The Age of Umbrage, Part Two

 This went viral on Facebook a few weeks ago: Name ten writers you’ve read at least five books by. The responses were plentiful and it was fun to see who others come back to time after time.

Until someone decided to take offense. Too many lists were oversaturated with male writers.

This is a multi-level complaint. First, it implies women are underrepresented as writers, but are they? As of 2021, according to Wordsrated.com, 50.4% of authors in the United States are women. True, they only make 96% as much money, but that can likely be attributed to sales. As women buy most of the books in this country, I’ll leave that question open.

(I don’t know why Wordsrated uses the term “salaries,” as fiction authors generally work on advances and royalties. If anyone can show I missed something, please let me know in the comments.)

More bothersome was the implication the respondents were  prejudice against women authors. Speaking only for myself as one who named all male writers, my tastes were formed forty to fifty years ago, when not nearly as many women were published. The Wordsrated study shows the average age of authors working in the United States is 42, which means most writers working today weren’t born when my tastes were coming together.

It was deplorable that women were so badly underrepresented in so many areas; we all suffered. I recently watched a video of the Vienna Philharmonic conducted by Leonard Bernstein and was struck by how few female faces were in what was/is arguably the world’s greatest orchestra. By “few” I mean “none.” Today’s orchestras are better than their predecessors, if only because until recently they excluded half the talent pool.

It only makes sense that fiction writing, and reading, is better off with more proportional representation of  women and minorities. That doesn’t change my tastes. I appreciate Sue Grafton, Sara Paretsky, and Laura Lippman as outstanding writers; Kinsey Milhone, V.I. Warshawsky, and Tess Monahan are enduring and ground-breaking characters. I cut my PI reading teeth on Mike Hammer and Spenser; I like my detectives to be more proactive in their case resolutions. (Yes, by “proactive” I mean “violent.”) I came to love police procedurals through reading Joseph Wambaugh and Ed McBain. I’m not apologizing for it.

Do I wish women had been better represented in those days? Absolutely. Can I do anything about it? No. Even if I were to read nothing but books by women, it would not help those who were discriminated against fifty years ago; they’re all dead. And I really can’t do anything for those who were most damaged, because their books never saw the light of day.

People tend to listen to the music they fell in love with in high school and college for the rest of their lives. Our parents listened to swing bands long after they were no longer in vogue. I fell in love with jazz when I played in my high school’s stage band; with classical while performing in my college orchestra. Now I listen to a lot of country music because that’s what I heard around the house when I was a kid. It’s musical comfort food for me. About the youngest country singers I listen to today are Dwight Yoakum and Patty Loveless. Both are my age.

The types of books men and women write also matters. I doubt there is a better writer working today, crime or otherwise, than Megan Abbott. I loved Queenpin and think Bury Me Deep belongs in college classes. Since Dare Me, though, the books she writes are about people so distant from my tastes and interests I have no connection to them and, frankly, don’t really care what happens to them.

Psychological suspense stories are immensely popular gith now. These books typically involve a middle-class or higher person or family – often a woman – who is subjected to what can best be described as psychological torture by someone who may or may not be known to them. The best of these books are well written and obviously compelling to many or they wouldn’t sell as they do. I rarely read them. I grew up working class, and my sensibilities and sympathies remain so. Working class people don’t fuck with your mind; they fuck with you personally. I am far more likely to be drawn to protagonists in novels by Dennis Lehane or James D.F. Hannah, as those are people with whom I can most readily identify. As Lehane said when asked why he didn’t write about rich people: “I don’t give a fuck about them.” The same applies to my reading.

We all like what we like. As authors, we should be grateful that people are reading at all rather than taking them to task for not reading who we think they should read, whatever the reason. I’m 68 years old and there are more books I want to read than I have time for; I’m not looking for new horizons. I enjoy stumbling onto someone new – the past two years I tripped over Don Winslow and Loren Estelman – but their prose falls into my already established wheelhouse..

Let’s agree that I won’t criticize or try to shame you into reading what I think you should, and you will show me the same courtesy.

Or I’m liable to take umbrage.

Inappropriate Language

 The Beloved Spouse™ and I spent the weekend of March 11 and 12 at the Suffolk (VA) Mystery Authors Festival. (Editor’s Note: If you’ve not been, you should go. It’s a treat.) This year’s guest of honor was Hank Phillippi Ryan, who was interviewed by Art Taylor to launch the day’s festivities.

