Thought Triggers: The Chekhov’s Gun of Writing Tricks
By Annie Neugebauer | July 19, 2017 |
“Clever Cogs!” by Piyushgiri Revagar
An experience most of us are familiar with: You’ve just bought something new, whether it be a car, a backpack, a sports jersey with a particular player’s number, or even a new brand of reading glasses, and though you found it independently and thought it was fairly unique at the time, now you’re seeing it everywhere.
Has everyone else decided to buy this thing at the same time as you? Hive mind? Have you prompted a rash of popularity? No, of course not. It’s simply that now that you’ve taken particular notice of this item, your mind is primed for it. Had you bought a different car make or a different jersey number, that’s the item you’d be noticing all over the place. The item hasn’t become more prevalent; you’ve simply become more predisposed to notice it.
In a study called “Disgust, creatureliness and the accessibility of death-related thoughts,” by Cathy R. Cox, Jamie L. Goldenberg, Tom Pyszczynski, and David Weise, experimenters found that people primed with disgusting pictures were more likely to draw upon death-related thoughts than participants primed by neutral pictures. For example, those first shown images of a bloody finger and a dirty toilet were more likely to finish the words SK_ _ _ and COFF_ _ as SKULL and COFFIN than those shown images of a book and a chair, who were more likely to finish them as SKILL and COFFEE. In other words, disgusting images prompt thoughts of death, which causes people to more readily fill in the blanks with death-related ideas.
Intriguing connection between death and disgust aside (horror writers, meet me in the comments!) (for the interested, the nonfiction book That’s Disgusting by Rachel Herz is a nice starting place), this outcome seems to enforce the instinctual knowledge most people have: that our thoughts can be guided or prompted by specific images, words, and associations. I think of these things as “thought triggers.” How, then, can writers use this quirk of the human brain to our advantage, and can it ever become a detriment to our work?
Quite simply, choosing our words strategically can set the reader in the right frame of mind for where we want to go (or even the intentionally wrong one, in the case of a red herring or plot twist). If I read the descriptor “blood red,” I’m primed for a different set of events than if I read “cherry red.” Smart choices save space. I don’t necessarily need to be told that the new guy gives the protagonist an uneasy feeling. If I want to plant the seed that a character might be a bad guy, his eyes aren’t “sky blue”; they’re “icy blue.” Cold, not pretty. If I want someone to be a possible ally, maybe her brown eyes are “warm” rather than “muddy.” It might sound simple when stated this way, but it’s ultimately the most important tool a writer has: words.
Every word we choose conveys something, so we must choose them carefully and with intention. Great authors master many different things – emotional arcs, beauty, pacing, depth, vividness – but all of it is done utilizing well-chosen words. This is why, when an author is a master, we can study the text over and over, looking closely. Because when we slow down and zoom in, we learn more each time. It’s why I was able to pull apart Wuthering Heights and reasonably support my theory that Emily Brontë intentionally made Cathy and Heathcliff vampiric. Because when someone as good as the Brontës uses the word “vampire” in her novel, it’s not an accident; it’s a thought trigger.
Just as highly skilled authors can prompt hints, tones, emotions, impressions, and associations with well-chosen words, careless writers can throw us off by doing so accidentally. Readers are very intuitive, even if we don’t mean to be. Our brains are pattern-seeking, drawing subconscious connections like a conspiracy theorist mapping out plots with red thread on a basement wall. Sometimes we’ll see things even if they’re not there. When that happens too often as readers, we tend to become annoyed. The prose may seem random, sloppy, and disjointed, even if we can’t put our finger on why. We might have an unfulfilled sense of foreboding simply because a house was described as looming, for example. And while an unfulfilled sense of foreboding might be a benefit in some genres, in others it might be an accident and distraction.
This is by no means a new concept. Wikipedia defines “Chekhov’s gun” as: “a dramatic principle that every memorable element in a fictional story must be necessary and irreplaceable, and any that are not should be removed.” It comes from Anton Chekhov, and his advice: “Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.”
I would take this even further and say remove every distinctly flavored word in fiction that has no goal. While some words are common enough to be close to neutral, others stand out like little red pins in the reader’s mind-map. We mark them, thinking we’ll come back to this later. If we don’t, we’ve stored the wrong information (wasted a pin, if you will). So not only should we not describe the rifle unless it serves a purpose (to be fired later, yes, absolutely, but also perhaps deepening a character history, setting a distinct tone, etc.), we should choose words to describe it that serve a distinct purpose. Is it gleaming? Crooked? Precarious? Rusted? The gun matters, but so do the words used to tell it. Even the distinctions between gun, firearm, rifle, and weapon changes meaning, feeds us data.
The surprising power of thought triggers is both good and bad news for writers. On one hand, that’s a tall order, isn’t it? That every single word we use must matter. And I’ll soften that a tad, to be realistic, by adding that not all words carry equal weight in the mind, and that the longer the work the less weight each word inherently holds. In a poem even the articles matter a great deal. In a novel, the heavier hitters should be the focus of intention. Still, artistry on the level of individual words may feel like a burden when we’re already juggling so many skills.
On the other hand, the good news is that we, as the writer, are the sole proprietors of this power. With a single word choice we have the ability to set a reader’s mind in the mood we want, to foreshadow a powerful event, to convey hidden meaning, to surprise, unsettle, or delight. And at the end of the day, isn’t that kind of awesome? Even if we have to work for it, this is an ability very close to magic – but it’s magic we can learn and practice. It’s the magic that makes up our craft, and that’s worth paying attention to no matter how intricate the effort.
