Writers' Editing Workshop » polishing

On the tolerance of writers

admin — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 19:43:53 +0000

I am not a big fan of diatribes against editors. But I can definitely see the point when I read something like this bit from this month’s Chicago Manual Q&A.

Q. In the sentence “I thought more people would be interested in knowing what happened to XXX, but I see that his fate, his life, doesn’t seem to bring folks together the way the water did,” would you use “don’t” instead of “doesn’t”? Or does that comma after “his life” keep the verb singular? The author will not tolerate the insertion of “and” between “his life” and “his fate.”

Good for the author!

Admittedly, it can be hard when your editor works for a publisher. But often, even when you’ve hired an editor yourself, it can be hard to remember: the editor is supposed to make your life easier, not harder. Our job is to provide you with new ideas, new information that will help you create exactly what you want to create.

If I’m doing my job, responses to an edit I suggest (yes, suggest) will be like these:

Thanks! I was having trouble describing that.
I can see where my original was unclear, but this doesn’t quite work either. How about… ? and occasionally…
That doesn’t work. I’m keeping it the way it was.

What I really love is how the writer and I almost always come to agreement on each change, because we’re both working toward the same goal: helping the writer’s ideas come through. I question them, they question me, and we both learn things.

If you have an editor who thinks their ideas are more important than yours, or doesn’t want you to challenge their edits, run!

In case you’re curious, here’s the answer the terrific Chicago editors gave.

A. “Doesn’t” is correct, and “and” would change the meaning of the sentence. “Life” here is a gloss on “fate,” a parenthetical explanation or extension of it, not an additional item. Your author is right—but you have left us hanging about the curiously unifying properties of this water.

Avoid cliché in your writing

testuser — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 21:25:09 +0000

Writers who defend their clichés on the grounds that "they wouldn’t have become clichés if they weren’t good" may have a terrific point. And they should enjoy that, because what they won’t have is successful writing.

A cliché is a word or phrase that’s been overused. It may have been a clever phrase when it was new, but readers are tired of it now. Reading it is boring. (I hope you got that. I said "boring." That word should terrify you. If it doesn’t, well, maybe you should consider a new career.)

Cliché is a crutch that lets the writer use an acceptable one-size-fits all description, instead of crafting the perfect description for the circumstances.
A cliché makes for uninteresting reading. The reader already knows what "flat as a pancake" looks like. It doesn’t invite her to create a new mental image.
The best writing is a rich interaction between the writer’s mind and the reader’s. Using cliché is a lazy way of writing that encourages a lazy way of reading, making it very difficult for the reader and the writer to connect.

Clichés to avoid

icing on the cake * bright and shining * all for the best
play favorites * give it a rest * just deserts
better late than never * too tired to sleep * play with fire
diamond in the rough * wet behind the ears * short and sweet
live dangerously * point of no return

When cliché is a good idea

There are a few good uses for cliché.

Twisted Cliché

Irony should be used carefully, because the technique itself is becoming cliché. But if you can pull it off, the rare twisted cliché can be fun. “What a great birthday! The tickets to Hawaii were just icing on the bright red Porche.” (I didn’t say I could pull it off!)

I used to get a kick out of my dad saying “Never put off to tomorrow what you can put off indefinitely.” Isn’t he clever?

Revealing a Character

Fortunately, your characters don’t have to be as good at putting together words as you are. If Mama has been telling Henry not to go out with his friends, you might quote her as saying, “Mark my words, boy. You go up there tonight, you gonna get caught red-handed!”

Cliché used in this way lets the reader know who Mama is. We learn not only that she doesn’t want him to go, but we learn how she talks to him, and we begin to learn something about their relationship.

Because cliché doesn’t have the impact of more creative word-crafting, it’s likely that Henry isn’t going to be very strongly affected by her words. But rather than have Mama talk to the boy without using cliché, and possibly really reach him, here I want to show the reader a character who uses cliché easily, and to show the consequences of that sort of interaction. In fact, as I’ve been sitting here making up this interaction, I’ve discovered that Henry feels that his Mama never listens to him, and he ignores what she says because it’s so vague he can’t even argue with it. (Dang. I hate it when throw-away characters come to life, and I have to save them in a drawer.)

Cliché Hunting

Those two uses of cliché are usually ok. But the rest you have to fix. Here’s how:
- Practice listening for cliché as you go through your day. Any phrase that could be taken from one scene and dropped into an entirely different one and work fine should get your attention.
- Read your work out loud so that clichés you miss will catch your attention.
- Visualize your scene clearly, so that you won’t be as tempted to use the first phrase that comes to mind to describe it.
Now you know another trick for making your writing sparkle! If you have questions, send me an email. I’ll answer as best I can.

(Psst! How many clichés did you find in this article?)

What Counts as Correct English?

admin — Fri, 02 May 2008 08:12:40 +0000

The Conspiracy

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.

Remember to always split infinitives.

admin — Thu, 01 May 2008 15:40:07 +0000

Remember to always split infinitives.

Well, ok, not always. But often. Whenever it works.

We have this handed-down wisdom that says an infinitive, a verb of the “to form” — to walk, to amble, to mosey — must always be preserved intact. Rules like this cripple writing. Even the esteemed editors of the Chicago Manual of Style agree with me.

