The Controversial World of Slang

Huh??

Being a historical writer certainly comes with its challenges. I'd say one of the more interesting and, often times, more fascinating aspects is the use of slang. If you're a more contemporary writer, or one of those who delves into Fantasy, Science-Fiction or other-worldy genres then you might not feel the need for believable slang in your writing. But for me, it's essential.

When I wrote my first novel, which takes place during the mid-1800s, the first major roadblock I ran into was that my dialogue was just not convincing enough. "Why would a slave speak like an everyday, ordinary human being?" one critiquer asked. And you know what? That particular critique was spot on. I had written flat characters onto the page, simply because I had ignored the speech patterns of each individual character. And I had avoided the lingo of the time period.

Among the three time periods I've tackled (1850s, 1920s, and 1940s) I'd say the one that takes place in the 1850s was the hardest for which to research the slang. Why, you may ask? Because it's not as easy to trace slang when no one today was alive during that time period (let alone really speak it since most of it is viewed as derogatory). Yes, it gets passed down and we find certain references in other literary works, but writing styles during the 1800s were quite unlike the writing styles we find today. Those writers may not have followed the slew of rules that bog down the more modern tippy typers, but a majority of literature one reads in a World Lit class, American Lit class, European Lit class, etc. was written by highly educated individuals (or incredibly detailed individuals). Now, I'm not saying that writers today aren't a wonderfully educated bunch, but the difference lies in the fact that colloquial speech is much more acceptable this day and age. But that also depends on the words one chooses to use.

When contemplating the use of slang in your manuscript there are a few things to keep in mind:

• First, take a look at your genre. Some genres (like sci-fi and fantasy) don't necessarily require the use of slang. In actuality, it might even age your writing. If you're using today's slang, then five, ten, twenty years from now, readers are going to see that what you wrote has become outdated (just take a look at some of those sci-fi movies from the eighties). There are a few exceptions, like with Steampunk, where history is mixed in, therefore the use of slang would actually add to your story.
• Secondly, don't overuse it. Slang is good in small portions. If you decide to go back and infuse your manuscript with this element, make sure you aren't writing large portions of dialogue or prose that get bogged down with slang. This just makes your writing ridiculous. Just like with any other element you decide to use (flashbacks, multiple POVs, the "to be"verb, etc.) keep it to a minimum. You don't want to draw unwelcomed attention to your writing -- you want that writing to sing, uninterrupted.
• Thirdly, don't confuse your reader. Finding a treasure trove of words from say, the 1920s, doesn't mean your audience is going to understand what you choose to use. Make sure your target audience is going to grasp the meaning of your chosen slang. With historical, readers expect a different vocabulary, but again, don't use the most obscure terms you can find. And put it into a context that can lead the reader to its meaning. For instance, when I referred to my protagonist as a partier I used the term "liberally spifflicated." It's an old term referring to one being drunk, and one of my critiquers instantly picked up on it and actually enjoyed the use of it. 
• Lastly -- and keep this in mind -- know you're not writing to be "Politically Correct." If this mindset sets in, then know that you're not really writing -- you're putting things on a page that a PC-populous would want from you. As writers, we need to respect the lingo of our chosen time period, no matter how offensive it would be viewed today. There was a reason for its birth -- don't squash that reason with your seat-shifting need to avoid it. If you're not comfortable with writing certain words, then perhaps you should change aspects of your story around in order to avoid them.

This final point brings me to a debate about which I recently read. As a writer, my hope is that through the years my work will be passed on from generation to generation. I'm sure Mark Twain had that in mind as well. There was an interesting article published on Entertainment Weekly's website concerning The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn debate. Basically, what the article states is that a new version of this wonderful novel will be published with the "n" word and the word Injun removed and replaced with the less offensive terms slave and Indian. There is the argument that this is a form of censorship. I believe Mark Twain had a purpose for writing the story as he did. Does that mean that years later a PC public should come along and change it just because we now view these words as offensive? You can read the article and responses and decide for yourself.

