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Writing - self-edit - repeated words

My latest ‘completed’ book hit a little over 126,000 words. 
 

[I’ve put ‘completed’ in quotes because a book is never finished, it’s abandoned after you’ve done all you can to polish it. Looking at it again after even a small gap of time, you’ll always find the need to change things. This constant pressure to perfect the work will mean it will never see the light of day. Be bold. Do the necessary re-reads, self-edits and then let it go.]

Part of the self-edit process is to identify commonly repeated words; these may differ for every writer.

The words I’ve noticed I’m prone to over-using are listed below. They’re not exhaustive, naturally. The number of times the words appeared in a search of the text are shown (and in brackets the number they were reduced to after checking); I never blanket change, that can lead to nonsense words cropping up.

The reduction of repetitions can be processed in various ways: often, the word isn’t necessary at all; sometimes the dialogue is sufficient; if repetitions are close together on the page then I find a new word.

I've made additional comments at the end.

My repetition word list

Smiled – 55 (invariably overused) (15)

Nodded – 115 (again, overused, often close together on the page!) (44)

Laughed – 24 (this is good, I made a conscious effort while writing to avoid using this!) (14)

Grinned – 27 – (not bad, either, since it is very common usage) (11)

Sighed – 11 (again, I was on the look-out for this while writing so they are few) (7)

Looked – 48 (35)

Moment – 81 (45)

Glanced – 61 (30)

Few – 84 (53)

Down – 163 (103) (e.g. why use ‘sat down’ when ‘sat’ works as well?)

Up – 255 (horrendous! Search entails a space in front of and after this word) (163)

Out – 252 (same applies as above…) (176)

Back – 105 (ditto) (91)

Just – 70 (an insidious word, but often used in speech so many retained) (45)

Called – 52 (45)

Saw – 23 (21)

Walked – 41 (0)

Ran – 52 (35)

Pointed – 45 (0)

Suddenly – 15 (not bad, but probably too many) (3)

Seemed – 122 (86)

Felt – 77 (often the feelings can be conveyed without using ‘felt’) (49)

Thought – 60 (50)

Though – 101 (I've noticed in other books that sometimes this is used when the writer meant 'thought' and vice versa) (84)

Shrugged – 25 (again, while writing I tried to avoid using this, but it can still be reduced) (15)

Stepped – 60 (surprised at this, but this number was reduced) (36)

Turned – 103 (far too many!) (82)

Shook – 58 (not a big reduction, but I validated them all) (46)

Appeared – 27 (25)

Peered – 37 (32)

Some – 139 (another insidious word!) (77)

Abruptly – 29 (used instead of ‘suddenly’ sometimes) (17)

Eyed – 30 (instead of ‘looked at’ etc) (27)

Gazed – 3 (2)

Comment

In the scheme of things, very few of these repetitions are too bad when you consider the total number of words is in excess of 126,000. But the process serves to validate the text from a different perspective.

Naturally, there’s a need to be careful about substituting with a new word only to find that the ‘new’ word is a repetition you’ve already reduced!

This is only one strategy in the self-edit process. I normally do this after the final read-through. That read should concentrate on the narrative flow, the internal logic of the story, and detecting any inconsistencies.

Earlier read-throughs or self-edits will have considered point-of-view aspects, emotional content in a scene, character motivation and visualisation of a scene, to name a few.

Happy self-editing!

Take a letter

For a very long time some writers have indulged in writing novels in letter format – the epistolary novel, one of the most famous being Dracula. There are many many more, however. See here for an interesting insight.

If this form of fiction is of interest, then you should be intrigued by a series of posts featured in Miriam Drori's blog - the series is 'Letters from Elsewhere'.

Already there's a fascinating collection, all from fictional characters...

http://miriamdrori.com/

Winning entries - Flash 500

Congratulations to the three winners in the latest Flash 500 competition.

They can be found (and read) here:

http://www.flash500.com/index_files/wfq2015.html

Writing – when to give up

I would imagine that from time to time every author hits metaphorical brick walls, perhaps when sales have not been as promising as hoped.

The ideas might still come along, but the take-up by new readers isn’t happening.

