Editors get a bad rap. When I meet someone new and mention that I’m an editor, I’m likely to get a suspicious look, as though I’m part of a conspiracy to make English too difficult to leave to amateurs. I’ll hear comments about undecipherable, rigid rules, followed by a stream of excuses or complaints (or a mixture thereof).

Few of the rules contained in this book are inviolable. — The Chicago Manual of Style

Of course, there exist bureaucratic editors, on a mission to ensure that no one who breaks a rule be allowed to live in peace. Most of us, though, subscribe to a different ethic. We are here to make writing clearer, and we use the rules to serve that end.

Toward Consistency and Clarity

Rules

The rules of English were not written by a committee. They developed naturally, and they are complex. A style manual, such as the The Chicago Manual of Style, AP Stylebook, or even The Elements of Style by Strunk and White, is simply a book in which someone, or some group, has tried to collect those rules for reference. I think of it more as an encyclopedia or a dictionary than as a list of commandments. It is descriptive, rather than prescriptive.

Describing English Usage

The manual’s usefulness, then, is in describing how English is typically used. It is not a law-book, but rather a guide. Only when something is awkward or unclear to we resort to checking the rules.

But did I really say “how English is typically used”? I did, but I don’t mean the way it is used at your local mall. I mean the way it is used by the whole community of English speakers, from New York to Idaho, to Australia, England, and South Africa. From philosophers, both dead and alive, to rappers, and the people at your local mall.

To be understood by all literate English speakers (with an adequate vocabulary) is the writer’s goal, and the editor helps to reach that goal. Correct English is the English that makes that possible.

Why was the road crossed by the chicken?

When a sentence starts with the thing being acted upon rather than the thing doing the acting, that sentence is in “passive voice.” For example, if you ask me where the hat is that you lent me, and I reply, “It got lost,” I have used the passive voice. A more honest and direct answer, using the active voice, would have been “I lost it.”

Active voice lends credibility.

In fact, passive voice is often used in order to avoid responsibility. “Mistakes were made” does not inspire trust and forgiveness the way “Our president made mistakes” can, especially if it’s followed up with specifics.

Active voice keeps readers interested.

In fiction, active voice helps keep the writing interesting and the reader engaged. “The front door was smashed by the speeding car” doesn’t grab the reader the way “The speeding car smashed in the front door.”

Sometimes passive voice is better.

A character’s personality comes through in his dialogue. Passive voice might show him to be a coward, a beaurocrat, or a hero-to-be who is about to grow in ways no one imagined.

Passive voice is also appropriate when you want to emphasize the thing being done, rather than the person doing it. “The tumor was completely destroyed by the radiation” is a fine way to give a patient the good news. On the other hand, if you were speaking at a conference for inventors of medical technology, you might want to stress the new treatment: “The radiation destroyed all traces of the tumor.”

As with the other writing principles you learn, avoiding passive voice is a generally good idea, but it’s not a rule. If anyone tells you otherwise, sent them to me. I’ll set ‘em straight.

Just like with pushing a car, those first few steps are the hardest. You’re concentrating on overcoming inertia, and steering is more than you can accomplish. Once you’ve got the thing moving, though, you glide along thinking, “this isn’t so hard!” and steering gracefully around the corner and into the parking spot you’ve been eyeing.

Is it any wonder, then, that those first few pages (or chapters) of manuscript might not be the ones that make for a polished book?

One author admitted he knew he was wordy in the beginning of his book. At the time, he told me, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to write enough words to make a novel. Boy, was he surprised! His novel ended up well over 500 pages.

Another writer worked her way up to her story by introducing every character at length, showing them getting up in the morning, putting on socks, having breakfast… She realized later that a good story starts just before the action, and she knows that those deleted pages were valuable because they helped her get to know the characters, so she could describe them well for the reader.

Use those first few thousand words to get momentum. Work out who the characters are; let them have their say about it. Get yourself convinced that you can, in fact, fill up page after page with words. Then, when you’ve written something that really works, don’t be afraid to trim the scraps away.

For more on trimming, check out The First Five Pages, by Noah Lukeman.

"Don’t say the old lady screamed. Bring her on and let her scream." — Mark Twain

Of course, “show, don’t tell” is really figurative. In a literal way, an author is telling a story. The writer uses words, not paint, so it’s not possible to really show the weather on an August afternoon.

Let’s look at an example of telling, and see how it could be improved.

It was hot, and the sun was bright. There was no breeze at all. Jerry sat under a shade tree, staring off into the distance.

How can we invite the reader into the story by “showing” the scene? Don’t just tell the reader it was hot. Make her feel the sun in her eyes, the thirsty air.

Jerry sat under the big sycamore, squinting across the yard. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he could see Rover lying in the shade of his doghouse. The dog hadn’t moved once, except to get a drink a half-hour ago. Even the trees slumped, lethargic in the still air.

The second version gives the reader images to work with. He can see the scene, and maybe feel it: a big sycamore, a thirsty dog in the shade, lethargic trees. Note that the word lethargic also reinforces what we’ve already seen in Jerry and the dog.

Passages involving people are often the most in need of improvement.

Sarah was infatuated with Eric. She stared at him all through the class.

The bell rang, and she got up quickly, wanting to stay close behind Eric while they walked to English. Unfortunately, she was in such a rush that she tripped.

Here we get the facts, and we can follow the story. But facts aren’t enough. The writer needs to grab the reader’s attention.

Chin in hand, Sarah sat staring at Eric. Thank goodness he was in the row ahead of hers, so he couldn’t catch her looking!

The bell startled her. She jumped up and gathered her books, then pushed forward so she wouldn’t lose sight of him on the way to English class. Just as she caught up, her foot slipped, and she knocked him out of the way before crashing to the ground with her books.

What happens next? Does Eric think she’s an idiot? Or does he help her up, charmed by her clumsiness? I don’t know about you, but I am a lot more curious after reading this version than I was after reading the first.

Sometimes dialogue is used to tell part of a story. That can be a great way to show relationships and emotional reactions. I can also be a pretty bad way to tell about plot necessities. Don’t mistake dialogue for painting a picture with words.

"Well, Suze, I’d like to go bowling with you, but I have to take Bill to visit his mom. Didn’t you hear? She got hit by a semi-truck on I-5 last week, and went into a coma. Turned out the driver was Sandy-Jo’s cousin, the one from Montana who just got out of prison. Remember, we were wondering what happened to him?"

It looks to me like a publisher requested a reduction in the number of words, and the writer didn’t want to lose any of the plot. But really, does the reader deserve to be put through this torture? I don’t think so.

I’ll leave you with one more set of examples.

The frightened family waited in the dining room for the storm to end. The oak tree outside was hit by a bolt of lightning, sending a large branch crashing into the house.

That last could have been taken from the insurance report their lawyer filed for them. What follows is, I hope, a more interesting description.

Sam and the girls huddled in the dining room while the wind rushed outside, and rain pounded the windows. Each thunder-crash was louder than the last. He felt a tingle, and then heard, or felt, a violent crash overhead. It had to be the oak.

The next time someone says that you need “more showing, less telling,” you can take it in stride. Now you know that they’re just looking for more involvement in the story. And you’re a writer. You can do that!

Noah Lukeman is a successful literary agent, with plenty of experience rejecting manuscripts. In The First Five Pages he shares that experience with the reader, giving good advice about how a manuscript can be improved in the revision process to make it more likely to be accepted. If you’re thinking of doing your own editing, read this first.