This is a tough concept for many new fiction writers to grasp–that fiction may resemble everyday language, but the resemblance is a mirage.
Fiction is almost literally a different language.
Begin with this: language shifts shape and color, like a chameleon, to suit the job it has to do.
Example: language meant to warn you not to touch a high voltage wire should never resemble language adapted for personal ramblings, love letters, legal briefs, etc.
From there it’s a simple step to this: language meant to elicit belief in things that don’t exist, inspire emotions of all kinds, convey in an instant deep intuitive knowledge about people and things, etc. won’t do for a police report, a blog post, NOR VICE VERSA.
So here’s the hard truth: if you want to write good fiction, you can’t get by with the same language you use at work–even if your work involves writing on a regular basis (marketing copywriter, newspaper columnist, blogger, historian, etc.). You might be praised and successful in those forms of writing, but the language that got you that praise will only put fiction readers to sleep.
Not heeding this “invconvenient truth” puts you in the position of the English speaker who thinks you make yourself understood anywhere in the world by simply speaking louder than usual.
No, that won’t fly. If you want to be a Roman, learn to speak what the Romans speak.
Specifically, get used to the idea that simple information transfer, the entire purpose of most communication, is only one of several parallel agendas running through any good work of fiction.
Mood, nuance, pace, rhythm, character clues are a few of the language elements being juggled by fiction writers at any given moment along the timeline of their work. Ironically, these elements are NOT NEEDED–even frowned upon–in ordinary discourse, including most non-fiction.
If, for example, I tried to write fiction in the same “language” I use to write this blog, I can predict with near total certainty it would be read (if at all) with practically no interest–and most readers would drop it forever at the first opportunity.
Case in point: here are two contrasting versions of an expository paragraph. First a version made using the written language most of us learned in school–all wrong for fiction:
Joey, being the first of his family to attend a higher education institution, was duly impressed by the level of discourse in the various student centers and dorms around Ohio State’s spacious campus. After some initial despair, Joey decided that, though the average student seemed to have it all over him in terms of academic potential, he was determined not to let that stop him.
Now, here it is the passage freely “translated” into fiction. Note the differences:
Joey listened to the words fly this way and that. Dichotomy, ethnic, sybaritic, whatever. These had to be kids so smart he could never lay a hand on them. He could just see Uncle Tony in the midst of all this, mumbling in Italian, trying to listen, but turning away from all this brilliance. College. To Uncle Tony the word was exalted, like “love” or “Jesus.” Joey would never end up like that, he swore to himself. Ever.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
