Listen and You Will Hear...Comments on Writing Sound

A Dragon hears everything. We have auditory organs of phenomenal/ wondrous/enviable capacity. A drop of water, a thunderous surf, a splattering of rain--s'all a roar in a Dragon's mighty eardrum. Resounding, echoing, a rich froth of air compressions drifting/wafting/racing from one point of the moment/the space/the spot within existence where it originated, to the receptacle of one's inner ear where it becomes a meaningful density/reality/truth to ye olde brain. Sound...touching without touching. The invisible expression of a happening.

Even so...not every Dragon listens to the world about him/her/it. Being able to hear--and hearing--are two different things. As a writing Dragon, it behooves me to overcome the distractions that draw my attention from hearing and settle down to listen to the world that I may write about the world. At least about its sounds. Sounds have been made visible in the written word. Actual sounds: ahh (a reaction to something cute), beep (an annoying horn sound), boo (a ghost speaks), burp (a good meal speaks), caw (crow lip), chirp (bird talk), clip (scissors at work), clomp (a walking horse), clunk (a dropped bucket), ding-dong (a doorbell, or an idiot...), eek (fright), fizz (Dr. Pepper speak), gong (a resounding bell tone), hiccup (too much to drink), hiss (snake speak), ick (something nasty), meow (cat talk), moo (cow compliant), oink (pig talk), plonk (something dropped? Splattered?), pop (a wine bottle opened), quack (a duck rather than a fake doctor), rat-a-tat (a...trumpet??), ring (a telephone---unless it spits out a song instead of a 'ring'), splat (a bug on a windshield), swoosh (me flying by very rapidly), tap (a cane on a sidewalk), tick (clock speak), toot (a horn or a fart), varoom (me flying by even more rapidly), whirr (hummingbird wings), whomp (an elephant stomp, or--in my books, this is the sound of my mighty wings flapping), woof (dog speak), yikes (fear comment), yip (tiny dog speak), zap (electric shock).

Those are our interpretations/explanations/elucidations of 'actual' sounds. Descriptions of sounds are fun as well: bawl (the act of sobbing), belch (the act of burping)...you get the picture; however, those are another discussion. Sounds, the making of and the hearing of in the written sense, can be quite nice beyond the mere clipped presentation of a single word. One doesn't want to overwelm with an aggressive adjective or an audacious adverb, but there's nothing wrong with a little activating nudge of word play to enhance a written sound. That enhancement can determine the very meaning/implication/connotation of an otherwise simplistic sound. Let us try a few...

A melodious ahh...a strangled ahh...a breathy ahh...a sharp ahh---each descriptive tag lends the 'ahh' a different emotional value. How about a bodacious boo...a piercing boo...a wailing boo...a muted boo. Or, a riotous burp...a cavernous burp...an endless burp...a growling burp...a gurgling burp...a bone-breaking burp---oh, those provide a plethora of images/visuals/mental illustrations of the belchee (or is it belcher?) in action! Now--a Dragon burp could well be called a volcanic burp.


A caw can be grating, spine crawling, hair raising, irritating... An unpleasant sound, a caw, so I personally would not assign it more kindly venue---however, perhaps someone else would not be uncomfortable with a soft caw, a quiet caw, an agreeable caw, or even an amusing caw.

The very mood of a sentence can be styled by the manner in which a sound is expressed. A chilling clomp, a frantic stomp, a heart jerking bang, a fragile fizz, a soothing effervesce, a hideous hiccup, a bowel clinching hiss, a mournful moo, a resounding splat, a grin making toot, a sizzling zap, a treeeeembling drip.

Oh, sound can be a veritable scene maker/image builder/mood elevator in one's story. Allow the reader to hear what the characters hear, to respond to what their surroundings and actions would generate in a real world of wafting air compressions. But...my writing wizards, be you human or otherwise, do not overdo the making, the building, the elevating. There is seldom need for more than one enhancing 'tag' to enrich the written sound. Avoid the "huge noxious gaseous throat-rattling up-from-the-depths of the gut burp"...t'is a wee bit overdone and by the time the reader realizes one speaks of an esophageal feat, they've lost track of the tale's direction! [NOTE: If, however, this elongated burpal description is the writer's style or voice, if it falls within the overall format of the novel, t'is perfectly acceptable!]

