TTYU Retro: Do you want to consider language change?

Have you ever tried to hear the difference between a Cockney British accent and an Australian accent?

Once I set myself the challenge - I was on a train platform in Tokyo, and I heard some people talking near me, and I started listening just trying to place my best guess as to where they were from. It was pretty hard. Eventually I fastened onto one single language feature: these people were using glottal stop "t" (a "t" pronounced way back in the throat) in the middle of words instead of flap "t" (like in American "batter"). That one difference told me I was listening to British English instead of Australian English. The rest of it - vowels, intonation, everything else - was at the time too subtle for me to distinguish.

Why in the world are these accents so similar? It turns out that when Australia was first settled, starting in 1788, most of the people who moved there came from the same area of England where Cockney speakers live today. A lot of them were convicts. My Aussie husband will tell you that these folk were subjected to a trip to Australia for petty crimes, like stealing or poaching, rather than anything more serious. Who'd want to be stuck on a ship full of murderers for six months? But as a result, both Cockney and Australian English are actually "daughter languages" of the same parent, an English dialect spoken in a particular region (and by a particular social group) in London at the end of the 18th century.

It's been more than two hundred years since then, and at the sound level, the two dialects are remarkably similar. There are more noticeable divergences of vocabulary, of course (for example, Australians say "truck" instead of "lorry") but a lot still remains common (such as saying "lift" rather than "elevator").

I remarked in my earlier post on dialects that the longer a language exists in a particular area, and the more isolated regions are, the more dialects will diverge. In the United States, there are isolated regions in the East (such as Appalachia) which preserve language features that haven't been present in a standard American dialect for hundreds of years. These are in fact useful for scholars who study language change.

You probably already know how I'm going to be connecting this to speculative fiction. It becomes relevant in all kinds of contexts. One possible science fiction context is that of extrapolating the language used by future societies (I think immediately of Mike Flynn's The January Dancer and Up Jim River). One possible fantasy context is that of quoting ancient texts (I think of Tolkien). Either science fiction or fantasy can easily support the idea of two societies that have been isolated for a long period of time suddenly finding one another again and having to resume communication (I think of Stargate, and one of my own planned stories).

If you're writing a story that involves language change, it's useful to consider the following factors:

1. amount of time elapsed

2. presence or absence of written language (this can slow change)

3. amount of intercommunication between isolated groups (more communication can mean slower change)

4. amount of intermixing with other language groups (this can accelerate change)

It's also useful to consider that change can occur in any of the following features:

1. phonology (consonant, vowel systems, etc.)

2. morphology (verb conjugations, noun pluralization, negation, etc.)

3. vocabulary (some words lost, some words new)

4. syntax (probably not the main word order, like subject-verb-object for English, but phrasings can vary a lot)

5. discourse (the order in which thoughts are presented, for example)

6. politeness (all kinds of manners may change along with social activities)

When you think about the degree of change that you want in your language, here are some English-language landmarks that you may find useful.

Old English: Beowulf, dated variously from the 8th or 11th centuries, so between the years 700 and 1000

hwaet we garde na, in gerdagum, theod cyninge, thrym gefrunon, hu the athelingas ellen fremedon.

(I have at least one friend who is better conversant with the proper format of this line. This is my rough transcription of a portion I memorized solely by sound - somewhat improved by reference to internet sources.)

The words I know have remained most similar to modern English here are "in" and "hu" (who) and "the." I think "gerdagum" means "those days" which sounds a lot like German to me. Needless to say, not a lot is comprehensible after more than a thousand years.

Middle English: Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales, written between 1387 and 1400

Whan that Aprille, with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertu engendred is the flour...

Okay, this is much, much more comprehensible, but still pretty tough. Consider also that its pronunciation is quite well reflected in the spelling of the words, so that gh is actually pronounced like "ch" in the German "ich". In addition, "flour" is actually "flower." So here we've got a pretty serious degree of difficulty. Amount of time elapsed: 600+ years

Shakespeare's English: excerpt from "The Tempest," written 1610 or 1611

I have done nothing but in care of thee,

Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who

Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing

Of whence I am, nor that I am more better

Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,

And thy no greater father.

This should be much more familiar to a general audience. And while it is written in verse, it does give us an indication of the kinds of phrasings and vocabulary used in this time period, because Shakespeare's plays were intended to be performed for the general public (I would argue that they still come across better read aloud than read silently). Time elapsed: 400 years.

A last couple of notes: slang is always present, and changes pretty rapidly, but may not always be incorporated into the main thrust of change in a language. Also, language does not always simplify, nor does it always complicate - it will generally simplify in some areas of the language and complicate in others.

Three points make a story arc

If you've been around this writing thing for very long, surely you've heard of the "story arc." People talk about character arcs, and plot arcs, and how one should build and sustain them. I talk about them myself, because I can feel them in my work as I write - but I know of a number of people who have difficulty with the idea of the arc, in part because they say they don't know what an arc is and how to detect one.

