Hope you
all had a nice week off and got a lot of writing done. Or at least a lot of relaxing so you’re fresh
and ready to write again.
As it turns
out, this little rant has turned out to be well-timed... but we’ll get to that
in a bit.
For now, I
wanted to talk about paint and simplicity.
As one or
two of you might know, I am a bit of a miniature wargamer, or, as they’re
known to the greater world at large, a geek.
Yep, I build little toy soldiers and beasties, scale scenery, vehicles,
the whole deal. I used to be much more
into it than I am today, but I still enjoy building the models and playing with
my group now and then.
Recently I
was painting some models and remembered an old article I’d read ages back in
one of the hobby magazines I subscribed to (again, used to be much more into
it). They had a regular column on
painting techniques for little toy soldiers, and one month a guest columnist
wrote about what he called “non-metallic metallics.” It was a style of painting where you made swords, guns, armor, and so on look like steel and gold without actually using steel or gold paint. Instead you’d use lots of whites, blues, grays, oranges, and yellows—all different shades—to create highlights and reflections and the appearance of shiny metal. Make sense?
So much better, he said. So much
more realistic. It really brought the
miniatures to life.
Now, the
very next month they ran an article from another painter—their regular guy, in
fact—and his article amounted to “no, no, NO!”
He was very much against the whole non-metallic metallics thing. As he explained, it was using a lot of time
and extra paint to create the same effect you’d get naturally by just using the
metallic paints. Plus, the non-metallic
style was completely angle-dependent. It
worked well for displays and dioramas, but wasn’t appropriate for models that
would be out on a tabletop battlefield and viewed from many different
directions. That’s when the non-metallic
illusion would break down. As he
explained, why buy seven or eight pots of paint to achieve what—for these
purposes—you could do much better with one?
That was
the last painting column, if memory serves, and the regular guy was never
mentioned again. The company that
published the magazine also sold the paint.
Draw your own conclusions about what happened there.
Now, aside
from the capitalist warning, what’s the message here?
There’s a
subset of folks who insist things can’t be simple. Simple is stupid. Simple is for amateurs, they’ll tell you, not
professionals. You’re not going to use
that common, easy paint scheme, are you?
Because you’ll never be considered an expert that way
Unfortunately,
too many of these people consider themselves gurus of some kind or another. They’ll charge you good money for bad advice.
Advice they’ll usually try to pitch as rules.
There’s
nothing wrong with simple. Having a
simple paint scheme let me paint the bulk of my Space Marine army in a few
weekends rather than a few months. I had
close to a hundred little soldiers the size of my thumb—I wasn’t going to spend
hours and hours on each one.
But...
There were
a couple models I did lavish with some extra time. Captain Machiavel got a lot of fine detail
picked out on his armor. I put
highlights on Veteran Sergeant Constantine’s sword. Veteran Dreadnaught Faustus has a ton of
scrollwork on his weapons and purity seals.
(Yes, I
named some of my little toy soldiers—stay on topic, okay?)
Just like
there’s nothing wrong with simplicity, there’s nothing inherently
wrong with complexity, either. It’s all
about having the experience to know when each is appropriate. I wasn’t going to spend hours and hours
painting each of the rank-and-file soldiers, because I didn’t want a hundred
individual paint jobs distracting from the look of the army as a whole. That said, I’m still going to make the army
commander, squad leaders, and big models look good because... well, they’re the
ones people are going to focus on.
See where
I’m going with this?
As an
aspiring writer, I encountered lots of folks trying to tell me my writing
wasn’t sophisticated enough. That my vocabulary was too simplistic.
And I listened to them. I started
using a lot more adverbs. I tried to use
metaphors and similes in the description of every person, place, and thing that
appeared in my stories. Hell, for a
while I made a point of never using the same dialogue descriptor twice on a page.
And I never, ever used said.
Said was stupid. It for amateurs,
and I was a professional
Thing is,
none of this made my writing any better.
Oh, sure, it was boosting my word count a lot, but it wasn’t really improving
my ability. In fact, one of the first
times I ever got to sit down with an actual professional editor—someone who
could pay me money for my work—his two big pieces of advice for me were to cut all my adverbs and go back to using said.
Let’s do a
quick test. Grab a novel or anthology
that’s near you. Not a Kindle, if that’s
possible—a real book will work better for this.
Preferably something you’re familiar with.
Got
one? Flip through it, or just open at
random once or thrice. You’re looking
for a page with dialogue, not exposition. Found it? Count up how many times said appears on
that page.
I’m willing
to bet it’s there a decent number of times.
And I bet you never noticed until I just asked you to count them
up. Said is invisible. When I use said, readers can enjoy my
overall story rather than getting caught up in individual sentences that break the flow.
Y’see,
Timmy, using complex phrasing and obscure words doesn’t automatically make me a
good writer. Especially if there’s no
point to my complexity and I don’t understand the words I’m
using. If that’s the case, trying to do
this can actually make me a worse writer. I’m suddenly the guy trying to do fine detail
work with a paint roller, or trying to cook a five course meal when I haven’t
quite figured out the toaster yet.
Again,
there’s nothing wrong with being more sophisticated, or to using ten-syllable words over two-syllable ones. There just
needs to be a point to it. It needs to
serve a purpose in my telling of this story.
If it’s just me, the author, trying to show off how impressive I am and how extensive my vocabulary is... well, that’s not really helping the
story. It’s just the literary equivalent
of hanging rubber testicles on the back of my truck.
I mostly
use said in my writing. Mostly. I’m not against having my characters shout
or mutter or snap or whisper or shriek or hiss
or call out. When they do,
though, I have a solid reason for making that bit of dialogue stand out on the
page.
So ignore those folks saying you must be more complex with a wider vocabulary. And the ones telling you to always keep it
simple. Just focus on telling your story the best way you can.
And that’s
that.
In other
news... It is, alas, that time of year.
So, if I may, I’d like to direct your attention to my usual Black Friday offer for those who need it, the standard Cyber Monday appeal to consumer
capitalism, and the suggestions of much better stuff to give the readers in
your life.
I’d also
like to point out that my publisher, Penguin Random House, is doing a fantastic
online campaign this season called Give a Book. If you’re on Facebook or Twitter, just use
the hashtag #giveabook when you talk about buying books for friends, family,
loved ones, and so on. Every time
someone uses the hashtag, from now until December 24th, PRH is going to donate
a book to the First Book literary charity.
The goal this year is to hit 35,000 books (last year they aimed for
25,000 and hit 37,000). So take a minute out
of your holiday frenzy and do something for a good cause.
Next time,
I’d like to talk about the people we enjoy reading about.
Until then...
go write.
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