Overhaul in Progress

So, you may notice that things look a little different around here. If you were looking for Lamps and Mirrors, don't worry! You're still at the right place! Stay tuned for more updates, and in the meantime, enjoy all of my old posts.

Six Reasons I Won't Water Down My Vocabulary

Almost consistently, the first thing I’m told when any given person critiques my work is that the vocabulary is too advanced, or that they had to look up some of the words.

Apparently, this is a bad thing.

While it makes sense not to use advanced language in children’s books and most young adult books, books which are aimed at high school upperclassmen and older should be free to use whatever type of vocabulary the author wants.  Here is my reasoning:

1.  Just because a word is uncommon doesn’t mean it should not be used.

 The only way we learn new words is by being exposed to them. By refusing to use ‘big’ words because many people don’t know them, writers are purposefully limiting our audiences. We are basically assuming our audience is dumb, and that is a grave insult.  Reading is supposed to expand the mind as well as entertain; writers are in fact in the position to educate. We should embrace this power, not fear it.

2. Sometimes the bigger, more uncommon word is the best word.

Hemingway once famously said that you shouldn’t use multiple words where one word will do. If a ‘big’ word replaces a concept that takes 10 smaller words to describe, the big word is obviously superior.

3. Readers are not idiots who need to be sheltered from the evils of big, scary vocabulary words.

People who read for entertainment are already most likely of a higher education level. When people come across a word they don’t know while reading, they do one of three things: look it up, guess the approximate meaning based on context, or ignore the word.  The first two options allow you to help broaden your reader’s horizons, and who doesn’t want to do that?  The third option isn’t bad either. People skip over stuff all the time when they read, and usually, a handful of words they didn’t know isn’t going to prevent them from understanding the tale at large.

4. Looking up the meanings of words is literally easier than ever.

It used to be that if you didn’t know a word, you would have to haul out a dictionary and leaf through the pages to find it. Nowadays, we have dictionary apps that allow you to look up words in less than sixty seconds, and almost everybody has a smart device with them at all times. If you don’t have an app, there’s Dictionary.com.  Nobody has an excuse anymore, and pausing your reading to look up a word is not the end of the world. Yes, it might temporarily ‘jolt’ somebody out of the story for a minute, but if it allows them to learn something, that’s not such a bad thing. Most people will figure it out from context or just ignore it, so it actually doesn’t make much difference in the long run.

5. E-Readers have changed everything.

If you have a Kindle or a Nook, all you have to do is tap a word and the built-in dictionary tells you what it means. Let me say that again. All you have to do is frickin’ tap the screen. It could only get easier if you had dictionary software implanted in your brain!  As more and more people are switching to eBooks, the excuses for purposefully limiting vocabulary become more and more ridiculous.

6. If somebody dislikes my writing because of my use of ‘larger’ vocabulary words, then they weren’t part of my target audience to begin with.

This is not to say that I write only for elite, erudite audiences. I write for people who are okay with expanding their minds. Heck, My Little Pony frequently uses words that kindergarteners wouldn’t know – like precipice, for example. If My Little Pony can do it when their audience is little children, then certainly I can do it when my audience is high school upperclassmen and older – or do you give more credit to little kids than you do to adults? Entertainment can expand our minds. Why should we try to curb that? The highest indicator of student success is teacher expectation. I see no reason why that can’t apply to readers and writers, too.

Furthermore, using ‘big’ vocab words does not limit my shot at becoming a successful writer. Best-selling author Stephen R. Donaldson is notorious for his use of ‘big’ words, as well as archaic words.  And, as you might guess from the fact that I called him a best-selling author, he turned out to be a best-selling author even though he uses ‘big’ words.

I’m not going to water down my writing. Yes, most people don’t have higher than a sixth grade reading level. But it’s not like I hunt through a thesaurus trying to find the biggest word for everything. Most of my writing scores no more than a fifth grade level, according to the Flesch-Kincaid rating system. Yes, that’s even my works that have the big, scary vocabulary words in them!

So, no. I’m not going to cut out all the advanced vocabulary from my work. I’m going to fearlessly continue using whatever words I think are best for the situation, whether it’s a three year old character saying, “Mama, bells go ‘ding, dong’!’” or a wise old Oxford professor saying that he remembers the tintinnabulation of church bells. I don’t care if you didn’t know the word before you read my work. I don’t care if you choose to ignore it.

