BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Of course, you know me…Don’t I always?

So, anyway, pull up a chair, because this is going to take a couple of minutes.

My issue is with the self-appointed style police. Now, when I say style police I’m not talking about the folks who give grief over what you happen to be wearing that day. Although, given that I just returned home from doing my morning running about in public (post office and the like), and I was wearing a pair of denim shorts, a black t-shirt, and a pair of brown, generic “Crocs,” I suppose they would be up in arms too. (Let me tell you, those Crocs the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned, so don’t be surprised if you see me wearing them at a book signing or a festival when I am going to be on my feet all day.)

Nope. I’m talking about the Literary Style Police… And, remember, I said self-appointed, because believe you me, I never once saw them on any ballot I’ve cast in my lifetime.

So, what has triggered this for me? Well, not what you might expect. You see, I received a friend request from another writer yesterday. So, what did I do? I went and checked out her site, just like I do whenever anyone else sends me a friend request, or before I send one to someone.

I bet you thought I was just saying that on my main page, didn’t you? Nope. No joke. I really do go check people out before I approve the request, or be so bold as to send one.

But, anyway, I approved her request and then took a moment to read some of her blog. One of the entries was of particular interest. It was a list of words (tags) you should NEVER use when writing dialogue, because as everyone knows you should only use the word “said.”

Now…this writer noted that she was being somewhat facetious about this list, and I have no doubt that she was. In fact, to her credit, she does point out that she doesn’t completely agree with the list with the exception that it is a good rule of thumb to follow if you haven’t yet honed your craft and learned not to overuse the tags. I actually agree with her on that point, and I also applaud her effort at educating new writers. However, I would also caution that the tag “said” not be overused either. It is nowhere near as invisible, or unobtrosive as the style police would have you believe. In fact, it is downright clumsy and halting. Not only does it make for very dry, boring, dialogue, it often provides a bigger stumbling block than some of the words on “the list” simply because it doesn’t agree with the punctuation in the dialogue.

In addition, once written dialogue is flowing properly, tags need only be inserted here and there. Not on every line of speech. And then, they should be inserted to enhance, not to merely “point out that s/he SAID something.” The only other reason would be for the purpose of identifying the speaker, but again, if you have properly established the flow, the reader will already know who is speaking without it.

However, let me add that this is MY opinion on writing. We will get into why I just “said” that in a moment.

What interested me most about her blog entry was that some of the comments (not all, but some) she received about her blog came from writers/editors who wholeheartedly agreed with this no-no list. I secretly suspect they are a part of that bizarre little group of staunch supporters who cling for dear life to that rule about using only the dialogue tag “said”, and no other, as if it were a life preserver. I’ve had occasion to meet a few of these people, and while they may not ALL be this way, the handful I have experienced are no less than zealots. They love to cite rules about what they call “saidisms.” No, I did NOT say sadism, I said “saidisms.” The word said with an ism added to the end for maximum effect. One of my favorite things to ask these people is that since they are so caught up in following their so called “rules,” then why are they breaking them by making up a word? You see, the word “saidism” doesn’t exist. They made it up in order to sound like they were some sort of expert. So, when greeted by that word being thrown in my face, rather than “say” what I said above, I grunt it with amusement.

But, I don’t want to sound like an ass here. I do have to cut them some slack. Some of these folks are highly educated–some of them impressively so. I just think they have made the mistake of hitching their carts to a big, steaming bucket of stagnant thinking.

Time for some anecdotal fun…

I once had an editor insist that I replace every dialogue tag in one of my manuscripts with the word “said.” All of them. Even when someone asked a question and the line would read something on the order of:

“Where did you put the screaming howler monkeys?” he asked.

Apparently, according to “the rules” I wasn’t supposed to say, “he asked.” I was supposed to say, “he said.” But, he didn’t just say it. He asked it.

Said, the past participle of say, means to state, utter, speak, etc.

Asked means to put a question to, or make an inquiry.

Since the character in this instance actually “put a question to” another character, rather than simply make a statement, doesn’t putting “said” there seem a little odd to you? It does to me.

So, I had to ask. And, when I asked (or should that be said?) “why”, I was told that it was the rule.

Well, you know me, always stirring the pot…I wanted to know who made that rule. The response I got was that Elmore Leonard made the rule. Indeed, Mr. Leonard did say this. In fact, he has a list of 10 rules about writing and that is #3 on his hit list. #4, by the way, is to never use adverbs to modify the verb said. Poor adverbs. I don’t know what they ever did to him but it must have been bad. I feel sorry for “said” too, because Mr. Leonard has now forbidden it from playing with its good friends the adverbs. It’s a regular Romeo and Juilet looking for a place to happen…

So, I have another question, (I said.) Who died and appointed Elmore Leonard God Almighty of the writing community, thereby giving him the authority to lay down rules that I am somehow bound to follow?

