Category Archives: writing

“The Power of Titles”

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By the time authors finish writing a story, they (should) have a pretty good grasp of its essence. But that intimate knowledge doesn’t necessarily lead to a good title for the work. Sometimes too much knowing just confuses things. As frustrating, a title that would fit perfectly might be overused. Another one doesn’t convey much of a first impression. Still another might cross genre boundaries and provide little clue to the content. AI advocates suggest letting the machine review the story to come up with a title. (Didn’t work for me, even after several prompts.) “My Book” isn’t much of a title, even with (Finally!) added.

Last week, Author’s Publish hosted a webinar, “The Power of Titles,” in which author Emily Harstone addressed this problem. The most common type of title is what she calls the “placeholder” or “license plate” title. It conveys the work’s core idea or theme, but not much more. It’s often the most obvious choice, one anyone might pick if asked to suggest two or three possibilities.

A disadvantage of generic placeholder titles is they may be forgettable, so when your cousin who reads and loves your book talks about it with her friends, and they ask, “what’s the title?” she gives them a blank look. But placeholder titles can work. Harstone suggests The Hunger Games as one that manages to be specific and intriguing. The DaVinci Code is another.

Many books may share a one-word title like Witness. A quick Amazon search brings up multiple books with just the one word title, an added “The,” or close variants. John Sandford, though, has taken the one word “Prey” and tacked it onto various other words for a whole series of books, even when the combination doesn’t exactly make sense (coming next April, Book #36, Revenge Prey). Doesn‘t matter—you see that word “Prey” in big type and you know instantly what you’re looking at.

Harstone suggests reviewing titles in your genre (Amazon makes this easy if you search for, say, “best-selling thrillers”) and seeing whether your prospective title fits in with current trends, since a good title supports marketing. She says titles generally have to: convey a unique aspect of your book, convey the genre (in partnership with the cover art), and/or “communicate an idea you want readers thinking about.” Good examples of this last would be All the Light We Cannot See or We Begin at the End.

Titles that suggest the book itself will plow overworked ground are generally not of interest to me. That would include any starting with “The Woman Who . . .” or, worse, “The Girl Who . . .” They make me think (possibly unfairly) that the authors are trying to ride the wave of other books’ popularity, rather than coming up with their own ideas. Well, there are lot of books out there, and I need to make choices based on some criteria, even flawed ones. A trend possibly near its tail-end that Harstone notes is the use of numbers in titles. Examples are 2017’s The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo or 2018’s The Seven 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle (another Evelyn with same last initial). One such book I read at the outset of this trend, which I recommend highly, is 2017’s The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley by Hannah Tinti.

Having so many words, these titles risk violating Harstone’s advice that a title should look good on a cover, that is, not too long. Yet, we can all think of successful books that do have lengthy titles. I’m thinking of The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All or The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. Both memorable. At the other extreme was the brilliant Dodgers by Bill Beverly (2016), about young men on a cross-country criminal mission (dodging the law) who were massive fans of the LA Dodgers. When I see that title, the whole book comes back to me. Harstone might consider Dodgers a “helium title,” one that adds another layer, making it more than it first appears. They are more common in short stories (and poems) because shorter works are more focused. Novels do a lot of things, and a title generally picks only one of them.

Another example is Exposure by Ramona Emerson about a Diné crime photographer and a series of deaths, out of doors in the wintertime. Exposure clearly has two meanings here. My short story “The Queen’s Line,” set in 1884, might make you think of the London Underground (the Circle Line was completed that year), but no, it’s about the death of Queen Victoria’s son Leopold from hemophilia and the rumors about her genetic line that ensued. So, the title not only gets at the essence of the story, it conjures an era. At least to me.

If you have any tips based on how you develop titles for your own work, please share!

Every Word’s a Choice — Part 5 — How Adjectives Sharpen Definitions

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Whether you’re describing a person, a location, or a bit of action, details help readers envision it. Adjectives and adverbs provide many of these details. They help readers draw a mental picture of what your characters are experiencing. But adding details doesn’t mean piling on any old modifiers. Details, first of all, must be significant.

Here’s an example: “The entire palette was muted, faded, earthen . . . save for a lone splotch of brilliant, hysterical red on the dress of the peasant girl . . .” This quote is from the 2025 gothic thriller Victorian Psycho, which I reviewed yesterday. A key detail is that “splotch of brilliant, hysterical red.” Not only will the reader encounter quite a few splotches of red before the book’s last page, the most interesting aspect of the description is the unexpected word “hysterical.” They’ll run up on that one too.

