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Originally published April 16, 2013 for Savvy Authors
Every writer has flaws to overcome, or as they’re known in
the business world, “opportunities”. With some it’s bland characters, with some
it’s Swiss cheese plots.
My problem was—“What’s a cliché?”
Oh, sure, I knew the definition. A trite word or expression.
Worn out, no longer fresh, overused. But by that definition, wouldn’t “the” be
cliché? Or even “it was the”, as in “It was the best of times, it was the worst
of times”?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” The Pedagogue sneers. “Clichés are old
phrases, such as ‘Dry as dust’.”
Clichés were “over the hill”. I understood that and was
happy…until I read an article that said heroes with chiseled faces and
beautiful, plucky heroines are cliché. Worse, I found out (on a sold story) that
a character growling eighty-four times in a manuscript is overuse to the point
of cliché. (Yes, I really did this.)
So…trite phrases aren’t the only type of cliché? Again I was
confused.
“It’s any overused
word or phrase,” The Pedagogue says, but the sneer is gone. “A description that’s
hackneyed. Lost its color, its meaning.”
“But I like
chiseled-faced heroes and I understand the meaning of ‘dry as dust’.” I’m
getting militant now. “‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him
drink’ is pretty colorful as far as I’m concerned. How do I know what’s cliché?”
“You just know.”
The point was, I didn’t “just know”.
Until I ran across UrbanDictionary.com in its early days,
where regular phrases are turned inside out and spun onto their heads. Clear
away the definitions that are bodily functions, and you get some fresh, witty stuff.
Urban Dictionary inspired me to create Nixie, a 5’0”,
100-pound punk rock musician who never says anything normal. I paired her with
a 6’-plus blueblood vampire lawyer. Good times… And suddenly my writing sang
and descriptions bled with color and emotions had depth and action ripped.
A light went on in my head. Um, I mean, my brain fizzed with
“I get it”. Clichés aren’t simply worn-out
phrases. Clichés still have meaning. “Dry as dust” still means really dry. “You
can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink” still means “opportunity
doesn’t equal achievement”.
What those phrases don’t have is anything more. The reader processes them and understands
them, but those words don’t punch her in the gut or grab her throat or explode
in her eyes.
Think about “Dry as dust”. What do you picture? A pile of
dust? If you want your reader to picture a hot attic with motes of dust
floating in the sere sunlight, dry as dust won’t do it.
How about leading your horse to water? Do you picture your gelding,
the gentle brown of his eye changing to a militant gleam as you approach the
trough? I’m going to guess many of us don’t have the kind of daily experience with
a horse that would make that image pop.
Here’s the main point: writing tells a story; good writing makes the reader live the story.
Air that’s “dry as dust” is dry. Air that scours your nasal
passages is yikes. Air sawing into
your lungs or breathing air that’s like inhaling acid—did you almost feel that dryness?
A cliché isn’t simply a trite phrase or words leached of
their meaning. It’s any word or
phrase that sits on the page. That’s
important, so let me say it another way. It’s anything that goes in one eye and
out the other. Anything that slips through the brain leaving meaning and
nothing else. A cliché isn’t dead—when read it’s perfectly understandable. But it
doesn’t resonate into more; it
doesn’t sing or sting or knock the reader over the head with I get it now.
How does a writer get beyond cliché? Ooh (rubs hands
gleefully), I’m so glad you asked.
- Use strong
nouns and verbs. Really, this is like eating right—it fixes a variety of
ills, not just clichés.
- Read
for places you understand but don’t immediately picture what’s going on.
These are places of opportunity to freshen the writing.
- Read
for places you picture what’s going on, but don’t shudder or cry or
swallow hard or grab your throat in vicarious sympathy with the
hero/heroine. Is this supposed to be a place of relaxation or rest in the tension?
Okay, but there’d better be something compelling on the rest of the page.
- Put
yourself in your character’s shoes…er, look out of her eyes. If she has an
ounce of personality…um, more backbone than an ant?...anyway, she’ll have
her own perspective and so her own way of experiencing the world.
Musicians might hear the wobble of guilt in the voice of an otherwise
confident liar; a harried mom might experience everyone around her as
demanding and whiny.
- If you
can’t get a passage out of bed, go back to the basics. What are you trying
to say? Now imagine making a movie of it. How would you show it? What is
the actress feeling (smelling, hearing, seeing, touching) as she moves
through the action? How would she show that feeling (scent, sound, sight,
touch)?
- Use
character-specific swearing.
One of my button issues is the overuse of swearing—not
because it’s offensive, but because, as too much pepper makes for a numb tongue,
too much swearing makes for a numb brain, and even the freshest writing in the
world won’t stimulate a stunned mind. Darn, pfui, and their cayenne cousins are
wonderful ways to grab the reader’s attention with small smacks. But used every
other paragraph, they’re a verbal tic or worse.
Dig deep into the character to tailor that pepper into fresh
barbs. In Biting Oz, my heroine
Gunter Marie “Junior” Stieg is a musician whose day job is selling sausage.
Here’s her take on her hero, Glynn Rhys-Jenkins. Her swearing has a sausage
theme (my comedy tends to be a bit broad, but you can tailor your substitutes
to your situation). Also note the hero has the cliché blue eyes and chiseled
features, but through Junior’s eyes they take on a new dimension.
A glow of sapphire eyes, a flash of
dangerous planes, the impression of broad shoulders. Glimpses through lowered
house lights and dark wings hadn’t prepared me for seeing him in full light for
the first time. Great Braunschweiger, he was beyond gorgeous, as in
punch-out-my-heart-and-use-it-to-club-me-senseless stunning.
And one longer passage to leave you with. Heroine Junior and
her friend Rocky (both musicians) are discussing hero Glynn. Here’s how it
could have been written.
Rocky said, “So how do you know
Glynn?”
“I don’t. I just met him tonight.”
“So I only imagined he was looking
at you ‘that way’?” She opened the house doors and we walked down the aisle.
“What way?”
“Like you’re hot.”
“Really?” Glynn thought I was sexy?
And here’s how it actually was written.
Rocky said, “So how do you know
Glynn?”
“I don’t.”
“Oh.” The normally neutral syllable
was lengthened and pitched high, filling it with her skepticism.
“I don’t,” I repeated, as if saying
it again would convince her. “I just met him tonight.”
“So I only imagined he was looking
at you ‘that way’?” She elbowed open the house doors and trotted down the
aisle.
“What way?”
“Like he wanted to eat you up.
Which reminds me, did you see Rob brought pit chocolate?”
My voice wouldn’t work. Glynn was
looking hungrily at me?
The problem with clichés is not that they’re meaningless,
but that they only have one meaning; they don’t resonate into a symphony of
meaning or splash into a painting of meaning or leap into a dance of meaning.
The stunning revelation is that the word “cliché” is sort of a cliché. We understand
its definition, but it’s not useful for anything more. The Pedagogue was
correct, you do “just know” when a word is lay-on-the-page cliché. (Pedagogues
are almost always right; the problem is they’re also annoying about it. J)
Oh, and the word “the”? Not cliché, but mostly transparent like “said”, except
when you’re making a point about this being the definite article: “That’s not a
king; that’s the king.” But it’s
still not best practice to growl eighty-four times in a manuscript.
