I’m a writer and I belong to a critique group. We meet once a week to share our works-in-progress. We listen to each other read and then offer suggestions about how to correct mistakes, or barring that, simply fine tune the craft. It’s the most helpful thing a new author can do for herself. Every writer should join a crit group.
Three months ago, one of my co-authors made a comment about my submission, and I cannot get it out of my mind.
The lady took umbrage at my use of a term she didn’t know. The word in question? Discomposed. She told me she’d never heard it, which is fine. There are lots of words I don’t know. But she went on to say she didn’t think my readers would understand it either. She suggested I change the phrase.
I declined her recommendation, but the idea behind her discontent has bothered me ever since.
I understand her reasoning. I totally get it. The biggest mistake a writer can make, apparently, is to pen something so distracting it “takes the reader out of the story.” The fear is, if this unpardonable sin occurs, the dear reader might decide never to return. There are a lot of easily available distractions in our world today.
But I disagree with part of that train of thought. I think reading can (and should be) a means of learning new things, of broadening our vocabularies. Any time you hear someone mispronounce a word, rest assured, they learned it from reading it. That’s a good thing! I can remember reading 101 Dalmatians as a 10-year-old and being puzzled by the differences in British English vs. American English, although I didn’t realize that’s what it was at the time.
Words like “bachelor flat,” and “trousseau,” and “stacked plates on a lift.”
I was ten. I saw the words “bachelor flat” and my imagination produced something very thin. Trousseau? How do you even pronounce that? A lift? I learned what a dumbwaiter was by reading Harriet the Spy.
When I read The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver, I kept my phone by my side with my Google Translate app open, waiting to type in the Spanish words I didn’t know. I finished the book, by the way.
So, if you want to use a word that pushes your reader to learn something new, go for it. If your writing is entertaining enough, enticing enough, the reader will come back to the story after puzzling over the meaning of the unknown.
Seems like that’s my job as the author. Write a book they can’t put down, and none of this matters.
Follow me on TikTok to hear about the words I run into each day that were previously unknown to me. Share your words with me. We can laugh about how badly we pronounce them.
But at the end of the day, we’ll be smarter than we were at the beginning. And that’s a good thing, too.
Oh, by the way … check out my new book. I am one of five authors who contributed to a Christmas anthology titled Christmas Love Through the Ages. The book is full of sweet, wholesome, Christmas-y stories that will get you in the mood for the holidays. Enjoy!
I spent a few hours with some teenaged girls this week. I eavesdropped on their excited chatter as we headed home, me in the driver’s seat, them scattered behind me in the van. A surprise awaited them, and all their focus was on what to wear. Four of the five wanted to wear dresses. The lone jeans fan distressed herself over the possibility of being different. She really didn’t want to wear a dress, but couldn’t convince any of the others to join her on Team Jeans.
Finally, I couldn’t hold back. “Wear what you want! Be brave.” I pictured five sets of eyes glancing my way.
The momentary silence quickly dispersed, and they resumed their conversation as if I had not spoken. I shook my head. I’ve forgotten how difficult it is to be different, to stand out when you’re that age.
Occasionally, a brave soul appears, determined to be that mythical drummer following her own beat. A memory surfaced from my first few years of teaching at Burleson High School. Shelby definitely bucked the routine and normal. Here is a story from 2003,
A small sigh of relief escapes. It’s 4:05, and my day is about to be kid-free. I sit at my laptop to check email. Behind me, my class is noisy with chatter and laughter as the kids wind down. Anticipation of the 4:15 bell frees them from the strictures of the school day, and they’re getting loud. I don’t listen to anything in particular. It’s the background noise of my professional life. Without warning, a single phrase lifts itself from the general clutter of noise and shoots into my ear like an arrow.
“Did you sniff my head?”
Hmm. That sounded like Shelby. Staring at my computer screen, I mentally rewind that, sifting through my vocabulary to find a set of five words that sounds like “Did you sniff my head?” without actually being the five words “Did you sniff my head?” My cranial magnifying glass waves back and forth across my brain but comes up short. No files found. What did she say?