When was the last time you stopped to think about the associations individual words in your writing might trigger? Have you experienced this as a reader, either as great skill or great nuisance?
[coffee]
Annie Neugebauer is a two-time Bram Stoker Award-nominated author with work appearing and forthcoming in more than a hundred publications, including magazines such as Cemetery Dance, Apex, and Black Static, as well as anthologies such as Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volumes 3 & 4 and #1 Amazon bestsellers Killing It Softly & Fire. She’s a member of the Horror Writers Association and a columnist for Writer Unboxed and LitReactor. She’s represented by Alec Shane of Writers House. She lives in Texas with two crazy cute cats and a husband who’s exceptionally well-prepared for the zombie apocalypse. You can visit her at www.AnnieNeugebauer.com for news, poems, organizational tools for writers, and more.
Thinking about word association is something I do every day when I write, be it first draft or later. Even though first drafts are more exploratory, I do find taking extra time exploring the words and images they invoke important to helping me discover story. They go hand in hand. If my first draft is “shitty” (in Hemingway standards), it’s only because getting everything down in one place the first time through doesn’t add up to perfection, no more than a concert pianist doesn’t give a flawless performance after sight reading a challenging new piece for the first time. Going into second, third, fourth draft, and on, it’s those places I stopped to take my time and labor over the words, phrasing, and what they conjure, that inspire me to dig deeper in places that aren’t working. In fact, if anything, they give me a standard to measure against, so I cannot agree more with you on the importance of word choice. Word choice doesn’t just prime readers, it primes writers as they dig deeper into story, character, narration, description, setting, theme, mood, tone…everything.
Well said, John! And it’s interesting that you mention specifically that greater attention to word choice is often a later-draft step for you. I wonder if that translates to different drafting styles? It sounds like you fast draft (maybe) and then careful edit. I can’t help but wonder if writers who slow draft and edit less take more time finding these specific words the first time, which might be part of the slower pace? Just a random thought you prompted. :) Thanks for the thoughtful comment!
Good reminder. Thanks Annie!
Always happy to talk shop. :)
Great post! This is something I say to my students over and over again. Thank you for the reminder!
Thank you! Lucky students! :)
Very insightful piece. I hadn’t drilled down quite that deeply to realize how our brains our hot-wired to have certain words evoke a particular feeling, but it makes perfect sense.
Thanks, Maggie! Incidentally, I love your choice of “hot-wired.” That one works for me — just goes to show.
Refreshing post. Thanks, Annie. I recall C.S. Lewis saying something similar about not using words too big for the topic. Your “choose words to describe it that serve a distinct purpose” is wonderful.
Thanks Paula! Yes, overly big words is a great example. Used well, five-dollar words fit right in. Otherwise they stand out and make us think “Who are you trying to impress?”
I couldn’t agree more. I my writing craft book, I call this “writing for effect.” I agree wholeheartedly with the need for artful word choices that create specific responses in readers, not unlike the conditioned response of Pavlov’s dogs. We are conditioned to respond to certain words and word combinations in specific ways, and those responses create an effect in the reader’s mind just as you have well outlined. Thanks.
We’re very sciency today, aren’t we? :) Indeed, Pavlov’s dogs is an apt choice, because we can be trained to the meaning and connotations of different words through usage. I like it.
Interesting. And it’s also something that advertisers have been into for some decades. When one popular drugstore chain in California changed it’s name to Osco it learned it must change it again Osco means gross or sick in the Spanish language, and their customer count was down. Words have been used subliminally, too. The word “sex” has been hidden in certain ads so that although we may not pick it up consciously, we do at the sub level. I doubted a college professor when he taught my class this, until I did an experiment of my own. I couldn’t get some old drinking glasses to sell at a yard sale, so I decided to weave the word “sex” into their placement pattern. It wasn’t obvious unless you were privy to what I’d done, but damn those glasses flew out of the sale!
It also makes a great case for the value of adverbs, no?
Oh my gosh, that’s too funny about the glasses. Just think of how you could abuse the power! But yeah advertisers use this technique to the brink of sacrilege, I think. There are countless examples of it being expertly executed and countless more of things going horribly wrong, just like your Osco example. And ads, like poems, usually have less space, so all the more weight those choices hold.
Insightful piece. Possibly the reason I might write a sentence over and over until the perfect word that echoes or informs is found.
The sign of a good artist is discontent. Or at least that’s what I tell myself when I spend too long choosing each word. ;) Thanks, Beth!
Thanks, Annie! This is both a reminder for me, and what I do – like John. What I write essays and ‘pictures’ of what I come across. And looking for the right words is part of the fun for me.
Though after reading your piece I thought for a second “If I’d construct my pieces ‘scientifically’, so to say, thinking too much about the rules, following them, thinking to remember this and that – the whole process would become a torture.
It’s fun when what you mention is a built-in thing.
That’s true, Marianna. I think that meticulousness is part of what makes writing and/or revisions torture sometimes. For me, that’s just part of the price we pay. But yeah, it does take some of the fun out of it. Luckily lots of the word associations come naturally as we go, as you say!
Love this post, and the simple but effective examples you used to illustrate your point! (Blood vs. cherry.)