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The Hero (and Heroine)’s Journey–Hero’s Journey in romance
by Faye Hughes
Thanks, Jordan, for allowing me to join you on your blog today. It’s such a pleasure to be here.
I’m going to be talking about plotting a romance novel using the hero’s journey paradigm. Now, first, a disclaimer: This approach works for a lot of romance novelists but it may not work for you. We’re all individuals so we all approach the plotting process from a different viewpoint . . . and you know what? That’s just fine.
The hero’s journey is based on the work of screenwriter Christopher Vogler, whose book The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers was in turn based upon his interpretation of the archetypes described by Joseph Campbell in his seminal work on mythology, The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Romance author and lecturer Debra Dixon used Vogler’s interpretations in her fabulous—and when I say, “fabulous,” I mean you REALLY need to get a copy of this if you’re writing a romance novel—book, Goal, Motivation, and Conflict.
Basically, Vogler suggested that all fictional heroes—whether in a novel or a screenplay—would follow a similar path during the course of the story. When Vogler’s insights regarding the hero’s journey are applied to the traditional three-act paradigm for writing a romance novel, the result can flesh out the plot and give insight into character.
It can also ensure that you’ll avoid the saggy middle and other plot pitfalls.
The hero’s journey paradigm includes:
I. Act One
a. Ordinary World: The H/H (hero and heroine) are in their normal world before story begins.
b. Call to Adventure: The H/H learn of the problem, receive a challenge or the call to adventure that can lead to their romance.
c. Refusal of the Call: The hero or heroine (or both) refuses the call (due to their respective internal conflicts).
d. Meeting with the Mentor: The H/H meet with a mentor who offers advice or training.
e. Crossing the First Threshold: The H/H take the first step toward the romance (the first kiss, perhaps).
II. Act Two
a. Tests, Allies, Enemies: The H/H face and resolve their numerous non-primary conflicts and meet the secondary characters who will hinder or help them on their path to true love.
b. Approach to the Inmost Cave: The H/H encounter numerous obstacles while pursuing their primary goal (an HEA [Happily Ever After]).
c. Supreme Ordeal: A major plot point where an important secondary conflict seems to doom the romance (could also include the primary conflict peripherally, though not always).
d. Reward: The H/H overcome their secondary conflict.
III. Act Three
a. The Road Back: The H/H begin the return to their ordinary world, although the primary conflict is still unresolved.
b. Resurrection: The Dark Moment where the H/H face the loss of their romance and must use every lesson they have learned along their journey to resurrect their love.
c. Return with Elixir: The H/H return from their journey with the “elixir”—their HEA.
The reason I like using The Hero’s Journey paradigm for writing a romance is that it ensures we have all of the elements needed for a successful romance novel in our book.
One final thing, I’m offering a copy of mine and Christie’s book, The Everything Guide to Writing a Romance Novel, to one commenter, so please leave a comment. [Update: we have a winner, thanks everyone for commenting!]
Happy Writing!
About the author
Faye Hughes, a Mississippi native currently living in New York, is the award-winning author of seven highly-acclaimed novels of romantic fiction published by Bantam, Zebra and Meteor. Heralded as one of the rising stars of contemporary romantic fiction during the 1990s, Faye received two W.I.S.H. (Women In Search of a Hero) awards for her work from Romantic Times BOOKLovers Magazine. Two of her romance novels have been optioned for television movies. Her website is at www.FayeHughes.net. She and nonfiction co-author Christie Craig have a joint website at www.WritewithUs.net.
A ten-step snowflake versus a five-step star: Organizing a manuscript my way
Planning out a novel? Be sure to check out the full series on plotting novels in a free PDF, or more of my free writing guides!
If you were to ask, my family would tell you I have a thing for snowflakes. Childhood efforts to catch and melt them on my tongue evolved into a slightly out-of-control adult passion to amass the ultimate collection including jewelry, embroidered fabrics, candles and other home accessories. Every December we dangle giant snowflakes in our windows instead of wreaths and display a tree decorated entirely with a variety of snowflakes set aglow by tiny white twinkle lights.
