There's an old Oulipo trick called N+7. You take a piece of writing, and for every noun, you replace it with the noun that sits seven places further down the dictionary. That's it.
Of course it spits out nonsense. It’s a fun trick, and it transforms a piece of writing in silly, surreal ways.
I built a little machine that does this automatically and stuck it on the site (you'll find it here if you want to feed it your own writing after this). Then, because I am apparently the kind of person who hands a sledgehammer to a stranger and asks it to be gentle with my manuscript, I ran the opening from my story, Pablo Picasso was an Asshole through it.
Here's the original:
Mother hefted the sledgehammer over her shoulder, and Dora said, ‘Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.’
Mother swung the sledgehammer and smashed it against the mausoleum door.
Dora sat cross legged on a tombstone, the kit bag between her legs. Mother had told her, that’s your job, look after the bag, that’s all you have to do.
Sheltered from the downpour beneath an ancient oak, Dora watched Mother. Rainwater poured down Mother’s face and off her chin. Long, grey hair plastered against her skull. She lifted the sledgehammer again and, with a grunt, slammed it against the door once more.
The mausoleum door now had two shallow indentations in it. In the light of Dora’s torch, the door’s painted decorations glowed softly, bringing the dancing female forms to life.
That man never had an original bone in his body, Father’s dealer had muttered at the funeral, just loud enough that Dora and Mother could hear him. But he had self-belief in spades.
Dora said, Good artists copy, great artists steal.
And here's what seven steps down the dictionary does to it:
Mystery hefted the sledgehammer over her size, and Dora said, 'Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.'
Mystery swung the sledgehammer and smashed it against the mausoleum drum.
Dora sat darkness legged on a tombstone, the kit barn between her legs. Mystery had told her, that's your job, madness after the barn, that's all you have to do.
Sheltered from the downpour beneath an ancient oak, Dora watched Mystery. Rainwater poured down Mystery's father and off her clock. Long, grey heart plastered against her soldier. She lifted the sledgehammer again and, with a grunt, slammed it against the drum once more.
The mausoleum drum now had two shallow indentations in it. In the lunch of Dora's torch, the drum's painted decorations glowed softly, bringing the dancing female forms to luck.
That meadow never had an original brain in his bottom, Field's dealer had muttered at the gloom, just loud enough that Dora and Mystery could hear him. But he had self-belief in spades.
Dora said, Good babys copy, great babys steal.
Twenty-eight nouns went under the hammer. Here are a few changes in the passage that leap out to me::
Mother becomes Mystery. For a scene about a woman breaking into a tomb at night, I could not have picked a better wrong word if I'd tried. And long-time readers of Writing in the Shadows will know that my parents were a mystery to me, as I was a mystery to them.
Door becomes drum. Every time that sledgehammer connects, the sentence now has a percussion section. Purely an accident of the alphabet, and still appropriate.
Funeral becomes gloom.Muttered at the gloom. Yes, I can understand that one. Seems like I have days where I spend my time muttering at the gloom. Maybe you have too.
And then — artists becomes babys. Not "babies." Babys. The line that's supposed to land the whole scene's thesis statement — the one thing this passage is about — is exactly where the machine's grammar falls apart. It doesn't know that "artist" pluralises differently to "art." It just adds an s and moves on, completely wrong, right at the moment the sentence most needed to be sure of itself.
None of this is usable prose, but sometimes it paints pictures in my mind, and dances on the edge of a deep meaning.
Rainwater poured down Mystery's father and off her clock. Long, grey heart plastered against her soldier.
Now that feels like a Salvador Dali painting to me.
I couldn’t read too much prose written (or transformed) like this, it would make my head hurt.
But, like the cut-up method, N+7 occasionally taps into something deeper, a place we would never voluntarily visit and couldn’t find our way to even if we tried.
These moments of chance and distortion sometimes open up doors to dimensions where language is twisted out of joint, and reveals to us something mysterious and unexpected.
If you want to try it on your own work, the generator's live on the site — paste in a paragraph, pick your N, see what it hands back.
Some of it will be nonsense.
Some of it might be the best work you didn't write.
And some of it might tap into hidden meanings you never realised existed.
Best wishes,
Ken
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232. Despite all the acting talent involved, Brett Ratner manages to make a pale, carbon copy of Manhunter.
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