What do you see when you read a book?

I read China Mieville’s The City And The City recently (I’m slowly chipping away at my ‘to-read’ list). I enjoy his writing style, and I think his world-building is fantastic (in many meanings of that word). But something strange happened as I read the book.

It’s written in first person, and I automatically pictured the narrator as female. I’ve no idea why, but even when it became clear that the character was male, I still saw him as female. I don’t think there was anything specific Mieville wrote that would make me picture his protagonist as anything but male, so I can only think this is down to how I approached the book.

And this got me thinking. When I read, I picture things in a certain way, but this isn’t necessarily how others picture the book, or even how the writer saw the story in his or her own head. Every reader is different, and we each bring our own unique perspectives to anything we read.

octopus-1235006_1280Stories (in books) pass from writers to readers through the medium of words, but there is always going to be interpretation involved in this. Writers aim to give as much action/emotion/description in as few words as possible. If everything was described in enough detail to convey every single aspect of the story, the action would move at a glacial pace, and all sense of forward momentum would be lost. Stories that describe too much are (for most readers) tiring to read‌—‌hence the search for conciseness. Gustave Flaubert talked about finding ‘le mot juste’, the right word.

But even that causes problems. Words mean different things to different people. I’ve heard the word ‘solid’ used to mean both good (as in ‘rock-solid’, firm and unmoving‌—‌a solid fellow) and difficult (as in ‘hard’‌—‌“that game’s well solid!”).

Think of that classic story opening; ‘It was a dark and stormy night.’ That might conjure up thoughts of uncertainty, maybe even fear. But to some, storms can be exciting. Or maybe darkness helps others escape from their day-to-day troubles, and the addition of poor weather brings up thoughts of being beside a fire, enclosed in the safety and warmth of their very own home.

There is no perfect word. There is no ideal way to describe something.

Is this a problem? Not necessarily. One often-repeated piece of writing advice is to picture your ideal reader, and write to them. I believe Stephen King’s ‘ideal reader’ is his wife, and others might use real people too, but many create their own ideal reader (maybe a female forty-something divorced librarian living in Pittsburg, or a heavy metal fan working an office job but dreaming of becoming a professional musician). This might seem strange, but it is impossible to write a book that pleases everyone, and trying to make a story too universal usually means creating something bland, something that many find ‘okay’ but that nobody gets excited about. Anything designed to appeal to a wide range of people will fell watered-down.

Attitudes to books will naturally differ. Even if two readers enjoy the same book, it could well be for different reasons‌—‌some King fans might get a kick from the build-up of tension, and others might love the way he pulls them into the minds of his characters. Some people read Iain Banks’ sci-fi books for the vast ideas, others enjoy his way of telling a story.

There’s no right or wrong here. Every book is written by an individual (or a few individual in the case of co-written works), and the words are formed through the filter of their own lives. These books then get consumed by individual readers, who digest these words through the filter of their own experiences and ideas.

And this means that books are never static.

There’s this idea that, when something is created, it’s completed. In some ways, this is true‌—‌when a writer puts a book out, it stays the same unless they bring out a revised version. It’s the same with any art form‌—‌music, paintings, sculpture, films. But this ‘completed’ work can be digested by different people at different times. It can bring forth different emotions or lead to different thoughts. Every person who reads a book experiences something unique. And even re-reading a book can be a new experience.


As we grow, we develop, learning and understanding more, and our appreciation for things changes. The books we read ten, fifteen, thirty years ago might contain the same words in the same order that they did when we first picked them up, but if we re-read these words today we experience something totally different. Our interpretation is not only tinged with nostalgia, but also with our different perspective on life, our different personality. It’s part of the reason why books we loved as children can sometimes seem flat when we read them as adults, and why books we struggled to get into a few years ago can later become favourite reads full of meaning and excitement.

We never simply read words. We absorb them, run them through our experiences, our own unique thoughts. We take those marks on page or screen, and we breathe life into them.

The writer takes a story, moulds it, and lays its foundations on the page. But the reader brings it to life.

Reading is good for your mental health

I got into listening to podcasts a few years ago, roughly when I started writing seriously. Initially, it was a way of learning about this whole writing and indie-publishing thing‌—‌The Creative Penn (amazing to consider that Joanna Penn has been putting this podcast out for over nine years now), The Self-Publishing Podcast (now re-branded as The Story Studio), and the sadly no longer running Rocking Self-Publishing.