It isn’t surprising, therefore, that the idea of a “snowflake” method of writing would appeal to me. Of course, if you’ve read any of my whining about outlines and plotting you might guess that I’d grasp at anything likely to improve my odds of producing a more organized manuscript.
I’ve never liked being tied to an outline so when Randy Ingermanson’s recommended Ten Steps of Design appeared to offer a less rigid approach I gave it a try.
The first step in the Snowflake approach required getting the essence of my story condensed into one sentence—always a challenge but something I was going to have to do sooner or later to answer the always-dreaded, “What’s your novel about?” question. The second step was to expand that one sentence into a short paragraph—once again a useful exercise that could later form the basis of a synopsis. I shirked somewhat on the third step that called for a full-page summary sheet for each of my characters and instead created summary paragraphs.
At this point my good intentions balked. The remaining steps had me spending too much time repeatedly going over the same ground in an effort to record information that I hadn’t yet created. I wasn’t developing a snowflake design so much as creating a daisy pattern, each step causing me to return to the centre fulcrum and trace ever-increasing loops.
All this building on the basics was meant to leave me with the story virtually complete and thus simplify the writing process. The theory is sound but for me it had the effect of capping the fountain of creativity and dragging me to a standstill.
I didn’t cease writing permanently, of course. I examined what had been working and analyzed why it no longer was. Just as Jordan suggested in her post on story architecture. I learned that what I need is to have a basic plan in place but with reassurance that I’m not locked into following its every detail. I need more flexibility than the true Snowflake Method allows. As a result, I adapted the steps for an abbreviated approach that helps create my initial building blocks and then keeps track of scenes and chapter content as I write.
If I have to backtrack occasionally to accommodate a new character or scene, that’s okay but usually I write straight through to the conclusion of a bare bones first draft. As I review and revise I add a succession of new layers of description and detail to flesh out the story, setting and characters.
Since I skip half the steps, what I’m doing doesn’t represent the true Snowflake Method but only a vague version of it. It has just five points (kind of like a star rather than a snowflake):
- Create a one-sentence summary of the story.
- Expand the one sentence into a paragraph that outlines the story basics.
- Expand the paragraph into a page or two that introduces the main characters, the conflict, complications, and resolution. Include how the MC will change throughout the story (i.e., intended character arc).
- Create a spreadsheet into which highlights of each chapter’s action will be inserted as the first draft is written.
- Revise draft, adding details and description to enrich the writing.
I could be criticized for taking shortcuts and not giving the Snowflake Method a fair try but I’ve already admitted I need flexibility. My commitment to begin with that method didn’t extend to any kind of promise that I would stay with it. I truly believe each novelist must approach story building via whatever method works, however unique it might be. There is no one right way that will suit everyone. The only way to guarantee the successful completion of a novel is to keep writing and the smart novelist utilizes whatever tools it takes to reach that goal.
About the author
Carol J. Garvin, blogging at Careann’s Musings, is a freelance writer with articles in various Canadian magazines and publications. She lives in southwestern British Columbia and is a member of the Federation of BC Writers and the Langley Writers’ Guild. She has written a family memoir that is not meant for publication, and began writing novels ten years ago. She is on her third but so far none are ready to send out into the world quite yet . . . but soon. Besides writing, her other passions are her church and family, gardening, reading, music, painting and purebred dogs.
Posted in Technique
Tagged carol j garvin, mwahahaha, plotting, plotting method, snowflake method
8 Comments
So when shouldn’t you use deep POV?
Let me start by saying that there are no absolutes in fiction-writing. Deep POV is now trendy, and it’s appropriate for many types of stories, and also for our highly interactive culture. However, it’s only one of several POV approaches, and it’s not right for every genre, every book, and every author.
