I expect every writers group has their own shorthand–a vocabulary able to sum up mountains of meaning in molehills of words. In my writers group, there are some very efficient phrases like 1) “good point,” 2) “I see” 3) “okay, I’ll get right on that,” and 4) “thanks,” which mean, respectively 1) “lousy point,” 2) “you totally missed what I was trying to accomplish with this clever twist on convention and yet, based on how monumental a task it would be to correct your glaring imbecility, I’ll pretend I actually appreciate your foolish critique,” 3) “I’ll change that when the sun has blistered the anguished recognition of your own foolishness off the shriveled-up face skin on your corpse” and 4) “I hate you.”

But there are others we use that are slightly more instructive. Two of these come from a writing professor that 3 of us had in college and 1 from the fertile brain of Todd Fahnestock who, as with everything he creates, stole it off another writer.

1) The Pig (courtesy of Todd Fahnestock with thanks to Ken Follett): After reading “The Pillars of the Earth,” Todd noted that the first eighty pages or so are primarily concerned with a man trying to reclaim a lost pig. Todd went on to note how Follett makes the reader care tremendously about this particular pig, flipping pages in rapid succession to see if the man will get his pig back. In the process we get sucked into a very richly detailed world and get hooked by a plot that has exactly nothing to do with said pig. Giles Carwyn, (Todd’s writing partner for the wonderful Heartstone Trilogy), would point out that the pig is what is technically known as a “bridging conflict” in which one is caught up by an immediate but short-lived danger/problem/adventure in order to get from one major part of the book to another (or from the opening into the principal action). The point of this all is that whenever I hit a lull in my dramatic arc I start rooting around like a pig in pig poop (in a Todd&Giles sex fantasy–for those of you who’ve read Heir of Autumn) for a pig of my own.

2) The Raft (courtesy James Yaffe, formerly of The Colorado College) I don’t even remember the precise context any more, but Yaffe often critiqued stories by telling us whether he was or was not “on the raft.” Perhaps he was referring to Huck Finn and how even when the only action in the story was two guys floating on a raft down the Mississippi, Mark Twain made damn sure we were right on the raft with them thanks to the humor, poetry and evocative nature of the language. In our group, being “on the raft” means that you’ll keep turning the pages and enjoying the sights just so long as the writing and storytelling maintain the same quality.

3) The Bus (again, courtesy James Yaffe) I think I remember the context for this one. Yaffe always told each class about this very nearly perfect story he once read about two star-crossed lovers who were brilliantly fleshed out by their author such that the reader was completely transfixed wondering if and when the two would finally get together. Everything is flush with building tension until the final scene when the guy walks out of a coffee shop ready to risk everything to win back his love and…he gets hit by a bus. To Yaffe, this was pure laziness on the part of the writer and Yaffe could not abide laziness. He would have been perfectly happy if the couple made it or didn’t, just so long as the resolution grew naturally from the set-up. He would have also been fine with a surprise twist at the end, as long as the twist had some basis in the reality of the story. Throwing in a random accident, however, was the ultimate evil. In my own writing, I have often struggled with endings, and even despite Yaffe’s warning have still managed to muck things up. But then I learned the ultimate truth that made all of my writing exquisitely flawless in all ways. All you have to do is … Ohmigod! What’s that! Oof!

…

Didn’t like that ending?

I see. Good point. I’ll get right on that. Thanks.

My two-year old sometimes has trouble pronouncing the “s” at the beginning of words. She also inhabits a very elaborate fantasy world where she and those close to her are assigned the roles of characters from her favorite books, TV shows and movies. While this is generally pretty cute, it also produces quite a bit of anxiety around our house. On the one hand, I worry that I rely on the electronic babysitter too much and am therefore a bad parent. On the other, I really, really want the good roles.

When Callie started to be Dora the Explorer, I was very excited because I got to be her super-cool animal-adventurer cousin Diego. (My wife became Boots the Monkey (Dora’s best friend) and our new baby Wyllie, for a reason I’m not clear on, became Abuela (Dora’s grandmother)).  Unfortunately, Diego has his own show and Callie soon wanted to be him too. This led to a very significant and troubling career change for me as I was demoted to Swiper the Sneaky Fox. Jen, of course, got to stay Boots the lovable monkey.