I swivel around in my chair and look. Sure enough, Shelby is perched in a desk near mine. She sits sideways in her chair with one knee pulled to her chest, held close by one curved arm, the other foot tucked underneath her. She looks to the right at Jordan, who sits behind her. I assume he is the recipient of the question.
Jordan slouches comfortably in his chair, his long feet propped heavily on the wire basket under Shelby’s seat, his hands lying relaxed on the top of his desk. He stares at Shelby with an uncomprehending look in his eyes. Matt sits one row over, watching this exchange. He has a tiny frown line between his eyes. I catch his eye when I turn, but I hide my smile.
I look at Shelby. “Did you just say, ‘Did you smell my head?’” I speak slowly, enunciating my words with care so there is no chance for mistake.
“Yes.” Her answer is cheerful. “I smell heads when I sit behind people. I just lean forward and sniff.” She demonstrates for us with the empty air of the unoccupied desk in front of her, her pert nose sniffing daintily. The three of us stare.
“I sniffed Matt’s head when he sat in front of me.” Her voice is bright, happy.
Matt’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. Would a person, I wonder, notice if someone behind him leaned forward and sniffed his head? Unless he had very sensitive hair follicles that would register that small tug of air, probably not. Matt wears his hair short and tidy. It’s not like there’s a lot of hair to disturb.
Jordan has still not said a word, but he is now looking at Shelby with interest.
“Well, I guess people’s heads smell pretty good.” I try to inject normalcy into this bizarre conversation. I picture the fruity concoctions of shampoo and conditioners in my shower. Bottles with names like Chamomile-Lemon and Ginger-Papaya. My efforts are shot down.
“Matt’s head didn’t.” Shelby doesn’t miss a beat. Matt’s eyes widen even further. I can practically see the thoughts racing through his mind.
My head doesn’t smell good? What does my head smell like?
Eww. What does Matt’s head smell like? A mental picture of sweaty fifth-graders comes to mind. Eww.
Still trying gamely to rescue the conversation and now Matt, I try once again to make this sound like a conversation I’ve had before.
“Well, Shelby, that sounds like…” I try to think of what sniffing people’s heads sounds like. Odd? Weird? Bizarre?
Animals pops out before I can stop it. “It sounds like what animals do.”
Arrgh! I give myself a mental slap to the forehead. That’s not the effect I was going for in my rescue. I picture the exuberant greeting my dogs give me when I come home, sniffing my legs and my shoes to discover where I’ve been that day and to find out what other dogs I’ve cheated on them with. Then my mind takes the animal sniffing picture one step further. Suddenly, I’m horrified that the three of them may be thinking the same thing that I am thinking, and I realize my efforts to save this conversation are falling wildly short.
Jordan, I notice through my consternation, has wisely still not said a word.
Thankfully, at that moment, the final bell rings.
Shelby stands with fluid grace. Her bright red canvas high-tops peek out from underneath the legs of her jeans. Her silky, long, navy blue scarf covered in white polka dots flows over her shoulder from where it’s wound loosely around her neck.
“’Bye, Mrs. Peckham!” She sails from the room with a cheery farewell.
Jordan, who has never taken his eyes from Shelby’s face throughout the entire conversation, also stands and heads out, shaking his head silently, smiling at the floor.
Matt leaves with a frown on his face. I wonder if he’ll figure out a way to sniff his head that night, to be sure about how it smells. I manage to wait for the room to empty before I laugh.
What, I wonder, do I miss hearing each day?
I’m sure God sends me messages every day, messages I don’t pick up. What a loss.
How can we ensure our lines of communication are open? How do we keep the line from being busy when He calls?
I think a good way to clear the obstructions is to start the day with prayer. Quiet time with God sets the tone for the day, reestablishes the connection. Plus, it puts us in a frame of mind to listen, to actively search for the messages He sends.
I don’t want to miss God’s call. I imagine my world would be a lot nicer and more satisfying if I receive what He has in store for me.
What about you? What messages does God have for you? Wouldn’t you love to know?