Write on ye lovers of words and tales, stories and make-believe and what might have been, but wasn't. Pluck the wealth of the physical world out of reality and into your imagination, and sprinkle what you've plucked like petals over your pretend world. Listen, and you will hear...

The Fruits of the Labor...or...Eating the Words.

Dragons do not eat words/written expressions/ visual statements. No substance to them, you know. At least not in the caloric/energy/joules sense. Oh, they are a 'meaty' matter, but not in the manner of beef, fowl, or fish. Nay. Rather we Dragons generate words. Our phenomenal minds create clever contextual concepts. Engender energetic expressions. Spawn spectacular seeds of stimulating speech. Ah, well, you get the gist.

Words come naturally, nowadays, to us Isoladian Dragons. I have no idea how the beasts derived in other lands/worlds/places of authorial imagination communicate. For most of them I anticipate growls, grunts and roars are most often the vocabulary of the day. One cannot visualize much conversation, let alone accomplishment, from that. But to each his/her/its own.

'Tis any wonder I prefer Dragons with a flare for vocabulary? Lexicon? A glorious glossary of gab?

Such as that young Dragon who wings through Naomi Novik's books, Temeraire. Her historical fantasies are incredible. Or the old codger of cinematic fame, who managed to talk his way onto the big screen/monitor/display in Dragonheart. Even better--Jo Walton's Dragons in Tooth and Claw are chatty, intellectual, perfectly worthy beings who thrive in a world not unlike that in which humans dwell. Now there are Dragons worth their salt (not to be sprinkled on their words, which, of course, we have already determined are not eaten).

Ah, so...why do I discourse on wordy Dragons? Because I must point out that we Dragons are late arrivals to the marvels of language. Dialogue. Conversation. We speak, and subsequently write, because we remain enthralled by not only the process, but the wonder of the capacity/ability/ aptitude of the deed! The novelty has not yet worn off. Humans attained the skill so long ago, they no longer truly appreciate the miracle of it. Oral communication is a phenomenon in itself (at least it is for us; how would you like to manage verbalization's via a hard length of jaw over a forked tongue and eventually through fangs?) I for one doubt you could manage it. We Dragons do because we've no option, and we possess stubbornness/ persistence/tenacity without equal. And--we love the endeavor, the mental connection, the ready, heady interplay of knowledge.

The written word, however, is even more splendid. The rendering of brainwaves in visual form upon parchment/papyrus/dinner napkins. The embodiment of thought in a physical shape. Vigorous verbs. Artful adjectives. Noble nouns. Squiggles that, when appropriately arranged, expose the wisdom of the ages. The exultation's. Every soulful sentiment slipping out. The prettiness...and the pettiness.

I ask in all curiosity: do you write because you love words, or love words because you write? You have probably not given it due thought, any more than the chicken when asked to determine whether or not it preceded its egg/shell/ fertilized embryo! Perhaps because I am a Dragon I view the question from a more simplistic perspective than you more complex humans. For us it is the former rather than the latter. And the latter is not without worth because exercising your ability with words builds appreciation of those building blocks. Those structuring stones. Those edifying bricks of ideas. Oh, as a poetic Dragon would say: good, better, best, never let it rest, until the good is better, and the better best. Even a youngling human understands this!

The written word is not only the building block of ideas, but of civilizations. Those who love words, write. Those who write, love words--or will learn to. Ergo--if you love to write, then teach/impart/ gift those who lack the skill so that they, too, may taste/savor/relish the fruits of the laboring pen/quill/keyboard.

I speak of fruit metaphorically, of course. Remember--we do not eat the words! If you swallow them, spit them out. If you spit them out, then spread them about. Water with feelings. Fertilize with enthusiasm. Watch your garden grow: sentence, by paragraph, by page. Articles. Novels. Laws. Edicts. Libraries. Universities. Cities. The world.

Ah! The very thought makes my gullets growl! Or is that my brain, formulating scrumptious, succulent, yummy words?

Writing the Molecules--The Joy is in the Details

This morning I shall discourse about Writing the Molecules...those tiny aspects of our perceptions that flesh the bones of the written word. First, I shall explain why these nuances/gradations of physical awareness are so important to a Dragon. Ah, I mean a writing Dragon.