In the old days, this lack of or reduction of an audience meant that a good number of mid-list authors were ‘let go’. Some tried under different pen names, others soldiered on, slogging away at new variations, new styles even, and some might have succeed despite the earlier obstacles.

Now, with the advent of e-readers, and the minimal costs involved, old works can be resuscitated, while the one-time mid-list authors can write to their heart’s content, getting their books out there, even if their readership can be counted in the tens rather than the hundreds or thousands.

There’s an interesting blog from crime author Martin Edwards on this very subject, relating to crime writer Chris West who decided not to write any more crime fiction. I recommend it:

http://doyouwriteunderyourownname.blogspot.com.es/
 

 

  

 

Maybe the favourable reviews of the newly released e-books will encourage him to return to a genre which seems to fit him rather well.

Writing – Submission – Riptide: Seize the day!

Riptide Journal has the tagline ‘short stories with an undercurrent’.

This journal has been around quite a while. [And should not to be confused with the bodyboard magazine!]

Riptide publishes anthologies of new short fiction by both established and emerging writers. They state that they are ‘committed to providing a forum for high quality, innovative fiction, expanding the readership of the short story genre and enhancing its standing. We invite work by prominent authors who believe in the continuing importance of the short story, but we aim to include new voices in every issue.’ [My italics]

Whether prominent or new, now might be the time to seize the day.

Riptide is now inviting submissions for their 11th volume. [It’s a bi-annual publication, so don’t delay!] Their 10th volume features the theme 'The Suburbs' in prose, life-writing and poetry.

Deadline : 30 November, 2015.

Stories should in some way reflect on the theme ‘Carpe diem’ – taken from the poet Horace‘s Odes, – usually thought of as meaning ‘Seize – or pluck – the day’.

 

 

Riptide's latest news snippet says: ‘Submissions on our theme of Carpe Diem have been flooding in from all over the world.  Today in the Riptide office we have been busy reading, reading and reading some more.  We have made the tiniest dent in the pile! Undaunted, we are asking for still more. The deadline is the end of November so seize the day, get writing, get polishing what you’ve already written and ping it across to the editors here.  As Shakespeare bemoaned: “I wasted time, and now doth time waste me” so avoid that fate, stop wasting time and send us your tale.’

So, what are you waiting for? Make time for this.

I understand it is a paying market too.

Submission Guidelines:

All submissions must be original work and not previously published.

Prose – one story only per writer – no more than 5,000 words in length. (There is no minimum length).

Submit as a word attachment by email to editors@riptidejournal.co.uk

with ‘Carpe Diem’ in the subject line.

Website: http://www.riptidejournal.co.uk/

I’m not associated with Riptide in any way; just passing on the news. Good luck!
 

Saturday fiction - excerpt

In October, Crooked Cat Publishing release the second novel in the ‘Avenging Cat’ series, Catacomb. This one differs from the first, in that the main protagonist, Catherine Vibrissae (Cat) isn’t featured in the beginning. This is a flashback of some three years, to explain the two NCA characters hounding Cat and Rick, Pointer and Basset, both of whom we met in Catalyst.

   

CATACOMB

Prologue: Dogs of Law

2012

Vauxhall, South London

“Rippon’s death seems a little bizarre,” I remarked over the rim of the Delft coffee-cup. I should have known better but sipped the aromatic hot black liquid anyway, then grimaced. The Superintendent’s secretary had sugared it again. “All he did was rub suntan lotion on himself – and a couple of hours later, he’s dying before everyone’s eyes.” It was a gruesome case, skin peeling off, disintegrating into body-fluids.

            “Let me explain, Alan.” Superintendent Thurston scratched his bald head. Since I’d joined SOCA, he’d used my first name; we’d been round the block together for a few years. When accompanied by anyone else, of course, I was DI Pointer. Now, he steepled his plump fingers, an old mannerism. Implicit in his tone was “Are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin!” So he began: “Some years ago a group of Birmingham chemists discovered a method of getting plastics to disintegrate automatically after being thrown away.”

            “Yes, but that was a long time back; I thought it wasn’t practical, lack of funding for research...?”