 

The interview was wide-ranging, informative, and a lot of fun. One thing that stuck out to me was Hank’s use of the phrase “inappropriate language.” It came up in the context of what she will, or won’t, include in her books; this is a won’t. It got me to thinking (again) about the use of language in books, as the term “inappropriate” hadn’t occurred to me before.

 

Those dozens of you who have read them know my books would be rated R as movies, primarily for the language. I include very little sex and not much violence by today’s standards. I am, however, not averse to foul language.

 

I do try to stay away from language that is inappropriate. What’s the difference?

 

Others may differ, but to me the audience and character decide what is, or is not, appropriate. My language would be quite different if I wrote cozies or YA novels. My audience consists of people who like their crime stories with hard bark on them. My characters are overwhelmingly either law enforcement (sometimes a private investigator) or criminals. Basically working class people, sometimes just barely. These folks do not speak as a librarian or schoolteacher or minister would. My characters converse primarily with peers, or as cops to suspects, and often under duress. “Darn” and “shoot” won’t sit right in their mouths.

 

This varies by individual. Ben Dougherty’s mother does not use the same kind of language Doc is known to use; neither does Doc speak to his mother as he would to a suspect, or even to a peer. We all do this. To me, that’s appropriate language. That doesn’t mean I think any less of those who made a conscious choice not to use those words.

 

I remember a discussion in a critique group many years ago when a woman complained about the language in a story. This woman, who I have no interest in disparaging, presented as at middle-class, probably upper-middle. I explained these were working class men speaking to each other, to which she replied her father and uncles were also working class and they never spoke like that.

 

“Not around you, they didn’t,” I said.

 

That’s my point.

 

This has been on my mind lately as I toy with trying a Western again. My idea is to write it as a memoir, a series of stories from a man who covered a lot of territory after the Civil War, as told to a journalist he became friendly with. The “conversations” they had would have taken place in the 1920s.

 

I have no delusions about how people spoke on the frontier. When women and children were around was one thing; on the range another. The coarseness of mining camps is well documented, and I’m not just talking about Deadwood. Having no recordings of any 19^th century conversations, I am perfectly happy to make up language and use it to suit my needs.

 

But the book was ostensibly written in the 1920s, based on stories told by an old man. What language would he use?

 

It won’t be Deadwood.

 

This book will be what I’m thinking of as colorful, yet sanitized. What we consider foul language will not appear, if only because publishers wouldn’t tolerate it a hundred years ago. At the same time, my aging frontiersman will want to convey the flavor of his life in an engaging and, to him, accurate way.

 

It’s going to be a challenge, as it should. Also a lot of fun.

Fighting for the Full Range of Expression

Authors have a responsibility to enhance and enlarge the language. While it is true that most additions to the language are organic (and shit), etymologists need a fixed point where they can say “this is the first known use of this word.” While it’s safe to say few writers actually “invent” a word, we’re still the source material that will show up in the OED one day.

That said, I’d like to argue for a couple of phrases that, while not new, have been woefully underutilized. I’m not advocating “taking them back” as Randall did in Clerks 2, but in giving them some breathing room, unencumbered by small-mindedness of polite conversation that denies these potentially valuable phrases the full range of their expressive capabilities.

Example One: “Like/as a bastard.”

George V. Higgins liked this phrase, which is as good a place to start as any. Eddie Coyle said having his fingers broken “hurt like a bastard,” which is probably the most common usage for the term. Higgins shows some of the potential for the term later in the book, when Eddie, desperate to cut a deal to keep himself out of prison, wants the fed he’s been stooling for to tell the judge how Eddie has been “helping his Uncle like a bastard.”

That’s the glory of this simple phrase: it can serve as an adverb to show more than the standard definition of any verb without resorting to the vapidness “very” has attached to adjectives.

Looking for lifelike conversation? This is how men speak to each other:

“How’s the weather?”

“Snowing like a bastard.”

“How are the roads?”

“Slick as a bastard.”

“Think we should stay home?”

“Hell no. I’m hungry as a bastard.”

“Want to go to Mulligan’s?”

“Why? Their service is slow as a bastard.”

