Choosing One Word Instead Of Another
Chandler: I don't ... understand
Joey: Some of the words a little too sophisticated for you?
Monica: It doesn't make any sense.
Joey: Of course it does. It's smart. I used a thesaurus.
Chandler: On every word?
Joey: Yep!
Monica: What was this sentence originally?
Joey: Oh, "They're warm, nice people with big hearts."
Chandler: And that became, "They're humid, prepossessing Homo sapiens with full-sized aortic pumps …?"
Joey: And hey, I really mean it, dude.
My high school English teacher was famous for her aggressive (or perhaps generous?) use of the red pen, and my friend Sonya is the same—only with Google doc comments. Any time I send her a piece of writing, I brace myself for the 92 edits she will suggest.
I will say, though, Sonya is making me a better writer because she regularly highlights every “it” and “this” and leaves a comment asking what those words mean. Steph Smith mentioned the same tip in October’s podcast and I couldn’t help but text Sonya after listening, “You know you’re a good editor when Steph Smith agrees with you!”
“... language is the medium we use in much the same way a composer uses notes, the way a painter uses paint. I realize it may seem obvious, but it’s surprising how easily we lose sight of the fact that words are the raw material out of which literature is crafted.”
This writing tip is almost too simple, too easy, too good to be true. Can we really improve our writing just by … using better words?
William Zinsser writes in On Writing Well, “You’ll never make your mark as a writer unless you develop a respect for words and a curiosity about their shades of meaning that is almost obsessive. The English language is rich in strong and supple words. Take the time to root around and find the ones you want.”
When was the last time you experienced the sheer satisfaction of rooting around to find the word(s) you want?
I’ll tell you one of mine.
A few months ago, I had a miscarriage. In the days that followed, I wrote about the internal wrestling of not wanting to rush through my grief, or tie up my sadness in a neat little bow. I wanted to convey the actual pain, to sit in the ache for a minute, to name the thing that shocked me most of all: the loneliness. Because I was not alone. I had my husband, my friends, my family, even strangers on the Internet—holding me, praying for me, texting me. I was surrounded on all sides. And yet, in the depths of my broken heart, I felt undeniably, overwhelmingly alone.
In the original draft of this post, I used “overwhelmingly” to describe the loneliness I felt. But the more I read what I had written, I knew that word did not carry enough power.
“All the elements of good writing depend on the writer’s skill in choosing one word instead of another.”
I went to the thesaurus for more options:
Fiercely
Intensely
Powerfully
Strongly
Vigorously
All of those options were fine. Appropriate. Each of them made sense. They would technically work. But none of them felt right until I landed on … violently. Instantly, I knew. Yes, that’s it. “Violently alone” is exactly how I felt. The stuff of nightmares, of thrashing, like a storm swirling inside my body, my mind.
I ended up with this:
It is possible for the Lord to be near, and still not feel near enough. It is possible to be abundantly loved—to be fed and clothed and prayed over, to have a kitchen full of other people’s Tupperware, to have a husband holding you while you weep—and still feel violently alone.
I could have used “overwhelmingly alone.” But that simple word choice changes the whole sentence, doesn’t it? One word instead of another.
“For the writer of average intelligence and education, learning new words is much less important than learning to use easily the words he or she already has.”
Mastering word choice has less to do with learning Big Impressive Words (as exemplified above by the Friends episode where Joey translates an entire letter using a thesaurus)—and more to do with making deliberate, intentional choices with the vocabulary we already know and use.
How do we improve our word choices? Use a thesaurus, sure (carefully!). But also pay attention to the words you read. Notice the impact they make, the feelings they evoke, how they sound on your tongue. Notice which words charm and delight you. Say them out loud, try each one on like a sweater. Recognize sensory language, phrases that stir and move you.
And then … write them down.
Here is a word bank I created last year, mostly from Devotions by Mary Oliver and What Kind of Woman by Kate Baer:
You’ll notice none of these words are overly complicated or snooty. They are regular, ordinary words that stirred something in me. I don’t always keep this list in front of me when I write, but sometimes when I revise my work, I’ll refer to a list like this to see if I can incorporate better language into my story. I like using poetry to inspire a word bank because poets are incredibly intentional with every single word.
“Learn the names of everything: birds, cheese, tractors, cars, buildings. A writer is all at once everything—an architect, French cook, farmer—and at the same time, a writer is none of those things.”
WRITING EXERCISES
In the same way good photographers know how to use light, good writers know how to use language. Pull up one of your works in progress and comb carefully through every sentence. Examine your word choices. Are they deliberate? Intentional? Basic? Lazy? Look for ten words you can swap and improve.
Grab a favorite book off your shelf and highlight words in a single chapter that stand out to you. Copy them into a notebook, either in one long list, or by column (verb, noun, adjective, etc). Keep the list on standby next time you sit down to write.
Find the strongest sentence in your work in progress, and try writing it out five different ways. Are you surprised by how many options you have?
When is the last time you rooted around for the right word, and found it? Come tell us about it in the Exhale Facebook group!
p.s. Don’t miss Sonya’s related writing lesson—Be Specific.