First, I should quickly define deep point of view. (I go into this in much greater depth in my book, The Power of Point of View.) Deep POV is a variety of single POV, where an entire scene (or chapter, or book) is told through the perspective (or point of view) of one of the characters in the scene. Deep POV takes this further—the narration is done not just in the perspective but in the voice of the POV character. It’s meant to establish almost no distance between the narrator and the reader—rather like a first-person feel with third-person pronouns. Here’s an example:
Allie thought Saturday was never going to come. All day Friday she kept waiting for school to be over, but it was taking forever. Every time Allie looked at the watch her daddy had bought her for Christmas, the numbers had barely changed at all. She thought maybe the battery wasn’t so good anymore, but if it wasn’t, then the clocks at school weren’t working either, ’cause when her teacher dismissed them for lunch, it was the exact time on Allie’s watch that it was s’posed to be. (Tara Taylor Quinn, Jacob’s Girls.)
The character is a child, and so the deep-POV narration uses the diction and sentence construction of a child. This lets the reader get an intense experience of who this person is and how she thinks.
Very useful. However, there are two points I want to make:
- Most writers who think they’re doing deep POV aren’t. They are doing single POV and confining the narration to one character’s thoughts and perceptions (and that’s FINE). But they are writing more in their own voice. There’s nothing wrong with that (single POV is by far the most common and accepted POV approach). What’s wrong is the writers who say they’re doing deep POV because they’re following a list of rules they got from somewhere, like “In deep POV, you never use the character’s name, and you never use ‘she thought’.” Deep POV is not about rules. It’s about being so into the character that you feel with her body, think with her mind, and write with her voice. It’s writing from inside the character, and those rules imposed from the outside? Worse than useless.
- Deep POV is not right for every story.
And since (2) is what I’m supposed to address in this blog post, let me get going on that.
A) Deep POV is not right for every author.
I’ve concluded that most of us have a natural POV approach, one that feels comfortable and right for us. And we can learn to write in other POVs, but when we’re writing most naturally, we’re probably going to write in our natural POV, and that’s going to sound most authentic. I’m not saying you should only write in your natural POV (my natural is single-third POV, but I’ve been writing a lot of first-person and enjoying it). But you shouldn’t feel you have to force yourself to write deep POV if every word feels wrong.
Why might it feel wrong? Well, if you’ve spent a lot of time working on your own voice, making it beautiful and evocative, you might not want to cede control of your prose style to a character. I’m an English teacher, and I spend way too much time every semester helping students distinguish sentences from fragments and comma splices.
Every time I write in deep POV, I find myself echoing the character (as I should in deep POV), who is invariably uncaring of grammar, not to mention easily distracted. So half his sentences are actually fragments, and half of hers are run-ons. That might be quite effective. But what if one of my students would brandish a highlighted page of Tony’s POV and yell, “Fragments all over the place!” (Well, actually, if one of my students could so effectively identify fragments, I’d give him an A right away. 
)
Many writers are proud of their voice, and rightly so. You can be poetic and evocative in deep POV—even an illiterate character can think in lovely if broken prose—but it’s not, at base, YOUR voice (if it is your voice, you’re not really doing deep POV). It’s not supposed to be. And if you want to write in your own voice, if you think the reader will get more from “hearing” you, well, why not? The whole point of writing is to create an experience for the reader, and creating an interesting or lovely experience is a valid aim.
POV approach also connects to your worldview. Now no one else agrees with me on this, so take it with a grain of salt. But I think your natural POV might reflect your understanding of reality. Hey, give me a chance! Let’s say that you think that there is an absolute reality, but it’s not necessarily knowable by most of us. That worldview is the one expressed by omniscient POV—the “godlike narrator” knows everything, within and without the characters, and knows more than all the characters together.
But maybe you think there’s no absolute reality, and that the only way to get close to knowing reality is to juxtapose the accounts of several people, a collage-like effect that is very similar to multiple POV. Now we single-POV types, we don’t know if there’s an absolute reality, and in fact, we don’t much care. We’re mostly concerned with the inner reality of characters, what they think and notice and value.
