Arthur Plotnik is in the House
I don't recall exactly when I discovered the word wizard-guru that is Arthur Plotnik. But all I know is that whenever he writes about writing or language or style everything he says is jam-packed with insights. Among his books are The Elements of Expression, The Elements of Editing, The Elements of Authorship, and the bestselling writer's guide Spunk & Bite. Now how could you not appreciate a master who calls a book Spunk & Bite? Like me, you might already marvel at his love of language, his sly twists,wordsmithery, and humor. Which is why when I blogged for Powells I recommended that writers read his books, heed his words and called him a freakin genius-god in the writing world. With his latest book Better Than Great, A Plenitudinous Compendium of
Wallopingly Fresh Superlatives available for preorder and on sale June 1, it seemed like a fine time to ask him questions that I know you'll find elucidating.Q:Could you tell us why you decided to write Better Than Great, A Plenitudinous Compendium of Wallopingly Fresh Superlatives (that's a mouthful). I realize that this is designed to bolster a writer's vocabulary, but I'm wondering if you might have another secret agenda you'd care to divulge.
A: I
could say it was to liberate humankind from the tyranny of stock superlatives,
such as great, awesome, amazing, incredible, and unbelievable. But first, I'd wanted to purge my own vocabulary of
these exhausted, one-size-fits-all terms, the ones we use for anything to be
emphasized. A plate of nachos: awesome.
A trip to Machu Picchu: awesome. New
haircut: amazing. The seas parting: amazing. I was tired of words that had
lost all force and make no distinctions. I even tired of wishing people a great this or fabulous that.
So I
started gathering and shaping playful alternatives for my own use. Soon, in a greeting
card, I was wishing friends a "spumescently brilliant, rapturous,
pleoperfect, clangorous, jollified, gladsome, ebullient, soul-schvitzing,
luminous, boffo, festal holiday season, not to mention a nirvanic New Year's
and annum analeptic." The list soon
grew into a book idea that everyone called, for their (then) lack of a better
word, great.
You seem to genuinely delight in language. Since words are our humble tools,
how can this love of language be passed along to beginning writers?
A: They
have to experience that delight---the heart-juddering frisson of the perfect,
unanticipated word or turn of phrase; the savor of sustained lyricism.
The trouble
is, our everyday world hardly brims with language virtuosos or personalities who
ignite a passion for words. Abbreviated communication forms like texting are
anathema to language-love (though a well-Twittered word can still delight).
Without inspiring models (mostly from reading), new writers become
message-oriented, attitude-oriented, their language rarely acquiring the texture
that makes it adhere and resonate. And so if falls to the deft writing coach to
guide beginners through model passages---eloquent to funky examples, Jane
Austin to Junot Diaz---hoping to plant the love that cannot be suppressed.
Q: What is your explanation of how language stimulates the senses in a reader and
your tips for doing so?
A: Hey,
no essay questions! But the short advice
is: Write to the guts. Get something visceral into the equation---something
that stimulates the sensual memory, the emotions, appetite, nervous system. Devices
for doing so include surprise (we react chemically to the unexpected), sensual
particulars, sensations spelled out, or an association with felt experiences.
For instance,
how do you describe a color to make it sensed and felt? Some examples: "Hectic
red" (Shelley),with that surprising, visceral modifier. "The black of
the void" (Gary Shteyngart), evoking fear---the alarm bell of the senses. "A
green-green-green that makes you want to cry" (Sandra Cisneros), spelling
out the palpable sensation. "Eyes of "anti-freeze green" (Chuck
Palahniuk), a particular reference with chilling associations. "Upholstery
the color of Thousand Island Dressing"(John Banville)---something you can,
ugh, taste.
Q: Do you have sage advice for when to modify and when to leave the noun alone?
And what about adverbs? I'm an anti-adverb editor, but I'm wondering if you're
more lenient than I when it comes to these critters.