Over the years, I’ve expanded the list of podcasts I listen to on a regular basis (and when I find a new one, I’ll usually listen to their whole back-list too). Many focus on writing and publishing, and this is my main way of keeping up to date with what is happening, as well as continually learning. But I also listen for the enjoyment, and I’ve branched out into other podcasts.

AllusionistLogoOne of these is Helen Zaltzman’s The Allusionist. She brands it as ‘a podcast about language’, and that pretty much sums it up. She’s done episodes on the Rosetta Stone, how one area of Argentina speaks Welsh, messages on dating apps, letter-writing, the BBC shipping forecast, swearing, eponyms‌‌…‌‌the list goes on.

But I thought I’d single out the latest episode, because it deals with reading. I’ve always considered reading to be far more than simply a way of being entertained, but this episode (A Novel Remedy) looks at some of the mental health benefits of reading. Reading can help cure or alleviate psychological problems. Helen talks to a clinical psychologist who uses novel-reading with her patients. She also explores why murder mysteries written by the likes of Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers were so popular‌—‌and so helpful to the mental state of readers‌—‌in the years after the First World War.

It’s a very interesting listen, and you can find it here. And if you’re interested in language and words, I’d recommend you pop over to The Allusionist’s website and give some of the other episodes a listen.

The Problem With Accents

I listened to a free audiobook of Dracula a while back. The narrators were all volunteers, and each took a separate chapter. Of course, the quality varied‌—‌some went for a drawn-out reading to heighten the dread, others went with a more conversational tone. There were some interesting mispronunciations, too, which might be down to a 19th century book by an English novelist being read by American narrators‌—‌language changes over time and place, after all.

Then there were the accents. Most of the narrators read in a single voice, but some used accents for occasional characters. This was most usually Van Helsing, and I believe his lines are written with a hint of his Eastern-European pronunciation.

The main characters in the book are ‘educated’, and all speak with proper diction (with the exception of Van Helsing), but they occasional encounter ‘locals’, who would naturally speak in dialect (mainly in the sections set around Whitby, so we’re talking Yorkshire accents here). For one of these, Stoker writes the dialogue as the character would speak.

nosferatu-1-615x349The narrator for this chapter did his best, and I don’t mean to mock him. I know I could do no better with, say, a Texas accent. I don’t even know if the narrator had ever heard a Yorkshire accent before attempting to read Stoker’s text. But the accent he narrated in didn’t work. You know Dick Van Dyke’s ‘cockney’ accent in Mary Poppins? Imagine that combined with the occasional Scottish twang, and you’ll have a rough idea what this Yorkshire character sounded like.

Again, I want to stress that this was a free audiobook, narrated by volunteers. They all did a far better job than I could do.

But it got me thinking about accents in books.

The standard advice for writing is to be careful with accents. If you have to ‘write accents’, don’t overdo it. The aim is to convey a flavour of the voice, but the text always has to be understandable. Add too much authenticity, and things go wrong.

This might sound counter-intuitive, but spoken and written language are two different things. Just listen to how people normally talk, and then imagine this written down. How many times do people ‘umm’ and ‘ahh’? How many sentences are left unfinished? How much is repeated? Even when people are telling a story of what happened to them, their words will not translate perfectly to text.

“So, like, I says to him, um, ‘you want this or not?’, right, and he’s all like ‘I don’t know’, and so, um, I say ‘but it’s your favourite’, and he’s still, like, unsure, um, so, like, I don’t know, is he winding me up or I don’t know, why doesn’t he want it, I don’t know.”

You get the idea.

So the advice with accents is to be sparing.

“Aye, they came up from the South, like they allus do.”
“You talkin’ to me, son?”

The odd word, the occasional missed letter. It helps give a flavour of the accent while still being readable.

Too much can be hard to read, and I think this is down to how we are taught to read, and the way our brain decodes the written word. Initially, we learn letters, and use these letters to make up words and parts of words. We learn that ‘ough’ is sounded ‘oooh’ in words like ‘through, and ‘ohh’ in words like ‘though’. Gradually, out brain starts to decipher these combinations automatically, and we no longer have to sound out individual letters and sort them into groups. Instead, we glance at a word and instantly understand it. This is when we really start reading.

But with words written in accent, we have to go back a step. The words look wrong, and our brains have to resort to mentally sounding a letter at a time. The odd dropped letter (walkin’, ‘ope), especially when signalled with an apostrophe, isn’t too bad. Bu’ a rendrin ah th’slurrd word a slip aht in t’heat o’normal torkin is allus a buggr t’unnerstan’. Even with apostrophes.

That’s why too much ‘accent’ in writing is a problem.