I scored a major coup, however, when Callie decided her little red jacket made her into Little Red Riding Hood. I became Mr. Whittle the Heroic Woodcutter, Wyllie became the Grandmother (typecasting’s a killer in this business) and Jen became the Wolf. Ha ha. Take that, Boots.

When Callie started showing signs of interest in Mulan, I immediately started lobbying for the role of the Heroic Captain Li, with such subtle enticements as “If you’re Mulan, maybe I could be Captain Li and maybe you could have an extra cookie.” This left Jen as Mushu, the Eddie Murphy-voiced dragonlet. Another victory. Unfortunately, Callie took the cookie and forgot our arrangement. Soon enough, I became the Big Dragon. This is not nearly as cool as it sounds. The Big Dragon has about two minutes of screen time, mostly consisting of him crumbling to dust when Mushu tries to wake him up. Blast it!

But today’s diascribe is not really about the politics of fictional-character assignments in my home. As I mentioned earlier, my daughter Callie has trouble with “s.” This means that when she becomes Scooby Doo (or rather, ‘cooby doo) and I become Shaggy, and Jen becomes Velma, and our dog Zaida becomes Fred, and our dog Turtle becomes Daphne, baby Wyllie–showing serious range–becomes Scooby Doo’s nephew, that spunky little pugilist: Crappy Doo.

My point is–and yes I have one–that very subtle differences can make very big impacts in the world of language. For the last few days I’ve been preparing for a workshop I’ll be co-leading this weekend with the incredible Chris Mandeville. We’re opening for Jeffery Deaver who will be conducting a seminar about writing commercial fiction. Deaver is a bestselling author of thrillers and mysteries who, unlike many of his peers, manages to write very successfully in numerous sub-genres of his category.

To begin the workshop, I will be leading an analysis of the first pages of four of Deaver’s books. What has amazed me in my preparation is how perfectly Deaver sets up tension from his very first words and does so in a style that’s elegantly consistent with his sub-genre. He achieves his effect, among other things, through exceedingly fine-tuned word choices. For example, consider the second line of Deaver’s book The Blue Nowhere: “Lara Gibson sat at the bar of Vesta’s Grill on De Anza in Cupertino, California, gripping the cold stem of her martini glass and ignoring the two young chip-jocks standing nearby, casting flirtatious glances at her.” Let’s analyze, shall we?

First, the name: “Lara Gibson.” I may be reading too much into Deaver’s thinking here, but “Lara” is the first name of the ultimate techno dreamgirl Lara Croft and “Gibson” is the last name of the greatest hero of cyberpunk, writer William Gibson. Whether intentionally (as I suspect) or unintentionally, Deaver has created the perfect name for an intelligent and attractive woman in the milieu of the techno-thriller.

Next, the location: a bar on De Anza in Cupertino, California. We will later learn this spot is directly across the street from the headquarters of Apple Computer and Sun Microsystems, and thus a perfect place to kick off a book about computers, high intrigue, and murder.

Then comes my favorite part of the sentence: “gripping the cold stem of her martini glass.” When my college writing professor lectured about salient details, he couldn’t have picked a better exemplar than this. Our cyberbabe (whose attractiveness is confirmed in the final part of the sentence by the flirtatious chip-jocks) is not just holding or touching her  glass, she’s gripping it. This single word gives us desperation, fear, and when you note that she’s gripping the mere stem of a glass, small comfort. If I were in the mood for gripping, I’d much rather be gripping something significant, something mortared to the steadfast earth. But the stem of a glass…? Inwardly, subconsciously, I cringe, imagining that delicate stem snapping in Lara Gibson’s tight-fisted grip. And, of course, it’s not any old glass in Lara’s hand. It’s a martini glass. So, we now know our heroine’s drink of choice and it confirms her stature as a suave cyberbabe, otherwise at home in this fancy Silicon Valley grill. Finally, showing how a single, tiny adjective can dramatically enhance the mood of a sentence…we get that the tightly gripped stem of the martini glass is “cold.” Perfection.