A: Leave
nouns alone when, in context, they have all the force and clarity they need. "Memories
lurk like dustballs at the back of drawers," wrote Jay McInerney. Did he mean affecting memories? Fragile,
hidden dustballs? Dresser drawers? Probably. Did he need
to say it? God no. On the other hand, when John Lanchester writes, "This
grew in me an . . . an intellectual
tumescence," we do appreciate having the type of tumescence clarified, as
well as the evocative image.
Same
story with adverbs, which tell us the how (manner) and the how much (degree) of
a verb or modifier. He drank copiously
(degree). He drank sloppily (manner).
He's a reportedly excessive drinker
(manner). Adverbs evolved to supply
extra information, nothing wrong with that. What has given them a bad name is
their frequent (or cliché) use when the information and/or force is already
there: She's completely unique. I was
incoherently babbling. You are totally bedazzling. I hungrily
wolfed the meatballs.
But when
used inventively, adverbs add nuance, tone, and especially emphasis. In Better Than Great's introduction, I offer some examples from journalism
and literature: kneebucklingly sweet;
blissfully deranged; searingly gifted; blamelessly beautiful. And Jessica,
didn't you once recklessly describe
me as a "freakin' genius-god in the writing world"? With the intensifying
adverb "freakin(g)," you were emphasizing the degree of genius-divinity
or the strength of your conviction. Maybe it was excessive, but I liked it so
much that my wife had it printed on a T-shirt. An adverbial T-shirt.
Q: Years ago you wrote that voice
is in "harmony with your roots." I've used that expression many times
while talking to writers about voice--crediting you, of course. I'm wondering
if you could talk a bit about voice in fiction and nonfiction and how writers
can develop a consistent, potent voice.
A:Greater
genius-gods than I have opined that voice is the total of all the decisions you
make as you choose words and put them together. Just about everything in your
education and experience influences those decisions, beginning with your roots
and including your homies, your favorite literary models, your aspirations, and
your relationship to an audience of listeners or readers. Some writing mavens
say that you don't make or "develop" a voice, but that it simply emerges
along with your personality. Rhetoricians from the Greeks on have presented
figures of speech ( for example, hyperbole, metaphor, and irony) and other
devices as the means to a style or voice.
I'm a
little of both schools: the flavor and consistency of your voice will take care
of itself; but understanding the elements of rhetoric---which are about
emphasis and persuasiveness---help give it force. Good writing guides teach
these elements one way or another, and are worth studying to a point. Mainly,
they clear the junk from your writing and reveal patterns for styling your own
wit and inventiveness into something voice-like. But when you write, don't
think about your voice being heard and adored; what you want an audience to
"hear" is ideas, feelings, and story well rendered. The adoration
will come.
Q: What's your best advice to
writers on editing their own writing?
A:Standard advice says: Write first---get the words down---and edit later. I edit partly as I write; it makes me feel better as I go forward, but it's disablingly slow. Whenever you do edit, though, follow the big rules: Omit needless words, as Strunk & White rightly tell you; say it shorter, making sure the verbiage is never too much for the thought. Kill your darlings---those belabored turns of phrase that call attention to themselves and away from the message. Favor the concrete---particulars---over abstractions and generalities. Pay attention to verbs; choose lively ones and drop in an unexpected zinger now and then. Of a victim falling to his death from a building, Gary Shteyngart writes, "his head knew the ground" instead of "his head hit the ground." Wow. Don't overdo any device. And of course, burn and kill all clichés and anything that seems stale; when you talk about voice, freshness is everything!
A:Standard advice says: Write first---get the words down---and edit later. I edit partly as I write; it makes me feel better as I go forward, but it's disablingly slow. Whenever you do edit, though, follow the big rules: Omit needless words, as Strunk & White rightly tell you; say it shorter, making sure the verbiage is never too much for the thought. Kill your darlings---those belabored turns of phrase that call attention to themselves and away from the message. Favor the concrete---particulars---over abstractions and generalities. Pay attention to verbs; choose lively ones and drop in an unexpected zinger now and then. Of a victim falling to his death from a building, Gary Shteyngart writes, "his head knew the ground" instead of "his head hit the ground." Wow. Don't overdo any device. And of course, burn and kill all clichés and anything that seems stale; when you talk about voice, freshness is everything!