Well, you know, if you have one of those worldviews, your story choice and your POV choice will probably reflect that. And that’s good. It takes all kinds. That’s why we have several POV approaches, several genres, and many writers. There isn’t just one worldview out there, so there shouldn’t be only one POV approach. And you should at least start with the one that lets you express your worldview and voice, and—you didn’t really think I was going to say, “Anything goes,” did you?—refine it and reinvent it and revise it so that your writing is the best possible proof that your POV approach is right.
No, you won’t get it right the first time. Yes, you still must revise to make sure that your reader will experience what you want her to experience. But making your story and voice work well is plenty hard enough without adding in the pain of trying to write in a way that doesn’t feel right to you.
B) Deep POV is not right for every genre.
Most genres and sub-genres have their own preferred POV approach. Private-eye stories are usually in first-person. Mysteries are usually in some form of omniscient. Romances are usually in single-third POV. General (mainstream) fiction is often in either multiple or first person. The preferred POV reflects something about how the genre works—the mystery is about the mystery, not particularly about the character of the sleuth, so omniscient works well (as it does in many plot-driven stories).
Private-eye novels, on the other hand, are indeed about the character of the detective (and the detective’s voice), so that snarky first-person narration allows that. The genres evolved a preferred POV approach because that approach usually (never say always ) allows writers to create the experience for the reader which is desired in that genre (chills and fear in the thriller, thoughtfulness in the mystery, etc.).
You are likely to be drawn to the POV approach and/or the genre which feel right to you, which explore the themes and issues that are most important to you. So trust tradition. You can innovate if you understand WHY the horror novel is usually in single POV or sf/f is often in omniscient. The preferred POV approach usually helps create the desired experiences of that genre. So that’s a good place to start. And for most genres, deep POV is not the default (third person, at least—first-person can be pretty deep too).
C) Deep POV is not right for many stories.
Many stories would be pretty much unwriteable in deep POV. Plot-driven books, where information must be conveyed which the main character doesn’t have and action must be shown that the main character doesn’t witness, are usually told in a form of omniscient POV. Sweeping epics where worldbuilding or setting description are essential are better from omniscient too. Books where you are using an unreliable narrator are better from first-person.
Even tightly-focused character books can often be better-handled in a single-third person where your voice dominates. Dialogue-heavy books often benefit from the contrast of the conversational quality of the dialogue and the more formal quality of an omniscient or third-person narration. Stories with several major characters and a fast pace will often sound more coherent with multiple point of view. Comedy, which relies so much on the author voice, is usually in an omniscient ironic viewpoint.
That is, never feel pressured to write deep POV. It is not the only or best viewpoint approach. It’s only best if it’s right for you, the genre, and the story. Otherwise, try out the more traditional approaches and find the one that fits best.
About the author
Alicia Rasley is a nationally known writing workshop leader and the author of The Power of Point of View, a Writer’s Digest book. Her website, www.rasley.com, and blog (edittorrent.blogspot.com) have much free advice for writers.
Photo credits: plunge—Konrad Mostert; get out—StillSearc; notebook—typofi
Posted in Technique
Tagged alicia rasley, Deep POV, guest post, natural pov, perspective, point of view, pov
17 Comments
Making readers love (or at least understand) unlovable characters
By Julie Wright
There is a song by The Smiths where the first line is, “I know I’m unlovable. You don’t have to tell me . . .”
Sometimes we write characters like that, characters who are hard to relate to, hard to like, hard to care about.
Hi. My name is Julie Wright. I write those kinds of characters. The problem is that I never feel like I’m writing those kinds of characters. I happen to love the unlovable. I think sarcasm is funny. I think bitter people sometimes have a right to a good rant. And I think the flaws in each person—the flaws we all have whether we admit it or not—make us wonderfully human.
Jordan has been doing a blog series on creating sympathetic characters. She’s already mentioned the “street rat” and the princess. So you understand already that flawed does not have to equate to evil. But sometimes we writers forget to add the details of our thief sharing his entire meal with a few beggar children. Sometimes we writers know those details, but never get them on the page. For example:
In my novel My Not-So-Fairy-Tale Life, my heroine is horrible. She is sarcastic, bitter, angry and rebellious. 