The Indian War Memorial monument
(2006) courtesy of Wikipedia

Another example I'd like to point out involves The Indian War Memorial monument at the center of the Santa Fe plaza. I bring this up because this is the first I've seen like it. Just so you know, I'm not condoning the use of derogatory or hateful language of any kind, especially this day and age. I'm simply stating that there is a reason why writers choose the language they place in their work.

If you've ever been to the monument, seen the inscriptions, and then read the plaque in front of it, then you've seen that some of the original inscriptions have been chipped away. It once read "Savage Indians", of which only "Indians" remains. It's been a while since I last visited the monument, but I also believe a couple other offensive terms have been removed (correct me if I'm wrong). Even so, should a monument, with an inscription that once reflected the charged, strife-filled atmosphere of Santa Fe, have its historical meaning removed in order to placate those who don't want a reminder of history staring them in the face? History is just that -- history. If we remove the words that created our world, simply because today we find them offensive, then how will we ever fully understand the past? As a historical writer that's exactly what I need to know in order to craft my story properly and bring a bit of what was once known to the world we live in today. Otherwise, we may just end up repeating that past so many others want to believe doesn't exist.

How about for you? Do you think The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn debate is a form of censorship? Or do you view it as minor corrections to a work children will read in their classrooms? Should we erase offensive slang of the past so as not to bring up the children of today in a world that still bears the scars those terms created? Can you think of other instances where either literary works or public inscriptions have been changed?

Just food for thought that I believe is worth munching on!

♥ Mary Mary

Thanks, for this lovely award, goes out to the The Blogger Formerly Known As and also over at Jennifer Lane Books. Stop by and show them some love! Perhaps I will pass it on at a later date, but I'm just unable to at the moment.








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First, Third, Multiple POVs: ¿Who should tell the story?

In days of old, authors were omnipotent, omnipresent and omniscient. They were privy to every little thought that went through their characters’ heads, and, being great gossips, they disclosed them to their readers. This viewpoint mélange is known as “head-hopping” and it is a sin that no contemporary writer should ever attempt to commit. Novice writers skirt the caveat by narrating their stories in the first person singular, but even that intimate narrator has its limits. So, which point of view is the ideal one?

First of all, let´s review the types of raconteurs available to us. The most common is third person singular, but in order to avoid the dreadful “head-hopping,” the storytelling must rely on only one character’s perspective. Although the rules are flexible enough to permit changes of point of view, preferably each chapter should be told from a single POV.

As every novice writer knows, avoiding head-hopping is a difficult task. It´s always easier to go for the first person cop-out… only to discover that it also presents drawbacks. Having little knowledge of what other characters really think invites to constant speculation. Terms such as “apparently,” “it appears,” and “it seems,” become crutch words and the description turns clunky. Moreover, there are readers who actually hate first person narrative!


In Sophie’s Choice, William Styron presents action and characters through the eyes of Stingo, a young aspiring writer from the South, living in post-war Brooklyn. However, the true protagonist is Sophie, a Polish refugee with a dark past. At times, Stingo has Sophie tell her story in pages- long dialogue. Often, the author cheats by having Stingo describe Sophie´s past with the excuse that he has come to see Poland (and her life) through her eyes.



Nevertheless, Stingo also disrupts Sophie´s narrative with his own perspective. At some moment, he claims Sophie lied when she said she had no lover before Nathan Landau. Then, he proceeds to tell us of Sophie´s brief affair with a Polish underground fighter. As readers we are assaulted by these overlapping POVs, but the writing is so masterful, we never complain. Alas, I don´t think I could get away with that, so I am a great believer in having more than one POV.

I read somewhere that Gone with the Wind is told from Scarlett’s viewpoint because she is a much more interesting character than Melanie. I strongly disagree with that statement. Once in a while, Peggy Mitchell regales us with Melanie´s perspective (an example is her relationship with Rhett after Bonnie´s death) changing our whole perception of Melly and the story.