In this day and age, it seems, an injunction against splitting infinitives is one of those shibboleths whose only reason for survival is to give increased meaning to the lives of those who can both identify by name a discrete grammatical, syntactic, or orthographic entity and notice when that entity has been somehow besmirched. — Chicago Manual Q&A

Concern yourself first with clarity and a pleasing sound. We do need grammar rules, but only when they help us achieve those things. When they get in the way, they should be ignored.

Avoid Passive Voice

admin — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 01:52:28 +0000

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.

Samurai Editing

admin — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 23:01:49 +0000

It’s said that a good editor is like a samurai. Proficient with both the pen and the sword, he—can’t really call a samurai “she,” can I?—slices with precision, but without hesitation. And slicing is the first step in editing your manuscript.

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.

Show, Don’t Tell

admin — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 22:14:22 +0000

An exasperated author I know once wrote back to me saying, “Yeah, everybody says that: ’show, don’t tell.’ But I can’t figure out what they mean! How do I know which is which?”

"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!

Give Your Story A Great Beginning

admin — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 21:51:22 +0000

When you sit down to write, anything you can get on the screen (or paper) is a victory. That’s not the time to worry about making sure you have a powerful beginning. Too much of that kind of thinking can keep you from getting anywhere at all.

But when the beginning is so old you can barely remember writing it, it’s a good idea to go back with a fresh eye and hack it to pieces!

"The beautiful part of writing is that you don’t have to get it right the first time, unlike, say, a brain surgeon." — Robert Cromier

Well, it’s true, you may have written something with a riveting first page, first chapter, even first half. But don’t bet on it.

Nothing to be scared of, though. You only have to change things when you have something better to put in their place. So your writing can only improve.

The Hook

A hook is what pulls the reader in. It’s what make the reader stop at the browsing table and keep reading. When I picked up The Glass Castle, by Jeannette Walls, I was immediately drawn in. The first sentence grabbed me, and what followed kept me interested.

"I was sitting in a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster."

A hook is not the same thing as a gimmick. If you take an uninteresting story, or one that is told in a dull way, and try to tack on hook at the beginning, you still won’t pull readers in. Readers are smart; if it doesn’t fit with the story, they won’t buy it.

The Fizzle Beginning

A tacked on, gimmicky hook is going to backfire.

I waited, but it was all I could do to keep from running. I checked my fingernails, fumbled in my purse. Then, a shadow moved to my left, and I stiffened.
“You ready to go?”
It was only David. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The trick is to start with an engaging story, and then find engaging ways to tell it. Concentrate on the first sentence, but also on the first paragraph, the first chapter, and beyond. If you can keep that focus up, you’ll find your writing habits have improved, and you’re crafting each sentence, rather than spitting them out.

The Quiet Beginning

Some beginnings aren’t really bold or exciting. But they’re not lacking in interest, either. It’s not the volume or outrageousness of your beginning that will give your story pizzazz.

"Hear that? It’s a car out on the highway. One went by yesterday, too."

Are you curious? I know I am.

A successful opening moves the story along somehow (or kick-starts it). What the reader wants is to be puzzled, to experience a little meaningful stress. Usually that means that your character is experiencing stress as well. If your character seems bored, it’s likely your reader will be too.

“Hey, Hon?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think you could pick me up some socks while you’re out today?”

Of course, it isn’t completely hopeless. We can think of ways to make that opening quickly go somewhere interesting. But without heroic efforts, we’ll watch it dissolve into nothing, quickly.

The Irrelevant Beginning

Suppose I write a story about a woman who works with dolphins, falls in love and makes a great discovery, causing her beloved to become jealous of her success and do something horrible. If I start that story with a scene where she gets into her red Lotus and drives very fast to her office, and then don’t ever mention the Lotus again, I leave the reader hanging and dissatisfied. I could make it even more frustrating for the reader by introducing her mother, who we never see again, and mentioning a letter she gets in the mail before taking off for work, without ever saying who it was from or what it has to do with anything.

The Buried Beginning

One of the best ways I know to figure out the right place to start a story is to write whatever you like, then go back and figure out when the story starts happening. In the previous example, I may write all of the things I’ve mentioned, and then cut everything so that the story starts when she opens the door to the office to find…

Wait, I’m not telling!

A story with a good beginning is like a moving escalator. Once you start, it’s easier to keep moving along than to get off (by closing the book). If you let your story start where it starts you’ll be well on your way to having your reader hooked.

Writers' Editing Workshop » polishing

On the tolerance of writers

Avoid cliché in your writing

Clichés to avoid

When cliché is a good idea

Twisted Cliché

Revealing a Character

Cliché Hunting

What Counts as Correct English?

The Conspiracy

Toward Consistency and Clarity

Rules

Describing English Usage

Remember to always split infinitives.

Avoid Passive Voice

Active voice lends credibility.

Active voice keeps readers interested.

Sometimes passive voice is better.

Samurai Editing

Show, Don’t Tell

Give Your Story A Great Beginning

The Hook

The Fizzle Beginning

The Quiet Beginning

The Irrelevant Beginning

The Buried Beginning