She is angst personified. I love her. But not everybody loves her right at the beginning. She’s one of those characters you have to learn to love. While submitting the book in the beginning, I failed to put in those details about her past and present that made her lovable. I knew those details, but it took me a couple of edits to get them down on the page so the reader knew too. Once those details were there, even if you started out not liking her, you couldn’t help but at least understand her by the end.
To start out with someone who is reprehensible and then grow to love them makes for a fun journey for the reader as well as the character. It allows the reader access to understand other people, other motives, other walks of life. It allows the reader to grow and find compassion and comprehension within themselves.
I don’t write the unlovable as a moral object lesson for readers. I think I write them because I was so unlovable for so many years of my youth and I can relate to the unlovable. I am horribly flawed and yet I feel like I have worth—value. If I feel that way, then surely others do as well.
But how do you write snarky, ill-tempered characters and keep readers from throwing your book across the room, or worse from writing you and demanding a refund?
Daphne Atkeson, someone I know from an online writer’s group for YA novels, created what she calls a “cheat sheet” of ways to establish early empathy (not sympathy, if we feel sorry for our characters, we end up making their journey too easy) for a character. She gathered this information from several craft books by Billy Mernitt, Michael Hague, Donald Maass and Orson Scott Card.
Here is her list with her permission:
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In My Not So Fairy Tale Life, I had to incorporate a lot of these things from this list in order to make her relatable to the reader. She was violently abused and neglected as a child so much of her thorny personality was built on purpose as her way of defending herself from getting hurt (undeserved misfortune). Her brother, who is a really nice guy, loves her irrevocably (liked or loved by someone else). She is actually incredibly intelligent (good at something).
When she finds out she’s pregnant and goes to abort the baby, she recognizes she is on a path she can’t continue down so she doesn’t go through with the procedure and works hard to make sure the baby is healthy through the rest of her pregnancy (trying to improve or be good). She VERY sarcastic and has a comeback for just about everything (wit or boldness). She is painfully aware of her flaws. In spite of the abuse she learns to forgive her parents (shows forgiveness). In the end, she gives her baby up for adoption because she knows she isn’t ready or grown up enough to raise a child. And even though it hurts, she gives the baby to a family who is ready for it (self sacrifice).
Lots of books incorporate the flawed character. Janette Rallison did a smashing job with her book Just One Wish. The character breaks a ton of rules, gets into all kinds of mischief, but she’s doing it all for her little brother who has cancer. You can forgive her the lunacy because you understand the motive.
Never forget motivation. Motivation is the driving factor behind everything we do. Along with motivation, a character must have:
- PURPOSE—most important—what he wants, must be specific
- CREDIBILITY—believable
- EMPATHY—not sympathy, don’t feel sorry for him, identify with problem.
- COMPLEXITY—inner conflict, more than one side, surprise us with unseen aspects, contradictions and quirks
To the degree that your character feels passionately invested in his own life, the reader will feel invested, too. We need to be able to root for the character, to care whether or not the character wins the prize. To do so, we need to make sure the character DESERVES to win. In the original movie Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, we realize that even though Charlie stole a little Fizzy-Lifting Drinks, he still deserved to win because he was a good kid.
The reader also needs to know what is at stake. For Janette’s character in Just One Wish, her brother’s life was very literally at stake. In the book The Hunger Games, the main character’s own life was at stake. She needed to get all of her primal needs met (food, shelter, means of defending herself). In the book Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow by Jessica Day George, the life of her beloved is at stake.
Something has to be on the line and it has to be a big something. Your character needs to stretch and grow and they cannot accomplish that if they have silly, paper-thin conflicts to deal with. When you inflict pain and trouble on your hero, you reveal him for who he is. You learn what motivates him, what is important to him. When you inflict pain and trouble on your hero, you discover what exactly it is that makes him the hero.