I have a very simple definition for you. A story arc is created when something in your writing gets repeated three times. In geometry, you use three points to plot (and confirm) a line; in a story, three points create an arc. In geometry, if you only plot two points, you can't be certain you haven't made an error, so the third point confirms that you've plotted the line correctly. In a story, if you've put in two points, then people will sense an arc forming and be looking for a third point.

Here's an example. I have an unnamed character appear in a concert scene chapter 1 of my book; the protagonist notices him as a person out of place. I then have this same character appear at a concert in chapter 3; the protagonist isn't sure this is the same guy, but approaches and speaks to him. Then in chapter 10 he goes to another concert. This is "strange guy appears at concerts" arc, and I expect that when my protagonist gets to the concert, he'll be unconsciously looking for this guy - as will my readers. He won't be there, but he'll show up in another place. This very minor character therefore has an arc in my story. His first appearance sets him up, his second appearance (and the fact that more happens in it) establishes that readers should be looking for an arc, and that way when you want to put in the next piece, you know people will be looking for it.

That's a very minor arc. A major arc can have many more points contributing to it. Each of my characters in For Love, For Power has two major arcs: a love arc, and a power arc. It makes sense! What this means to my writing is that in every chapter, I need to make sure I put in something to advance the point of view character's love arc, and his power arc. If I don't contribute to each in some way, then readers will have the sense that I'm dropping balls and I am not helping them to keep track of things properly. However, because these are large-scale thematic arcs, I can contribute to them in all kinds of different ways. Tagret's love arc can involve his friends, or his mother, or his girlfriend - and each of those can be considered as its own arc, but because they all contribute to the larger thematic arc, I can take turns developing them. Tagret's power arc can involve his father, or his brother, or other politicians.

So to define arcs, we need three points of repetition. This repetition is flexible. It can be a single object. It can be a single character. Or it can be a type of behavior on the part of a character (such as risk-taking). It can be a kind of thought or worry that the character has. But so long as we can be detected as returning to whatever this thing is, we can be construed as creating an arc. Arcs can also have subordinate arcs inside them, such as when instances of Tagret seeing his girlfriend contribute to his larger thematic love-arc.

You might be asking, "Do readers really know we're doing this?"

Well, they may not know it consciously, but humans are very good at detecting patterns of repetition on a subconscious level. It's one of our language-learning skills, and we do it all the time without thinking. In fact, as writers we are usually creating arcs subconsciously rather than deliberately. However, it helps for us to put a label on them and deal with them consciously, because if we do this, it's much easier to keep them under control.

Take a look at your draft. Try to identify the repetitions. Similar situations, or characters, or behaviors, or imagery. That's where you're creating your arcs. Here are some things to look for.

1. Am I only putting in two points of the arc? If so, chances are your readers are looking for a third, and will miss it if it's not there. Either complete the arc, or break it by removing the second point.
2. Am I precisely duplicating the first point with my second point? If so, the repetition may feel strange or uncanny. In an arc, usually the second point develops on the first (if only slightly).
3. Can I put a name on the larger thematic arcs? If you can, it will really help you move your outline and your book forward. If you can't, you might be wandering off the core point of your story.
4. Am I regularly contributing to the larger arcs? There are a lot of ways of doing this, but if you can identify the larger arcs, it will become easier to contribute to them and keep all those balls in the air.
5. Do I have a lot of similar small arcs? If you're struggling with the question of larger arcs, see if you can find patterns in the smaller arcs that you're using. That can help you detect larger patterns and get a better orientation on the overall trajectory of your project.

I hope I've given you some ideas that will help you articulate with the issue of the story arc. Arcs are a very important conceptual tool, and extremely useful, so good luck with them!

Interesting link about creativity in the brain

This article discusses some interesting research now being done on how creativity is expressed in the brain. Plus, it's always useful to know what to do with a brick!

An interesting resource for naming fictional countries

I ran across this link yesterday and it struck me immediately as a great source of ideas for worldbuilders. It's a map of our world - but the countries are labeled with literal translations of their names. I have been discussing this on Facebook, and a few of the translations have come into question - for example Aliette de Bodard pointed out that a better translation for Vietnam might be Southern People rather than Southern Land - but still it's valuable from a worldbuilding point of view. If you've ever felt held back by the idea of naming yet another country either randomly or by calling it "land of the people," this will give you some ideas for alternate approaches.

Also, when naming countries keep in mind that not all countries keep the names given to them by the indigenous people who live there - some have names superimposed by their more powerful neighbors!

Social Labels: YA and beyond!

Latchkey kids. Jocks. Nerds. Stoners. Fuzzies. Techies. Geeks. Divas.

