So today I’m at a writing workshop.
Yes, I know, I know. Anybody who’s had to sit through my writing and been bored to tears, or wanted quite honestly to punch me in my smug face because I write like a supercilious Victorian asshole, will be laughing like drains. Or rolling their eyes. Or rolling like drains. Or something.
Whatever. They won’t be impressed, is what I’m getting at.
But this may actually tie in. See, the workshop today is on how to choose proper words. As opposed to just going through your mental thesaurus and picking out the word most likely to have been selected by HP Lovecraft at his very, very purplest.
The workshop’s called “Writing Powerful Prose”, and I go to it knowing already that the most powerful words aren’t necessarily the most flamboyant. Not everything has to be ‘cyclopean’ or ‘blasphemous’, Howard.
On the other hand, I single out a guy who’s published more books and told me intriguing stories than I ever will, so maybe I’m not in the best position to berate him.
Then again, he was a dreadful racist, so swings and roundabouts, I guess.
Besides, whatever else I get from the day — and given it’s being run by the excellent Rod Duncan, historian of the Gas-Lit Empire, and Siobhan Logan, lecturer in creative writing, it should be quite a bit — the environment here is absolutely gorgeous today.