The editor got mad at me and proceeded to call me names. Yes. Really. Apparently Elmore Leonard is some sort of personal deity to her and I had just committed the grave sin of blasphemy by questioning his Godhood. How the hell was I suppose to know?

Now, before you get your panties up your crack, I’m not aiming that comment at Mr. Leonard himself, and I am not trying to be vicious about it. What I am saying is very simply this: the man gave some advice based on how he does things and how he views his job as an author. That’s wonderful. More power to him. I’m all about advice and that sort of thing. Hell, I’ve even given out a bit of it myself. However, just because Elmore Leonard said “this is the way it must be done” this suddenly means that anyone who does it differently is wrong? I don’t know about you, but that seems just a little ridiculous to me. (BTW, rule #6 on Mr. Leonard’s list is never use the word “suddenly”… Looks to me that simply by writing this blog I am damning myself to author hell…Oh well, as long as they have beer I’m all good.)

I had yet another question (I said) Just like me, isn’t it? All these questions? I must have driven my parents nuts… Anyway, for sake of argument I will pose this question to you here now (I said)…If we aren’t supposed to use all of these words we have accumulated in the English language over the years, then exactly why do we have them? If said is the same as asked, replied, acknowledged, grunted, spewed, or any other verb, then why don’t we just get rid of all those other words and save some space in the dictionary? Obviously we don’t need them, correct? It would save paper, thereby saving trees and reducing pollution. Everybody wins. And, maybe then the style police could even go ahead and petition to have saidism added because there would now be room for it…Of course, if we got rid of all of the so-called saidisms there wouldn’t really be a need for the word saidism then, would there? (I said). Of course, that would mean we wouldn’t have a need for style police either…

Nahhhh. They’d find something else to complain about. On the heels of their victory they would probably start some sort of movement to change all nouns to pronouns, because he and she are far less intrusive than a character’s actual name when reading text…I can see it now…I’ll need to change all of the current titles in my series. Harm None: A He Investigation…Never Burn A Witch: A He Investigation…

Silly, yes. But, in my opinion, it really isn’t any more silly than telling me I can’t use any dialogue tag other than said. If writers are supposed to use the language to convey thoughts and emotions then why in the world would you restrict the language they are allowed to use? I don’t know about you, but to me that makes about as much sense as repeatedly hitting yourself on the thumb with a ball peen hammer. (Of course, if you are into that sort of thing, more power to you. But, I don’t wanna hear about it…)

Okay, so let’s think about this for a minute…And, while you are thinking, I will jump in my “wayback machine,” set it for 1903, then go back and tell the Wright brothers that they can’t fly. Wait…I think they got told that by other people didn’t they? But, they did it anyway. Hmmmm…Funny how that works. I get told I can’t use a dialogue tag other than said, but I ignore that “rule” (as do countless other writers), and yet we still have loyal fans and readers.

Hmmmm….guess all of our fans and readers are big nasty rule breakers too, eh?

I’m sure by now you are saying to yourself, “Holy crap! Murv must have had someone complain about him using a saidism.” Well, if that is what you are saying to yourself, you would be correct. However, it hasn’t happened recently. Not for quite some time actually. But, I am sure I will get more. The hate mail tends to come in waves. Now that I’m writing this blog, I’ll probably get several in the immediate future. Oh well… The style police are always on the prowl, it gives them something to do…

However, to validate what you are mumbling (I’m sorry, saying) to yourself, yes, throughout the years I have received a dozen or so scathing mails/emails from anti-fans telling me that I am a hack because I don’t follow “the rules.” My favorite vilification came from a particular lady who went on about how even a first time “fanfic” writer knew better than to break the rules I have broken throughout my novels. Actually, that “argument” has been tossed at me two or three times. I personally think it is funny. However, what made her particular letter my personal favorite was the fact that she was so caught up in chastising me for having the unmitigated gall to use a dialogue tag other than “said” that she neglected to proof her own work which was filled with misspellings, misused words, and several grammar issues.

I was amused. A couple of typos I can understand. I’m good for those myself. But, these weren’t typos. Trust me.

Now, back to Mr. Leonard. No offense intended, but I must be honest– I don’t much care for his writing, but that’s just my opinion. It doesn’t make his writing bad…or, dare I say “wrong.” Although, several of the things HE does break MY 10 rules…But, so what. That isn’t the point. Those are MY rules, just like his rules are HIS rules. The basic fact is, I just don’t particularly like his style.

And, yes. There it is again. That word…Style.

