Free Fiction Writer's Workshop by Josip Novakovich Page A

own place to live, but the ability to curse, and, more importantly, to curse well, seemed the blood rite of adulthood.
    I spent blocks of time at the dinner table trying to figure out ways to insinuate the word "ass" into the evening conversation. It struck me as a dirty word but not so filthy as to send my mother for the wooden spoon. It was a testable word choice, a prime piece of newfound, eight-year-old diction, oily and ready for the speaking. I decided to use it casually in the course of telling a story at dinner. I waited until I had the corn on the cob completely buttered before I began.
    "We were outside at lunch today," I said, taking a casual bite, "and Charlie Viles got stung by a hornet." I do not recall much reaction to my stories. They were generally true, though I often told them as a means of testing my parents' limits. My father, I think, favored a shrug,
    while my mother generally cued me along with another question, leading me, she hoped, to some reasonable point or revelation. Still they favored conversation, valued it as a linchpin of intelligent adulthood. After I told the part about the hornet, I distinctly remember a disinterested pause, which I knew I could fill right up for everyone's benefit. So I added, "Right on the ass."
    My younger brother, who had been there for the stinging too, chimed in, "Right on the butt!"
    "Bottom," my mother said. My father clinked his fork against his plate, stared at me.
    "Ass," my youngest brother said. "Ass, ass, ass, ass." He sensed the power of the word too. I laughed. He was a good kid.
    I waited for my father's response without looking at him. Only two weeks before, he had asserted the adult's privilege to words like this when my report card came back with three tardies. It was fresh in my mind. He had stared at the card, turned to my mother and said, "This really fries my ass! What the hell is tardy anyways? Why do they even keep track of tedious shit like that?" I was at the kitchen table then too, in the same chair where I would later float the word ass like a friendly weather balloon over the pork chops. My jaw dropped. Fried ass! What the hell! Tedious shit! Three straight sentences. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am! To my disappointment, my father downplayed his own transgression by focusing—unfairly I thought—on the fact that I couldn't get myself to school on time. But I remembered it well.
    Now, after my own use of the word "ass," I hoped he would remember that he too was capable of multiple curses, without interruption, right here in our own kitchen. When I turned to look at him, he pointed a fork at me. "Don't say ass. You're not allowed that sort of language yet."
    There. He had said it. Yet. Language like that had to be earned, by age, or experience, or brute task. Use of such language in conversation was a privilege. You had to earn it. I believe such is the case with good fiction. Never be lazy with the language. I know that is the case with good dialogue.
    I'm not arguing that characters should be allowed to swear at every turn. Nor should they be encouraged to. The truth is, adults can't swear all the time. If they do, they tend to be looked on as pretty tedious shit. But they can, and do, swear. That's what my father was trying to tell me all those years ago. If they do it well, they choose their moments, pick their phrases and employ their wit. They grow into a use of language that suits them. That's how it should be with characters too.
    The strong curse is
    Pointed and precise. When you are dropping the word in out of habit, you've hit the point of too much. Hear it, precisely.
    Quickly and forcefully crafted. Vary your use of words such as "fuck." Later in the book, I go on and on about adverbs and repetition. Same applies here. Shape and vary the language you use.
    Revealing, both intentionally and unintentionally. Language (that is, diction) changes when emotions are charged. But that might be the moment where the swearing drops away. Work