Q: I'm also wondering if you could
start a movement to resuscitate awesome so that it recaptures its
original meaning? We'd be happy to aid in the cause.
A:Yes---in
the New Order, "awesome" will be applied only to things inspiring extreme fear or reverence. No
more "awesome toilet paper" or other Yelper-ish acclaim for the
trivial.
Meanwhile,
to prop up the moribund term, Better Than
Great suggests such intensifications as: tongue-dryingly awesome, Colossus-of-Rhodes
awesome, fall-to-your-knees awesome,
awesome on a toot, giga-awesome, industrial-strength awesome, and tera-awesome, which is 10-to-the-twelfth-power awesome, suitable
for most divinities.
But
in our campaign, Jessica, let's require anyone uttering "awesome" to
stagger backward all atremble, respecting
the gravity of the word. Writers using it casually will be forced to watch hour-long
sequences of "King Kong," fearing and revering the awesome ape. Cruel
but necessary.
Q: While attending the University of Wisconsin I enrolled in a class on tree
identification. We'd meander through lovely parks near the campus
identifying trees and learned the differences between spruce and pine.
Then I moved to the Northwest and am still learning the names of species out
here. Can you tell us about your passion for trees as illustrated in The
Urban Tree Book? Do you tree gaze in Chicago these days?
A:When
I started that book (with my wife, the illustrator) I was a new convert to tree
love, the most passionate kind. Learning enough to write an authoritative guide
opened worlds of pleasure on every block. Trees took on personalities. I could
all but talk with them. Okay, I do sometimes talk to them. Sadly, these days
the conversation is often depressing. It's like walking through an injury ward:
practically every urban tree is fighting off ailments, many of them caused by our
carelessness or lack of care. Trees are like writers to some degree: they give
so much, don't ask a lot, get pissed on, and somehow keep giving.
A:Why
Shakespeare, of course, the real genius-god. We'd quaff a few pints of grog,
talk about words, and have a laugh over the evolution of English into rap. I might
ask, "Ay yo, Will---whutup wit all dem mysteries 'bout ya'll and who scribed
ya plays?" Thus I'd be getting the 411
for a definitive biography with a seven-figure advance.
Q:Pasta or sushi?
A: Basta
with the pasta. And make my maki a dal
makhani, the summa-cum-yummy Indian dish.
Q:What's on your nightstand?
Q:What's on your nightstand?
A: Gary Shteyngart's
Super Sad True Love Story, as you
might have guessed by now. His eye and ear are Wüsthof-knife sharp in this, his
best novel. Also on the table, my Soft Bite guard against tooth grinding,
because apparently it's not enough for writers to grind it out all day
Q: What projects are you working
on next?
A: Launching
the new book is a big time-suck, but I'm amusing myself gathering modern
metaphors as I encounter them, putting them in categories. Something might come of it, but here's what
kind of fun they offer in the meantime (from the APPEARANCE category):
“You’ve had a face like a smacked arse since
you got here.” —Zadie Smith
“Look at the head on that sheygets, the thing
has its own atmosphere, . . . Thing has
ice caps. . . . Every time I see it, I feel sorry for necks.” ---Michael Chabon
". . . his
father’s nose like a skinned animal pinned to his face with the shiny metallic
tackheads of his eyes, his mother a shapeless sack of organs with a howling
withered skull stuck atop it." ---T.C. Boyle
"He had the
complexion of baba ghanoush." ---Marisha Pessl
" ... a visage
of absolutely uncompromising vapidity and bloodlessness; a face like the belly
of a toad." ---Will Self





















