Tag: Writing

Lame Shame Name Games

Nomenclature: it means “something about names.” Names may seem a small part of the narrative, but naming conventions will either be undercurrents of appropriate accentuation or they’ll be the proverbial cracks in rusted armor.

Names done well will be fitting, poignant, maybe even memorable. Done like an amateur, and you’ll have oft-repeated, repugnant eyesores, infecting your vision like an oozing gnat assaulting your eyeball. Small, yes, but annoying unto disgrace if you can’t get those little things right.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I feel like I can tell a good story, but I want to take it to the next level by picking some memorable names for my characters. I don’t want to make them too cliché, but I think stronger writers have a knack for picking the “right” name. Any suggestions?

—Ethan Fritz, King of Prussia, Pa.

It’s not every day that I receive an email from royalty, much less the King of Prussia himself. I’d be happy to offer my suggestions, fealty, and remaining serfs upon my property, my lord. If you have a knighthood to spare, hit me up. I’ve always wanted to brand out as Sir Writing All Wrong, First Regent of LeBaronshire.

Speaking of LeBaron, here are some suggested considerations when it comes to naming.

1: Don’t name characters where they shouldn’t be named.

Pick a name fitting for the space and time.

“‘T’was a blighte upon my honour,’ quip’d Kraysheawn Denarius.” — Wrong.

(Blatant disregard for the respective era. Don’t do that.)

“Rusty ‘Big Jim’ McDigger pranced out of the salon feeling like a new man.” — Wrong.

(Unless he went into the salon with a shotgun, I don’t think people named Rusty ‘Big Jim’ frequent those sorts of places. Not sure about the prancing.)

“The Reverend Alburt Stuffedcrust preached long and hard upon fornication.” — Wrong.

(Alburt works, but Stuffedcrust is pushing credulity. Sounds too yummy.)

“‘I need those documents and reports now!’ demanded Janice Malarkey.” — Right.

(Not too gimmicky, and [no offense to Janices] I can see myself being bossed around by a Janice. The high-heel fits.)

2: You’re not strong enough to go generic.

Don’t try the cutesy trick of “letting the story make the character.” Lame name, lame game.

“He couldn’t find his way to the ever enigmatic Brandon Fields.” — Wrong.

(Wait, maybe “Brandon Fields” is a place. If I have to ask, then you’ve failed.)

“Sarah Palmer cast her eyes upon the gazing shore.” — Wrong.

(Almost had me at “gazing shore.” Forgot to dismiss another bland name here.)

“No man could stand up to Brawn Davis.” — Wrong.

(Unacceptable, with “Brawn” placing 5th on the Top 10 Baby Boy Names of 2011.)

“The target, O’Higgins Brodansky, had eluded the best agents of P.O.R.T.O.P.O.T.T.I. with ease.” — Right.

(Can’t argue with ‘Brodansky,’ bro.)

3: Don’t get too cheesed away either.

If it’s too easy and too cheesy, you fail both tests. F-minus-minus. EZ-Cheez™ is not for writing. Save it for the pork rinds.

“Marlin Fisher reeled in the biggest tuna of the millennium.” — Wrong.

(Too easy, unless Marlin really wanted to be a doctor, only to have his dad replace his hands with fishing poles to limit his career choice to his unfortunate namesake.)

“The horse just couldn’t break Helena Montana.” — Wrong.

(Helena’s a big place. You’re gonna need a bigger horse.)

“Slow day in the meat locker for Butch Cleaver.” — Wrong.

(If Butch is a fishmonger, he can be forgiven. Since he’s not, then no. And why is poor Butch hanging out in a meat locker? Is he really hanging? *gasp* Is this a butcher shop run by cannibals?)

“Anyone hiring Jim Bob Deadfield knew they were getting the best assassin clown in the business.” — Right.

(I have difficulty fathoming the scarier component of this: a hitman named “Jim Bob” or a clown surnamed “Deadfield.” It’s too convenient, and it’s just right.)

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and appointed 5th Duke of Haruld’s Regentistry, Baronet.

Incongruous Juxtaposition – Genre Combination and the Art of Mayhem

“The force of Nature could no farther go: / To make a third she joined the former two / Don’t try this with prescription drugs.”

Being creative. Sometimes it takes a bit of the “add this incendiary here” to the “gee, what’s this thing on fire here” to get something going. Dynamite. Grenades. The hydrogen bomb. The exploding PB&J. Things that have bettered life, merely by taking one thing that works (like hydrogen) and adding it to something else that works (a bomb).

Same goes for writing, no? Sometimes the pigeon can’t be crammed further into that hole. Problem? Dig another hole. Go for that historical chick-lit, that Western Gothic mystery, or the epistolary autobiography. Blow something up. Just don’t screw it up.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Are there certain kinds of genres that shouldn’t go together? I want to write some crossgenre works, but I need to make sure I’m not trying to combine oil and water here. Thanks man.  

