TO SWEAR OR NOT TO SWEAR? That is the F*cking Question.

It’s 2 a.m. and you need to pee. Half-asleep, you feel your way along the wall in the dark, but a few steps in it happens: you step on a piece of Lego or a dead scorpion/hairy spider/rusty nail. (I've done two out of those four options.) What, dear Reader, is the very first word out of your mouth? If it is “Owie!”, “Oh dear!” or even “Shoot!” you might want to stop reading right now ... Because in my case, that first word would be a very enthusiastic and bombastic: “F*ck!”

There, I said it, albeit muffled with an asterisk for those of you easily offended by spicy language and who did not heed my warning to stop reading. But, if you got this far, read on, dear Reader, because you might be surprised by the many benefits of a good swear word.

Full disclosure: I swear. Often and enthusiastically, whenever the occasion calls for it; when I catch a glimpse of certain bloated politicians on certain news channels, when I stub my (twice-before-fractured) little toe, when I drop my phone into the toilet, or when I come to a standstill on the 405 freeway for 45 minutes. But I also know when not to, and how to pull my punches and securely holster the "F"-bombs when I am visiting my parents, socializing with devoutly religious friends, or in professional environments where I hope to make a good first impression. It’s the same respect I would show by taking off my shoes at the front door of a house with pristine, white carpets. I’ll take my lead from you or the situation. Having said that, if you are in my inner circle and we are in a casual situation, the gloves come off. As does the lid of the potty.

Whether you partake or not, you must admit, dear Reader, that a juicy swear word feels sooooo good when you unshackle it and let it fly freely. Let’s deconstruct the provocative sounds of the "F"-bomb to see why that is. Up front, it starts off with that fricative “F,” a propulsion of explosive air through lips clamped down by two front teeth, producing a sound like that of an ominous gas leak, or poisonous snakes slithering in the underbrush. Then comes the staccato “ah/uh” vowel that denotes a frisson of surprise or pain with the slackness of a flaccid tongue. And, finally, most satisfactory, it ends with an explosive consonant (the “K”-sound) that not so much falls on the receiving ear than assaults it with a clap of reverberation. It’s about the onomatopoeia of explosions, of bricks dropped on bare toes, delivered with a dash of dopamine and a fair amount of spit.

While drafting my novel, HEIST OF THE OLYMPIANS, I was presented with the dilemma: To Swear or Not to Swear? My characters presented themselves as fully formed, complicated human beings, warts and all. (Read my previous blog, The Voices inside my Head, for more on my process.) Based on their personalities, some of them swore like seasoned sailors, some softened their expletives with foreign accents, and yet others abstained completely albeit for religious reasons or something more sinister. For me, each individual's level of foul-mouthiness served to inform their character, their backstory, and their internal drive. I wrote them thus, letting their true voices come through organically.

But then, after initial feedback from a couple of my beta readers, who found the swear words a bit jarring, I got cold feet and elected to soften most of them into more palatable PG versions. It was important to me not to offend anyone. But censoring my writing bothered me to the point where I feared I was robbing my characters of their authenticity, muffling, and muting them which in turn dumbed down the intensity of some of my most harrowing scenes. When I bemoaned this to a good friend and trusted mentor, he told me this: "You are an artist; your job is to offend." Then, a few weeks later, one of my besties who helped me edit my final draft, added this to the conversation about profanity, “I’m a grown-ass woman. I want to read grown-ass language.”

That was it; the impetus I needed to go back in and switch my softened cusses back to their original full f*cking force. In fact, I went even further and used the accursed “C”-word (gasp!) in one devastating scene. But not gratuitously so; it fits the scene and acts as a catalyst switch between a moment of heightened alert … and pure terror. When you get to read it, I hope you’ll agree with why I had to do that. It’s just that the words in our societally acceptable dictionary are simply not enough at times to describe a truly horrific moment.

But, trauma aside, why do humans swear? And does it denote low intelligence and low class? You would be surprised, dear Reader.

Biological Science and Psychology agree that swearing produces stress-relieving and, more importantly, pain-relieving properties in the human body. In one recent experiment led by psychologists Stephens and Robertson (Swearing as a Response to Pain: Assessing Hypoalgesic Effects of Novel "Swear" Words, 2020), 102 subjects were asked to submerge their hands in ice-cold water and hold it there for three minutes. While they did so, half the participants were asked to vocalize one of two manufactured words, “Fouch!” or “Twizpipe!” (I shit you not.) The other half were encouraged to drop their most enthusiastic "F"-bombs at will. The result? You guessed it, dear Reader: The potty mouths who swore in colorful swaths were able to submerge their hands and endure the pain much longer than the group of fouching twizpipes.

The experiment proved that profanity triggers an analgesic response in the human body, making it more impervious to pain by releasing copious amounts of endorphins, the body’s natural painkiller. In addition to pain relief, profanity is known to increase adrenaline, the hormone that encourages the fight-or-flight phenomenon. Researchers are actively exploring the therapeutic value of profanity in patients enduring painful treatments or suffering debilitating illnesses. It's not farfetched to assume that, someday soon, a sick or injured patient might be instructed to take two Ibuprofen and chase it with two robust "F*cks!" screamed into a pillow.

In HEIST OF THE OLYMPIANS, I employ this therapeutic tactic in a scene where one of my protagonists, a practicing-Catholic mother, expresses frustration with her inability to help her chronically ill child:

“Her days stuck to each other like the disappearing edge of a jumbo roll of packing tape, with no telling where one part ended and the other began. A continuous, frustrating fight—cooling a feverish brow, wiping away frustrated tears—just to retreat to bed late at night and collapse into a pile of mush, screaming “Fuck you, cancer!” into her pillow, followed by an apologetic glance to the ceiling, “Pardon my French, Lord.”

