Author: janispattersonmysteries

Words, Beautiful Words

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by Janis Patterson

Okay, I admit it. I spend much too much time wasting time on Facebook. It’s therapeutic. It fills my surface mind with trivialities so my deep mind can wrestle with the snarled complexities of my current WIP.

Or sometimes it’s just fun – sort of like a forbidden candy bar late in the afternoon even though you know it will spoil your dinner later.

And sometimes – distressingly often, in fact – it is infuriating. And depressing. And downright disgusting.

I’m not talking about some of the opinions held by the posters – though many of them do fit the above descriptions with a few even more damning pejoratives added, but that’s the subject of another angry column – but about the way they are expressed.

Over the years I’ve been swimming about in Facebook the use of language has not only deteriorated, but downright imploded. Rotted. Disintegrated.

And I don’t mean the fancy $3.00 words I personally prefer – I’m talking about the plain old four letter or less meat-and-potato words that are (or should be) the concrete basis of lingual communication. Staid old standbys like want and be and to and even and itself which magically morph into won’t and bee and two and end in such profusion that one does not have time to worry about comprehension but must instead go directly to translation. And at times even that doesn’t work, so the poor reader is left scratching his head in a total lack of comprehension at what the poster was trying to say. It even makes one wonder if the poster himself really knows what he was saying.

When did we become a country that so disregarded the basics of communication? Even our written language – an elegant simplicity of 26 discrete symbols which can be arranged at will to form an unending combination of words – is being seriously challenged by both a confusing and sometimes contradictory sub-language of initials-for-phrases, such as LOL, BFF, FAFO and the like. Which, one must admit, can provide handy circumlocutions for today’s ever-increasing vulgarity, but offer little in the way of nuance and precision.

Much more alarming is the regression of written language to an almost completely pictographic form of communication very similar to the antique Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs – the emoji. A seemingly endless variety of trite little sketches covering everything from facial expressions to individual depictions of food items, emojis have attracted a following who claim that using them is so much faster than having to sit down and type out a long list of alphanumeric symbols… a claim which I cry is thoroughly specious. By the time it takes to find the exact symbol you want, figure out how to transfer it to whatever it is you are writing (I did mention that I am a total techno-naif, didn’t I?), and keep your original line of thought going enough to go fishing for the next symbol I could have written at least a blog post on another, less-illustratable subject.  Still…

I await with grim acceptance the arrival of a novel written entirely in emojis.

So – what are we going to do about our slipping grip on language? I accept, however reluctantly and largely silently, that most people are not linguists nor do they have the appreciation I do for my favorite long, complex and occasionally obfuscatory $3.00 and $5.00 words. I refuse to accept that our population has become so stupid that their ability to learn the proper use of the basic building blocks of communication, that their cognitive abilities are devolving to the sub-human range, so it must be some external influence. Perhaps it is the startling decline of expectations in our educational system. Perhaps it is a shift of societal admiration from those who strive and achieve to those who subsist and border on parasitical. Or something else that has not quite yet jelled in our collective consciousness. It is real, though, and our communication skills are suffering because of it.

However, I must admit that other than writing angry little screeds like this and yelling fruitlessly at the ignoramii who populate Facebook I have no idea of what to do other than to keep putting the best language I know out there and praying that somewhere it resonates with another linguist, then another and another and eventually we can reclaim and expand the pure and unsullied beauty of language.

P. S. If you like my blog posts, Volumes 1 – 4 of 50 Blogs on Writing and the Writing Life are now available for just $.99 each on Amazon.

Writer… or Robot?

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by Janis Patterson

Computers can be wonderful things. You can change or cut lines or paragraphs, move copy around, pretty much do whatever you want to do and yet end up with a clean copy with no tiresome retyping of entire manuscripts. It is a tool without compare, but it is only as good (word-wise) as the person using it.


Or it used to be. Now there is a new plague – or savior, depending on one’s viewpoint – in the machine and people are very divided about it. Just to be very clear, I am on the anti- side.


This new creature is available in many places and formats and names, and all fall under the general umbrella of ‘assisted writing programs’ – in other words, AI programs that can do a lot of the work of writing (like putting the words down) for you in a sort of simulacrum of your writing voice and style.
Doesn’t anyone see the horror of this? These programs not only check spelling (which is good) and grammar (which is all too often not so good) but they actually do varying amounts of the writing, with mechanical ease turning out copy that is more like pre-digested word salad instead of genuine writing.


I see the difference as similar to ordering a house kit (as you used to be able to) with all the lumber pre-cut and numbered, ready to put together according to the directions like a 3-D jigsaw puzzle, and then calling yourself an architect. You’re allowed to do the pretty bits – trim and paint and such, but the actual building is created miles away by a machine. Translate this to writing and you become a technician rather than a writer.