—Jacob Art, New Orleans, La.

You won’t have an issue combining oil and water, chemically speaking.

You will have an issue if you treat genre combination like a popcorn bowl of meds, mixed up, unmarked, ready for a party of post-pubescent idiots, psychotropic stomachaches, and a house call from your nearest EMT.

I’ll give you a few of the “don’t write these” combinations, as long as you and your buddies don’t write these. I’m not responsible for anaphylactic shock or somnambulistic seizures.

Prehistoric Legal Thriller

“Tru’ok Rgh’ghr faces his stickiest legal battle yet, with intrigues ranging from a pterodactyl accident to a so-called “wheel.” The inventor of fire, Groth’r Mngroah, is found dead in his two-story cave, clutching a tablet bearing strange writings. The blame quickly falls on Groth’rr’rr, the only one in the village who can write. While Tru’ok takes what seems like a hopeless case, confident he can persuade a thick-headed jury, he soon finds himself in over his thick, protruding brow with the swirling cloud of deceit surrounding the case.” — Requires too much suspension of disbelief regarding cavemen, the legal system, and the “thrilling” aspect of legal matter.

Armpit Slick / Feminist Lit

(If you don’t know what “armpit slicks” are, then you’ve missed out on life. Look them up, puke your bloody bath of laughter, then come on back.)

“Jane Peacelove toils away in her kitchen, longing for freedom from cooking, baking, and sandwich making. Little does she know that she (and countless other housewives) are being held captive by an unlikely alliance of Nazis, Communists, and Nordic Socialists. As she tackles her womanly duties, she fantasizes over a “knight in shining armor,” ready to sweep her away.  Little does she know that Ace Racer, a shirtless male model/soldier of fortune, hatches a plan to break into the fortress and face countless odds to free countless damsels in distress. Will they escape? Will Ace survive? Will Jane ever be liberated from her womanly shackles?” — (Sorry, I’m still laughing about “armpit slicks.”)

Hardboiled children’s detective fiction

“After discovering the body of a coke dealer, the Boxcar children find themselves sucked into an unforgiving world of drugs, violence, and addiction as their curiosity gets the best of them.” — from The Boxcar Children: The Seven Pounds of Blow Mystery. Yeah, imagine what you’d do to your average 4th-grader (and her parents) with a classic like that.

Christian bromance

“Brace wants to share his faith with his best bro Chad. But while they share a love of Jack Johnson, XBOX 360, and AXE body spray, will they find a mutual friend in Jesus Christ?” — I shouldn’t have to explain this one.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and found in the latest “Man’s Life,” available at your nearest five and dime. 

Say No More

You know what they say: if you can’t say anything nice, then you’d better shut up.

And in writing, if you can’t say anything but “say,” then you should listen to what we have to tell you.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I cringe every time I see dialogue written by lesser writers. It’s like “he said, she said” in the worst kind of way. Say, said, says, saying, like there’s nothing more to be said about SAID. But when I try to write without using “say,” it gets more difficult as it goes on. There’s got to be a better way to change it up without sounding redundant or intentionally constrained.

—Torey Lewis, Irvine, Calif.

I’ll break protocol and begin by quoting Oxford intellectual Right Said Fred’s glorious exposition on the subject:

“I’m too sexy to continue employing ‘said’ as an indication of the conveyance of communication. With viable options manifestly promulgated, one should deign to refrain. Replied. Uttered. Responded. Insisted. Noted. Mentioned. ‘Say’ no more.”

Well put, Mr. Said Fred.

You’re missing the point if you feel your dialogue has to be adulterated and fornicated by such verbal markers. Any verbal markers. Regardless of how cleverly you vary them; that’s still making the same mistake, but with style. Sure, you want to differentiate who speaks what, but a writer worth his silt will ensure that he’s not writing himself into a snare like that. Take, for instance, this gem of a barf-trigger:

“I’m pregnant,” he said. “And I’m the father.”

“How is that possible?” said Jill.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Jack said, “It must have happened after those hCG injections, I can’t explain it.”

“But I trusted you,” she said.

Aaaaand, we’re done. You can put away that airsick bag. “Said” is not your cowbell. You do not need more of it.

If you’re going to use any markers at all, make them count.

“All your base are belong to us,” he affirmed.

“i think halo is a pretty cool guy. eh kills aleins and DOESN’T AFRAID OF ANYTHING,” she declared.

“Has anyone really been far even as decided to use even go want to do look more like?” he inquired.

“No buts, cuts, coconuts, Mass, or Eucharist,” he interdicted.

The dialogue should grip your eyeballs and brand into them the patterns, the sensible ebb and flow, the cadences of well-tuned conversation. Make it good enough to stand on its own. And if you resort to using a marker, don’t prop—accentuate. Slap one of them down to slap your reader senseless with goodness, nothing less.

Enough said.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and recited within your daily Cantata Incantatis.