*APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE TO THOSE WHO DEPLORE PROFANITY.  SORRY, BUT I AINT JANE AUSTIN.*

Hi, I’m Melissa, and I’m a verbaholic.

It started in the third grade, when my teacher kept me in at lunch time.  She was unhappy with a story I’d written.  I loved writing, but the problem with the stories I wrote at that age was length – or lack thereof.  My stories were so short, action-packed and to the point that I think I can say ‘I wrote flash fiction before it was a thing,’ and know in my heart that I’m not being a hipster.

‘I want at least two pages,’ said Mrs Bourke, ‘Use the vocabulary list on the board.’

Vocab lists are a gateway drug.

Just ask anyone who’s ever read a V.C. Andrews novel.

Having thrown in as many three or four syllable words as I could, I gave the story to Mrs Bourke, stood by quietly while she gave it a cursory glance, and was soon dismissed.  I had discovered the joy of padding!  Why sum up an insignificant everyday event in a sentence when you can stretch it out into a big, fat paragraph?

Imagine my elation when I got to fourth grade and discovered adverbs!

I’ve learned a lot since then, and I’ve read my fair share of bad fiction, so you’d think I’d be able to read my own stuff with a more critical eye, and eradicate any overwrought descriptions and cut back on pretty but useless words, wouldn’t you?

Sadly, no.

Not every time.

I recently did a re-read of my first short story collection, TRAILS, (I can’t fathom why, seeing as it’s been out since July last year), and I came across a few examples of purple prose that somehow escaped my attention the first seventeen times I read it.  The majority of it is in a story called ‘The Poacher,’ which is about a mother and her twin daughters facing off against a child murderer.  Crimes against children make for emotionally charged story telling, so it’s easy to get caught up in the moment (especially if you happen to be a parent) and want to use as many fifty cent words as you can to get your message across.

I got my message across, all right; but not in the way I’d intended.  What I was going for was a blend of horror and high drama; what I created was a soapy, gothic cheese-fest.

Imagine a seventies exploitation flick made especially for the Hallmark channel, and you’ve got the idea.

Consider this terrifying incident my wake up call.  From now on, if I wish to convey – sorry,  want to describe – something, I will say it, not sing it.

Allow me to demonstrate.  Which sentence do you think best sums up my feelings toward the actor whose half naked picture is my current screensaver:Thomas Jane.

‘I find Thomas Jane to be the most irresistibly captivating, jaw-droppingly sensual, heart-stoppingly handsome man in this universe or the next.’

OR:

‘Thomas Jane is hot.  I’d like to fuck him.’

I concur.

‘