Here’s another example: In my novel set in Rome, the blond hair of one gangster is mentioned several times the first time the reader “meets” him. Being white-blond, his hair sets him apart from other members of his gang and Italians in general. It’s a marker. When the blond hair is mentioned afterwards, most readers (those paying attention) will know exactly which gang member I’m writing about. A visual cue, like that blond hair, is sometimes more memorable than a character’s name.

That goes for sensory details in general—our descriptions can include more than what we see in our imaginations. They can include what we hear, feel, smell—even taste. A woman who always wears lilac perfume, a man whose voice has a growl underneath it, air so thick with pollution you can taste it. Or what our senses can’t perceive: sudden silences, the emptiness in a room, as in this example: “Robert switches off the ignition. The engine shuts down. The air-conditioning and radio turn off. Inside the car, it’s suddenly quiet.” (Lori Roy, The Final Episode, 2025) The sudden quiet is a significant detail.

The corollary to choosing significant details is to avoid using too many of them. If a barista who’s an “extra” in your story hands over a cup of coffee, readers don’t need an inventory of her bleached-blonde hair and low-cut shirt. Readers work hard to assemble a mental picture of what you describe, and then try to keep track of it. It’s annoying to go to that effort for unnecessary facts. Plus, too many details slow the story.

Master story-writer Anton Chekov once cautioned a young author about overloading the details: “You have so many modifiers that the reader has a hard time figuring out what deserves his attention, and it tires him out.” The key here again, is significant details

If you’ve done a great deal of research on some technical topic, and you believe it’s important to convey it, try weaving it in like you would backstory. Information dumps of any kind are tedious. Still, as I remember the late Frederick Forsyth’s The Day of the Jackal, he spends a considerable number of words describing the gun the Jackal selects for his assassination attempt and the modifications he wants made to it. It’s techy-stuff, but Forsyth’s character explains the purpose of each feature and change he wants. He made these details significant. He gathered me in, making me an accomplice to the crime he was planning.

Next Tuesday: More modifiers

Part 1: Introduction to “ Every Word’s a Choice”—finding the best words to tell your story. The series is based on a talk I recently gave at a writers’ conference. https://vweisfeld.com/?p=11484

Part 2: Using effective nouns to establish a relationship with readers. https://vweisfeld.com/?p=11501

Part 3: A strong verb can do a lot for your story.

Every Word’s a Choice – Part 3

Part 4: More about the importance of colorful verbs.

Every Word’s a Choice – Part 4

Treating Themes Like Shy Forest Animals

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So many thought-provoking insights were in the George Saunders interview I wrote about last week, I saved a few for today. One issue he talks about is how politics and themes enter his writing. Not deliberately. He calls the writer mind the one “that wants to pull the big manure truck with your politics and your thematics in it and dump it on the reader.” We’ve all read novels like that, that hammer home their point again and again, as if the reader is too dim to get it.

If you can keep that conceptualizing mind quiet, Saunders believes, your themes and politics will behave “almost like really shy animals.” He recommends simply ignoring them, pretending you’re not interested in them when they come out of the woods. If you instead concentrate on the story you’re telling, these ideas/themes/whatnot will be there. They’ll leach in, coming in “so honestly, and they won’t be abstract, but intimately linked to action and character.”

Maybe that’s why, not deliberately, but completely subconsciously, I didn’t even recognize how much the theme of prejudice (and its ill effects) had seeped into my novel, Architect of Courage. I hadn’t set out to write a book about prejudice; in fact, I hadn’t even realized so much of it was there, in one way or another, until after the book was finished and I was working on blurbs and synopses. You can’t hide who you are, I suppose.

This topic reminds me of how much I admired Brad Parks’s crime novel, The Last Act, which he wrote in furious response to Wachovia and Wells Fargo Banks’ laundering of drug cartel money (which I learned about only because he included an incendiary author’s note). The book itself says nothing to convey his outrage; on the surface it’s an entertaining crime story, with nice twists, but it lays up next to that theme.

Saunders believes it’s a matter of being patient with the writing and letting the story go where it wants to go (the idea of a story having its own wants is a little hard for me; it’s easier to think of letting your subconscious mind work hard), and not forcing it. When an author pushes a story in a particular direction you can run into the problem of, “Oh, she did that goofy thing for plot reasons, not because it makes any sense.” Saunder would probably disagree, but in mysteries, sometimes the plot does need to go in a certain direction, yet it cannot seem that the author is steering it that way. If it’s too blatant, readers feel manipulated.

