How do we express our stories in language that is powerful, evocative, and captivating? How do we come up with those turns of phrase, descriptions, dialogue, and insights that readers will remember long after the story has ended?
So much goes into crafting a memorable story. Some aspects are initially hidden from view and only emerge as the story progresses—solid structure, vibrant characters, theme, setting, pace, voice, mood, and insight.
Others, such as striking physical and psychological descriptions, memorable smilies and metaphors, and word choice, however, are immediately apparent.
A good writer knows when to dazzle us with exotic and colourful words and when to use a more subtle vocabulary in order to let something else shine through. A gifted writer is like a gifted conductor, painter or sculptor—colouring and molding every detail to a greater purpose—now drawing our attention to one aspect, now to another.
Today I want to point to what is perhaps the easiest skill to spot—the accomplished use of language.
Examples in stories are as innumerable as they are varied, so my brief selection is personal.
Here is the opening paragraph of The Spire by William Golding, a story about how a man’s obsession leads to destruction. Dean Jocelyn, the Dean of his cathedral, is obsessed with building a four hundred foot tall spire. The result is that he bankrupts his church, alienates his brethren and pressures the master builder to continue the folly, with devastating consequences. But the start of it all seems bright and auspicious:
“He was laughing, chin up, and shaking his head. God the Father was exploding in his face with a glory of sunlight through painted glass, a glory that moved with his movements to consume and exalt Abraham and Isaac and then God again. The tears of laughter in his eyes made additional spokes and wheels and rainbows.”
Words such as ‘laughing, chin up’, ‘God…exploding in his face…glory of sunlight…’ exhibit Jocelyn’s almost maniacal joy stemming from his impossible project. The last line of the paragraph, however, hints at the hallucinatory, deluded nature of his vision: ‘The tears of laughter in his eyes made additional spokes and wheels and rainbows.’ Jocelyn sees the world, in other words, through the subjective prism of his obsession, and this distorts his judgment. This distortion is hinted at by the line: ‘… adding additional spokes and wheels and rainbows’ to his vision.
”You should strive to achieve writing that jumps of the page.”
Next, here are some arresting lines from Paul Harding’s first novel, Tinkers, which won the Pulitzer for literature in 2010. There is something magical about Harding’s use of language that transcends space and time and makes it truly universal. He starts his book with the lines:
“GEORGE WASHINGTON CROSBY BEGAN TO hallucinate eight days before he died. From the rented hospital bed, placed in the middle of his own living room, he saw insects running in and out of imaginary cracks in the ceiling plaster.”
A little later, Harding gives us this surreal description of Gorge’s world tearing open, as he prepares for death.
“The roof collapsed, sending down a fresh avalanche of wood and nails, tar paper and shingles and insulation. There was the sky, filled with flat-topped clouds, cruising like a fleet of anvils across the blue. George had the watery, raw feeling of being outdoors when you are sick. The clouds halted, paused for an instant, and plummeted onto his head. The very blue of the sky followed, draining from the heights into that cluttered concrete socket. Next fell the stars, tinkling about him like the ornaments of heaven shaken loose. Finally, the black vastation itself came untacked and draped over the entire heap, covering George’s confused obliteration.”
This language, dealing with the characters approaching death, is evocative, poetic, almost hallucinatory, yet concrete. How can we not want to know more?
In my own novella, The Nostalgia of Time Travel, the protagonist, a physicist, named Benjamin Vlahos, agonises over his failure to travel back in time in order to correct an error he committed that cost his wife her life. His pained state of mind is conveyed to the reader through metaphors and concrete language:
“Sometimes, I wonder what it must be like to be a subatomic particle existing for the briefest of moments; all the joy and pain of birth and death compressed between the two staccato ticks of that relentless hand. At other times I imagine a scaled-down version of myself, living on the surface of the watch, fighting against the perpetual ticking of that fearsome engine. I imagine gripping the watch’s hands in my bleeding fists, my arms extended, my body and head thrust forward, my legs bent and wide apart, until I stop the hands from ticking, and force them back, back to that moment on the Sydney pier when I stopped to buy my last pack of cigarettes, while Miranda stood on the pavement smiling brightly back at me.”
Words such as ‘joy and pain’, ’fearsome engine’, ’bleeding fists’, and ‘body and head thrust forward’, and ‘bleeding’ paint an almost heroic struggle against the effects of time. Ultimately, Benjamin, despite being a theoretical physicist, opts for art, not science, to come to terms with his pain, guilt and loss. This realisation is compressed into a series of simple questions:
“Isn’t everything worth knowing squeezed inside the kernel of a story? All that’s ever been written, sang and spoken, pressed into a single pearl? The story is our raft when old age casts us out to sea; the logs are the memories, the ropes are the love and kindness we have shared. Can my equations ever be that?”
Here, the significance of the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of our lives, is suggested as being something precious, like a pearl. But like a pearl, which grows from a grain of sand in the flesh of the oyster, wisdom grows through effort and pain—caused by a life which has cast us out to sea.
Despite our competing narratives and cultures, our disagreements over who is right and who is wrong, the story is our raft, our only hope for survival as a species—if only we could let love and kindness bind us all together. We are, after all, a resilient species that keeps trying to get things right, despite our failures.
I’ll end with this hopeful, last paragraph from Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby:
“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And one fine morning — So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Summary
Use evocative, memorable language in your writing, including apt figures of speech to convey the powerful insights and wisdom in your stories. Your writing will be better for it.
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