I don’t see why someone who calls themselves a writer or who hopes to become a writer using such a Frankenstein thing. Not only do they have to pay for it, and learn the probably Byzantine command structure, but they get a product that is at best only partially theirs. Instead of all this, why don’t they just learn the rules, learn the craft and learn to really write? It will serve them better longer than a computer program.


There’s a commercial on tv right now for one of these things, and one line strikes me as being particularly egregious – something about if you’re a copywriter and need a dynamite line… Having been a copywriter in one of my many wordsmith incarnations this makes me furious and appalled. In my opinion if you have to have a machine/program/whatever these things are do a great chunk of the writing for you, you aren’t any kind of a writer!


Are some people so desperate to put the word ‘writer’ or ‘author’ after their name that they will cheat with programs like these? I guess so. I personally believe if you can’t do it by yourself you shouldn’t be doing it at all.


Writers should write – not be a technician to a writing program.

Tempus Is A-Fugitin

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by Janis Patterson

My late father was not only a professional wordsmith (journalism, teacher, editor, advertising agent, writer) but he was a man who absolutely loved words. He would play with words with the joy of a child playing with toys. As I grew up he passed his love of words and language to me, so much so that with his nimble mind we came very close to creating our own language – much to my mother’s disgust.

And that is how the rather somber and stoic Latin warning “Tempus Fugit” (time passes) was ‘Daddy-ized’ into the warmer and much more lighthearted “tempus is a-fugitin’”.

So what does this cuddly little anecdote have to do with writing? Not much – yet still everything.

As writers words are our tools. Without words we are mute and pretty much useless. I am waiting with grim anticipation for someone to write a novel using nothing but emojis. Hopefully, though, that is not an immediate worry. At least, I hope so.

While there are other ways of communicating, some faster, some purely physical or emotional, some kind of untranslatable, words are and always have been the most dependable… when used properly. Part of the beauty of words is their fluidity on the seas of nuance. Often how a simple word is used either alone or in conjunction with other words can change the meaning in subtle or sometimes not so subtle ways. Also, the time period in which the word is used and even the social class of the speaker can affect the meaning.

Words are the main tool for defining our characters. Unless there is a darn good reason in the story for it, a duchess should not speak the same – word choice, inflections, nuance – as a dockworker. (Properly used, though, such language disparities can be a heck of a good clue, if that’s what your story needs.)

Also, word choice is one of your main weapons in the ongoing fight between show and tell. Now I am the first to say that properly used ‘tell’ is a viable tool in your writer’s workbox – I mean, who wants a step-by-step recitation of your hero’s morning routine before he leaves for work when it adds nothing to the story and the action can be covered in a simple sentence or two. Almost any writing shibboleth can be an asset if used properly.

And that is the word! Properly. Like good dishes, the sharp and the forbidden and unusual can be interesting if used properly. Imagine salsa made with nothing but jalapenos and a splash of water. The idea is horrifying, just as horrifying as would be salsa made with no hot peppers at all. The ideal is balance – each ingredient playing its part to create a harmonious whole.

But… always remember it begins with the words. So you must make friends with words. Play with words. Enjoy words. Don’t be afraid of making up a new word… if you do it understandably and (dare I say it?) properly.

So – your assignment is, go learn six new words this week. The best way is to take a print dictionary, then open to a page at random and with your eyes closed stab somewhere on the page. There’s your word. What does it mean? How does it feel in your mouth? What does it remind you of? Does it evoke any thoughts or memories or fantasies. Play with it as a fascinated child would with a new toy. Enjoy it. Make it yours.

It won’t happen immediately, but as you play as well as work with words your writing will change, become richer, deeper, more … more everything. You own the words. Use them in all their multi-faceted glory.

Now – go grab a word and begin! Never forget that tempus is a-fugitin!

Starting Over Again… Again

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by Janis Patterson

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.


The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.


Small wonder we’re all confused.


I am a writer… and that was not a conscious decision. I am the third (or fourth, or perhaps even fifth – the family history is sometimes a little vague) generation of a wordsmith family. Writers, teachers, editors… they festoon the branches of my ancestral tree like sweet fruit. Obviously I didn’t have a chance to be anything else, as words are encoded into my DNA.

At the age of four I wrote – and illustrated and published, using a #2 pencil, typing paper and white sewing cotton to stitch it all together – my first book, of which the entire family was very proud. It was a timeless tale of several children walking home from school through the park where they captured a lion which had escaped from the zoo and still got home in time for dinner. I had a melodramatic imagination even then.