See? Pithy yet elegant, and it removes the need to look for a New Yorker-sounding construct that will send your reader to a dictionary, thus ruining the dream-like state induced by the rest of your otherwise deathless prose.

Example Two: “Breaking balls.”

To be fair, “breaking balls” already has a full and rewarding existence in various contexts. It has the rare quality to be both complimentary and insulting as few other words or phrases this side of “fuck” can pull off. To wit:

“Where have you been?”

“Down the bar breaking balls with Dave.”

Or,

“How’s Dave?”

“All that cocksucker does is break my balls.”

The minions of political correctness have unfairly limited this fine phrase’s gifts by forcing it to be gender-specific. Who are we to deny women the (sometimes dubious) privilege of having their balls broken? Women don’t have balls, you say? I am an artist, sir. The purpose of my life is to transcend he limitations of language through metaphorical exploration.

Witness the following anecdote: The Lone Sibling has come to visit me on the weekend of my fiftieth birthday. The Beloved Spouse was not yet even the Beloved Spousal Equivalent. She was still in the “Woman Who Shows Great Potential” phase. The Lone Sibling bought lunch; I paid for chicken wings for during the football game. (My birthday falls during the NFL’s Divisional Playoff weekend.) This happened around halftime of the late afternoon game:

Woman Who Shows Great Potential: Anyone else hungry? (To me.) You want to heat up the wings?

Me: Damn, woman. He bought lunch. I paid for the wings. Would it break your balls to turn on the oven?

(Note: I said this with the utmost affection. She turned on the oven, we all ate wings, and the bond that connects us to this day was set a little more securely. Go ahead. Scoff. We’re happy.)

As a writer—particularly a writer of crime fiction—it offends me when the delicate sensitivities of people unnaturally prone to the vapors place artificial limits on any form of expression. English is a beautiful, vibrant, and constantly growing language. To deny it—and us—the full range of expression not only damages us all on some level, it’s breaking my balls like a bastard.

To PC, or Not to PC?

I have had the privilege of knowing Les Edgerton for just short of two years now. He is a delightful man, whose good nature is infectious.

Lately, though, he’s pissed off, and with good reason.

For those who lack the inquisitive nature to check the link, cons often refer to “Three strikes and you’re out” laws as “The Bitch,” affecting, as they do, habitual criminals. Les wrote a book—what I consider his finest—that depicts the weaknesses of such statutes. Cutting to the core as he does so well, Les titled his book The Bitch. Now he learns there are weak-kneed, politically correct, chickenshit editors and newspapers who will not print reviews of the book because the title is offensive.

Coincidentally, J.D. Rhodes also posted about political correctness in his weekly column. In as articulate and well-reasoned an argument as I’ve read—certainly better than anything you’re likely to get from me—Dusty writes:

There’s no hard and fast answer. But one thing to consider is: In which direction are you punching? Up, down, or sideways?

Political correctness is a poorly-worded term for something we should all be aware of. At what point does malicious—or even just thoughtless—speech become offensive? Should such offense be measured by reception, or intent? Like anything else, context matters, as does the question of degree. While, on the one hand, one should not get a pass for deliberately hurtful comments by decrying the “thought police,” anyone who’s been through counseling has heard the mantra “no one can make you feel any particular way; that’s up to you.” Where’s the line?

There isn’t one. At least not a bright one. The same newspapers that refused to acknowledge The Bitch may well print a quote from a politician referring to Hillary Clinton as a bitch. Even better—or worse—if said person gets cute with the time-honored substitute “I won’t say what she is, but it rhymes with ditch/switch/witch/hitch/pitch.” Worse yet, to quote as “she’s a b***h.” Rush Limbaugh and his ilk may think they get over with their winks and nods and denials, but they’re not kidding anyone. Those who most vociferously defend them are fellow travelers down that slimy road. Their resumes put the lie to any pleas of innocence.

Louis CK said it best, as he so often does, in his routine about how he despises the N-word. No,

not nigger; the phrase, “The N-Word.” As he so deftly puts it, that’s just a way to get me to say “nigger” in my head without you having to, refusing to accept the truth of what words are: abstract things that put specific ideas or images in people’s heads.