About the author
Julie Wright is extremely busy as a wife, a mother of three, a rural grocery store owner, and an author of or contributor to six novels and books on writing craft. She blogs at Scattered Jules and Writing on the Wall. Her latest book, Eyes Like Mine, is available for pre-order now.
Posted in Technique
Tagged applied techniques, example, examples, julie wright, sympathetic characters, sympathy, technique in action
4 Comments
Verbs with muscle
By Janga
Breathes there a writer with prose so perfect that she has not been told at least once to “show; don’t tell”? One of the best ways to follow this cardinal rule is to use strong verbs. Weak verbs are generic. They can be used in a wide range of situations. Strong verbs are precise.
Contrary to popular thought, not all action verbs are strong verbs. In the sentence “Ali walked down the road,” “walked” is an action verb. It is also a generic verb. It tells us that Ali is using her feet to advance across a surface and nothing else.
Skilled writers use strong verbs to reveal character and situation. If we change “walked” to a more precise verb, we show our readers Ali’s movements. “Strolled,” “pranced,” and “trudged” are just a few of the choices a writer might use to make Ali’s movement more vivid for the reader. Look at this passage from Judith Ivory’s Black Silk to see how a consummate artist shows a girl moving through a crowd.
The girl jostled her way through gripping hands and recriminations. She elbowed one man and grabbed another by the collar. She wanted to be in their midst. She was scanning the men’s encroaching, remonstrating faces, looking them over as thoroughly as they were trying to turn her about. After a minute of this tussle—the men would not organize themselves for her inspection—she clambered up over the edge of the billiard table, standing on it to look down on them all.
Strong verbs also help writers sidestep the adverb trap. Tessa Dare rightly observed in the “to be” discussion that adverbs used well can make prose more vibrant, but choosing a strong verb allows us to avoid graceless, adverb-heavy prose.
Let’s consider “Ali walked down the road” again. Suppose I have written this sentence as the first in a new chapter. I reread it, and I know that I need more. I recast the sentence: “Ali walked slowly down the road, as if burdened with the weight of the world.” By substituting a strong verb, I can cut a fifteen-word sentence to five words and eliminate a cliché in the process: “Ali trudged down the road.”
I confess that I am an overwriter, so I spend much of my revision time pruning my prose. Experience has taught me that strong verbs foster concise writing. Have/has/had phrases often signal wordiness that can be eliminated with a verb change. For example, if I rewrite “Lucia had had yet another argument with her mother” as “Lucia argued with her mother again,” I have cut the awkward repetition “had had” and exchanged a weak verb for a powerful one. In the original sentence, a strong verb (“argue”) is buried in a nominalization (a noun created from a verb or some other part of speech).
Consider this sentence: “Sari’s words caused Anthony great confusion.” The sentence is grammatically correct. Moreover, its meaning is clear. But how much more vivid and exact is the revised sentence “Sari’s words confused Anthony”? Or even better, “Sari’s words baffled Anthony.”
Some choices are stylistic, and they are intimately connected to the writer’s voice. But whether the style is simple and unadorned, lush and lyrical, or somewhere in between, the writer’s aim is vigorous prose. Cutting the “lard,” to borrow Richard Lanham’s term, and choosing verbs with muscle will move the writer closer to her goal.
About the author
Janga started reading her mother’s romance novels the summer she turned ten and has continued to be an avid reader of romance. Even a Ph. D. in English and years in academia were not enough to diminish her love of the genre. The enthusiasm of aspiring romance writers on the Eloisa James bulletin board refired her dream of writing a romance novel. She is in the process of revising her first mss, The Long Way Home, a contemporary with a Southern accent. She blogs at Romance Vagabonds and Just Janga.
Photo credits—Girl walking/prancing: Sanja Gjenero; Boy flexing: Jordan McCollum
Posted in Mechanics
Tagged active verb, adverb, generic verb, nominalization, strong verb, verb, verbs with muscle
2 Comments
Verbs and Dialogue Tags: Or, Stop Smiling Words
By Annette Lyon
Back in my days writing for a small newspaper, I often did book reviews. One day a publicist handed me a self-published book. It was a semi-autobiographical novel, and the concept seemed interesting. I looked forward to reading it.