Not all of these terms may be ones you've used, but you've probably heard most of them. They're labels for social groups. According to Wikipedia, "Latchkey kid" originated as a term in 1944 because of an NBC documentary. Jocks, nerds and stoners were commonly used terms around my high school. Fuzzies and Techies were labels at Stanford university for students in humanities vs. math/science. Geeks is a term I'm still coming to terms with as it is used for sf/f fans. Divas is a more modern term applied to girls of a certain stripe.

One of the things I've noticed and rather admired about YA books is their sensitivity to labels like this. Labels are big with teens, so for example when I see Scott Westerfeld titles - Uglies, Pretties, Specials, just to name a few - they speak "real" to me.

I think social labels deserve attention even outside of YA. SF has a few, but could always use more; even epic fantasy wouldn't suffer from some attention to these fine social distinctions and how they are marked.

The term "latchkey kid" came up in a discussion I had with the marvelous Deborah J. Ross yesterday. I was writing along in For Love, For Power and realized that two of my characters had something in common: both were children growing up in the care of their household servants rather than in care of their parents, because of laws that require them to stay in the capital for their own health and safety while their parents had been appointed to positions running other cities. While I was thinking about what that meant to them, it hit me that this wasn't an uncommon condition in Varin. It would have a label.

Deborah Ross and I tossed some things around, including the real-world-grounded terms "latchkey kid" and "rugrat" etc. to get some ideas. These terms need a certain ring to them, and can't be too complex. Also, I realized that there would be at least two terms for the same group: one that would be a relatively value-neutral term, and one that could be used insultingly. In the end I chose these:

leadership orphan - This is the relatively value-neutral term. It's very self-explanatory, which is important, because I can't use a bunch of words explaining it. But it's only relatively value-neutral, because "orphan" evokes sympathy for the kids in this condition.

Household brat - This is the insulting term (no surprise). I chose brat over rat because the animals in Varin aren't entirely congruent with ours. Brat is insulting by nature, but it's also insulting to juxtapose it with Household, because it implies that a noble child is being "run" by his own servants.

I've said before that there's value in considering the social subgroups within larger "types" of people. In "Cold Words," the Aurrel were divided into heavy-furred and Lowland groups, and this had consequences for the usage of the words "cold" and "warm" throughout the language. In "At Cross Purposes," the Cochee-coco were divided into groups by their chosen Purpose, and this influenced their work and thinking processes. Varin is my mega-world, and it has groups (castes), and subgroups (Great Families of the nobility), and sub- subgroups (leadership orphans/Household brats)! But why not? We have far more ways to label people, both to good and to notably ill effect.

How do the people in your world label each other socially? Are there general categories of people? How do those people get subdivided and labeled? Who gets scorn? Who gets the prestige?

It's something worth thinking about.

Interesting link about character

Here's a link to an interesting discussion of characters and how to get people to engage more deeply with them, from agent Donald Maass.

Critique is about the readers

I'm a person who loves critique. Whenever I have a story done (or sometimes even when I don't have it done) I find a writing friend willing to look at it and send it over for their comments. I have learned so much through critique that I wouldn't do it any other way.

For me, the only bad critique is one that doesn't speak specifically about the text or story elements - one that attacks me personally or one so vague I can't make anything out of it. A critique that criticizes, or even one that makes me think "gee, he didn't get it!" is still valuable.

When somebody doesn't get it, it's important to ask why. That lack of understanding happened because the reader missed the boat somewhere - and that's why I think it's important to go back and take a look, to try to figure out what precisely it was that left them behind. Some missing clue, that if it had been there, would have saved this person from their misconception.

It's really important to remember that when we read, much of what we understand of the text comes from our own minds. Each word activates in our brains the set of meanings that the word has built up for itself over all the instances of its use in our experience. Story elements evoke emotions based on our experience. Every time we read, we bring ourselves to the story.

Obviously, this affects critique. I once had a friend read my beginner novel and tell me he thought I should have matched up the characters differently - X should have hooked up with A, and Y with B, not the other way around. I still don't agree with him! But what I can do is when I go back to get that novel right, I can make sure I put lots of evidence in for why my solution is the better idea.

If you ever find yourself writing off a critique for a reason like, "That person isn't a genre reader," you might want to reconsider. Who do you want to read your work? Is it only for the specialist reader of sf/f, or cosy mystery? Great works will transcend and be readable by a larger audience. In a sense each time you offer your work for critique, you're testing out a potential group of readers. If all your readers fall into the same group, you may not learn as much as if you give the work to different kinds of readers. Literary readers. Romance readers. Science fiction readers. Fantasy readers. Their opinions will give you a glimpse into what others of their tastes might think, and chances are there will be a way for you both to maintain your artistic vision and to make them feel more welcome in your world.

I think that's something worth striving for.