Having multiple narrators has its great advantages, as William Faulkner’s fans may tell you. As I Lay Dying and The Sound and the Fury are masterpieces of American Literature, in spite of their variety of POVs. But if you want to go Faulkner´s way you’ll run into a couple of questions. How many narrators should you have? How many are too many? Who should they be? How should they appear? Should you have multiple POVs from the start or they should pop up at different stages along the storyline?

My last novel presents an apparently insurmountable problem. The first part describes the antics of the heroine, from birth until she meets the man of her life. So far so good. But it happens that the hero who blindsides her has a past so steeped in mystery and rumor, that it’s not simply a matter of having him tell it to Violante (yes, that´s my heroine’s name) over tea. Since I wanted him to remain mysterious, he could not narrate his own tale. So, like Conan Doyle, I created a Watson-like character to sing the chanson de geste of this larger-than-life protagonist. And then trouble began to brew.

Viktor, the second narrator, turned up to be such a fascinating creature that both my Beta Readers confessed to like him better than the hero! Therefore, I tried keeping his overwhelming presence at a minimum. He ended up reporting only eight out of forty chapters. It just made poor Viktor´s entrances and exits awkward and unbalanced. To be quite frank, I still don´t know what to do with my novel, but it is a good example of the problems that arise in handling more than one POV.

Which viewpoint do you prefer as a reader? As a writer, which narration style would you say it is the most unmanageable?

Formulaic.

for•mu•la•ic
 [fawr-myuh-ley-ik]
–adjective
1. made according to a formula; composed of formulas: a formulaic plot.
2. being or constituting a formula: formulaic instructions.


A curly-haired colleague of mine was enrolled in a writing class at a local college. Early on in the semester, the instructor began to subtly patronize an oft-vilified, though proven-to-be commercially-successful genre. You know— the kind of stuff a fair contingent will always read no matter what the shape of the economy or what the latest hand-over-fist-inducing trend? Yes, friends, we’re talking about romance— or as I prefer to think of it, strong romantic elements in a more broadly-textured narrative. And as my esteemed colleague went on to describe the instructor’s disdain for allegedly tired plot lines, I shifted in my overstuffed, trendy coffeehouse seat.

At first, I couldn’t tell if I was shifting from indignation or from the heat of the fires I often feel stoked within when formulating a reply. The more she spoke, though, the more quickly I was able to deduce that it was a lovely combination of both. So the result, dear reader, has taken shape beneath my flying fingers and emerged as this Lincoln-Douglasesque rebuttal.

Curly-haired colleague confided that her instructor huffed in response regards a student’s attempt at penning yet another iteration of the favorite roast of intellectuals with a taste for highbrow writing— or, wait. People are calling it ‘literary,’ these days. Right? Or is the term, ‘upmarket?’ Difficult to keep track. Especially when you’re at your first conference and the panel of agents and editors seated before you— approximately six in number— as you float in a veritable sea of hopefuls who, like you, have worn down the whorls on their fingertips tapping out the (d)reams they will pitch later that day and you start to hear these exotic terms being bandied about.

I don’t handle category romance.

My clients are more in what you’d call the upmarket women’s fiction range.

I tend to favor more literary texts.

O—kay. So does this mean if my book has a fight scene and then a make-up scene involving heavy petting that you won’t take a look? Even if my characters use big words?

In any event, back to highbrow instructor. Curly-haired colleague goes on to tell me that her prof posed the following insufferable question to our fellow aspiring writer.

**Disclaimer: Subsequent snippets of dialogue are the product of my imagination reconstructing a scene at which I was not present. Any dissimilarity to actual events, people and places is deliberately embellished for the sake of dramatic effect though the kernel of historical— and relevant— information remains respectfully intact.**

‘Let me guess,’ highbrow instructor holds up a hand. ‘Your story starts off with a girl who can’t stand a guy but they get thrown into a situation where they’re forced to collaborate and, eventually— despite her best efforts to the contrary— she falls in love with him?’

Aspiring writer flicks at her scarf. ‘Er— yeah. Kinda.’