Context is critical, damn near everything. I say “damn near” because intent must count for something. (We could argue for weeks about whether intent is part and parcel of context, but that’s a different discussion.) I was going to link to Louis CK’s bit, but there are other references there that will be viewed as offensive if you don’t watch the entire hour-long show, because he took the time to build the context into which his use of such language, while not appropriate for the whole family, is not as shockingly offensive as it might appear.

George Carlin—the most brilliant comedic wordsmith of my lifetime—said it best as part of his classic “Seven Things You Can’t Say on Television” routine. He included “cocksucker,” but not “cock,” because, in context, a cock might refer to something completely different (“It says right there in The Bible: the cock crowed.”), while there aren’t a lot of different interpretations for “cocksucker.” (Al Swearengen may differ.) Context does matter. Sometimes it’s all that matters. It’s why a newspaper that would never print a picture of a pussy, nor allow written reference to such, can still be run by one.

How Clean is Your Reader?

The Clean Reader controversy has played itself out—I’m behind the curve again, as usual—though it did get me to thinking about what the perceived need for that app, and the controversy surrounding it, means in the reader-writer relationship.

I have commented more than once on foul language in books; my opinion—for what it’s worth—is well-known. (Well, as well-known as I am, which isn’t saying much.) I work hard on the language in my books, so I felt compelled to send a note of my own to the Clean Reader folks:

I recently became aware of your app through Facebook, and, as an author, was curious. Investigation changed my outlook from “curious” to “appalled.”

Where did you acquire the ability—or the authority—to arbitrarily edit my work? Everything I write

goes through multiple drafts; I labor over, and consider, each word. Alternatives were considered for every “cocksucker” and “fuck” (in any of its forms) I used, just as every other word was assessed. When I chose to include what some would consider foul language, this is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed but attentive; that’s exactly what that character meant to say. To alter it is to alter the character, which is to alter the book in a fundamental way.

Those who may be offended by my choices in language have a clear, and better, choice than your app: don’t buy the book, and I am happy to advise them not to do so.

In my research, I came across the following comment from Clean Reader to author Joanne Harris:

“Many of the people who we’ve heard from that are using Clean Reader say they’re willing to miss out on a little bit of context in order to avoid reading some profanity. Ideally our app will open the door to more readers/customers to consume a more diverse selection of books.”

This ignores a salient aspect of oral and written communication: context is everything. Identical words said to a small child and an adult can be comforting, or insulting. To be more specific, there is the word “ass.” I would not be surprised to find Clean Reader changes that to “backside,” or something equally innocuous. How’s that going to play, when someone learns Samson killed a thousand men with the jawbone of a backside?

Author Chuck Wendig tried to play Devil’s advocate with this comment:

“You may say, ‘But I want to read your books, just without all that nasty business’."

Then you don't want to read my books. My books include all that nasty business. My books are often about that nasty business. You want to read your idea of what my books would be like if you could write them.

Clean Reader capitulated later that day. I take full credit.

Still, the controversy got me to thinking. I’m an argumentative and stubborn bastard by nature, but I genuinely do not want to offend anyone through my writing. That doesn’t mean I’m changing anything, but I’d be happy to let folks know they might not like what’s in there. For myself, I’d be willing to post ratings on my books to alert people. The Beloved Spouse and I came up with a system I like a lot:

Network Television: Relatively innocuous language. Sanitized sex and violence.

Basic Cable: Similar sex standards to network. More graphic violence. Language can be anything except “fuck,” in any form.

Subscription Cable: Anything goes.

The problem there in that most of my books would cover the spectrum: Network TV for sex (with a couple of exceptions), Basic Cable for violence, and Subscription Cable for language. What would work better—for me, at least—is something similar to what TV uses now. We’ve all heard and seen the disclaimers for Justified: This program is specifically designed to be viewed by adults and therefore may be unsuitable for children under 17; the screen displays “TV-MA,” with L, S, and V as needed to designate language, sex, and violence. (Editor’s Note: If you haven’t seen the Justified disclaimers, what the fuck’s wrong with you? That’s a great show.)

I’m not promoting censorship—as my response to Clean Reader should clearly show—but I also don’t want to offend anyone unnecessarily. (I do it on purpose often enough.) I’d be willing to let people know in advance my book might be a risky proposition for them. My choice, mind you; I don’t want anyone telling me I have to. Along this line, I am seriously considering placing something like this on the back cover copy of the next self-published Nick Forte book: Be advised: This book contains strong language, and violence. (The next Forte has no sex worth mentioning, much to Forte’s chagrin.) I have also chosen to devote my fifteen minutes of Malice Domestic to (what I hope will be) an interactive discussion with readers on the topic.