But if I both found the perfect word and helped you learn something new, then I don’t think any writer could ask for more. 

What do you think? Is using 'big' words elitist and snobbish, or is it beneficial both to the writing itself and the readers? Sound off in the comments. 

Flash Fiction: The Parlor Alexander the Great

So, I did another writing exercise to loosen the bonds of writer's block. Luckily for you (or unluckily, depending on your perspective), I decided to share it here! I did this one using the same title generator as last time.

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"The Parlor Alexander the Great"
© A.L.S. Vossler 2015

Rae sat down in the luxurious armchair in Mrs. Mulway’s house. She always loved coming here; Mrs. Mulway had a constant supply of delicious cookies. Currently, Mrs. Mulway was in the kitchen boiling water for Rae’s tea.

“Are your parents still fighting, dear?” Mrs. Mulway’s voice came from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Rae said. Mrs. Mulway didn’t know the half of it, but Rae didn’t want to talk about it. She hadn’t come over here to talk about her parents; she’d come here to get away from them. For just a little while, she could look over the nifty things in her elderly neighbor’s parlor. For just a little while, she could forget her parents’ screaming. For just a little while, she could forget the sound of her step-dad beating up her mom. She could forget how much she hated him.

The room was filled with all kinds of curios, some of which were under a considerable layer of dust. As Rae’s eyes traveled across the mantelpiece, she saw something new: a glass dome display case containing an 11-inch figurine, a little man who was dressed like he was from ancient Greece. Rae got up and stood on her tiptoes so that she could peer at the inscription that was on the base plate: Alexander the Great.

Rae tilted her head from side to side. He would have made a good friend for one of her Barbie dolls. Barbie probably would like his fancy armor. Rae glanced over her shoulder. Mrs. Mulway was busy in kitchen still, but the kettle was beginning to whistle. It would be less than a minute before she would come back into the room.

No. Stealing was bad, and Mrs. Mulway was nice. It wouldn’t be right.

Rae turned back to look at the figurine again. She almost screamed when she saw that the little man was pressed up against the side of the dome. “Help me.” His voice was muffled through the glass. “You have to help me.”

“What will you do if I help you?”

“There is nothing I cannot do, young mistress. I conquered all of Asia Minor ere my eighteenth birthday!” He put his hands on his hips and struck a confident pose.

A sense of power swept over Rae. She wasn’t sure what Asia Minor was, but she knew what Asia was: it was the biggest continent in the world. A man who could conquer Asia was the most powerful thing there was, especially if he was so tiny. Forget not stealing. Forget right and wrong. “You’ll do anything I ask you to?”

“By the gods, I swear I will.”

Rae gritted her teeth. “I want you to kill my step-dad.”

Criticism (constructive or otherwise) is welcome in the comments.

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Flash Fiction: A Steam-Powered Rat out of Treasures

If you ever frequent my other blog, The Lonely Young Writer, you may have seen my post on generating ideas. In that post, I recommend using a random title generator such as this one, and then write for ten minutes using that title as the prompt for your story.

The result is, more or less, flash fiction.

I was feeling stuck yesterday, so I decided to loosen up the writing muscles a bit by doing this exercise. The title generator spit out this monstrosity of a story title: "A Steam-Powered Rat out of Treasures." I was a bit flummoxed at first, but highly intrigued. I ended up spending 25 minutes or so writing it, rather than just ten, but I think it was well worth it.

As the story is speculative in nature (it has steam-powered rats; of course it's speculative), and as I haven't posted anything here since November, I thought I would share it. Constructive criticism is encouraged and welcome.

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"A Steam-Powered Rat out of Treasures"
© A.L.S. Vossler 2015

Pain is all it knows. It sits in its glass prison, waiting, watching, hoping that the water dish and food will be returned soon. Instead, the people pour water into the reservoir on its back and shut the lid.

It hates the thing on its back.  The thing on its back makes it hot, makes steam, and makes the metal legs move.  It misses its old legs, the legs it could feel with, the legs it could move by itself. But the metal legs whirr and click: whirr like the tiny rotary saw tied to its metal tail, click like the buttons on the controller that moves them. They reach in with big forceps and lift it out, checking to make sure the limbs work.

They say it cannot lose the fight this time.  It is better than last time.  They will surely win.

The fights are the worst.  Others similar to it, some with extra legs and big, sharp metal ears, or their jaws replaced with powerful vises, are put into the circle. It is made to fight with the others – fight with the others, or it is hurt by the others: scratched, cut, bitten, stabbed. Fight or die.

