. 

Used to subscribe to the Denver Post.  Switched to the Rocky Mountain News because they had a better sports page, and I wasn’t reading the news so much any more.

Then the Rocky died, so I try to keep up with the Nuggets, Broncos and Rockies online as best I can.  (I used to follow hockey and boxing, but gave that up as the lines between the two began to blur) 

As the days and years pass, I suspect more and more subscriptions and interests and illusions about my impact on the world around me will begin to dissolve into the stream of heavenly consciousness that I hope envelopes me at the bittersweet end. 

I promised, today, a Ride on the Reading – with a long-e.  I implied that a “Fiction Book List” might be at hand, or a list of recommended reading to replace the disappearing sources. 

But I lied. 

What I’m just completing is a Ride on the Reading – with a short-e.  Words that are virtually unreviewed, unedited and unchanged as they’ve rolled from brain to fingertips to computer to blogpost. 

There’s too many instances of the word “I” and there’s a bunch of too-personal commentary that needs to be worked out.  The point of view dithers, and there are too many “There are” sentence constructions. 

It’s not tight, concise, perfectly grammared and grampawed.  To be a work of art, well ... this and 99.44% of everything that falls to my fingertips probably needs hours, weeks and years of polishing. 

But it does “sound” different to my ear.  It’s breezier.  It’s a different person, perhaps, that presents himself. 

And it does, I hope, illustrate the value of letting words roll onto paper.  Because even if they’re not perfect, the words sometimes surprise you. 

And that’s a good thing.  You can work, as a Writer, with surprise.  Maybe I’ll scratch out a book list some other day. 

Next: Lessons

[For personal writing assistance, go to www.fixadocument.com]

Resolved (Part 7) – Edit

Here we are.  Fans already are piling into the Rose Bowl for the BCS Championship game, and this seven-installment package of New Year’s Resolutions for Writers is nearly complete.

Having discussed “Eye” checks and “I” checks earlier, let’s look today at “Reality” checks.

First, of all, once a document is written, check it.  Ask yourself: “Has what I’ve written stayed on track?”

The reality is, the document you started to write may well have “evolved,” and you’re left with a semi-finished product that’s ... well, different.  

“Different” may be good or bad – that’s for you to determine.  But you’ve hopefully recognized it now, and that’s what reality checks are all about.

Now, edit, revise and rewrite, and then run the next reality check.  Ask yourself: “Is what I’ve written worth someone else’s time to read it?”

It’s a shame that this question can’t really be answered until you’ve written, checked, edited, revised and rewritten the document – which still, after all, isn’t a finished product.  But do it anyway, and steel yourself to the consequences: You may have to trash the whole kit and kaboodle and start again from scratch.

(Think of this as a Green resolution: It’d probably save a lot of paper if every “writer” ran this particular reality check.)

Polish up, because now it’s time for another reality check.  Ask someone else: “Is what I’ve written worth your time to read it?”

That particular reality check can be a real ego crusher.  Healthy, but potentially harsh.  A sort of “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” sort of test.

But the last reality check is the toughest of all.  Ask yourself: “Is what I’ve written going to make money for me?”

Whether you’re selling a freelance magazine article, or writing brochure copy for the boss, America remains the Capitalism Capital of the World.  Somebody’s got to make a buck on your work, or you’re just spinning your wheels in the mud. 

Next: A different kind of Ride on the Reading

[For personal writing assistance, go to www.fixadocument.com]