How we write is a matter of style. In fact, many authors submit their manuscripts along with something called a “style sheet”…For those of you who may not know what that is, a “style sheet” is something that shows your editor how YOU do things. i.e. which rules you plan to break, and why. For instance, non-standard capitalization, intentional grammatical anomalies, non-standard spellings, and so on….

So, that covers the specifics. But what about the basics? The basic style elements get dictated by who? The editors in the industry? Other writers? English teachers? Society? Actually, all of the above. But, guess what? (I said) Unlike the speed of light these “rules” are not a universal constant. They change. Constantly. So, I guess in a way they are constant…by that I mean constantly changing, not constantly remaining constant. Make sense? Yeah, I know. Just read it again slowly.

Anyway, If you don’t believe me, then here is an example. If you are my age, or anywhere near, then you remember that when we were in school we were taught that it was an absolute taboo to end a sentence with a preposition. Guess what?The rule changed. It’s okay to do that now. Really. I’m not kidding. Go ahead and end a sentence with the word “for” if you are so inclined. It is now grammatically correct, no matter what Mr. Golden or Ms. Ackman taught me all those years ago.

So, why do rules change? Because they become antiquated and no longer work for a given situation or era. And, here’s a news flash. Rules dictating writing style are in an even greater state of flux, because while you have all of the folks listed above dictating the elements of style, each of us dictate our own as well. — Remember the style sheet? And, a breaking news update to go with the one above: Style rules can be broken without anyone getting hurt or going to jail. I know…sounds crazy doesn’t it? (I said) But let me clue you in on a little secret. The style police actually have no authority. Really. They can’t even write tickets. No. I’m not kidding. All they can do is play with their sirens (by that I mean, whine and complain.)

So, what is the deal with all of these “rules” then? To paraphrase the popular movie pirates–They are more like a set of suggested guidelines.

So, there you have it. Just like I’m not going to let someone else dictate which shoes I wear when I go to the post office (except my wife, and well, you know how that is…) I’m not going to let anyone else dictate my writing style.

You shouldn’t either.

Okay…Now I am off to write some stuff and use all of the wrong words while doing it. Wish me luck.

MR

PS. Oh, and there are probably some typos in this…so sue me. 😉

Thirty-odd years ago, I found a cassette tape recorder under the Yule tree with my name on it. Now remember, I said thirty-odd years ago, so we are talking about the bulky recorder which, even though it was state of the art in its day, was about the size of a dinner plate and as thick as a half dozen said plates stacked together. This item was something I had wanted for some time, as it would allow me to record my thoughts fairly rapidly, and I didn’t yet know how to type. Little did I know that this tape recorder, long since relegated to a junk pile somewhere, would be the source of a very special memory, bittersweet in its content.

But, before we get to that memory, allow me to bore you a bit more. This season used to be my absolute favorite time of year. Up until 2003, with the exception of a few years of struggle, I was like a kid whenever the holidays rolled around. The lights, the Yule tree, the eggnog (yes, I’ve blogged about my beloved eggnog before)…all of it. At the risk of being cliche, yes it was magickal for me.

My first stumble with regard to the holidays came in 1987. My wife and I were married on Samhain (Halloween for you non-Pagans) that year, so that Christmas should have been infinitely special…But, shortly after our wedding, the week before Thanksgiving in fact, I received a call from a local police department requesting that I come down and identify my Mother’s body. I won’t go into details about that here. Perhaps another time. Suffice it to say, the holidays meant very little to me that year, and for a few years after that.

I managed to pull out of the slump to an extent, although the season was never as bright nor anywhere near as magickal as it had been for me in the past. I continued at that pace for a number of years, until 2003. Mid October, while I was appearing at a festival, my father crossed over- suddenly, unexpectedly, and very quickly. I didn’t find out until I returned to St. Louis, because my extended family had lost my publicist’s business card, and my wife and daughter were with me at the fest, so there was no way to get in contact.

Again, the holidays lost their magick. In all honesty, were it not for my wife and daughter, I would likely not celebrate them at all. So, by way of explanation for this boring recitation of the past, I can only surmise that I suffer from a mild form of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)…A depression more induced from life altering trauma than a lack of light, but very real nonetheless.