But there are authors who use this to great effect.Trainspotting_IrvineWelsh

One obvious example is Irvine Welsh, especially in Trainspotting. The story is set in Scotland, and is told through a series of incidents from different characters’ points of view. At first, it is hard to read. Welsh doesn’t only render the dialogue in accents, but also the prose. At first glance, a page can look like it is written in a different language entirely.

But with a little perseverance, it becomes easier to understand. And the language fits the story. We’re in the heads of these characters, and Welsh uses the accented language to see the world through their perspective. It makes the book far more immersive than it would have been if he’d ‘written properly.’

FeersumEndjinn_IainMBanksAnother book comes to mind here, and although it’s not written ‘in accent’, it is still relevant. That book is Iain M Banks’ Feersum Enjin. Take a little time over that title, and you’ll get an idea where I’m going with this.

(I haven’t read this book for a good few years, so apologies for being a little hazy here.)

The story is split between a number of viewpoint characters. One of these is written almost phonetically (and this is shown in the title‌—‌Fearsome Engine, while being ‘correct’, just doesn’t work as well.) Banks also uses ‘text-speak’, using numbers and symbols to replace letters (so ‘into’ becomes ‘in2’, and ‘at’ becomes ‘@’).

Here’s the first line from this character’s sections, to give you a taste of it:

Woak up. Got dresd. Had brekfast. Spoke wif Ergate thi ant who sed itz juss been wurk wurk wurk 4 u lately master Bascule, Y doant u 1/2 a holiday? & I agreed & that woz how we decided we otter go 2 c Mr Zoliparia in this I-ball ov thi gargoyle Rosbirth.

(Incidentally, that was a pain to copy out. I’m used to typing, so deliberately mis-spelling things slowly me down.)

Why does Banks use this style of writing? Again, it is down to character. This character is young, with a naive outlook on life. The language reflects this, unhindered by convention and free to view things in an intuitive and original manner. Language is used to provide insight into the character.

And, as with the Scottish dialogue Welsh uses, it does become easier to read as you go along.

There are those who say that all writing should be like this. Every so often there are rumblings about written language being too tied up with rules that, on the face of it, make no sense, and that words should be spelt out as they are sounded.

I’m not going to get into a major discussion on this, but I will point out one of the major problems with this approach to spelling, and it comes back to accents. A word like ‘out’ might be spelt ‘auwt’, or maybe ‘owt’. But ‘owt’, in some parts of the country, is a word that means ‘anything’ (as in ‘you doing owt today?’). So if we came across a word spelt ‘owt’, what is the meaning of it? We’d need to decipher the surrounding words, using context to gain meaning. But if we see the word ‘out’, we know what it is because we have been taught that this combination of letters reflects a certain concept.

And this is the problem with phonetic spelling. Spoken language varies from country to country and from region to region, even when the language is ostensibly the same. The English language is spoken in many flavours across the world. If written English reflected that, its universality would be greatly reduced.

This is the thing to remember with writing accents‌—‌we write to be understood. If the accent gives an insight into the character or the setting, or brings a scene to life, then it has its place, if used carefully, like a dash of seasoning. But overuse creates a barrier, like heavy seasoning can mask other flavours. And then, the reader is pulled out of the story, just as I was listening to that strange accent in Dracula.

AllusionistLogoNote: I listen to a lot of podcasts. One of them, The Allusionist, is all about words and language, and it just so happens that the latest episode is all about accents. You can give it a listen here.


I understand my own language, just not how others use it

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a couple of the things that annoyed me in books, and how I’d since discovered that one of these things (the use of the word ‘decimate’ as an alternative to ‘annihilate’) was now, according to every online dictionary I found, not in fact an error.

Today, I’m going to look at another of my pet peeves, and this is another one that I’ve been forced to rethink.

This ‘problem’ shows itself in a sentence like ‘he was one of those people that couldn’t abide poor word-choice.’ Some of you will probably read that and think ‘problem, what problem? Makes total sense.’ But to me, the use of the word ‘that’ rankles.

‘That’ indicates an object‌—‌‘the building that collapsed in the storm’, ‘the car that was rusting on the driveway.’ If the ‘object’ is a person, I’d replace ‘that’ with ‘who’‌—‌‘he who laughs last, laughs longest’, ‘The Man Who Knew Too Much’.

If we use ‘that’ to refer to a person, they become an object, and to me this feels wrong. Every time I come across a sentence like this I find myself angrily replacing ‘that’ with ‘who’ in my mind, and it drags me out of the story. I tell myself that a good editor should have spotted this. Sometimes it occurs in otherwise well written books, and I can’t fathom how this error slipped through the editing and proofreading.

problemBut recently I came across something on Twitter that threw some light on this. It showed me that the ‘error’ I’m seeing is not an error to everyone. I only see it as a problem because of my background.