Highbrow instructor, eyes sharp with the gleam of an ex-romance writer who went on to pen a novel from the point of view of a perspicacious dog later hailed as a modestly-coruscating gem and a literary triumph (over whom? I’m always tempted to ask,) tosses out an expertly-timed scoff— though delivered tastefully and with a pitying, if arguably affected, grace.

So. Here was my thought after hearing the pre-emptive dismissal of aspiring writer’s kissy-kissy yarn: It sounds interesting.

Sue me! Her book sounds interesting. Never mind that my sympathies are— heavily— in aspiring writer’s camp. My point is, what is so terrible about writing a story that’s already been written? Yes, hi— there’s a reason these narratives are penned over and over, again. And yes, it’s true, there are some writers who are in it strictly for commercial gain since, ya know, everyone likes to eat and wear clothes and/or pay the mortgage or the rent. Hence, carefully measuring out a certain dosage of story elements, mixing them together in prescribed parts and watching them erupt in a reliable— if predictable— explosion is the way they roll. Then, if executed with a respect for the basic rules of style and grammar, they proceed to sell their thinly-veiled, fizzing concoctions and start all over again. And to those members of my tribe I say, ‘Power to ya’ and ‘Vaya con Dios.’

What’s hurtful, I believe, is when these formulaic plots arise not from the commercial writer’s handbook but from the deep spaces of your subconscious and, later, you’re called on it. When you write your stories without regard for What’s Been Done (or worse, What’s Not Done) and it turns out you have nothing original to say. All you have is your original voice with which to say it.

Well, friend, herein lies the rub.

The thing about originality versus templates proven to succeed— and therefore looked down upon by the refined members of the Pulitzer-collecting crowd— is that, amidst the roar of feedback and constructive criticism and trying to come out ahead with authenticity in what is, essentially, a marketplace, the highest calling is so lofty— so all-encompassing— that it almost seems the only way to nail it is to do so by mistake. It’s serendipity and timing and long hours in a vacuum invisibly honing your craft without the certainty that your words will ever see the light of the shelf under the mega-bookstore fluorescents— or the light of a portable screen— yes, but it’s also something far more primitive.

People want to read about a girl who meets a guy she can’t stand but is then thrown into a situation in which they have to get along and she falls in love with him for a very fundamental reason— and it ain’t formula.

It’s resonance.

It’s why Episode 4 endured for thirty years spawning an empire of product tie-ins that built Skywalker Ranch from nothing— and I’m still wearing the Millenium Falcon t-shirt to prove it— and why Episode 1 just sorta sucked. It isn’t formula that arises from your earnest, naked heart in the dark hours when the rest of the house is asleep and your characters are so painfully real it’s like all you’re doing is taking dictation.

It’s Jungian.

It’s the hero getting her call to adventure and being timid about responding at first but then, against all personal odds, grasping for the grail. It’s suffering in the process and meeting friends along the way, some of whom turn out to be enemies; and squaring away with villains on the high-stakes path toward the inmost cave, some of whom turn out to be allies or— better, yet, that most deliciously unsettling of archetypes— shapeshifters. It’s the drama of your protagonist discovering— in precisely the moment readers yearn for the master stroke of redemption— near-reptilian energies eye-for-an-eyeing-it within.

And that’s why people will read twice-told tales when the chips are down and when the chips are soaring, alike. Because, as writers, we have the honor of tapping into the guts of the human experience and reproducing some version of it in portable form— be it by gobbling up pulp resources or light-emitting diode ones. The makes and models may change but the journey stays the same. (And if you knew how much it cost my little, analog heart to type that assertion, you’d pat me on my little, analog head.)

Bottom line, don’t ever let anyone make you feel like the fact that you’ve got nothing new to say means you’ve got nothing to say, at all. You never know when the product of myths which have endured— and inspired— for millennia and your toddling imagination will mix it up with just the right amount of ala kazam and touch off the Next Big Thing.

Until next time, dear reader.

Your,
-Aurora

Credit where credit is due: http://www.flickr.com/photos/horiavarlan/4273968248/