Television shows, working against constraints of time and possibly imagination, make transparent plot-driven choices all the time. Why do tv police officers always decide not to call back-up? Why do young women wearing long nightgowns and carrying a candle that will inevitably blow out go down in the basement at night to investigate a mysterious noise? These are plot-driven actions that are character-driven only for people who are irresponsibly reckless. We watched two different Scandinavian tv mysteries in a row where a woman officer decided to trail a dangerous suspect in her car at night in bad weather despite her colleagues on the radio saying, “Wait for back-up!” Since one of the main reasons people enjoy reading fiction is finding out “what happens next,” the more the what’s next isn’t obvious, the better off the author is.

Every Word’s a Choice – Part 4 — Verbs (Still) Do the Heavy Lifting

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Here’s more on how choosing strong verbs can bring your story alive.

Does your character merely walk into a room? How does he walk in? You can make his style of entry specific and more visual by adding an adverb:
            He walked slowly into the room.
            She walked briskly into the room.
Better yet, choose a strong verb—one that works harder for you.
            He can stroll, sashay, amble, stagger, or trudge into the room.
            She can stride, race, march, skip, or strut.

Characters can hike, parade, saunter, shuffle, step, skip, wander, lope, meander, plod, shamble, hustle, and on and on. It all depends on who they are and what they may expect to find in that room. A teenage boy about to be called to task for denting the family Buick will enter the living room where his father waits very differently than would his sister who just won the school spelling bee. Personally, I’d like to see a character who scuttles into a room, but I haven’t yet written about a scuttler.

Try this
Think about how you might replace the pedestrian verbs in the following sentences with something more interesting. In some cases, tighten up the wording or remove unnecessary filter verbs (like “see,” “hear,” etc.). These sentences aren’t wrong. They’re just not as interesting as they might be. And a whole book of not very interesting sentences ends up being a not very interesting book. Here’s an example of verb replacement: The cat was in a square of bright light. You might replace “was” with “sunned.”

Your turn:
He said that was great. (Hint: take out a couple of words.)
That bullet was much too close for comfort.
From the living room, I heard a great crash.
My glasses, broken in the fall, were in my jacket pocket.
I saw she was much too sunburned to have spent the day at the library.

Let’s look at a few of the verbs in our song (discussed in Part 2 of this series and linked again here). Right away, in the first line you’ll see a “was,” but there’s also a “carried,” which is an action you can picture and a “lived,” (a verb full of life). Strong and evocative verbs in the song include: “stopped rambling,” “marched me away,” “sailed off”—sounds like a lark, doesn’t it?—“stained,” “butchered,” “corpses piled” (no burial niceties). The Australian soldiers “sailed off” but, once wounded, were “shipped” back home, like cargo.

One thought to bear in mind. Words have their usual, literal meaning, but they also carry secondary meanings. “Stained” is a good example. You can understand this verb as merely discoloration of the sand and water, but it also carries—maybe even subconsciously—the implication of shame or something dishonorable: “a stain on one’s reputation.” A stain is almost never a good thing. “Butchered” is another example. While it could just mean killed, in this context, it conjures up another, more powerful meaning—that of “indiscriminate slaughter.” Especially the choice of “like lambs to the slaughter,” with lambs being a symbol of “innocence.”

And, of course, readers bring their own context to a story and the words in it. While we all can be moved by the “lambs to the slaughter” image, the mother or brother of someone slain in war would hear it quite differently.

Like everyone, I have a few writing pet peeves, nails on the blackboard kind-of-things. They include the verbs “get” and “got.” I eliminate them as relentlessly as I chase down a wasp in the house. They’re perfectly fine words, but they mean so many things! Scroll down the list of definitions [https://www.dictionary.com/browse/get], and see for yourself. When you find one of them in your story, it’s an opportunity to identify a more precise verb!

