Going nearly F-free

The only “f*ck” in my second novel doesn’t appear until page 180. A character shouts it in anger, punctuating a pivotal moment. The same character, a cantankerous retiree, delivers the only “shit” in the book so casually that it startles. My aim was to give those two scenes power.

So for me, the challenge in writing this story wasn’t deciding whether or not to include profanity. It was deciding how to withhold it, a deliberate craft strategy.

Consider that if every character in a novel swears constantly, profanity no longer reveals character. But if one character never swears until they do, the reader pays attention.

In some stories, profanity fits like a glove. Swearing can bring realism, punch, and rhythm to dialogue. It can reveal character, deliver humor, or act as a release valve for tension.

But too much can backfire. It can feel lazy, like a crutch for deeper emotional resonance or more precise language. As memoirist and fiction writer Rick Bailey put it, “[profanity] struck me as a failure on the part of the writers. Like comedians who do only sexual or scatological humor—it reflects a failure of imagination.”

So I wondered: Could I write a novel that still felt real, urgent, and emotionally honest without relying on expletives to do the heavy lifting?

The purpose of profanity

Cursing in my first novel, In the Context of Love, served a clear narrative function. The protagonist, Angelica, doesn’t swear as a young woman, but her high school lover, a boy from the wrong side of town, sure does. His parents are Hungarian immigrants who have their own distinct way of swearing.

Later, as she endures family secrets and betrayal from the man she eventually marries, her language reflects her inner turmoil. Then, as a mother with young children, she has to claw it back, constantly correcting her teens and resorting to docking their allowances. In this way, the use of profanity mirrors her growth and emotional arc.

When profanity doesn’t fit

In my second novel, Love and Other Incurable Ailments, I felt profanity would be at odds with the tone and characters.

The story centers around Serenity, a woman who feels at odds from the rest of the world. In all her hypochondriac glory, she seldom swears. It wouldn’t suit her carefully controlled exterior or her internal fragility.

Jake, the carpenter she hires to fix her ragtag cottage, is big-hearted and even-tempered. As a single parent of a seven-year-old girl, he keeps his language clean, although he might let one fly if he hammered his thumb. Being a skilled carpenter, he doesn’t often mess up, however.

Serenity’s neighbor, Emma, is a Southern spitfire whose insults are linguistic f-bombs: “You can kiss my go-to-hell,” she says, or “Lord, give me strength or give me bail money.” Her only profanity is calling her papa a dipshit, and even that is loaded with affection. She’s a fast talker, full of idioms.

Not relying on profanity challenged me to find more creative expressions of anger, frustration, or humor. The dialogue became more character-specific. Emma’s Southernisms suddenly mattered more than generic expletives ever could.

Other ways of writing conflict

Rather than relying on f-bombs to escalate conflict, I leaned into rhythm, interruption, and specificity. In one confrontation scene, Emma’s frustration comes through in the velocity of her speech and her escalating sarcasm:

“I’ve never known anyone so particular. I see you turn your nose up in my house and my car. And what’s the big fricking deal with sand? I can’t even. Yeah, it’s full of dead things. We probably ingest a couple of pounds of sand a year. For your information, we live on an island. Hello.”

I nervously pat-pat-patted Flory’s back as heat flashed across my neck and face. “Sure, sand is sand, but—”
“You don’t think I keep my child clean enough? I try, but I can’t watch her every gosh darn second.” She leaned toward me, straining to keep her voice even. 

“Of course. Of course you do. She’s a happy, healthy baby. Really. I—I can’t explain.”

She glared at me as if unconvinced. “Well, bless you for sharing.” The wide-eyed clerk kept her head down as she concentrated on yanking baby clothes off hangers, ringing them up and shoving them into a bag as fast as she could.

“I wish I could be more like you. I’m wired differently.”

“Oh, that’s precious,” she said as she paid cash for her purchases.

In another scene, by refusing to name Serenity’s ex-fiancé or call him an “asshole,” the characters reduce his emotional importance. The omission becomes more cutting than an insult would have been.

“And forget about what’s-his-name,” Ashley said.

“What is his name? I don’t remember,” Stephie said.

“Let’s not say it.” I willed it from my mind.

From then on, Serenity’s arrogant ex-fiancé was known as “What’s-his-name.”

Many times, anger can be better expressed with physical reactions:

• I interrupted him to speak clearly and forcefully to Cassandra, rising onto my toes, my hands making tight fists at my thighs.
• Burritt turned a peculiar shade of splotchy red.
• I opened my mouth to argue just as she leapt to her feet, the baby held to her chest.
• She lowered her chin and spoke through her teeth to Burritt. “This can’t be random. This woman lived near me in Michigan.”
• Her voice grew higher, agitated.

And silence often lands harder than an expletive.

None of this means profanity weakens writing. Some novels demand it. Removing swearing from Elmore Leonard would strip away authenticity and rhythm.

Yet overuse can dilute impact. Used sparingly, a well-timed curse can land like a punch. Used constantly, it becomes background noise, even if it may fit your novel.

Every repeated choice in fiction loses force over time—including language. Sometimes the most powerful word in a novel is the one you leave out.