What do you think?

The Paradox of Free Expression

I was unfamiliar with Brad Parks’s work when I attended the Creatures, Crime, and Creativity conference earlier this month, so he was a revelation to me at his Master Class. He discussed writing from soup to nuts as well as could be done in 45 minutes, and was educational, eye-opening, and entertaining. (Read: laugh out loud funny.) He also clearly felt comfortable in the company of other writers and readers predisposed to hearing some inside baseball stuff on writing, and spoke freely, i.e. did not censor his comments.

When I say his comments were uncensored, I do not mean to imply he channeled Al Swearengen. His language was neither gratuitous, not overly graphic. It was about what I’d expect from a writing discussion with other crime writers: an easy exchange of like-minded people.

That’s what I thought, and what Parks expected, based on his later comments. One person in the room did not agree and left, muttering under her breath about “too much…too many” after a couple of “fucks” made their (fleeting) appearance. Parks apologized, said he hadn’t meant to offend anyone, and probably should have monitored his language more closely.

Here’s what bothers me: she was a writer. (Well, she thought of herself as one.) Writers, if nothing else, should be all about words as a means of expression, the whole, “There are no ‘bad’ words” thing. Yes, you don’t use them in front of children, or in polite company. (Though I think polite company would benefit greatly if it loosened the fuck up once in a while.) I was there: neither of those descriptions applied. For a “writer” to take public offense with another writer’s language in the company of consenting adults is antithetical to what writers should stand for, which is free expression, whether or not you agree with the message, or method, of that expression.

I’ve written about this before. I expect I’ll do it again. The American hypocrisy about foul language is my personal windmill and my attitude well be a career limiting move. So it goes. It’s not like I have a “career” in the generally accepted sense of the word. As political and social bullshit demands words to have flexible—or no—meaning, the one thing I can maintain control over is my writing. Not the heinous shit right-wingers defend, nor the Obama apologists on the other side. Not those who argue an inability to persecute others is the same as being persecuted themselves, nor Salon’s daily “sky is falling” article. The only thing that’s in my control is to write the book I’d like to read, as all writers are encouraged to do.

So I fucking will.

Foul Language

The panel in which I participated at Bouchercon last year on noir and hard-boiled fiction was asked how important foul language is to those genres. I took it upon myself to answer, as Grind Joint is full of the kind of tasty morsels that give the FCC and the American Family Association the drizzles. I wanted to hear what everyone else had to say, so I kept my answer succinct:

“It’s a big fucking deal.”

It is, but not for the reasons some think. Foul language is no different from other language in the context of a story: it serves a purpose, or it shouldn’t be there. I don’t choose language to offend anyone, though I know some of what I write will do just that. To me, there is one reason to use foul language: to help to characterize. Much can be learned from how a character speaks, and who he speaks to in what manner. As almost everything I write is either close third-person or first-person POV, this rule also often applies to narration.

As eighty-year-old women are not inclined to say “fuck” (unless the person sitting next to her has shouted, “Bingo!”), long-haul truck drivers are not often heard to say “dad gum it” when the trailer rolls off the back of the tractor at 80 mph. Some might. If so, this is a perfect opportunity to show his even-temperedness, or Christianity, or failure to grasp the gravity of the situation. Whatever. It serves a purpose.

James M. Cain once said,

“I make no conscious effort to be tough, or hardboiled, or grim, or any of the things I am usually called. I merely try to write as the character would write, and I never forget that the average man, from the fields, the streets, the bars, the offices and even the gutters of his country, has acquired a vividness of speech that goes beyond anything I could invent, and that if I stick to this heritage, this logos of the American countryside, I shall attain a maximum of effectiveness with very little effort.”

Cain captured something I have thought without being able to enunciate for some time, though I make a minor modification I think he would forgive: I try to write as the character would speak, and the kinds of characters I write, generally speaking, are comfortable with foul language. The Russian gangster and black heroin dealer and small town cop use different levels of vulgarity with different frequencies, and under different circumstances. The cop’s elderly parents, not so much.

