I discovered a book club group discussion on Facebook about the phrases and words readers notice, and how those words then seem to appear in every book. It made me realize that readers are pattern detectors. They notice repetition and choices that authors themselves may not realize they’re making.

In this way, it isn’t always the plot, the characters, or the pacing that pulls a reader out of a story. It’s a word.

A word isn’t bad because readers have seen it before. But when words or phrases become too familiar, something undesired happens: the reader becomes aware of the writer.

The story’s spell breaks for a moment. Instead of being inside the world of the characters, readers are reminded there’s an author behind the curtain making choices.

The discussion began with one question:

A reader asked the group: “Has anyone noticed a word that comes up in multiple books that’s a word you would never use in daily life? For me it’s sinew. It’s been in so, so many books.”

Certain phrases earned their own special recognition, including, “He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding.” There’s even a Facebook group devoted to spotting that phrase.

At the same time, another reader defended it: “It bugs me that this bugs people because I literally let out breath that I wasn’t aware of holding probably five times a day. I also randomly take a big breath in, and people think I’m gasping dramatically.”

Sometimes a phrase becomes a cliché not because it’s inaccurate, but because we’ve seen it too often.

Readers also had strong opinions about:

• grinned, which one reader said gives them Alfred E. Neuman (MAD Magazine) vibes.
• waggled his eyebrows, which someone else compared to Groucho Marx (not exactly a romantic image).
• panties, which led to a surprisingly passionate debate over underwear, underpants, undies, and “underwears.”
• messy buns, even when they’re an actual hairstyle.
• characters shedding tears they didn’t realize were falling.
• characters padding across the floor, with much discussion about what that actually sounds like.

After reading this discussion, I admit to immediately searching my manuscript for the word padded. Thankfully, my characters did not spend their afternoons padding across the floor.

On the flip side, one reader shared the word bewhiskered as the best word they’d discovered recently in fiction.

Sometimes a surprising word is exactly the right word. Which made me realize that readers aren’t always bothered by unusual words or dated language either. They’re more bothered when they can see the writer reaching for a word instead of the word naturally belonging to the story.

The problem isn’t always the word—it’s a writer making an easy choice

Bewhiskered works because it’s specific, vivid, and probably exactly what the scene needed. Undulating can feel irritating when it seems as if the author decided, “I need a literary word here.”

The difference is intention versus habit. As writers, we often don’t notice our own verbal shortcuts. In that sense, it isn’t so much that writers should writers stop using particular words or phrases. Rather, it’s important for us to stretch beyond the easy choice.

A messy bun might be exactly right if a character is describing herself quickly, or if the point is that she looks like everyone else on Instagram in 2024. But if the writer reaches for it because it’s the default image that appears in their mind, the description can feel borrowed rather than observed.

What if you write something that describes the hairstyle in a more concrete way?

For example: Her hair slipped from the chopsticks poked through the rolled nest at the back of her head.

I’m no longer seeing a hairstyle. I’m now seeing a woman whose day has gotten away from her, or someone who pinned up her hair without fussing over it, or someone whose carefully arranged appearance is beginning to unravel. The detail carries story.

The tricky thing about language is a particular word can be perfectly good. A character really can pad across a floor. Someone really can exhale a breath they didn’t know they were holding. The question is whether the author used that word because it’s the most precise, vivid choice—or because it’s an automatic phrase or shortcut.

What’s your test for knowing a word belongs in a sentence? Do you have a favorite technique for moving past the first description that comes to mind?

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Thank you for reading!

My upcoming novel, Love and Other Incurable Ailments, follows an anxious overthinker whose fixation on a stranger pulls her straight into chaos, heartbreak, and the inconvenient unraveling of her carefully constructed life. No one pads around. No one has a messy bun. I can’t promise there are no moving eyebrows, but there are definitely a few grins.