Useless Words

So, you want to be a writer?

How many times have we heard someone say -- wait, that sounds like an old Ray Price song.

Anyway, do you think it’s easy to write? Correctly? er.. correct?

I’ve finished a short story titled Trading Horse.  I think it’s a good one and need to get it ready to send to my publisher, editor, or submit to the market.  So, how do I make this thing ‘slickern goose grease’ and impress folks?  Let’s look at some guidelines.

I can't write color! No overly descriptive words that they might deem superfluous. So all those old-time writers where every sentence was poetry in motion? Fuggettaboutit. No time for that. In today's instant gratification society, we can't be expected to wade through that kind of stuff.

Looking at published criteria I can’t use really or very.  So, I can’t write, “You’re a very pretty girl.”  Or, if the guy (I’m assuming here) is really gob smacked, “You’re a really, really, very pretty girl.”  So, I guess that leaves, “You pretty.  Or, you ugly.”  Short, but to the point. Yeah, I know. You're beautiful would work too. But every girl wants v e r y tacked onto that.

We can’t use that, just, then or any instance of those, er... that, er... them.  So, lessee, take away the ending ‘that’, then that leaves me with ending the sentence with a preposition (of), and I’ve already qualified the sentence using ‘that’ again.  And ‘then’.  Aw, man! I used ‘then’.  And an exclamation point!  Oh, God.  I can’t do that. OK. Throw it all away. You ugly.

Now we’re into the ‘ly’ words.  It’s a death knell to your work if you use totally, completely, absolutely, literally, definitely, certainly, probably, actually, basically or virtually.

I stumbled upon a great article with a really, really great thought. And the nugget of wisdom was in the comments, not the article. See the article here: Matt Moore's article on adverbs.  And the takeaway? Why not use rhythm, meter and sound in our prose. Speak it. Listen to it. Try Word's text to words function. OK. Back to levity.

But wait! There's more. I cannot convey the amount of vilification heaped upon your psyche if you use start, begin, began, begun, rather, quite, somewhat, or somehow.

Neither may I use said, replied, asked, or use any dialogue tags at all, unless I ask someone’s permission.

Who are they? The permission people? I asked Wiki. They don't know. Siri doesn't know. Google does, but they won't tell me. And I'm scared to death of that Facebook Portal thingee.

Do you think it's hard to write now?  We can’t look down, or up.  Or, wonder, ponder, think, thought, feel, felt, understand or realize. I can't tell you those things, I have to show you. Can't write, I thought about Jenny being pretty. I can only write Jenny pretty. 

I’d grab my burning chest, but I can’t describe it by using breath, breathe, inhale or exhale.  I can’t shrug, nod or reach.  I can’t use long sentences tied together by ands, buts, or frog legs.  (I’m a writer—trust me, I can tie in the frog legs)  Hell, I can’t use a non-approved font.  It's Times New Roman 12 or die.

How on earth or the Federation of Planets do I write a story?

Now, I'll admit. I haven’t sold a ton of books.  Since I write in the western genre, I thought I’d check Louis L’Amour’s stories. I have them all. He’s sold millions.  Just as I thought, most of those monumental mistakes are on his pages.  It’s the same for most of the descriptive prose writing western authors I’ve read.

Yep, Purple Prose... where the written descriptive word resembles poetry and rolls off your tongue to make a beautiful world leap from the pages into your mind. Sigh.

As an experiment I started grabbing books off my shelves in all genres—books written by successful authors.  When I opened a random page, I found the mistakes listed above.  Not all at once.  Gimme a break, here.  So, if they’d done it right, would their books have sold two million instead of one? Or, none at all?

Mystery.

 So, why do the experts want old, new and fledgling writer’s submissions to look like a blank page—dry of wit and empty of beauty? Pretty girls, but never very pretty girls? Or, exceptionally pretty girls.  Maybe just “damn, you nice!” is better. Go to a crowded place and listen. It might surprise you to hear language going that direction. 


When I ask experts about this, I’m told, “Well, you’re no Louis L’Amour.”  That is very, very true.  Like, really, literally very true.  Absolutely true.

But then, I’m betting he was never pushed to turn in something so devoid of feeling it looks like the Klingon version of the user's manual to the Starship Enterprise.


I’ll just keep muddling along and do the best I can.  Even if I use euphemisms and attention grabbing qualifiers… and go broke.  Can’t afford to be a writer anyway.  The conferences alone bust my budget.

One thing I do know.  For every published writer, there are hundreds of experts telling them how to do it, and the rules change at will. Each genre have their own take on things. Each new editor has their own interpretation of the rules.

Maybe some of them are correct.  Surely, (snicker) they have our best interest at heart.

