Why Big Words are a Hex on Your Writing

Let me ask you this:

Hath thine not had a great many frenetic thoughts, worrisome in mind at the stark knowledge of their lack of intellectually attuned lexicon?

Or should I say: good literary lord help me, I don’t know a lot of Big™ words.

The amount of instances I can recall of when I’m reading through some thick and meaty romantasy novel, then having to abruptly stop, open Dictionary.com, and have a quick peruse of what “pugnacious” means, is enough to fill the shelves of an Instances I Can Recall™ resale store. It’s irritating.

I have to take a piecemeal —

adjective

done, made, or accomplished piece by piece or in a fragmentary way

— approach to each of these incomprehensible terms. And it’s getting in the way of the book!

Think about it. You’re in the flow. Swept away by the imaginary landscape inked before your eyes, characters that don’t exist capturing your attention, immersed in words and worlds that have briefly severed your connection with reality, transporting you to the wonders of make-believe and Far Far Away — until you’re yanked back into existence because a big word you don’t understand has snapped your flow stick in half, the luminous ink of confusion staining your brain until you huff, drop your book, and Google whatever the hell “obscurantism” means.

It’s like being interrupted mid-wee, mid-kiss, mid-mouthful. It ruins the full experience.

As a reader, that’s frustrating enough.

As a writer, it’s embarrassing.

Am I supposed to know all the words?

Was there a test I missed? An exam I forgot? Am I supposed to recite a list of obnoxious terms by heart to qualify as an official writer? I hope not. That sounds dull.

I feel like Joey from Friends when he goes out with Charlie the palaeontologist; not that I’m getting all acrimonious about it…

Maybe it comes with the genre — fantasy includes lots of fantastical terms, by nature — or maybe it comes with the fact that I’m a moron? Who knows. But it definitely seems like some words are more esoteric —

adjective

understood by or meant for only the select few who have special knowledge or interest; recondite:

— than others. And the rest are just plain nonsensical.

Though they’re flashy, librarian-sexy, and unmistakably impressive to your nan and your English Literature lecturer; they’re a little abrasive to the rest of us.

Big words need to abscond; effervesce; vamoose — they need to bugger off

Some of the best writers who have ever written remind you to opt for the simple term, the shorter sentence, the to-the-point phrasing.

C.S Lewis said to,

“Always prefer the plain direct word to the long, vague one. Don’t implement promises, but keep them.”

And,

“Always try to use the language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure your sentence couldn’t mean anything else.”

And also,

“Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean ‘More people died’ don’t say ‘Mortality rose.’”

There seems to be a resounding theme here: big words are a big mistake.

Let your lexicon be a lexiPRO and speak to readers in words they know

Write like you’re talking to your closest mate. Draft paragraphs that your local moron can comprehend. Formulate sentences that can be universally understood. Tell stories that are simple, clear, concise, and relatable, things that any, far and wide, smart or not-so can connect to.

If you don’t, you’re severing your readership in half, in half again, down to the bone, hemorrhaging stories onto the floor in an empty room because nobody understood you — so they left.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this is not a diatribe —

noun

a forceful and bitter verbal attack against someone or something.

— against big words. Just a reminder.

Start simple. Say it simple. It’s that simple.