I realize that several of my posts here have been negative or snarky. Let’s face it--there’s so much crappy writing out there, finding giggle-worthy bad prose is like shooting fish in a barrel, especially when the writer uses tired clichés (This is where you say “I see what you did there”).So I’ve decided to counter my “how does this crap get past an editor” posts with occasional “moments of awesome” posts. And I’m opening up the forum. Please send any you find and maybe I’ll share them in future posts.
The verbs “hoik” (getting a hook into an automaton that’s about to kill you, hoisting it over your head, and slamming it to the floor behind you) and “splodge” (a viscous substance that’s too heavy to actually splatter, splodges), both from Philip Reeve’s Fever Crumb, the first of three prequels to The Hungry City Chronicles. I have only recently “discovered” Reeve, but I plan to become very well acquainted with him.
In her book The Shipping News, Annie Proulx uses the verb “razored” to describe the motion of a seagull’s wing as it cuts through the air.
What is most wonderful about these examples is that their creators only used them once the entire book. And that they were appropriate and evocative in the contexts in which they were introduced. When I read Proulx’s book a few years ago and saw “razored” in the first chapter, I thought, “here we go. Every time somebody’s outside, there will be seagulls overhead, and their wings will “razor” the air ad nausaeum.” Proulx never uses it again, and makes few references to gulls overhead once she’s established her setting on the Newfoundland coast.
Marcus Zusak’s moments of awesome are legion, but here are a couple from I Am The Messenger:
“At first, I’d wanted to write Merry Christmas on the box somewhere, but I decide against it.
This isn’t about words.
It’s about glowing lights and small things that are big.”
And:
In her book The Shipping News, Annie Proulx uses the verb “razored” to describe the motion of a seagull’s wing as it cuts through the air.
What is most wonderful about these examples is that their creators only used them once the entire book. And that they were appropriate and evocative in the contexts in which they were introduced. When I read Proulx’s book a few years ago and saw “razored” in the first chapter, I thought, “here we go. Every time somebody’s outside, there will be seagulls overhead, and their wings will “razor” the air ad nausaeum.” Proulx never uses it again, and makes few references to gulls overhead once she’s established her setting on the Newfoundland coast.
Marcus Zusak’s moments of awesome are legion, but here are a couple from I Am The Messenger:
“At first, I’d wanted to write Merry Christmas on the box somewhere, but I decide against it.
This isn’t about words.
It’s about glowing lights and small things that are big.”
And:
“The pain stood up.”
The protagonist is lying on the floor of his kitchen after being beaten up (no spoilers; read the book). Given the circumstances surrounding the beating, he’s probably describing both physical and emotional pain.
Zusak is one of the rare writers who can use similes and metaphors that would be cringe-worthy if they’d been used elsewhere or by less-skilled writers, but he places them so judiciously and never makes the audience feel like he’s turning to them and saying, “aren’t I clever?” Because if you feel you have to do that, then you already know the answer.
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