And don’t start throwing your degrees in English at me. I made a D in high school English.  My teacher cried a lot, but was quick to tell me it wasn’t my fault. ( eye-roll ) 😀

I’ll keep writing, trying to perfect the craft.  I must.  Life goes on.


Assignment:  levity.  Look it up.  We need more.  

All photos are attributed to myself or licensed under CCO commons.

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Check out my newest release Limestone County.
It's a contemporary western I think everyone will enjoy.


Limestone County  
"Darrel Sparkman keeps readers on the edge of their seats with the laser-precision of a master."
--Linda Broday, NY Times and USA Today bestselling author


                                             "Sparkman's work quivers with a dark western vibe reminiscent of Justified."
                                              --Dee Burks--Bestselling Author

THE MEASURE OF A MAN IS NOT WHERE HE STANDS IN MOMENTS OF PEACE, BUT WHERE HE STANDS IN MOMENTS OF TUMULT.

Jim Lane is pulling himself together after burn-out from a rescue gone bad. A peaceful life on Stockton lake seems just the ticket.

AN EXPLOSION OF ANGER.

Jolted by betrayal, he survives an attempt on his life only to be drawn into a bloody turf war with the Russian mob. County sheriff Rita Morris knows his history and isn’t buying his explanation.

UNREASONING FEAR.

Rita lost her husband to a random shooting. Unsure if she’s ready to move on, she can’t deny the connection she feels with Jim. It’s a complication, but the pair form a united front with a simple message to the Russians. Get out of Limestone County!

A COUNTRY BOY.

Jim Lane knows he can’t lose this fight. When the first bullet flies he steps into a whirlwind of twists and turns, new love, and old friends that hurtle to the end with an ally he never expects... and a blood debt that will keep him looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life.

New Release — Tales of the Old West — A Collection of Seven Classic Western Stories

Get ready for seven action-packed stories of the old West that will pull you right in and take you along for the ride of your life! If you love traditional stories of bygone western days, this collection of tales is for you. You’ll find a wide variety of stories included in this anthology by James Reasoner, John D. Nesbitt, Livia J. Washburn, Cheryl Pierson, Darrel Sparkman, and David W. Amendola. 

Saddle up and ride the dangerous range of Indian Territory, search for a deadly mysterious beast, track outlaws, or solve a grisly mystery—and never leave your easy chair! This collection makes a great gift to yourself or other fans of TALES OF THE OLD WEST!

"Pearl of Great Price" by John D. Nesbitt

"Rescue Trail" and "The Last Warrant" by Darrel Sparkman

"Hidden Trails" by Cheryl Pierson

"The Beast of Dead Mule Gulch" by David W. Amendola

"The Bad Hombres" by Livia J. Washburn

"The Prophet Mountains" by James Reasoner

    

New Release — Death Stalks Apache Oro by Sam Fadala

The killings only happen at night, and only to the fairest of the “working girls” who live in their haven, the Citadel, near the town of Apache Oro, Arizona Territory.

Arizona Ranger John Briggs is called in to investigate, along with local law enforcement officials. Failure to find the murderer haunts them all—he’s someone local…maybe someone they all pass on the streets of Apache Oro every day.

But this is no ordinary killer. He manages to vanish into thin air, like the skinwalkers the Navajos speak of. Is he mortal? Is there any way to stop him?

One by one, the men of Apache Oro are ruled out as suspects. When the murderer strikes again, killing someone close to Briggs and severely wounding him, he knows he’s getting close to discovering the killer’s identity. Ranger John Briggs doubles down on his vow to find this heinous criminal, as DEATH STALKS APACHE ORO…

EXCERPT

     Terrence hired an architect to transfer his idea from imagination to paper. The vision was soon a reality. When he was satisfied with the plan, he called builders, skilled craftsmen of individual trades. His was a dream born of childhood expressed only to Anna, an older, experienced lady who would oversee the women. Only she would know why this rich man created a safe place for “free-living” women.

     “They will be protected here,” he said. “The girls will all be princesses. For the girls, the women, that is, it will be a haven, a true home. They shall never be harmed. If so, woe to the man who dares, because a force will retaliate most severely.” His words were lace, but they were encased in iron. Terrence hired men who would do the retaliation. Since no miner had a wife, and since every miner extracted from rock a small fortune in gold, it followed that in short order the odd hombre’s dream home for “his ladies” was larger than the fine hotel, more lavish than the saloon, Thurgood’s showpiece patterned after a “ranch” in Texas.

     Citizens of Apache Oro thought of the town as charmed. Was there not, along with gold, a million years of clear, cold water piped into every home, every store, even the railway station? Was there not an ice house supplied by a never-ending slough not far away? Ice for preserving food. Ice for that keg of good beer. And was it not a town where women could walk night streets safely? 

     It was such a place. 

     But something evil would come to the little wooden town, and peace would be shattered like crystal glass.