So – you’d think with such a strong genetic disposition and a supportive family by now I’d be on the top of the writing heap, wouldn’t you? Consistently on all the best seller lists, two major book tours a year, lots of tv interviews, maybe even a castle in France… Didn’t work that way. Even with over 60 books to my credit (there are more, but we don’t talk about them) I’m still clinging by my fingernails to the bottom of what used to be called the mid-list.


So what happened? In a word, Life. While I will pit my wordsmithing skills against any and all, Life – sometimes called the blind villain – does happen. After selling my first two novels (New York was all there was in those days) I fell in love and followed a false path that did not end well. When I came back to writing the editors I had known had found other pets and though I still had a good reputation and could of course write very well, I had to forge new relationships.


I sold a few more books, then my father entered the lengthy downward spiral of his final illness. As there was only my mother and me and both my parents were then considered almost elderly, I spent more and more time helping her with his care and writing slipped to a less and less important position in my life. Then when he finally passed away there was another half year of keeping my mother together. They had been a very devoted couple.


My editors had been very kind and understood my problem and tried to work with my situation, but we both knew they had slots to fill and schedules to follow and services to coordinate… and while the door was never closed to me, it swung to a very narrow entrance.


And did I mention that during this long stretch of time I was working a very demanding full-time job?


Time passed. I wrote, made still more new contacts and sold a few books. I still had a good reputation, though by now I was pretty sure whenever my name was mentioned it was prefaced with ‘poor’…


Several years passed in this pleasant semi-stasis. I sold several books, never enough to justify quitting my job, though, and when my job dissolved I went into a series of other, very unusual jobs, not career stuff but some were fun and they kept the lights on. I kept writing, though, because I am a writer.


Then my mother fell suddenly and disastrously ill and my world changed. Writing had to go totally by the wayside. Suddenly I was not just looking after Mother, I was working two jobs, and occasionally a third one as well, because she had something rather exotic and strange, and nothing but experimental medicines would budge it. Experimental medicines are expensive, and most of them were not covered by her insurance. This went on for almost ten years.


During this time, though, fortune did smile on me, because I met my husband and married. Then mother passed away three weeks after the wedding, and I went totally off the rails. It had been just her and me for twenty years. My poor husband deserved better, but he was and is my rock.
Until some five months after Mother’s death, when he was deployed overseas. (He’s an officer in the Navy, thankfully now retired.) When he asked me what I was going to do while he was gone I murmured something vague about getting a job, but he shook his head. All I had ever talked about doing that I really liked was writing, he said, so perhaps I should go back to writing.


Could I? I didn’t know. I thought about it long and hard. The long empty days wore at me, though, and the siren song of words, of creating worlds and populations out of nothing but caffeine and imaginations worked their magic on me. so I dusted off my laptop and began again.


He was gone a year, and when he returned I had sold two books – both to small publishers, as my cred in New York was totally gone. The editors I had known there had either been promoted to the stratosphere, vanished completely or died. Sigh. It was writing.


This was the beginning of the era of self-publishing, and with no little qualms I began to investigate, eventually ending up with my own publishing imprint, a freelance crew with skills that would rival those of any NYC publishing house. I reprinted my old books as they came back to me, did a book or two a year with a wonderful small press and released at least one new book a year.


At last, I thought, things are finally going my way. It’s been a long time, but I’m finally on the way up!
Humph! This past July my husband and I were at a Grand Ball, the conclusion of a convention which we always attend. I was so proud to be wearing the beautiful gold-embroidered dress we bought earlier in Cairo… and just as the dancing started I passed out cold.


Things went downhill from there. EMTs. Ambulance. Emergency room, then straight into surgery for a massive blood clot blocking my renal artery. Barely in recovery when suddenly a team of doctors ran in and snatched me back into the operating theater. Apparently either the clot had split, or there had been two of them. The doctors said nothing, but I heard my nurses whispering amongst themselves that I had died for well over a minute on the table. The writer in me stewed – one of the seminal events of life itself, an event people have discussed for millenia – and it actually happened to me, but I was under deep anesthesia and don’t remember a thing about it!


After a week in the hospital I came home, and moved into my own bed, where I didn’t move for weeks. Writing? I was doing good to eat. And six months later I’m still not up to speed. My own doctor said I was a bit long in the tooth for such extreme things. I told him it wasn’t my choice, and promised to be better. And I have been, sort of. Yes, we did take a Christmas Market tour of Southern Germany, a costly and long awaited trip and I was most definitely not going to deprive the husband, who had looked forward to it for months.


A fascinating but exhausting trip. I probably shouldn’t have gone, but I did and I survived it, even if I had to be wheelchaired off the plane and to the taxi. One small bright spot is if I do a story about it the entire trip is tax deductible. But I haven’t written a word in over six months. There are half-finished projects languishing on my computer which I cannot remember at all.