I’m British. It’s all down to my parents. And their parents. We’re British going back quite a few generations. And so I’ve learnt to speak (and read and write) UK English. To me it’s simply English, but I have to set up my computer to work in UK English, so I suppose that is what I need to call the language I use.

This is different from American English. We all know this. But one thing I didn’t know, until recently (thank you Twitter) is that in America, the use of ‘that’ when referring to people is acceptable. So if you’re an American reading this, and you’ve been wondering what the problem is, now you know. I’m British.

That could explain a lot.

However, I don’t think everyone (on either side of the pond‌—‌which is a stupid word to use to describe an ocean like the Atlantic) realises this. Some books get slammed in reviews for their spelling, but it is all down to these differences. Color and colour, flavor and flavour.

I came across a great way of describing this, in a note at the start of a book by Issy Brooke. It simply said ‘This book is written in British English. It’s like US English but with more vowels.’ If my own books had a lighter tone, I’d steal this line.

But it’s not only the individual words that are different. Mention fanny packs over here in the UK, and there’s a good chance you’ll be met with a blush or a giggle, because to us the word ‘fanny’ has a very different meaning than it does in America. Then there’s what we put in our cars. Over here, we use petrol or diesel, which are liquids, but over in America these liquids are called gas. And over here, we wear our pants next to our skin, not on show for everyone to see. Maybe Krypton studied Britain, so when Superman landed in America he misunderstood their dressing instructions.

The English language has spread far and wide, and wherever it has been adopted as the main language it has also been adapted. From what I understand, there are differences in the way the language is used in Australian and New Zealand, and there are also Indian versions of English. And even in the UK, it is constantly evolving. There are regional variations, and each generation claims its own variations (which is why ‘sick’ can be good, like ‘wicked’).

I try not to let this bother me. On the whole, I don’t care if someone is talking to their ‘mum’ or their ‘mom’ (of even their ‘mam’). I know that a lift is an elevator, and a boot is a trunk. And now that I know about the whole who/that thing, I’ll put this in the same category of ‘things that aren’t correct according to what I was taught, but that’s my problem, not the writer’s.’

And I like the fact that I have only just learnt that I’ve been wrong, because it reminds me that there are likely to be other things I don’t know. I’ve been learning this language for the whole of my life, and I still don’t know everything. Each new thing I read teaches me something more about words.

The next time I come across something that annoys me in a book, it will drag me out of the story. There’s no avoiding that. But rather than getting annoyed, I should take a moment to question where the error lies‌—‌with the author, or with myself. Or maybe it isn’t an error, just a different way of using the language.

After all, how dull would it be if everyone used this thing called the English language in the same way?

‘You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.’

Most people have their own pet annoyances in books. Some people can’t stand anything written in first person. Others get riled when characters in an epic fantasy start using modern day slang. For some, swearing is enough to make them close the book.

walkie-talkie-780306_1280I’ve got a few things that will always pull me out of a story. One of these, in both books and TV/films, is the phrase ‘over and out’. It’s pretty much always used by characters who are professional, using a radio as part of their job, and yet they continually get this wrong. ‘Over and out’ is either a contradiction, or it’s an insult.

Some years ago, I took a VHF Radio Operator’s course (at the time I believe you needed to pass this, with a test to ‘officially’ use a VHF radio), and I can still remember what we were taught. Sometimes, static can make it hard to hear, and so various words are used, almost like punctuation. ‘Over’ and ‘out’ are two of these.

When you’ve finished your sentence or short bit, you say ‘over’ to let the other radio user know that you have finished, and that it’s now their turn to speak‌—‌‘over to you’, or ‘I’m passing the dialogue over’. ‘Out’, on the other hand, is used to bring the conversation to a close,‌—‌‘I’m out of here’. It’s the last thing said in a radio dialogue.

So using both basically means ‘it’s your turn to talk, but I’m not going to listen, because I’m switching this thing off’. It’s the radio equivalent of ‘talk to the hand’. See, either an insult or a mistake.

gladiator-1931077_1280There are other words and phrases that I find annoying, but one of these I have had to reassess. See, language changes, and it looks like I haven’t kept up with this particular word.

That word is ‘decimate’.

It’s likely you believe that word to mean one of two things. The first is how I’ve often seen it used‌—‌if a city is decimated by enemy fire, it is totally destroyed. In this usage, decimate is pretty much synonymous to annihilate.