Next Tuesday: Adjective and Adverbs
Part 1: Introduction to “ Every Word’s a Choice”—finding the best words to tell your story. The series is based on a talk I recently gave at a writers’ conference. https://vweisfeld.com/?p=11484
Part 2:  Using effective nouns to establish a relationship with readers. https://vweisfeld.com/?p=11501
Part 3: A strong verb can do a lot for your story. https://vweisfeld.com/?p=11536

“Swing for the Fences”

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George Saunders,

Having a Marie Kondo moment, I’ve been clearing out old magazines, giving one last nostalgic look-through. We’re talking copies of Gourmet that go back over 50 years (before food processors, anyway), a magazine that ceased publication 16 years ago. There’s a stab of pleasure in seeing my notes written alongside recipes I cannot recall ever preparing (“good!” “this process works!” “too salty” “not as good as it should have been”).

I have a long shelf full of the short story magazine Glimmer Train too (1990-2019). At one point, every quarterly issue. It was hard to get through them, and I tended to read the stories and skip the interviews. I wasn’t writing my own fiction then, so they didn’t necessarily land with me. Now they do.

Winter 2015, the interview was with the wonderful George Saunders, lecturer and author, who won the Man Booker Prize for Lincoln in the Bardo, and wrote the absolutely-worth-reading-again A Swim in A Pond in the Rain, which dissects short stories of four Russian masters and why they work.

Glimmer Train interviewer David Naimon asked Saunders how he achieves his remarkable fictional “voice.” It was hard, Saunders answered, until he decided to loosen up and “just be funny, a little pop culture-ish, to be sci-fi.” While the stories may be dark, he’s trying to put his fictional world into some extreme circumstance “where things are going really badly, and then just see how people behave.” Not that well, as you’d guess.

His stories are infused with verbal energy, pizzazz. If you’ve read Bardo, you’ll remember how the multiple conversations among the dead are lively and often hilarious. It’s a performance, and a high-wire one at that. He believes that resorting to “extraordinary means” of entertainment are necessary to get readers beyond the surface, down to some truth about life.

There are certainly tropes in every genre—romance, mystery, etc. Some readers may find them comforting—they know how a story is likely to develop (and end); others grow to find them boring. For my taste, the domestic thriller/untrustworthy spouse tropes have become tired, as has the “collection of old friends who meet up in a place where they are cut off by weather or whatever, secrets come out, and people start dying.”

Saunders is often accused of being experimental, which we can think of as “not ordinary and trope-stuffed,” and he cites his teacher Tobias Wolfe as believing “all good writing is experimental, because, if not, why would you do it? If you aren’t venturing into something new, why bother?”

In other words, a good writer would not ride the trends, attempting to suss out the “next big thing” that will be the key to getting published. (Teenage vampires—I’ll do that!) These days, the chances are so low that a new writer or even a mid-list writer will get or keep a major publisher, and so low that a self-published book will become a best-seller, why not just swing for the fences? Figure out what you’re good at, says Saunders, whether it’s creating physical detail, plotting, creating characters, or whatever you do that has some energy behind it and play to your strength

Every Word’s a Choice – Part 3 — Verbs Do the Heavy Lifting

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Some languages get their power from colorful imagery (Arabic, for example). Others—like Chinese and English—offer strong verbs. Are the verbs in your stories doing all the work you want them to do? Weak verbs produce flabby prose.

Avoiding Weak Verbs

The various forms of the verb “to be” are weak verbs. “To be” verbs—is, are, was, were, and so on—do only one thing, they establish that something or somebody exists, they do not tell us anything more. They embody no action. Other weak verbs include forms of have and do, as well as shall, will, should, would, may, might, must, can, and could. As an editor, I like sentences that get to the point. “There is” and “there are” are weak ways to start a sentence. Instead of plunging readers into the action, they put distance between you and your reader.

“To be” verbs slip into our writing in other roles too. You use them when you want to suggest a continuing action, one that takes place over time, like “She was eating a sandwich while he talked,” though you could just as well say the more direct “She ate a sandwich while he talked.” Compare this pair of sentences. Which arouses more interest?

He was driving erratically. versus
The car veered over the center line and back right, nearly clipping the curb.

“To be” verbs also appear in passive voice constructions. Editors constantly tell writers to “avoid the passive.” Passive constructions hide the responsible actor (like the famous “Mistakes were made.” By whom?). Of course, if you’re writing a mystery, you may want to obscure the guilty party! The passive does work occasionally, but, as a general rule, steer clear. (Find some passive voice myths punctured here.)

Sensory Verbs—Do You Need Them?