And so I am back to starting over. Again. Will I do it? That’s a dumb question. Of course I will, whether I choose to or not.


I am a writer.

Merry Christmas!

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by Janis Patterson


Maybe that’s not a politically correct greeting, but right now I don’t really care. I am wishing each of you the very best and most joyous thing I can think of. After a very hard year almost exactly halved between a crushing load of work and several unexpected, life-threatening surgeries (where some of my nurses said I died on the table for at least a minute, but my records don’t reflect it – who knows) and an unexpectedly long and difficult recovery (which isn’t over yet) I kind of think I have the right to say what I want. Which I usually do anyway, but let’s pretend it’s because of the season.


Anyway, I usually try to talk about things writing-related, but today I am too imbued with the spirit of the season and just plain happiness so I’m going to talk about other things, like our trip to Germany which ended just at the beginning of the week. This was a week of touring small Southern Bavarian cities with charming Christmas markets – a small (6 people) tour run by a friend which we have taken several times during the years. This particular tour was also a special ‘thank you for not staying dead’ present from my wonderful husband who has spent the last few months doing precious little except taking great care of me since the surgeries.


Can I make a confession? I have been feeling pretty good, but did not realize I was really too weak to make this trip properly. I spent a lot of time sitting on the sidelines instead of touring, but in a way that’s all right. We had taken this trip before and so had seen what most of the group was seeing for the first time. Perforce I was seeing things from a different viewpoint, and it truly was a wonderful experience. I actually saw the spirit of Germany as well as the holiday trappings. And I was impressed.


Germany is an incredibly clean country. We drove through big cities, small cities, tiny villages and down narrow country lanes. There were no wandering plastic bags (and yes, they do use them) or trash. Leaves were neatly raked. There was some painted graffiti in the big cities, but none elsewhere. There were no junked or abandoned vehicles to mar the landscape. I saw no evidence of vandalism anywhere. Everything was neat, tidy, well painted and on the whole charming. It was very refreshing.


The people were delightful, polite and caring. When it was noticed that I had some problem with mobility there were more offers of arms and chairs and help than I could count. One man even offered to carry me over a stretch of rough ground – which, considering my bulk, was most of unwise of him! I did allow him to give me the support of his arm over the uneven ground. While the tour group was exploring a market, I went to the grocery store to buy some of my favorite sweetener to bring home. The door was unexpectedly heavy and I was struggling with it when a man – a villager – dashed across the road to open it for me. He was a local and not associated with the tourist industry at all. Just a nice man. I don’t speak German and he didn’t speak English, so we just smiled a lot, said thanks in our own languages, then he tipped his hat, went back across the street and on with his own business. A fleeting but lovely encounter.


Not speaking the language of the country can have some interesting consequences. One night the group decided to go to a special restaurant, one that was just beyond my comfortable walking distance. Most of the group walked, but three of us decided to splurge on a cab. (Wise!) Getting there was okay, but when it came to coming home we got a cab driver who spoke no English and none of us spoke German. My husband had the presence of mind to pick up a hotel brochure, so we could show him where we wanted to go. The driver nodded happily … and then took off in the wrong direction. I immediately tried other languages, but he understood none of them. (And my command of most of them is not THAT bad.) He tried a couple of languages, none of which I even knew what were. To make things worse, the other lady in the party was melting down, convinced that he was carrying us away to a dark and unseen future. Finally in pure desperation I tried my abysmal Arabic and the cabbie’s face lit up as he replied in the same tongue. Not that things were easy then. He spoke the Syrian dialect, and I can barely mangle the Egyptian version, but it was good enough to get us turned around and on the right road home. We chatted (sort of – as best we could) all the way back and everything ended happily.


If there is one thing I admire about Germany it is their enthusiasm for Christmas. Even in the tiniest village there are banners and tinsel strung along the streets. The cities are pure extravaganzas of Christmas cheer. In hotels and shops and even humble groceries there are signs, plaques and sculptures proclaiming “Frohe Weihnachten” (Merry Christmas). You hear it from people, too, whether you know them or not. I frankly gave up trying to pronounce it (German and I really do not get along!) and just replied Merry Christmas and it was fine.


Perhaps I have a warped view, or am just a Christmas junkie, or perhaps it is just because we were in tourist areas and treated with kid gloves, but it was indeed a magical time. I missed a lot of our tour because of my infirmities, but I also gained a fresh insight into a wonderful land and people.


And that is the end of my peroration on my year, my trip and my fascination with Christmas. I promise I’ll get back to writing topics in January, but in sharing this with you I get to relive it, and I’m selfish enough to find that wonderful. Wishing you all a Merry Christmas, and a wonderfully Happy New Year!