            Thurston nodded, setting his sallow cheeks trembling. “The invention involved dyes which, when added to plastics, caused them to break down under the action of sunlight’s ultra-violet rays.”

            “Though this was before the ozone layer depletion crisis? Now, they’d disintegrate even faster than planned, I guess.” The irony was lost on him.

            “Correct. The Swedes and Canadians have been working on it too, but only the British version works when subjected to direct sunlight. Well, I say British, but it isn’t quite. The firm now dabbling in it is French-Swiss – Cerberus. Their founder, Loup Malefice bought the rights and hired the scientists.”

            “So commodities on window-sills are safe?”

            “Yes. To start with, the self-destruction time could be varied from three months of summer sunshine to three years. They toyed with calling it Ecodream! Now, though, if applied in the right proportions, this stuff could turn plastics to dust in three hours!”

            I didn’t like where this was leading: Rippon, the incredible melting man. But it was time for my “It’s only effective on plastics, surely?”

            Shaking his head, Thurston mumbled, “Was, Alan, was... But the military got interested...”

            Bloody typical!

            “As you’re aware, any major scientific discovery has the Defence people looking for ways of utilising these inventions. Often, it’s the other way around, isn’t it? A military invention has civilian use – look at GPS, for example.” I nodded while trying to maintain my bearings in Thurston’s lengthy and rather meandering explanation. “Intensive research came up with a refined adaptation for use on human tissue and metals. In fact, only glass and rubber are really impervious.”

            Of course the suntan lotion had been in a glass jar.

            Thurston went on, “It can assume any colour; we still call it a dye, though.” He shrugged. “But without the action of sunlight, the stuff’s harmless.”

            Well, in for a penny: “And the formula’s been stolen?”

            “As well as a large sample of the dye, yes.”

            My mouth had gone dry, but I had no desire to resort to the coffee. “How on earth did Rippon come to possess the doctored lotion in the first place?”

            “A good point. Rippon was the Under Secretary responsible for Science and Research Coordination. He used to entertain scientists regularly at his Belgravia home. Keeping in touch, he called it. The four suspects all visited Rippon last week when they reported the formula and sample missing.”

            “I see. A few minutes in Rippon’s bathroom and the lotion could’ve been treated. I suppose that money’s the motive?”

            “Oh, yes. Our lab discovered the bottle’s label had a message on it: Payment of £2 million for the formula’s return...”

            “And the means of communicating our response?”

            “We must give our decision in tomorrow’s Times and await further instructions. The alternative given isn’t pretty – an unspecified town’s water-supply will be treated with the stuff at...” and he squinted at his desk-clock/calculator, “... seven tomorrow night...”

            “This puts the current bout of consumer terrorism in the shade.” No pun intended. “We’ve less than twenty hours...”

            “Imagine,” Thurston said, shaking his head, staring at his open file.

            I had already: a whole town, washing and cooking, then going out to work in the sunshine. Sunshine was rare enough in these islands, but to make it a killer defied belief. Bloody typical of the defence establishment! A boon to mankind, to abolish waste, and they have to meddle with it, turning sunshine into a killer far more effective than cancerous melanoma.

            We could pray for rain, I suppose.

            Thurston stood up, paced the tired carpet and scowled at the streaks of pigeon-pollution brightening the window-sill outside. “Well, Alan, I want you to go to their Research Establishment – Pethewray Point, on the Devon coast. The security dossiers of the prime suspects, courtesy of the Minister himself, are on my desk.” He jutted his chin at the teak furniture in case I had difficulty identifying it as a desk. The dockets were red, and as I picked them up their India-tags clinked on the polished surface. Thurston swerved round, and I smiled: the desk was unscathed. “All have been involved with the project since MOD took over. And they’re the only ones who’ve had access to the formula and the dye samples.”

