Nearness Of A Dictionary

An earlier version of this piece appeared on Medium in September 2016. I also published another piece about dictionaries. It's a topic from which I can't seem to stay away.

---

Clear space on your desk and set an open dictionary there. Your writing life will improve immediately. At my writing desk in the the basement a dictionary lies open in front of me. I write by hand or type on a laptop or typewriter with that dictionary open to whatever word I last consulted. The dictionary, open at your desk, unavoidable, will change your writing life for the better.

Maybe you worry that page turning and searching will take time away from writing. Wouldn't it be better to just Google definitions?

Yes, using the dictionary takes time away from tapping keys and pushing a pen, but that’s good. Taking time for Facebook is bad. Looking through the dictionary has me thinking of words, finding new words, and returns me to words I've forgotten. I looked up sanguine to be sure that it described how I felt about the neighbor’s tree falling through our fence into the yard, and the definition helped shape the next few hundred words I wrote.

Browsing a record shop, I inefficiently flip through albums A to Z. Brushes with other records suggest new music and lead me into serendipity. Looking for one album, I find so many more.

Asking my phone to “define sanguine” brings up the definition and history in 0.40 seconds but only for that one word. In my dictionary sanguine is the last word on page 1041 which begins with sand, continues through sandalwood, sandhi, sandjack, sangfroid, sanguinaria, before ending at sanguine. Looking for page 1041, I passed saleroom, salt, and Samaritan and thought about the Good Samaritan, remembered a Slate.com article about salt in food, and wondered what the hell a saleroom is. None of that relates to how I felt about the fallen tree and crushed fence but had me feeling writerly. All because of the nearness of the dictionary.

I put a dot next to sanguine and every other word I look up curious when I'll return to that page. The dots amuse me when I find them again. I wonder what I was thinking and writing when I looked up that word. Occasionally, I look up a word I've previously dotted, the meaning having escaped me. I reread, add a second dot, and leave the dictionary open to that page as I go back to writing.

Leaving it open encourages my habit of using the dictionary. A closed dictionary likely remains closed. An open dictionary is a writer's friend and aid. It is also a little bit magical.

Using the dictionary is slow. Like handwriting, it makes words physical, slower than digital impulses. It has me taking time with the words.

Which dictionary you use doesn’t matter much so long as it lies open near your desk. Mom got me this Webster’s for college, so that’s what I use. Maybe your Mom gave it to you or some professor required one for class. If you lack a dictionary, they can be had cheap at a used book store, garage sale, or library book sale. Ask friends who don't write if you can have theirs.

Get a dictionary. Place it open on your writing desk where you will be unable to avoid it. Look up sanguine or maybe saleroom. Read the definitions. Put a dot next to it. Survey the words near it. And enjoy your improved writing life.

The Writing Life: A Paper Dictionary

Dictionaries are quaint relics. Most people haven't cracked a paper dictionary in years and instead Google what they need to know. But a writer needs that quaint dictionary lying open within easy reach while writing. It transforms the writer for the better in a way that can't happen online. 

Consider two people looking to listen to music. The first opens his phone to an app. Maybe he searches for a specific album or artist, but more likely he lets the machine decide. The algorithm does the thinking and the listener almost immediately lets the music drift into the background. 

The second person has a turntable or CD player and a shelf of albums she thumbs through. Maybe she searches for one in particular, but along the way notices other possibilities triggered through browsing. She chooses an album, puts it on to play, and  listens. She may let the music fade to the background eventually but begins engaged with the process and experience.

Writers must engage. Creation demands it. Writing this, I'm thinking about words and usage and ideas I want to convey. I'm open to the unexpected. To be engaged, I'm typing in a minimalist editor, full-screen, with my phone turned off. To engage with words, I keep the dictionary open, close at hand. Today I looked up "enmity" for spelling. On that page I encountered ennead, enjoinder, enkindle, enkephatin, and enophile. I didn't read all the definitions -- I wanted to get back to writing -- but the words caught my eye and intrigued me. The language had a tighter grip on me. I felt writerly.

Googling definitions doesn't do that. It's too efficient. I look up words online when necessary, but prefer the inefficient paper dictionary which brings me into contact with other words. I keep the dictionary open next to me so I'm not having to cross the room to find it. Paging through the dictionary enhances my writing. Looking for the dictionary takes me away from writing. Keep it close and open. 

At home I have two writing spaces, my basement nook and a desk in the living room. In the nook, the dictionary is open and waiting. I have yet to create space for an open dictionary in the living room and although it is in reach, I don't use it often enough. I'm sure that hurts my writing a little. It's something to fix. 

Besides having it near at hand and keeping it open, I mark up a dictionary. I draw a dot next to each word I look up. Looking up "enmity" today I saw dots next to "en masse" and "enormity" in the same column of page 576. It's not every day I come across a dotted word. Today, finding two, I felt connected to the past, the language, and the dictionary. A dictionary is a kind of history of language and our personal dictionaries are the histories of our language use. 

Which dictionary a writer uses may come to matter in time, but almost any hardback that lies open will do. At home I have _Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary_ that Mom gave me for college. It's a good dictionary and has become _my_ dictionary, familiar and comfortable. At school I use a large _New Oxford American Dictionary_ that is open within reach of students.

A dictionary can be had for cheap at garage and library book sales. Post to Facebook and a friend will likely give theirs away. Thrift shops have them for next to nothing. Buy one at the bookstore or ask for one for your birthday. It will last the rest of your days and once you've marked it and made it yours, you'll never want to let go of something that has made you the writer you've become.

The dictionary may seem quaint, but it's an essential tool. Writers should dip into it often, scanning for the word they need or aimlessly wandering. Dotting the words makes them ours and leaves a trail as we delve deeper into writing with language particularly suited to our thoughts, ideas, and dreams. If that's quaint, then I'm all for being a quaint writer.