Verbs related to one of the senses—heard, saw, smelled, tasted, felt—often end up being filter verbs. They put distance—a filter—between you as the author and your readers. If you write, “Jack heard the front door slam,” you tell readers three things: the door slammed, and Jack heard it, and some unseen narrator is telling them so. You’ve put a little narrative gap in there. If you simply write “the front door slammed,” the reader hears it too. Directly. Much more engaging. Another comparison:

She saw a man’s shadow on the bedroom wall. versus
A man’s shadow inched across her bedroom wall.

Your Prose Isn’t a Movie

As you picture the action of a story in your mind, you may be tempted to describe all your characters’ movements for clarity. But readers easily follow everyday actions involving sitting, standing, turning, walking, etc. without having them spelled out. There’s no one right choice in handling everyday actions. The important thing is to think about it. Make your choice consciously. For example:

He stood up from the chair and walked through the door, out into the hall. versus
He left the room.

No one will think he dragged the chair out of the room with him. Of course he got up. And he couldn’t have left the room without walking through the door. You can cut to the chase unless there’s a reason not to. Another one:

She rose from the kitchen table, shuffled to the stove and picked up the coffeepot, turned back to me at the table, and filled my cup. versus
She poured me another cup of coffee.

If she poured the cup of coffee, all the other actions are implied, and you can move along, unless there’s a compelling reason for all the detail. Maybe she is very weak or infirm, and doing all that is a Big Deal. Maybe the reader knows she’s put something harmful in the coffee, so the minute attention to the action is deliberately dragging out the suspense.

More on verbs next Tuesday.

Part 1: Introduction to “ Every Word’s a Choice”—finding the best words to tell your story. The series is based on a talk I recently gave at a writers’ conference. https://vweisfeld.com/?p=11484
Part 2:  Using effective nouns to establish a relationship with readers. https://vweisfeld.com/?p=11501

The HEAT is On!

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Last month at the annual conference of the Public Safety Writers Association, which comprises police, fire, federal law enforcement, emergency services and other professionals—mostly retired, because when else would they have the time and energy—and people like me who write about them. I’m on the Board of the organization because I do the newsletter.

The conference itself was preceded by a day-long workshop on the craft and business side of writing. Treasurer Kelli Peacock gave a nice presentation on subplots.

I liked the way she explained it, and will admit to not necessarily planning particular subplots, but ending up with them anyway. Kelli said that, just as in real life, the characters in our stories—even short stories—generally have a lot going on in their lives. Subplots complicate their lives and your store and put situational pressure on a character.

As an example, she cited the movie Titanic, where the doomed romance between wealthy Rose (Kate Winslet) and steerage passenger Jack (Leonardo DiCaprio) was the main plot, but the subplot revolved around the class differences aboard ship, which created extra situational pressure. A good subplot is “always in the room,” even when characters are doing and talking about something else. SA Cosby’s wonderful novel Razorblade Tears is always about interracial relations, even when Ike Randolph and Buddy Lee are busy tracking down their sons’ killers.

In that way, subplot is similar to subtext, which is what is really being said. I had a friend whose mother was super-critical and always hated whatever she wore. One say, her mom looked her up and down and said, “Now that’s a nice outfit!” No simple compliment, that, but rather a critique of every other outfit she’d ever worn. Subtext can be subtle (unlike my friend’s mom), but subplot involves obvious thought and and action by the story’s characters.

While subplots can meander along, seemingly unconnected to the main story, often they eventually converge to muddy up the main action, or somehow reinforce the theme of the main story. To me, there’s a big difference between plot (what happens in a story) and theme (what it means). If you’re puzzled about what the significance of a story is, the subplot may reveal it. There’s the famous dictum by E.M. Forster that a plot is a narrative of events that emphasizes causality, whereas a story is just the sequence of events. I and others believe he got it exactly backwards. A plot is merely a sequence of events; a story contains the understanding of those events. Subplots and subtext, then, are powerful contributors to story.

Kelli advises wrapping up the subplot after the drama of the main plot is resolved, to give readers “a place to collect themselves after the emotional high of the climax and to savor the fact that order has been restored.” Resolution of the subplot is an extra treat, she says.

Subplots must have been on the conference-goers minds as a result, because twice someone mentioned what a great movie Heat was for subplots. (That’s the Michael Mann film starring Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, and the late Val Kilmer and Tom Sizemore, and many other.)

Coincidentally, our local movie theater was playing it last night, and I went. And, yes, it was full of subplots–the personal lives of the gangsters and the principal cop that run in parallel with the criminal activities and the revenge the gangsters take for stuff that went badly wrong, which are corollary to the main plot. All these story lines enrich what would have otherwise been a rather typical heist film and make the audience (me, at least) root for both sides. See it if you can.