They say that it is time for the fight. They put it in the smaller cage and carry it away.

All it wants is to hide in the soft nest it once had; a soft nest lined with tufts of polyester and old gum wrappers. A warm and comfortable nest, surrounded by abandoned tops and jacks, a shiny tab from a pop can, balls of paper, a doll’s head, an old plastic ring: a beautiful nest filled with beautiful treasures.

A big voice echoes as they bring it into the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the battle of your life: incumbent champion, The Big Cheese, faces the challenger, The Packrat! Will The Big Cheese’s reign of terror end, or will The Packrat be nothing but a smear of blood and fur on the floor?”

It hates the fights.


As always, constructive criticism is welcome in the comments.

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Image credits: The image is a compound of "Silhouette Mouse Sitting," courtesy of Piotr Siedlecki at PublicDomainPictures.net, and "Steampunking It," courtesy of Randi Klugiewicz at PublicDomainPictures.net.

Accusation: A Short Story

Image courtesy of Jack Sparrow at PublicDomainPictures.net

Well, I realize it's a day late for scary stories, but I hadn't posted anything in a while and I felt like I ought to.  I had one story I was working on, but simply didn't have time to finish.  Perhaps another time.  However, I remembered a short story I wrote back at Community College as a school assignment, and since it was a response to a literature assignment with a speculative fiction spin, I thought it would be perfect for Lamps and Mirrors.

In my class "The Short Story and the Novel," we read Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung). Now if you ever want an intersection of literature and speculative fiction, there it is. I absolutely loved it.  For our assignment, my super awesome teacher Doug J. gave us two options: write a brief response paper, or, using Jane Smiley's "Gregor: My Life as a Bug" as an example, write a "sequel" or continuation of The Metamorphosis.  If we chose the latter, we were to use it as a sort of explication of our understanding of the story.  So, preferring creative writing to academic, I chose the second option.  The following short story is the result of that assignment.

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"Accusation" 
 © A.L.S. Vossler

Her screams jolted him out of sleep for the sixth time that week.  She often behaved like this at night, seemingly deaf to her own screeches—and anything else around her—for despite his attempts to wake her, her eyes remained tightly shut and she continued to moan in terror or pain.  Her flagellating arms and legs could not be made to lie still, and combined with her swollen belly, she reminded him forcibly of insects that, once laid upon their backs, cannot right themselves. 

The first convulsion had happened on their wedding night, and it had frightened him to be certain, but he was of the philosophy that auspicious beginnings were a luxury in this day and age, and a working man simply had to take what he could get.  He occasionally prided himself on his courage—after all, any other man would have already divorced the fragile young thing; but he, ah, he would stay beside her and somehow make everything right.  He had watched her convulsions again and again, night after night; never seeming to come closer to discovering the cause behind them.  She would always awake as her phantasm left her with a final shriek; trembling, she would cling to him and weep, all the while whispering, “Forgive me, forgive me.”
   
He always forgave her.  But this was not the cure.

When he had first met Grete Samsa, she was a rosy-cheeked, beautiful creature: the daughter of an associate at the office.  Mr. Samsa, by all accounts, had recently escaped some kind of medical misfortune; for where he had seemed wan before, he now appeared to be the picture of health.  His once-rumpled uniform was now pristine daily.

“You look well as of late, Mr. Samsa,” he told his colleague one morning shortly after this peculiar metamorphosis.

“Thank you, Mr. Anklage,” replied Mr. Samsa, with a wide grin.  “We have had a recent happy event at my household.”

“Might I inquire as to what that might be?” Anklage asked congenially.

A shadow crossed Mr. Samsa’s visage.  “Well, perhaps it is of little consequence after all.”  The lines that traced his brow furrowed, as though he was straining after a memory, but age or some other agent prevented it from being recalled.  It was at that moment that Grete entered the scene, her rosy cheeks glowing with all the vitality of youth, carrying a basket which presumably contained Mr. Samsa’s midday meal.  She kissed her father as she passed him the basket, but her eyes lingered with a bashful curiosity on Anklage’s face, and her rosy face turned a deeper crimson shade.  Mr. Samsa smiled knowingly, and with a charming smile proceeded to ask Anklage to dinner.