The goal—and the trick—is to answer the question, “What would this character say here?” Not “What would a character say if I wanted to get this on network television?” or “What would this character say if I want to be sure not to offend DixieLady25365?” Dialog should be truth, even when the character is lying. Expressing character through that person’s speech is as good an example of “show, don’t tell” as I can think of.

Readers are not blameless when offense is given. The easily offended owe it to themselves to perform some due diligence. Look at the title and subject matter; read the back cover. Read a few random spots and see for yourself. Authors and publishers have no more interest in unnecessarily offending anyone than the reader has in being offended. Readers who fail to do this relinquish the right to credibly dismiss a book with a one-star rating, and a review no more detailed than, “This is a good story, but the author is a disgusting potty mouth.”

My ultimate fantasy is to be at a signing or on a panel, and asked why I use so much foul language in my stories. I’d like to have the presence of mind and equanimity to cite all of the above, and to be sure the questioner understands my intent is not to be offensive, but to serve a greater purpose in the context of the story. I’d conclude by saying I’m sorry he or she was offended, and, in the future, if they have doubts about me, my advice is not to buy the fucking book.

What the F*ck Is All This Sh*t?

Few things irritate me more than the faux civility of political correctness. Comedian Louis CK—the closest thing we have to George Carlin right now—does a great bit about how much he hates “the N word.” Not “nigger;” the phrase “the N word.” Excerpting his bit:

“…literally whenever a white lady on CNN with nice hair says: “The ‘N’ word.” That’s just white people getting away with saying nigger, that’s all that is. They found a way to say nigger. “N word.” It’s bullshit cause when you say the “N word” you put the word nigger in the listener’s head. That’s what saying a word is. You say the N word and I go oh she means nigger. Your making me say it in my head. Why don’t you fucking say it instead and take responsibility.”

Exactly. It’s the same with things like the twitter feed and book, Sh*t My Dad Says. I love SMDS. The book is even better than the feeds. The author has to use the asterisk so as not to offend large parts of the population, just as movie maker Kevin Smith had to call his book Tough Sh*t. Those on the right complain about “the Nanny State,” but they won’t let you put “shit” out there for public consumption; kids might see it. Some born-again family values guy—who, by the way, will only defend and promote his personal family values, whether he practices them himself or not—will have a hissy fit. These people apparently believe people see “sh*t” and their mind says, “Shasteriskt,” after which they immediately wonder what the f*ck that means.

We’re all adults here; no one is being fooled. (If you’re not, get your underage ass busy on your homework like your mother told you an hour ago.) “Sh*t” means “shit;” “f*ck” means “fuck.” “The N word” means “nigger,” just as “the F word” means “fuck.” (There sure are a sh*tload of f*cking ways to get around saying the F word.) We’re also not doing anyone any good.

There was a time when those with abhorrent views on race or homosexuality were easy to spot. Everyone knew the meaning of the words they used, even if there was some mealy-mouthing around the pronunciation of “nigruh” so they had the deniability of pleading they actually said “Negro” but the grits in their mouth made it come out that way. Now they have code words and will be shocked—shocked!—at even the implication you took offense at what they said. In fact, it is you who must be the racist, to assume an allegedly denigrating comment referred to “those people.” Air and sunlight are helpful in combatting any infection. Pretending things don’t exist doesn’t make them go away; it makes them stronger.

I’m not advocating coarse language in polite company. There are obviously places where “shit” and “fuck” and “nigger” are inappropriate. When in those situations, don’t use them. They generally have no reason to come up at all, and, when their definitions might be suitable in context (“He called Darnell out and Darnell fucked that nigger’s shit up”), work around it. (“Darnell gave him a beating.”) The only thing saying “Darnell f*cked that N-word’s sh*t up” accomplishes is insulting everyone’s intelligence.

If you don’t like foul language, don’t use it. If you don’t want to hear it, don’t go places where it’s likely to be used, and don’t be bashful about pointing it out to those who use it at inappropriate times and locations. Just don’t get cute with asterisks and first letters. Too many issues in this country—on both sides of the political spectrum—are exacerbated by people using words to mean what they want them to mean, and not what they really mean. You may claim you use “the N word” or “the F word” because you’re too polite and genteel to speak so coarsely, but you’re not sh*tting anybody.