Get it? It’s like Horton Hears a Who, but with my name instead? And it’s not nonsensical because this post is kind of relevant to the famous line of the aforementioned book, “I meant what I said and I said what I meant,” and how it can relate to writing? I know, I can hear you right now, “Wow, Sam, you’re great at introductions that also serve as segues,” to which I shall say, thank you, that’s really very kind.
When we writers… err, write fiction, we tend to constantly worry about whether we sound lyrical enough to pass for more than a boring play-by-play of characters jangling around like marionettes. Every sentence is scrutinized and we perhaps spend more time than we should looking for where to slip in more imagery, more metaphors, more patterns, MORE. There’s something insatiable about writing; no matter how pleased we might be with one particular sentence or scene, the next line is sure to pop our giant egos–or, hell, even deserved fulfillment–and fill our heads with dissatisfaction again.
And this is a dangerous dance; not only are we giving a disproportionate amount of our already tightly-allotted creative time, but if we jam-pack every inch of our works in progress full of lyricism like some poorly cooked Tolkien-esque sausage link (I’m so sorry I made your eyes read that phrase), the result might end up sounding ridiculous. It’s like when someone uses a thesaurus too much: I bedeck you in adulations, mine swain. Sprint yonder alongside me.
Whenever this happens to me and I catch myself sitting at my desk, staring at the document and willing the words to continue–but, like, in a pretty way–I force myself to take a second and accept the fact that sometimes, the best way to say something is just to say it. No one is going to think less of your story because you couldn’t think of a more emotional way to state “Jimothy frowned.” Jimothy can frown! It’s fine! His feelings are valid! And simplistic writing styles are valid too. In the Magnus Chase series by Rick Riordan, most of the storytelling is done in simple writing, and it’s one of my favorites. So even if some of us feel this weird lingering, phantom pressure to turn into a specific kind of writer for others’ approval, you don’t have to. I’d argue it’s better to be true to yourself. Just say the thing if you’re struggling.
For those writers where ornate and overflowing poeticism comes naturally and they don’t feel any pressure when attempting flourishing language, it’s probably not a problem. Congratulations on the flowers that spurt from your fingertips when you sit down to write! I’m not bitter at all! But for those of us who constantly struggle to reach that peak, I’m here to remind myself, and you, that it’s okay to be proud of every foothold you manage, even if the next part in your story feels like you’re falling back down a ways. Highs and lows are natural, and without the lows, we wouldn’t appreciate the highs quite as deeply.
Note, from Herb:
I think there’s an argument to be made that modern writing styles tend towards a trend that wants word economy to be the priority, i.e., if a word does not serve to further the plot, it has no use, which undermines words for aesthetic purposes or words for enlightenment of a theme, etc. So I think in a lot of ways we’ve moved past an age of flowery language.