Choose your words

INT. FUNERAL HOME - BACK CORRIDOR - DAY

A young deputy, several state troopers, and a SHERIFF are all waiting, as Crawford and Clarice enter. The dim, cluttered corridor doubles as storage space - there's a treadle sewing machine, a soft-drink machine, a tricycle. The MUSIC is closer. Crawford shakes hands with the sheriff.

CRAWFORD
Sheriff Perkins? Jack Crawford, FBI...
This is Officer Starling. We appre-
ciate your phoning us.

SHERIFF
(grim, unsociable)
I didn't call you. That was somebody
from the state attorney's office...
'For you do anything else, I'm gon' find
out if this girl's local. It could
just be somethin' that outside elements
has dumped on us.

He casts a sidelong, unhappy glance at Clarice.

CRAWFORD
Well, sir, that's where we can help. If -

SHERIFF
I don't even know you, Mister... Now
we'll extend you ever courtesy, just
soon as we can, but for right now -

CRAWFORD
Sheriff, this, ah - this type of sex crime
has some aspects I'd rather discuss just
between the two of us. Know what I mean?

He indicates Clarice with his eyes. The sheriff hesitates, nods, then lets Crawford guide him into a small office, closing the door behind them. Muffled WORDS from there.

CLARICE - burning at this slight, is left alone with the troopers, who peek at her with shy curiosity. She pulls her blazer a bit tighter, self-conscious about her bulging shoulder holster.

…[LATER]…

EXT. BACK STEPS OF THE FUNERAL HOME - DAY

CRAWFORD
When I told that sheriff we shouldn't
talk in front of a woman, that really
burned you, didn't it?
(She is silent)
That was just smoke, Starling, I had to
get rid of him. You did well in there.

CLARICE
It matters, Mr. Crawford... Other cops
know who you are. They look at you to
see how to act... It matters.

CRAWFORD
(beat)
Point taken.

        -- Silence of the Lambs, 1991

Writers have a way with words. Sometimes they flow like cool, clear water, creating a crystal path from the brain of the scribe to that of the reader – near perfect communication.

Well… Not really. The fact is that words – even the most powerful or impressive sounding ones – are merely symbols and can’t possibly reveal the actual objects, acts or ideas they purport to describe. It’s all approximate.

And written communication makes the coding even chancier. Without feedback from the message receiver, writers have to take extra care to avoid ambiguity, misdirection, fuzzy thinking and all kinds of semantic noise and pitfalls that impede communication.

That said, I think all wordsmiths (and most readers) love the well-turned phrase. Journeyman writers (and I hope I qualify for that intermediate rank) envy the master craftsmen who put their prose (and poetry) together with profound precision and generate art in the guise of text.

Once in a while a writer of my caliber wields words with just enough aplomb to make him painfully aware of the fact that he more often fails to rise above mediocrity. I’m sure others allow themselves to use my excuse: I tell myself that I’m willingly sacrificing a degree of quality in order to create a larger body of work.

I allow myself to believe that I don’t take time to polish my prose because I favor quantity over quality and can always go back and revise later. Somehow, “later” seldom arrives; in truth, I guess I realize that the distance between my rather ordinary level of discourse and that to which I’d like to ascend is probably greater than my reach.

Oh, I’m not feeling sorry for myself – not too much, anyway. My writing, such as it is, does come easily; and, through writing, I’ve learned a great deal about myself. Others can paint or sing or dance expressively; my artistic outlet is through words, such as they are.

Almost every day for the past year, as I’ve met new people along the way, I’ve been asked if I plan to write a book. I usually respond that books are hard to write and harder to market and that I think I could reach a larger audience with newspaper or magazine articles.

But my fear that any book of mine – once written – would be average, at best, is probably a more powerful deterrent than I’ve been willing to admit.

I believe I may have a book in me – and I think a road-trip book along the lines of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road or John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charlie: In search of America might be rather timely about now – particularly one written by a Baby Boomer who is reacting to a year spent among members of the Greatest Generation.

I even have a subtitle: In Search of the American Dream.

I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I’ve never read On the Road. It’s one of many holes in my literary background. I think I’ll get a copy and see if it inspires me…

… one way or the other.