Further Reading
The Art of Subtext: Beyond Plot by Charles Baxter. Highly recommended.

Every Word’s a Choice — Part 2 — Nouns Name the World

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To get the most out of this series of posts on ways for writers to “find the best words,” you may want to give a read to Eric Bogle’s bush ballad, “The Band Played Waltzing Matilda.” The first four verses illustrate many points I’ll be making. Many versions of the song are on YouTube, but reading it is probably best at first, because it’s free of the singer’s interpretation. It’s just you and the words. Like your readers and your words.

Once you’ve read it, I hope you agree the songwriter chose words that effectively create a moving lyric. It’s full of descriptive language. Which individual words strike you? Here are two that particularly strike me:

  • “tin hat”—doesn’t sound like it would give much protection does it? To me, “tin hat” immediately conjures an image like that above. Vulnerability.
  • how about “corpses”? Most times we’d say “bodies” here, but corpses is so much more powerful. We all have a body, we think of our bodies, we don’t think of ourselves as a “corpse.”

Nouns Name the World

Chances are, some of the words you picked out from the song are powerful nouns. Picking the right noun is the first step in establishing a relationship with your readers. Think back to how nouns were described in elementary school: Nouns NAME THINGS. The right noun tells readers what you’re talking about.

You probably recognize “Waltzing Matilda”—it’s called the “unofficial national anthem of Australia.” But do you know what “Waltzing Matilda” actually means? It isn’t a ballroom dance. In Australian slang, “waltzing” means traveling on foot. Americans use “waltz” to signal an easy accomplishment, often one a person is rather smug about: You might write,

“The detective waltzed into the squad room, grinning. ‘I solved the case!’”

What about “Matilda”? – Not a girlfriend. A Matilda is a backpack and sleeping gear. So to go “waltzing Matilda” is to hike the country carrying your possessions with you.

We know what the “outback” is—thank you, Outback Steak House. What about Murray’s green basin? The Murray is Australia’s longest river. Since so much of the country is desert or semi-arid, the green along the river is precious. The Circular Quay, near the end of the song, is Sydney Harbor.

Now that we’re oriented, let’s examine some of the other things its nouns do. A number of words here serve as touchstones—or anchors—for the reader—particularly for an Australian hearer, but for anyone who knows a little history. Touchstones bring you and your reader onto the same page. They build rapport between you. They let you inside their heads, linking your story to things they already know and have feelings about.

Two of those touchstones provide the first signal of what’s coming: 1915, Gallipoli. Most people born in the 20th Century will know instantly the song is about World War I, even if Eric Bogle hadn’t then written “marched me away to the war.” The instant the verse lands on “Gallipoli,” we know tragedy looms. (And notice where this ominous word is strategically placed—at the end of the line for maximum impact.)

But even if you’ve forgotten that terrible battle, plenty of details fill you in. The songwriter pulls you in deep with “Johnny Turk was ready.” This reference is a little more esoteric, unless you’re a history buff. The ill-prepared Australian troops were ordered to march ashore with virtually no covering fire because their officers were overconfident. Plus their maps were wrong. Plus their intelligence was bad. They simply believed the Turks were no match for troops with British leadership. They believed the Turks would NOT be ready, but it was the British who weren’t prepared. So, that line is a little jab at the Brits.

In our song, many of the specific geographic touchstones—the outback, Murray’s green basin, Circular Quay—are well-known to Australian hearers. Eric Bogle could use them because he knew his hearers would understand what they were—and what they stood for.

Americans have significant touchstones too. If we mention any of them, we’re likely to evoke a particular feeling. We don’t need a lengthy explanation of certain times (9/11, D-Day), places (Pearl Harbor, Selma), events (the Kennedy assassination, Hurricane Katrina), mindsets (The Depression) or geography (The West, Martha’s Vineyard). You can make a connection with most Americans with just those words.

Obviously, you have to be judicious. You don’t want to evoke the wrong thing. Referring to Ruby Ridge could pull up a range of feelings. Readers might also have unpredictable reactions to Waco, Watts, Chicago 1968.

Do you use touchstones in your writing? Could you? In her book The Final Episode, Lori Roy uses a fictional touchstone to anchor her story: the kidnapping of a young girl twenty years earlier. Everyone in the book knows and remembers the details of the crime and has had their lives altered because of it.

