Get out the scissors!

Stay with me to the end — you’ll be glad you did.

***

I have a devil of a time inventing fresh ways of saying the same old thing. How many different ways can I say, “Nemara took flight”? After a while, it gets to be a real challenge, especially when I exclude passive constructions (“. . . and Nemara was airborne”).

More troubling still is the challenge of coming up with eye-poppingly fresh word combinations. Hard enough to avoid trite phrasing, but innovation? That’s work. And yet, that’s just the sort of thing which makes readers (and, I hope, agents, editors, and publishers) love a writer. How do I make my brain do that?

William S. Burroughs had a way. With the cut-up technique (developed by Burroughs, Brion Gysin, and others) he would cut up his sentences and rearrange them randomly. In this way, he would arrive at novel juxtapositions.

Burroughs’s words (see that last link):

The cut-up method brings to writers the collage, which has been used by painters for seventy years. And used by the moving and still camera. In fact all street shots from movie or still cameras are by the unpredictable factors of passersby and juxtapositon cut-ups. And photographers will tell you that often their best shots are accidents . . . writers will tell you the same. The best writings seems to be done almost by accident . . . You cannot will spontaneity. But you can introduce the unpredictable spontaneous factor with a pair of scissors.

What does this look like in practice? Here’s a brief bit from Burroughs’s Nova Express (more here):

They do not have what they call “emotion’s oxygen” in the atmosphere. The medium in which animal life breathes is not in that soulless place -Yellow plains under white hot blue sky – Metal cities controlled by The Elders who are heads in bottles – Fastest brains preserved forever – Only form of immortality open to the Insect People of Minraud – An intricate bureaucracy wired to the control brains directs all movement through telepathic misdirection and camouflage – The partisans make recordings ahead in time and leave the recordings to be picked up by control stations while they are free for a few seconds to organize underground activities –

I’m not suggesting you write whole novels this way (as Burroughs did). You may, however, want to try the cut-up technique as a way of forcing serendipity. Does your descriptive passage lack zing? Are you blocked on snappy dialog? Blocked, period? Get out the scissors!

Electronic scissors, that is. You guessed it: there are software hacks that will do the scut-work for you. The Grazulis Cut-up Machine, for example. Cut and paste a few of your paragraphs into the Machine and see what you get. It doesn’t provide instant brilliance, but I guarantee you, you’ll have more than a few “gee, whiz!” moments.

I took a 183-word snip from my novel and let the Machine do its thing. Here are three interesting phrases:

and would skirt the turned night into day.

Then he would head southwest, high hundred square miles of old growth love lay waiting.

low on the eastern horizon, fat across the southeastern sky.

From those, I would chip away still more, leaving me with (in my opinion) two gems:

skirt the turned night into day

fat across the southeastern sky

My son came by a moment ago and asked me what I was doing. By way of explanation, I cut-up his essay today (on Mark Twain’s attitude towards good and evil, as seen in The Mysterious Stranger). Here’s the gem:

When the people in The Mysterious Stranger burn they’re ridding the world of something God doesn’t want, they can take on anything because God is with good and evil is far from a Christian’s attitude

At the very least, the Machine is a cool toy; at best, a shortcut to genius.

Do you want to do a lot of this stuff? Not unless you want folks to compare you to the poetic crowd, e.g. M. John Harrison, China Mieville, or Neil Gaiman. Heaven knows you wouldn’t want that.

With my voice, I would need to use such clever tricks sparingly. I like a plain prose style with little in the way of authorial theatrics. But some of my characters think in a more poetic voice than I typically use; they could use a dose of the Machine. Also, my descriptive passages, while brief and to the point, hunger for freshness.

Check it out and let me know what you think. Share a few gems, if you’re so-minded.

D.

PS: I suspect GIGO applies here (garbage in, garbage out). If you write with active verbs and eye-catching nouns, you’re more likely to generate gems. But that’s true anyway 🙂

8 Comments

  1. crystal says:

    Hi Doug … spiffy new blog … I know someone else who has a WordPress blog and it looks nice too.

    About the machine 🙂 I guess we are often ruled by our natures and the machine offers us the opportunity to be surprised – not a bad thing at all.

  2. Gabriele says:

    Dang, that reminds me of a book by some Norvegian experimental writer I had to read during my studies. 🙂

    Cailthearn stood amidst the carnage. His grip on the ground; a few drops of blood splashing on the eyes and looked around. The battle was over.

    The last the dead Romans’ cloaks, reflected on their iron armour to the bloodied spears and swords scattered on the slain tribal warriors. A raven croaked, its call was groups; shoulders sagging, limbs bloody, they supported each other not see the tall figure of their leader. He was heavy in the air, mingling with the fragrance intestines that like purple snakes crept out of the urge to vomit. Those were not the first dead smell of deacy.

    A raven fluttered past him, settled the chest, and hacked at the eyes. Cailthearn followed Roman. He shoved his sword in the sheath though had no time to do it properly, not now. out of the body and wiped the chunks of wings and croaked, then settled back to tear at his gaze away and looked up. The sun touched Freshly spilled blood.
    sword relaxed and the point slowly sank towards the wet earth. He blinked the sweat out of his rays of a setting sun highlighted the scarlet of with a dull gleam and lent a wet shine ground. Dark bundles on the blackened, muddy grass betrayed answered in the distance.

    Where was Talorcan? Men gathered in to walk away from the slaughter, but Cailthearn could swallowed. Bellona, not him!

    The coppery smell of blood of wet earth and the fetid stench of the dead Roman at Cailthearn’s feet. He swallowed back the he saw, yet he never got used to the down on a body with a spear protruding from it with his gaze, but the dead was a he knew he should clean it first. But he He went to the dead Roman, yanked the spear flesh off on the grass. The raven batted its a bit of skin that had come loose.

    Cailthearn tore the horizon, tinting the clouds with a fiery red.

  3. Gabriele says:

    For those who read Doug’s blog but not mine and wonder what the gibberish is about, here is the correct version. 😉

  4. Walnut says:

    I see several gems there, Gabriele. For me, these are the phrases that really catch my eye:

    That whole first paragraph.

    He was heavy in the air, mingling with the fragrance intestines that like purple snakes crept out of the urge to vomit.

    The sun touched Freshly spilled blood.

    And I especially like the last line,

    Cailthearn tore the horizon, tinting the clouds with a fiery red.

  5. jurassicpork says:

    I like the new blog, Doug. Unthinkably sexy things happen when files get swallowed into the semen-chugger of cyberspace.

    Er, maybe I’d better not use Henry Miller’s stuff when using the Grazulis Cut-Up Machine.

    I can see your point in doing this but as yet my facility with words and fluency in my outrage prevents me from resorting to such tricks. If I use the same names and phrases it’s only because I happen to like them and think they’re relevant rather than my being stuck for fresher phraseology.

  6. Walnut says:

    the semen-chugger of cyberspace

    Are we talking Malkin or Coulter?

  7. Mary Stella says:

    I have to try this. Thanks, Doug.

  8. Gabriele says:

    Yep, the last line is a keeper. And “The sun touched Freshly spilled blood” reminds me of the poems of Paul Celan.