Things between Anklage and Grete proceeded in clock-work fashion, and within months their marriage was in order. Everything seemed perfect, and Anklage could do nothing but predict for himself a happy and fulfilling marriage.  But hardly had their blissful lives together begun when these ferocious dreams began gripping Grete during the early hours of the morning; after she awoke, she could say no words other than “forgive me.”

During their waking hours together, Anklage was loath to bring up the matter, for if he even mentioned the nighttime outbursts, Grete would cry out, bury her face in her hands, or in the most extreme case, take her fingernails and dig them into her own flesh until her blood, dark with unbalanced humors, formed stains of penitence on her white blouse.  At times like these he attempted to restrain her, but she would not be appeased until the blood had successfully made its mark.  Fearful of her reaction, Anklage kept the matter to himself. 

As the months of their marriage progressed, Grete seemed more and more plagued by her nighttime visions, which now occurred six nights a week.  Sometimes, she burst into silent convulsions at the breakfast table after a peaceful night; every muscle in her body grew tense, and her jaw locked; until a small trickle of blood (from her tongue which she had managed to bite into) emerged at the corner of her mouth.  Then, only then, the fit passed.

Anklage’s alarm only continued to grow with Grete’s announcement of her pregnancy.  He begged that she see a doctor for the convulsions, but she refused and started clawing at herself so fiercely that he was terrified to bring up the subject again for fear of his child’s life.  As the baby grew inside her, the visions came with a startling new frequency; sometimes twice a night. 

Now, as he watched her, swinging her arms about wildly as always during the paroxysms, he could do nothing but pray for the preservation his child and his wife.  Her time was expected any day now, and he was afraid that she might go into labor at any moment.  He spoke soothing words and stroked her swollen belly as the spasms racked her body, forever hoping that he might reach her.  He could feel his unborn child too, suffering from the same agitated dreams that plagued its mother.   The characteristic final shriek shook her, and she opened her eyes, terrified, and looked up into her husband’s eyes.

“God Almighty!” she cried.  “Gregor, open up!  I’m pleading with you!”

The atypical words affected Anklage with such shock he could barely react.  “Who is Gregor?”

“I—” Grete’s eyes darted to and fro madly.  “I don’t remember!” she screamed, and began digging her nails into her large belly. 

With a bellow of terror, Anklage grabbed his wife’s hands away from their defenseless child.  But only blood would appease her, and she fought him with preternatural strength.  He allowed her nails to scratch deeply into her legs until she drew blood, yet even after this she still screamed as madly as ever.

“I killed him!  I killed him!  We all killed him! And did we weep in his passing?  We were overjoyed!  And he delivered us from debt, from debt...my brother...!   Forgive!  Forgive!”

“I forgive you!” shouted Anklage, over the noise of her shouts.

“Your forgiveness has no power!  His blood is on me, my children...my children!  We who destroyed him!”  She began to scream unintelligibly, her body shaking as it had never done before, her voice attaining an unearthly, inhuman pitch; until with a snap, barely detectable amidst the chaos, her womb burst, and a cascade of polluted amniotic fluid spilled onto the bedcovers.  Silence struck the room, as Grete’s panicked face froze.     

Something inside of her distended body was stirring, ready to leave its prison.

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Comments or constructive criticism are welcome in the comments.

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An Exercise in Speculation

Since Lamps and Mirrors is a speculative fiction blog, I thought we could engage in a little speculation exercise today. 

Imagine, if you will, a world where the single most common birth defect is a horrible, debilitating disorder.  This irreparable defect manifests itself in many ways.  For some, it results in physical deformation; sometimes slight, sometimes significant.  For others, it results in crippling mental disorders, including developmental delays and mood disorders.  This defect prevents the sufferers from understanding cause and effect.  Their mental age is roughly half their physical age, and that’s at the most.

For the most unlucky, it results in a combination of physical and mental defects. 

There is no therapy to make this defect go away.  No surgery to correct it.  No treatment will ever repair it, not even the most advanced technology there is.

Imagine also that this birth defect, while impossible to repair, is one hundred percent preventable. 

You might be imagining a world like that in the movie Gattaca, where people can order genetic designer babies with absolutely no defects.  No, this scenario is much simpler than that.  Instead, imagine that doctors have developed technology that will guarantee that no baby will ever suffer this particular birth defect.  It is the simplest thing in the world: all that a pregnant woman has to do is carry a small, powerful box that prevents the defect. 

She has to carry it with her every day.   She has to have it on her person at every moment, from conception to delivery.  As long as she has this box, she will be guaranteed that her baby will not develop this devastating disorder.