As a Dragon I have remarkable, extraordinary, notable senses. No eyesight is keener. I can detect a gnat fluttering/flickering/flitting 'mid blossoms and bumblebees a mile away. Indeed. Five thousand two hundred and eighty feet. Twice one thousand three hundred and twenty feet. Ha! Did I say keen? A telescope cannot match me for optical acuity. 'Nough said.

My auditory organs are without peer. I am an acoustical wizard. I not only see the gnat, I hear it release the end result of its digestive process. Intestinal gases. Fart. And a tiny toot it is, little more than a minuscule gut groan. A sigh. A whimper. Yet my ears absorb the passing molecular tremble as if it were the great rage of St. Helens coughing pyroclastic chunks like hairballs. I hear everything. Dew dripping resounds like continental rifting in my notable ears. 'Nough said.

And my nostrils--! Have ever a more admirable set of olfactory sensors deigned to exist? Not merely large, as befits a beast of my size and mass, but responsively receptive. Scent sympathetic. Sinus scrupulous. In less delicate terms--merely for the sake of clarification, you understand--I smell that tiny toot. 'Nough said.

Not to mention, sense of touch. Tactile perception. You thought I had no keen sense of touch because my body is armor plated, my toe-tips clawed? Short of stripping off my scales, I do have my accessible spots, dear friends.

This confession is not to be shared with Gryphons or their detestable ilk! Thankfully, Gryphons cannot read. They've the brain-capacity of a kumquat, but you must not tell the stinkers. They've good memories, for all that a walnut would fill what passes for a cranial cavity. So...now that you have promised no loose lips, I will share this truth--there are four spots on my anatomy that are very sensitive to contact: my muzzle, that velvety area of prehensile upper lip and the soft spot between my nostrils; the tip of my tail; my forefoot pads (same as your palms), and my leg pits. You would call them arm pits, but even though I use my front legs with much the flexibility of the human arm, biologically speaking they must be referred to as 'legs'. Ergo--leg pits. Front and back. Because this is--more or less--a 'family friendly' site, I exclude discussion of my--ahem--reproductive region. The details of that section remain under the sole proprietorship of my mate, Riastor.

However, back to tactile perception--did that gnat sit upon my muzzle, I could feel its gas pass. Assess its tiny legs tracking over my skin. My upper lip, foot-pads, and tail tip can detect soft, rough, smooth, irregular--well, you name it, I can feel it, with no less keenness than your own human fingertips.

Why do I list my sensory capabilities, you may ask? To point out that as a Writing Dragon, I have the same aptitude (superior, actually) as a human does to absorb/suck up/take in my surroundings. Therefore, I am well able to decipher the world with my body parts and describe/discuss/expound on it with gleeful intensity. I love what I see, hear, smell, and touch. So should the characters of whatever tale/story/yarn I pen. (Oh, very well. Excuse me! What my scribe pens for my clumsy claws.) In any case, All writers, I believe, should love these aspects of their characters. After all, are their characters not intended to be alive. Breathing, existing in the magical but viable realm of the imagination? Doesn't a reader (you may correct me here if I am wrong...but a Dragon seldom is) want to read the reality? The reactive senses of the character moving through his/her/its story?

The details, my fellow writers--and readers who enjoy what we produce--I reiterate, are the fleshy draping upon the bones of the work. Would you have your character(s) perceived as mere skeletons stiffly sauntering about his/her/its world? Nay. Naynaynay! Mobilization requires muscles (I mention this my first book, The Dragons' Veil). Muscles would wither without flesh to encase and succor them. And flesh reflects the world--is it not the aspect of the body most in contact with the world?

You see the wisdom? Insight? Acumen? If you would enrich your words, my fellow writers, and in turn enrich your imaginary worlds, then utilize every facet of the real world in which you dwell. Sight, sound, smell, touch--the north, east, south, and west of the compass of by which you guide yourself through whatever tale you are inspired to pen/type/dictate.

Drat! Speak of the devil/imp/mischievous sprite! What is that gnat doing on my muzzle? Off, annoying speck of insectal indolence, and take your tiny tootings with you.