That is, until I got about four lines into page one. The book was a mess from start to finish. Even though I read the thing about a dozen years ago, I could still rant for days on the all the problems in the book (let’s just say this guy didn’t have the first clue about how to put together a coherent story, let alone a coherent sentence).
One particular peeve still stands out: the use of funky verbs instead of normal dialogue tags. In the first chapter, I noticed that no one ever said anything.
They began, interrupted, rebutted, chided, complained, warned, replied, whispered, teased, mumbled, proclaimed, ordered, confessed, pressed, affirmed, announced, proposed, confirmed, suggested, and (some of my favorites) guiltily petitioned, sarcastically rebutted, and proficiently advised.
I could tell the guy had a thesaurus and was trying hard not to use “said.” The result felt ridiculous. Finding his goofy dialogue tags became a game for me. I wrote down every one from the first chapter.
The list had over 90 tags. Not ONE used “said.”
By this point, my eye was seriously twitching with annoyance. I have a sneaking suspicion that I also laughed out loud . . . several times.
Here are three basic rules for dialogue tags that this author could have really used.
Rule #1: “Said.” Use it 90% of the time.
It’s our happy verb.
While you don’t normally want to be repeating the same words over and over in your work, “said” (contrary to what this guy thought) tends to be invisible. It disappears while it helps the reader keep track of who is saying what.
Remember that you don’t need “said” (or any tag) after every single line of dialogue. If the speaker is clear, you can leave off the tag altogether. But when it doubt, use “said.”
Rule #2: If you decide to use a verb other than “said,” be sure it’s a speakable verb.
For example, don’t do this: “These flowers are for you,” he smiled.
Um, no. Smiles are silent. You can’t smile words. You can smile while speaking words. You can smile and then speak them. But smiles themselves can’t speak.
Other non-speakable verbs often used as tags include sniffed, nodded, shrugged, and a hundred others.
That horrific book I slogged through used “her eyes begged” as a speech tag.
(Wow. Those are some pretty special—and loud—eyes.)
Rule #3: Use actions (sure, even “her eyes begged”) when referring to dialogue.
Just don’t use it as a speech tag. Instead, put those action verbs next to the dialogue in their own sentences, complete with end-of-sentence punctuation.
Otherwise, the action is the thing speaking, and we all know that’s impossible.
So this would be just fine:
He smiled. “These flowers are for you.”
Or, use “said” and then add the verb next to it. So this works too:
“These flowers are for you,” he said, smiling.
Examples with actions only:
Steve walked into April’s apartment and handed her a bouquet of roses. “These are for you.”
OR
He got down on one knee. “Will you marry me?” His eyes begged to know the answer.
See? No speech tags at all. Even better, no funky verbs that can’t be realistically spoken. All we have are actions separated by clear punctuation like a period or question mark, plus dialogue we instinctively know belongs to the right speaker.
If you use these three rules, the verbs in your tags will look far more professional—and they won’t give a reviewer eye twitches and a serious case of the giggles.
So please, no more (hmm . . . let’s consult my list of 90-some tags from chapter one): stammering, grumbling, ordering, proposing, affirmed, or quizzing, what say?
Annette Lyon has been writing ever since second grade, when she piled pillows on a chair to reach her mother’s typewriter. A cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English, she has had success with newspaper, magazine, and business writing, but her first love is fiction. She was awarded Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction in 2007. Tower of Strength, her sixth and most recent novel, is her fourth historical centered around old Utah temples.
Photo credits—Reader by Chris Johnson; smile by jdurham123.
Debunking a Myth: Avoid the verb “to be.”
By Janga
Avoid the verb “to be.”