But, I have digressed a bit…I started this off with the memory of a tape recorder, and I should get back to that. The tape recorder itself, long gone and clunky in this day even if it still existed, is really more the source of the memory than the memory itself. You see, that particular Christmas, thirty-odd years ago, my maternal Grandfather, Elvis Babb insisted that all of the kids and grandkids come home for the holidays–home being, Fulton, Kentucky. A tiny spot on the road town, overlapping the state line between Kentucky and Tennessee, and bordering the farming community of Water Valley. This was the place of my birth…the home of the Fulton Banana Festival, small town values, and the Hornbeak Funeral Chapel–a place I have spent more hours than I care to remember, both as a child and since as an adult. I suspect I will visit its interior a few more times before my own crossing…

No one was quite sure why my Grandfather was so adamant about everyone returning home for Christmas, but he fought against all objections, and saw to it that everyone gathered there in that little house on Grymes Avenue. So, my family made the short trek from St. Louis on Christmas morning, arriving in Fulton to spend a few days with everyone. As usual there was more food than anyone could possibly eat, a roaring fire in the wood burning stove that occupied one corner of the living room, and a sense of happiness that made everything special–yes, magickal.

Of course, all of the family being from that small town, there were other relatives to visit, and that we did. However, there was a particular day when I was left at the house on Grymes…me, my younger sister, and my Grandfather, sitting next to that roaring fire. My sister, being several years younger and somewhat oblivious due to her age, occupied herself with one or more of the toys she had received only a day or so before. Me, I sat and listened to my Grandfather tell me about a fishing trip we were going to take when summer rolled around once again. Little did I know that we were taking that fishing trip right then and there in his imagination, and lovingly painted in words for me to experience with him. In later years, when that realization hit me, I committed that story to paper…Perhaps someday I will feel self important enough to publish it in an autobiography…but then, maybe not. I guess we’ll see…

But, there I go digressing again…On the heels of the story, my Grandfather asked me to go get my shiny, new tape recorder. When I returned with it, he had in his hand a harmonica. This harmonica had been a source of entertainment for the family in years past as this man could play it like nobody’s business. I started a fresh tape, and there, beside the fire, we created an impromptu recording studio while he made the musical instrument talk, sing, cry, and even morph into a freight train that sounded far too real for words. I should note that at that point in time, Elvis was suffering from Emphysema, having been a heavy smoker since his youth, and was having trouble catching his wind, but for several minutes that afternoon, his lungs worked fine, and he made that harmonica speak.

Fast forward a few months. The frantic call came for all of the family to return to Fulton once again, but this time, not for holiday celebration. Elvis was ill and in the hospital. It was only shortly after everyone arrived that he crossed over. I was too young to be allowed into the hospital for a visit at the time, whether that was their rule or my parents I am still unclear, but I never got to say goodbye. It took me years to realize that the fireside fishing trip was our goodbye, and how he wanted me to remember him. How clear hindsight can be…would that our foresight was as crystal.

In any event, I have that harmonica. I found it back in 2003 while charged with the task of going through my father’s things at his home after his death. Though my parents had divorced around the time I graduated high school, Dad had kept some things stored away for Mom. After her death, I suppose he simply forgot about them as they were cloistered away in boxes, residing in a dark corner of the basement. Even so, I remembered that my mother had been given the harmonica, and upon finding it in the box it was like a Holy Grail of sorts. An artifact that may mean nothing to most anyone else, but meant the world to me. Now, it has been handed down to me, and will one day be passed on to my daughter. For the moment, it sits atop its box, displayed like a jewel in our curio cabinet.

But, this doesn’t really explain why I am suddenly pouring this memory out onto the page does it? Well, there was this tape. The tape I made of my Granfather pushing that harmonica to its limits and beyond. Copies were made of it and sent out to all of the family, but unfortunately, though my parents had retained the original, I was never able to find it after either of their deaths. I simply assumed that it was a piece of my history that would be lost forever. And, without that tape, and considering the fact that my daughter wasn’t even an inkling of a thought when her great-grandfather Babb crossed over, it is doubtful that the harmonica will mean much to her–other than perhaps her knowing how much in meant to me.

Fast forward yet again…

This past summer there was a Babb family reunion. We gathered from all corners of the country. Of course, both my parents are gone, but I can see my mother in my relatives. And, time, as always, has done what it will inevitably do…my aunts and uncles have now become the Grandparents, all of us neices/nephews/cousins have become our parents, and our children have become us. That bejeweled double helix that guarantees our immortality, passed along through the generations.

Elvis Babb can been easily seen in his son, my uncle, Steve Babb. He is a dead ringer for him. And, there is no doubt where a portion of my DNA came from as my uncle and I could pass for brothers…I just happen to have hair.

But again, there I go down another branch of the tree…back to the recording. During that reunion I discovered that my aunt in Nevada still had a copy…and, that my uncle had ported it in to his computer and put it onto CD.

And that my dear and patient readers is the trigger for this memory. Amidst the holiday cards, catalogs, and mail order gifts I collected from the box this morning was a simple package, addressed to me, and hailing from Nevada. Within, the packaged contained a CD, simply labeled “Grandaddy Babb”.

I’ve listened to it several times now, and my eyes still aren’t dry…

MR