Imagine further that this technology is provided to women absolutely free of charge.  There is no cost.  There’s no excuse not to get one of these anti-defect boxes, because there are free anti-defect box vending machines spaced every three feet no matter where you are in the world. 

It’s practically a paradise; a world where mothers have total control over protecting their children from this one particular birth defect, no matter what.

Now imagine that there is a woman who decides not to use one of these boxes.  It’s scientifically proven that her baby will be born with this disorder if she does not carry the box with her at all times.  Even if she puts it down for just one day, her baby could suffer serious consequences.  

But she doesn’t want to use this box.  None of her friends have to carry a box around.  Life is so much more fun without the box.  Still, she feels guilty about not using the box, so she tries to use it at least occasionally.  This still won’t protect her baby.  Every time she goes a day without the box, her baby becomes worse and worse.  Even hours without the box can hurt the baby. 

She doesn’t like the box.  She can’t take it to parties.  Plus, being pregnant is stressful, and not using the box helps her to relax.

Imagine this world.  This world where the single most common birth defect is the only completely preventable one.  Now imagine that mothers everywhere are refusing to do what will prevent it, for whatever reason.

Open your eyes.  This is not the Twilight Zone.  This is not speculation.   

This is our reality, and it’s our reality today.  The only thing speculative about this is the anti-defect box.  In reality, the answer is not a magical box; it's abstaining from alcohol during pregnancy. Fetal alcohol spectrum disorders are the single most common birth defect in the world.  It, and birth defects caused by other substance abuse, are the only birth defects which are one hundred percent preventable.

The only ones. 

And all that the mother needs to do is not drink any alcohol.  It’s totally free.  There is no excuse for drinking while pregnant. Not because it makes you uncomfortable at parties, not because drinking relieves stress, not because it’s inconvenient. 

Everywhere, women know that drinking hurts their babies.  Everywhere, there are women who still choose to drink while pregnant.  Everywhere, babies are being born into a lifetime of disorder and distress because their mothers couldn’t stop drinking alcohol for forty weeks. 

September is FASD awareness month.  And even though we are moving into October, this is something we cannot forget during the rest of the year.   Encourage the women in your life not to drink while pregnant.  Tell the women (pregnant or not) who suffer from alcoholism or other substance addiction that they can overcome their addictions.  Help and support them.  Encourage them.  They can’t undo the drinking they’ve done already during their pregnancy, but they can prevent their baby’s FASD from becoming worse than it already is.  Tell them that they are valuable and loved, and that you will help them while they struggle against their addiction.  Help them get through their pregnancies without one more drop of alcohol, one more puff of marijuana, or one more line of cocaine. 

For those women who have FASD children, whether biological or adopted, help and encourage them in their struggle to help their child have as normal a life as possible.  For the guilt-ridden woman who drank during pregnancy, offer forgiveness and aid.  Befriend any children and adults who suffer from FASD.  Let them know that they are valuable and loved. 

Together, we can prevent FASD and be a balm to the hurt of those who already suffer.

It’s not speculative. 

Image courtesy of www.mofas.org

Learn more about FASD at these websites: 

CDC: Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders

University of Washington: What is FASD?

Minnesota Organization of FAS: FASD FAQ

Please help me spread awareness of this important issue by sharing this post on your favorite social network.

In the comments, give a shout-out of support all those who suffer from FASD and addiction.
 

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Poetry Friday: "Vines"

Late night sleeplessness and jasmine oolong tea seem to be good for the poetic muse.

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"Vines"
© 2014 A.L.S. Vossler

Branches vine together;
twist and turn, turn and twist—
Fantasy, Reality:
symbiotic, synergistic,
distinct, yet intertwined—
different leaves and different blossoms,
with thorns both tangled tight.
One reflects and One defines,
One a host, the Other guest.
Dual trees of single root—
for what we label 'fantasy'
springs up from reality,
but what we name 'reality'
was once Creator's fantasy—
which is tree and which is shoot?
One a guest, the Other, host,
One defines and One reflects.
Both tangled tight with thorns,
different blossoms, different leaves,
intertwined yet so distinct—
synergistic, symbiotic,
Reality and Fantasy:
turn and twist, twist and turn—
Branches vine together.

As always, constructive criticism is welcome in the comments.

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Lamps and Mirrors is updated sporadically, so if you are so inclined keep up with my literary musings, use the form in the sidebar to subscribe.