Too often I see that command given as well-intentioned advice to some writer who takes the advice literally and begins revising her prose with the goal of eliminating every pesky is/are/was/were from her prose. I’m fairly certain that the advice giver intends to caution the writer against overuse of the verb “to be” and verbs of passive voice, but the warning lacks clarity. A surprising number of people fail to distinguish between “to be” as a state-of-being verb (Jenny is happy) and “to be” as an auxiliary verb used to turn active voice verbs (Jeremy kissed Jenny) into passive voice (Jenny was kissed by Jeremy).
I take every opportunity to make the distinction and to sound the alarm: “to be” is not the writer’s enemy. Yes, even a quick read of many manuscripts reveals that the author has used “to be” excessively, resulting in passages of heavy, dull prose. Few of us who read contest entries have been spared the awkward, confusing sentences created by passive voice. But linking verbs and passive voice are tools the writer needs. Both have their uses. I’d hate to have a character ask “What name do you claim?” rather than “Who are you?”
Take a look at the following passage from Julia Ross’s historical romance The Seduction:
His hair was tied neatly at the back of his neck, but it rippled at the temples where a more elaborate style had been brushed out. The blond waves framed skin with the fashionable pallor of London, enhanced by a small patch high on one cheekbone. Arrogance was reflected in every line of his body, enhanced, not hidden, by the full-skirted riding coat, the tall boots, the fall of white linen at his throat.
A town gentleman, dressed for the country.
His moment of surprised admiration had been masked quickly enough, but it had been there. She had suffered from it all her life. It was the way men always looked at her, as if she were fruit, and ripe, and ready for plucking. Even after she suppressed her moment of panic, it still filled her with fury.
Ross uses four passive voice verbs (“was tied,” “had been brushed out,” “was reflected,” and “had been masked”) and three linking verbs (“had been,” “was,” and “were”) in this brief selection. We can rewrite Ross’s sentences to eliminate the “problem” verbs.
Someone had tied his hair neatly at the back of his neck, but it rippled at the temples where a more elaborate style had been brushed out. The blond waves framed skin with the fashionable pallor of London, enhanced by a small patch high on one cheekbone. Every line of his body reflected arrogance, enhanced, not hidden, by the full-skirted riding coat, the tall boots, the fall of white linen at his throat.
A town gentleman, dressed for the country.
He had masked his moment of surprised admiration quickly enough, but she had seen it there. She had suffered from it all her life. Men always looked at her that way, looked at her like fruit, and ripe, and ready for plucking. Even after she suppressed her moment of panic, it still filled her with fury.
But look at what is lost in the change. First, the rhythm of the prose changes, as does the voice. Moreover, meaning is altered in subtle ways. Does the reader care who ties his hair? I don’t think so, but there is “someone” in a position of strong emphasis. The arrogance of the character is key, but the revision buries the quality in the sentence. And the force of the heroine’s being the object of male gazes is muted in the rewrite.
Ross is a gifted stylist, and she knows how to use action verbs when she needs them. Note this passage from the same chapter as the first selection—every verb but one expresses action:
Her fingers felt clumsy and heavy as she unbuttoned the front of his waistcoat, then opened his shirt at the neck. The strong skin of his throat gleamed smooth and white in the mottled light. She noticed the perfect shape of his jaw at the strangely vulnerable junction where it curved up into his ear and felt a small surge of discomfort, as if she were a young farm girl winked at by a gentleman.
Try this exercise with a writer whose style you admire. My guess is that you will discover the writer uses her full arsenal of verbs.
About the author
Janga started reading her mother’s romance novels the summer she turned ten and has continued to be an avid reader of romance. Even a Ph. D. in English and years in academia were not enough to diminish her love of the genre. The enthusiasm of aspiring romance writers on the Eloisa James bulletin board refired her dream of writing a romance novel. She is in the process of revising her first mss, The Long Way Home, a contemporary with a Southern accent. She blogs at Romance Vagabonds and Just Janga.
Posted in Mechanics
Tagged active verb, grammar, grammar rules, passive voice, passivity, rules, strong verb, to be, verb, voice
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