(n); an embellishment or ornament in speech; to speak in flowery language; c. 1651
Trouble. Trouble is a great dustpan of a word. Its roots are found in Latin in the verb turbidare, to make turbid … Trouble branched off to mean that quality or state of being in distress or annoyance, of having malfunctioned; it’s a condition of debility, or ill health, a civil disorder, an inconvenience, a pregnancy out of wedlock. The trouble with writing is that it’s awfully like having baby after baby all by yourself.
—Michelle Huneven, from “The Trouble with Writing”
Words come in all shapes and forms. Some words are unusually evocative, bringing with them a barrage of imagery or emotion, like dusk, a breathy syllable that brings to mind misty skies and dewy grass. Other words stand alone as singularly elegant in and of themselves. As writers, we often have more words at hand than we know what to do with, and choosing the right word with just the right feeling or flavor is an intimidating task. In a recent article at The Millions, novelist and journalist Michelle Huneven discusses some of the troubles of writing—you can read it without fear of flosculation: her article is a straightforward account of the woes shared by anyone who has ever tried to put words to page.