(Excerpt from Chapter. 9, The Kick-Ass Mouse)

I consider myself in good company when sprinkling swear words into my writing. Chaucer infamously swore in the Middle Ages; Shakespeare cussed profusely. And Mark Twain, who was notorious for his profanity, once said, “Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.” It's that kind of relief that my protagonist so desperately craves.

But swearing is not just about blowing off steam. It is also associated with social intelligence, high creativity, and honesty. Yip, you are deemed more trustworthy when you cuss; perhaps because you do not mince words, or because the listener detects passion in your statement. And though it can be hurtful or insensitive, and demand censorship on some occasions, it is important to understand that most swear words are not meant to cause harm. In fact, they can serve as stand-ins for violence in some cases. I had never sworn as much as I did during the presidential election in 2016. It made me feel better; so much better. And it stopped me from flinging multiple objects at the TV. Yes, dear Reader, swearing can be a good thing.

Profanity is not new to Society. I first came across the dreaded "C"-word in my English Lit college class. That raunchy bugger, Chaucer, smeared profanity across his writings the way gorillas fling poop. Accordingly, I was not surprised to read that a monk recorded the first cuss word on paper in the 13th century. It was an "F"-word, but not the one you’re thinking of, dear Reader. According to my research, that word was “Fart.” During the Middle Ages, anything related to bodily fluids was highly unacceptable. Sure, we pooh-pooh that word nowadays (pun intended) and it always procures a giggle but back then, when so many deaths were caused by nasty bodily fluids (cholera, the plague, consumption), it was the ultimate taboo. To this day, bodily effluvia and lavatorial references make the most disgusting insults. Therefore, it's hardly surprising that during the pandemic over the last two years, swear words recorded on Facebook increased by 41 percent, with a notable spike among younger people.

Data shows that cursing can materialize in children as young as two years old and that, by age eleven or twelve, most kids have a working vocabulary of a few dozen offensive words. I can attest to this early-cussing phenomenon from personal experience. My daughter was just shy of two when I observed her one day, staring dreamily out of the window with her baby chin resting in her palm, deep in thought. I watched her, my heart bursting with love, when suddenly, and in a disturbingly neutral tone, she muttered, “Oh shit, here comes that butterfly again!” I burst out laughing, followed by the "Oh Shit!" realization that she must have picked up that ugly word from me or her father. (Okay, it was most likely me since I was home with the little shithead most of the time.) Today, thanks to my research for this blog post, I am relieved to know that I am not the only mother who raised a potty mouth. Phew!

A few years later, in kindergarten (aged six or so) she came home from school one day in a huff because someone had used the “S”-word. I sat her down on her bed, and held her tiny hand, ready to have a mom-to-daughter discussion about why saying “Shit!” is not polite for an angelic six-year-old (conveniently dodging the fact that she had started with it before the age of two). “Tell mommy the word,” I prompted, “It’s okay to say it this one time.”

“No, I can’t,” she said, clearly upset, “It’s a bad word.”

I continued to cajole until she finally reneged:

“Stoopid,” she said. “Somebody said ‘stoopid.’”

It was a good-parent moment for me. That, at that early age, my daughter could tell that the word, “stupid” could be used in a hurtful, damaging way. I would rather have my child use a harmless, poopy word like “shit" than a hurtful one like “stupid.”

I would be remiss not to tell you of something that happened to my son when he was around the same age. I got a call from his teacher saying that he had “used a bad word in school”. I rushed over for the conference in her office where my son, the seven- or eight-year-old offender, was waiting in a chair, his legs too short to touch the floor, his hands pinched under his butt, his gaze defiant. Non-plussed. “What is the word he used?” I asked the teacher, preparing for the worst. He had a foul-mouthed older sibling, remember? She of the shitty butterflies. “He used the word ‘bitch,’” the teacher answered, her face pulled into a tight sour plum to denote her disgust.

And I was mortified. To me, the "B"-word is a derogatory term used way too often in pop culture to describe a strong woman. I vividly remember turning to my son, my cheeks red with indignation.

“Why would you use that word? Tell me exactly what you said!” I demanded with my hands planted on my hips. He sat there, nonchalant if a little confused, his legs dangling, his thumbs gripping the plastic chair. “We were reading Clifford the Big Red Dog,” he explained, “and I told Sam that a female dog is called a bitch.”

I can’t remember how long I sat there, blinking slowly, and shooting hairy eyeballs at the stoopid teacher who had not bothered to distinguish between an insult ... and the grammatically correct term for a female dog. If anyone deserved to sit in the dunce chair, it should have been her. And, yes of course my son had most certainly delivered that observation to elicit a reaction from his classmates, with intended anti-establishment pun and witticism (as he was known to do and still does to this day) but he was seven years old, and a female dog technically is called a bitch.

Bite me, bitch!

In summary, taking all this into account: the good, the bad, and the ugly, I hope I have managed to sway your mind even a tinge, dear Reader, to remove whatever sliver of offense and judgment you might glean from my colorful, demonstrative language (heck, from me, personally). The words I use are meant to be descriptive and evocative—even provocative at times, I confess. But most of all, (and here is where you look away if you are sensitive, dear Reader) ...

They're meant to be healing as fuck.

THE END