***

I elected to drive down in my battered old Citroen – I profited more on expenses. Sergeant Carol Basset occupied the passenger seat, working through the dossiers. She usually drove me around, but was happy to let me take the strain. It had proved a strange yet rewarding partnership; we’d worked together since SOCA was established in 2006 and after a brief period getting to know each other’s methods we’d gelled. Partly due to our surnames, partly because we made a good and rather tenacious team, many in SOCA referred to us as “the dogs of law”. I’m not keen on celebrity, a term that’s been demeaned over recent years, but I couldn’t argue with that definition, I suppose. Carol reckoned it was a hoot. I always thought of her as Carol, but traditionally I referred to her as “Sergeant”, rather than “Basset”.

            All the way on the road I couldn’t get rid of the nightmare vision of a sunny Cornish ghost-town succumbing. Had I just passed through it? Were those shoppers I’d seen back there destined to die by the sun’s glowing rays? Death held no sting for me now, but this latest threat made me shudder.

            Twenty chequered years with the Force meant I’d seen my fair share of misery: widows prostrate, rape victims in catatonia, unrepentant murderers in strait-jackets, orphaned children in traumatic shock, mutilated children and their bereft parents: the list was endless. And the Grim Reaper hadn’t left me unscarred, either. Eileen had foolishly opened a mysterious parcel addressed to me during the Kyle terror-gang investigation. There wasn’t much of the house standing when the bomb-blast’s dust-clouds subsided. Courtesy of extremists, not your run-of-the-mill underworld villains. Society of late seemed to breed a lot of extremists; it was as if the thin veneer of civilisation was being scraped away by incursions from the State, self-interest groups, interfering self-aggrandising do-gooders, religious zealots, law-makers who didn’t understand human nature, and of course politicians who didn’t live in the real world. Eventually, we caught the bastards, though their subsequent sentences didn’t remove the profound emptiness she’d left behind. We’d bought this car on our tenth wedding anniversary.

            When some of the city’s villains I’d helped put inside actually paid their respects at Eileen’s funeral, I had almost gone to pieces. Stupid, really, we’d been too close, loved too deeply, so when I was left alone, I was just that – alone. We had no friends, only acquaintances and colleagues. They did their best, offering well-meaning platitudes. Christ, I’d better get rid of the car. I can’t face this self-pitying catharsis every time I drive long-distance!

            “You’re very quiet, sir?” Carol said.

            “Sorry, I was thinking.”

            “That’s my job. You make the arrests.”

            I laughed, tears streaming, vision slightly blurred, but not dangerously affected. I glanced quickly at her but she was looking at the dossier. Hastily, I wiped my eyes and cheeks with the back of a hand; there was hardly any wobble as I steered one-handed.

***

Under the benign sun I parked in a layby, a small distance before the next rise which concealed all but the radio antennae of the Pethewray Point establishment.

            “We’re early,” I said. “The Research Director isn’t expecting us till 9am.”

            “Fancy a look around, sir?”

            “Indeed.” I opened the door and got out. “Time for a little relaxation, before the fray.”

            Leaning on the other side of the car roof, Carol said, “And time to blow away the memories, if nothing else.”

            Sometimes, I was sure she was a mind-reader.

            Breathing in the salty air, I walked across the weather-beaten prickly-yellow gorse, Carol silent by my side. Fields gently climbed towards the cliff edge a half-mile away, where I could glimpse the shale rooftops of a couple of cottages. Circling gulls squealed plaintively.

            The warming sun highlighted the Ministry of Defence notices surrounding the isolated village of wired-off Nissen huts and prefabricated offices. Scaffolding framework stalked to the rear of the place; drills stuttered loudly on the faint breeze. It was in places like this, on the edges of solitude, where my senses came alive; the opposite of sensory deprivation – city-life surrounded the body, permeated the skin and mind: only here could I seem to function as a human being.

            I blinked away morbid thoughts and turned to Carol. “Time to go, Sergeant.”

***

I hope this whets your appetite for the actual book!

Only the prologue is in the first person. The rest of the novel is told in third person, as usual.

 

A few more glimpses into Catacomb will be made in the run-up to publication day, 20 October, 2015.

 

Cataclysm, the third in the series will be published in mid-December.

 

 

CATALYST available in paperback and e-book 

 

From Amazon COM here

 

From Amazon UK here

 

From Kobo here

 

From Smashwords here