I’d be interested in knowing what touchstones you may have used.Part 1:Introduction to “ Every Word’s a Choice”—finding the best words to tell your story. The series is based on a talk I recently gave at a writers’ conference. Find it here:https://vweisfeld.com/?p=11484

Every Word’s a Choice — Part 1

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Last week, I gave a presentation at a writhing workshop sponsored by the Public Safety Writers Association—an organization for public safety professionals (police, fire, EMT, military, etc.) who write and the authors who write about them. It’s a great group for any crime writer because you can get all your procedure-strategy-mindset questions authoritatively answered.

I think I took a different tack than the “grammar lesson” people may have expected, and instead focused on words, using the best words, and using them better. Words are our smallest writing elements, and I started with this quote from Mark Twain:

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—it’s the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning”

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be posting some of the information and resources I assembled for the workshop, but first I’ll answer a basic question: Why focus on such a small unit of our literary output? I focused on the words we writers choose, because they are fundamental to improving our skill as  writers. They are fundamental to making that connection with our readers that keeps them turning pages and coming back for more.

Some of the information in this series may be in the category of “helpful reminders,” like the chime that reminds you to fasten your seat belt. Some of it may be new, or at least strike you in a new way. And all of it, I hope, builds your appreciation for the magic you create when you write your stories. Think about it: You go from a blank sheet of paper to something with meaning and impact for your readers.

I’ve come to realize that the black squiggles I put on paper are only half the job of writing. All readers, with their assumptions, experiences, understandings (or lack thereof) perform the other half. They’re what bring my work to life and allow it to entertain, inform, and, sometimes, reflect. Pulitzer-Prize Winner Robert Olen Butler says the author’s job is to set up a dream, then author and reader experience the dream together. Grammar errors, poorly chosen words (even typos), jolt readers out of the dream, and they may not come back.

Words are how we authors communicate our thoughts, our emotions, our stories. There’s no body language or tone of voice to clue readers in to what we were thinking when we wrote a particular passage. For that reason, we need to take our words seriously, so that we evoke in our readers the feelings and understandings, the tension and the resolution we strive for. Words are our tools. Above is a word cloud of my presentation, the tools I used that day. How long is that new story, that book? 85,000 words? 90,000? Well, then, the author has 85 or 90,000 chances to get the words exactly right!

I hope you’ll go with me in the succeeding weeks on this “Every Word’s a Choice” journey.

Permissible Laughter

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In a thought-provoking interview with award-winning Lebanese-Canadian novelist, journalist, and visual artist Rawi Hage a few years back, he talked about how it’s the writer’s job to push the limits, to not settle for being only entertaining. For me this resonates with the idea that authors shouldn’t try to bang out the next “The Girl Who. . .” book, but strike out into some new territory. Of course, for many, it seems, they run up against a failure of imagination or an excess of anxiety, which is why when a particular book catches on, it will have so many clones. In a contradiction bound eventually to fail, many authors try to recapture that uniqueness.

Think, for example of Dan Brown’s books and all the religio-cryptic thrillers that came afterward. Or all the books where a discrete set of people with a shared past and rivalries and bitter secrets are stranded on an island, in a remote area cut off by a storm, or wherever, and . . . they start to die. Or the Gone Girl clones, or, rather, would-be clones.

Hage said he thinks of himself as “a confrontational writer,” and the more marginal he feels about a piece, the better his writing is. In other words, he’s not trying to please everyone. “Writers who try to please and go by the rules and try to do the right things, they tend to fail,” he thinks. It’s an interesting stance to take, and difficult for authors, when the publishing industry seems increasingly risk-averse.

He talked interestingly about the way the Arabic language affected his writing. He read a lot of Arabic poetry as a young man, and it’s very visual, perhaps making up for strictures on visual representations of people and animals in the culture generally. It’s a “very elaborate” language, he says. Writing in English, he pared back.

Even so, he brings “bags and bags of history, travels, concerns, revenge; a mixture of the emotional, the experiential, and the cultural” to his writing. That comports with my view of writing as like assembling a jigsaw puzzle with a thousand disparate pieces of the kinds he mentions, and seeing what picture they create. He wisely infuses that mix with dark humor too. Pavlov, the protagonist of his fourth novel, Beirut Hellfire Society, says, “Laughter should be permissible under all circumstances.”