But this isn’t the classic meaning. There’s a clue in the first three letters. They come from the same root as ‘decimal’, ‘decade’ and all those other words related to the number ten. And, unsurprisingly, the word is related to the Romans. In battles, there was always a winner and a loser, and there was a punishment for losing. The army would be decimated. This meant that one out of every ten soldiers would be killed. Ten percent of the losing army would be sacrificed.

To decimate means to reduce by a tenth. That doesn’t mean total destruction. Kill one out of every ten, and there are still nine to fight another day. If the population of a country is decimated, and there were originally about ten million residents, after this supposedly catastrophic event there are still nine million. A bank account of five thousand is decimated, and it still holds four and a half thousand.

That is the classic definition. But words change over time. Decimate has been around for millennia.

There was a discussion on a forum I occasionally browse, and the meaning of this word came up. Someone included a link to the Merriam-Webster dictionary. This is how it defined ‘decimate’:

1: to select by lot and kill every tenth man of
2: to exact a tax of 10 percent from
3a: to reduce drastically especially in number
3b: to cause great destruction or harm to

The first two definitions confirm my understanding, but the third is closer to total destruction.

I checked out a couple of other dictionaries. First, the Cambridge Dictionary:

– to kill a large number of something, or to reduce something severely

Not even a mention of tenth. Next, the Oxford Dictionary:

1: kill, destroy, or remove a large proportion of
2: kill one in every ten of, as a punishment for the whole group.

And finally, the Collins Dictionary:

1: to decimate something such as a group of people or animals means to destroy a very large number of them
2: to decimate a system or organization means to reduce its size and effectiveness greatly.

Again, no mention of a tenth. Also, in their list of synonyms, Collins has ‘destroy’ and ‘devastate’.

So it appears that the word now, officially, can be used in the same way as a word like annihilate. The people in charge of the ‘official’ meanings of words have decided that decimate now no longer means what it used to.

And that means I can have no argument against all those books that have wound me up. They’ve been using the word in this new meaning, and it’s been my interpretation that has been in error.

I have to accept this, but a part of me doesn’t want to. I know language changes over time, especially with slang (when the Flintsones theme song says ‘we’ll have a gay old time’, a modern interpretation would surely have Fred and Barney sharing one house, and Betty and Wilma in another). But to change a word like ‘decimate’ seems wrong. The two meanings (’destroy a very large number’ and ‘reduce by a tenth’) oppose each other. At least with a word like ‘gay’, homosexual and happy are not contradictory.

But I should really be used to this kind of thing, having worked in the UK education system. It seems that government ministers over here have their own particular way of using words that are removed from their meaning.

school-1019989_640I’ll explain. In UK schools, there are official lesson observations, carried out a few times a year on every teacher. When these observations started up, the teacher was given an overall rating from a choice of four; requires improvement, satisfactory, good, or excellent. As long as you did not ‘require improvement’ you were doing okay. ‘Satisfactory’ meant that you knew what you were doing, and that the kids were learning. There was room for improvement, of course, but you weren’t letting anyone down. You were doing okay. Just as the word ‘satisfactory’ implies.

Those in charge of education always want improvement (at least, in the things they deem as important). They decided that a satisfactory rating was no longer acceptable. Why should students settle for lessons that were merely average? Surely every child deserved the best. And overnight, in UK education, satisfactory now meant ‘not good enough’. If you were rated as satisfactory, you were no longer providing a satisfactory education.

And this came from the same government agency that was calling for all children to be ‘above average’.

We really have problems with our education system in this country.

But I’m getting sidetracked.

Words change their meaning. Decimate can now mean ‘totally destroyed’. I’m not sure how this came about, but it was probably through misuse that simply became accepted over time. But it has been accepted. If I choose to stick to the classical use of the word, I will be left behind.

Language is not static. Just try reading something like the original Chaucer. Even Shakespeare, which is only a few hundred years old, sounds strange to us today. It’s taught almost as poetry, but at the time Shakespeare was writing for the people, in a language that would appeal to as many paying punters as possible (yep, old Bill was an entrepreneur). But over time, words have shifted.

And I need to remember this when I’m reading. If I come across something that sounds wrong, I need to take a moment and consider‌—‌has the author made a mistake, or is my interpretation in error?

inigo_montoyaMaybe if it’s me, I can blame my education. I’m sure my teachers were satisfactory, so they were clearly getting things wrong somewhere. I can’t expect words to remain static. To bring this back to the title of this post (for anyone who’s a fan of The Princess Bride), such a notion would be inconceivable.