Bloviation Encomium (a.k.a., Why I Love Big Words)

“Readers don't need commentary. They don't need detached description. They don't need big words. They don't need imitation Alice Walker. They need you, with your language, your rhythms, your story. They need your heart.”

So says Nancy Slonim Aronie in her terrific book Writing from the Heart: Tapping the Power of Your Inner Voice, which I started reading yesterday on the recommendation of my friend Virginia (thank you, daaaarlink!) and which I shall review properly in another entry, very soon I hope.

This morning, however, I have to get something off my chest, which is that I had a huge reaction to that section I just quoted, particularly the one sentence I emphasized, the one about big words.

My knee-jerk reaction went something like this: You got a problem with big words? Then you got a problem with ME, lady.

I was on the defensive, ready for an offensive. I was in a bit of a tizzy.

Your nefarious plot will never succeed! Animadversion. Pyrrhic. Confabulation. Neener, neener, neener!

Why were my knickers in such a twist? The author didn't say, “Don't use big words.” She didn't say, “Big words are bad.” All she said was that readers don't NEED big words. Yes, there's the implication that commentary, description (if “detached”) and big words are not only unnecessary, but may even be undesirable, from a reader's point of view – but I'm guessing that's only true to the extent that these things interfere with “heart,” which is what Aronie thinks is most important.

Here's a little history, a sort of “Me & Big Words” romance, in three parts.

Part I: Little third-grader Tanya comes home from school and complains that the other kids always run away from her on the playground. (I had told everyone the myth about Medusa and the Gorgon sisters, claiming I could turn people to stone if they so much as looked at me, and the other kids responded – sensibly, I now think – by shrieking and running away. The problem was that I'd grown tired of this game, and the other kids hadn't.) My dad's solution? Vocabulary cards. He had a whole box of them. If I ever needed to tell someone off, he said, I'd be able to do it eloquently. A few weeks later, one of the girls in my class said something mean at recess, so I told her she was superfluous. This was a girl I was very much afraid of, and I don't think I'd have dared if I hadn't been standing on top of a huge pile of snow, ten feet above her head. Agatha squinted her eyes up at me and demanded, “What you call me, bitch?” I nervously backtracked: “Nothing.” Before I knew it, she had scrambled up that mountain of snow and was chasing me down its icy spine toward the school parking lot. I was terrified. She landed a good kick to my posterior, told me never to disrespect her again, and, to my relief, that was the end of that.

Part II: When I was sixteen, I wrote down a list of 200 big words, just off the top of my head, and told my high school boyfriend I'd give him a kiss for each one he could define correctly. No, I am not kidding. I actually did that, said that, was a complete snot like that. He cooperated with good grace, and seemed pleased enough with his eleven kisses.

Part III: A couple of years ago, I taught a class on memoir writing for my Stone Curves Cohousing neighbors. As part of the course, each of the participants, myself included, had a personal essay workshopped by the entire group. My friend Caroline responded to my essay in a way I'll never forget – except that I've forgotten every word she said. The gist of it, though, was this: It's been interesting to read this essay, since you're the teacher, and to watch you execute all the techniques you've talked about in class – but sometimes I find myself feeling like you're not letting us in, that it's all too seamless, too crafted, that's it's all about the words and not about the real you.

My take on the bloviation (bloviate: to speak pompously) situation is this: I'm all mixed up.

On the one hand, I love words. I love small words and big ones. I like their sounds and their meanings, their connotations and denotations, their rhythms, their personal associations – mine, and other people's – and the endlessly fascinating things that can be done with them. My love of words is as genuinely me as it gets. If the writing gods & gurus want to declare big words taboo, then I guess I'm just out of luck as a writer.

On the other hand, I keep getting the message – from readers, from the universe, whatever – that maybe I ought to think about the way in which I use my words to keep the world at bay. As is always the case when our defenses get questioned, there's a part of me that's dead set against change. As is always the case when our defenses get questioned, the last thing I want to do is put that defense down.

I've spent my whole life perfecting imperviousness. I've freakin' pluperfected it, as a matter of fact, and now I'm supposed to just let it go?

You want heart? Okay, here you go: a big ol' dollop of sentimental glop. MMMMmmm. Coagulation. Yummy.