Fun and Games

by Hannah Roveto

As a journalism student and reporter, as a corporate writer and editor, how many times have I seen and written w/c on copy? A word or phrase is too weak to give life to a particular stretch of text; we all know it when we see it, don't we?

To worry about word choice when you have eight inches of copy for a newspaper, or four pages for a brochure is one thing. To worry about 80,000 of the darn things when strung together into a cohesive whole is another. We have to get 80,000 of them right? Oh, my.

As writers we become human thesauruses. My children are frustrated by this, because homework would be so much simpler if they could yell out a word from one end of the house, and I would yell back its equivalent. This holds true especially for those games they play when learning vocabulary. The class is divided into two sides, every child having found two alternate words for every spelling word of the week. Anyone else remember Password? The old one with Allen Ludden, although I hear there's a new one. In either case, a celebrity and regular person are a team, and one has to make the other say a chosen word by using one-word clues. Same idea, but with screaming elementary school students all able to guess as they jump up and down behind half-sized desks.

In September, ten to fifteen words a week come down the hall at 1000 decibels. Mean mom makes them pick up a thesaurus and look them up. By October we're down to two or three.

"What does in-deck-iss-iv mean?"

"How do you spell that?"

"I-n-d-e-c-i-s-i-v-e."

"Indecisive." I'm feeling generous. "I'll give you one. Confused."

Heavy sigh. "Confused is my word. I looked in the thesaurus. What's another one?"

Heavy sigh from me. Mixed-up, unsure... I try to find sentences to lead the way to another choice. Truth be told, I like this game, especially when I have my WIP up on the screen. The game reminds me to think about every word, every phrase of the 80,000.

For example, I wrote a scene the other day where a woman is with her ex-husband in a bar. The new wife knows and is not the least bit jealous. How dismissive is the new wife about a possible rekindling of the old flame? My character could "trade her club soda for three shots of tequila, challenge him to a contest and sit on his lap while they tossed them down and (new wife) wouldn't have minded a bit." Even better, I thought: straddle. She wouldn't sit on his lap, she would straddle it, and still the new wife would shrug, smile. Not a single worry. Silly as it sounds, one word switch made me happy all day, and I don't mind telling you because you know what I mean.

This all led to a subversive thought. What better than to play Password with friends and family, in the car, in the dentist's office, when conversation ebbs at a dinner party? Carry around three phrases or words you know could be better in what you wrote, and toss them out at others. Turn the tables; turn them into human thesauruses. It's only fair.

Right or Wrong

By Amy MacKinnon

I saw him standing toward the back. It was Saturday afternoon and I was doing my first reading of the day at Barnes & Noble in Hingham. He shifted his weight from left foot to right, and then back again. One hand was on his hip and his expression was unfathomable. He never faltered when I stared back at him, though I did. He didn't smile, he didn't glower, he didn't appear pleased or displeased. But that fidgeting had me worried.

To be honest I wasn't certain it was him. I'd met him only once, about two years ago when it was clear my novel would be set in Brockton, Massachusetts, featuring Brockton cops. I called the police department to see if I could have a tour, I needed to know the layout of the building, smell it, feel the grit that coated every surface, and have a sense of the people who inhabited the place. I was patched through to Officer Al Gazerro.

He gave me hours of his time, showing me every nook and cranny, introducing me around to everyone from the dispatchers to the detectives to the chief. I took notes, I inhaled the place as best I could, and then went home to try to convey it all on the page.

Details matter. They matter to your readers, to the authenticity of your story, they should matter a great deal to you. I wanted desperately get it right. And there, toward the back, was Officer Gazerro who was about to tell me if I got it wrong.

He was last in line to have his book signed. As he got closer, I knew it was him.

"Do you remember me?" he asked.

"Al Gazerro," I said, waiting.

"I love your book." Finally he smiled.

He said his daughter got him a copy, that they now had three at home. He told me I got it exactly right, even the woman detective's shoes, the detective's unit, the homes he so often goes to while on duty. I got it right.

I hugged him, I had to. I so badly wanted to please him, to honor his vocation, and repay the faith he had in me. So far, it's been the highlight of my booktour.

All along there've been two people I've feared disappointing with this book: Al Gazerro and my uncle, the funeral director. I've waited on tenterhooks for their feedback, knowing I'd hear about it if I got it wrong. It's the sort of thing that gets under people's skin, isn't it? The relief is huge, knowing Officer Gazerro is pleased. Now I just need to hear from my uncle...