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How to write the stuff around the dialogue
Flip open any book, and you’re sure to find them: dialogue attribution using verbs other than “said.” Breathed, whispered, inveighed, called, shouted, yelled, extrapolated, interdicted, translated, interpreted—there are literally hundreds of verbs for speech.
But despite that, “said” is still the default dialogue tag. Yes, every book on the market contains speech verbs other than said—but that’s a big reason why “said” is the default dialogue tag: because other tags are so noticeable. “Said” is practically invisible; we read it without really noticing it, while other dialogue tags call attention to themselves.
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Posted in Mechanics
Tagged Dialogue, dialogue and narration, dialogue tag, good dialogue, speech attribution
1 Comment
It was really, just so—should you cut them all out?
Late last year, I was doing a quick/final once-over of a manuscript. I decided to see how many times I used “just.” The answer was around 300, or about once per page. I went through most of the manuscript and cut out about 90 of them.
Proud of myself for making that effort, I tweeted about it (naturally). An author friend responded that she had cut 242 justs from her manuscript the week before. (Granted, she was editing one of her early manuscripts, so I have no idea how many she started with.)
I had a momentary panic. Yes, this manuscript had been accepted for publication already, but did I need to delete the rest of my justs?
And justs are just one of this variety of word that pretty much everyone uses—and overuses—because it’s so common in speech. But in most writing, these words are pretty empty, almost like throat clearing. (I’ve committed a few of these “sins” in here. Catch them?) A few favorites:
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But if they’re so awfully awful, why don’t we just cut all of them all out? It would certainly be even easier that way (though there would be a number of really odd gaps leftover). Or, conversely, do we argue that we want our writing to reflect how people really speak?
I think the answer is somewhere in between. As Arthur Plotnik says in Spunk & Bite,
Just because intensifiers course through informal speech, must we also use them in journalism and literature? Not necessarily—but we certainly can use them in situations where they feel natural, or communicate a particular tone. At the very least, we should not hamstring our writing styles trying to replace each intensifier with a more powerful locution. (123)
What does that mean? Don’t solve underwriting by overwriting every use. Because how is that any better?
So what should we do? Honestly, I’m not going to say you have to eliminate 50% of all your intensifiers (or de-intensifiers as the case may be). I do think we should be aware of how often we use them—so pull out the Find function and get a count. (In Word 2007 and up, if you Highlight All or use the Reading Highlight function, it gives you a count. Select Whole Words Only, though! Just != justice, justified, etc. etc.)
If the count is fairly high—let’s say one use for every two pages (or more frequently)—start at the beginning and check out how you used it. Take the word out of the sentence. It will probably may lose a shade of meaning—but is that meaning really necessary? Does it actually change the sense of the sentence or even the voice in a bad way? If not, finally cut it.
Editor Alicia Rasley gives more guidelines in an edittorrent post that has stuck with me for almost 3 years:
Of course, sometimes it works to over-modify (especially for comic effect). But this is something to watch for. “An inch below the bottom of her skirt” is a good description. “A little bit more than an inch” makes me envision some nun with a ruler measuring the space. Precision is actually distracting sometimes.
And especially watch out for redundancy. Mountains are high, but some are higher than others, so maybe we will allow “high mountains” (I did grow up in a valley below some not very high mountains, I guess– 3000-4000 feet, so I’d allow “high mountains” if you’re talking about the Rockies, say). But “toweringly high?” Come on.
But if the specific meaning is necessary, if the sense of the sentence is damaged or if the voice breaks because you took the word out, leave it in. If the modifier you’re checking is vital to most of the occurrences you find, use your judgment about whether you need to check the rest. Yep, you can stop. You have my permission.
What do you think? When do you take out intensifiers—and when do you leave them in?
Picture credits: Edit Ruthlessly by Dan Patterson; ruthless editing by Joanna Penn
Kill the participles!
More about burying clues in (non)mysteries next week!
Okay, so participial phrases at the beginning of sentences have become one of my pet peeves. I don’t mind them when they’re well done, but unless you’re pretty handy with a clause, you might want to avoid them. This might seem like just one of those silly arbitrary rules that are just made up to help us prove we’ve read up on the latest so-called rules for writing, which will change in another ten years.
But present participial phrases are not just a magical hoop editors want us to jump through to prove that we’re familiar with industry bywords. It’s mainly an issue of grammar (and to a lesser extent, style, but that’s because they’re overused). Complaining about strictures against present participial phrases is almost like complaining about commas. There are correct places and times for using commas, and incorrect ones, and I suspect that most of the time, if we carefully look at a book, we’ll see that most of the commas are used right and perhaps not as often as we thought.
I really came to understand this by reading the posts on present participial phrases at EditTorrent, a blog by two editors. But if you don’t feel like clicking through, I’m happy to summarize the anti-present participial phrase arguments.
First, to clarify, these are not gerunds. Gerunds are typically not a problem. Gerunds are the -ing form (present participle) of the verb used as a noun:
I enjoy writing.
Writing is fun.
For the most part, this isn’t going to be a problem in a sentence, since they’re on the rare side. (I.e. beginning each sentence with a gerund would also be a problem, especially in the midst of too many present participial phrases, but the occasional correct usage of a gerund isn’t going to hurt anybody.)
What we’re talking about here are present participial phrases:
Running to the door, I called out my son’s name.
Writing out the prescription, the doctor didn’t bother looking up.
I think you can probably see how this is already becoming a problem.
Now that we’ve got that straight, on to the primary argument: Present participial phrases are, to put it mildly, evil.
The vast majority of the time in amateur usage, these phrases appear too often, are often misused, create other grammatical problems, don’t reflect how real people think—and I’m just getting started.
A: Present participial phrases are overused, especially by amateur writers.
Not to say that any of us here are amateurs, but too many present participial phrases are a mark of an amateur. Frankly, more than one per page (YES, per page) jumps out at me. Three on a page don’t just jump; they scream. People who aren’t really aware of this grammatical construct can inadvertently begin almost every other sentence with a present participial phrase. Seriously. I’ve critiqued *good* writers who still almost made my eyes bleed. This happens exceedingly rarely in the published books I read.
Important note: this standard seems to be very different for UK & Canadian publishers. Whatevs. TMMV.
B: Present participial phrases are frequently misused.
The grammatical construct of a present participial phrase at the beginning of the sentence ALWAYS means that the action in that phrase and the action in the main part of the sentence are simultaneous. Always. (There’s sometimes a bit more leeway when the present participial phrase appears after the main part of the sentence, though technically speaking there shouldn’t be.)
So, these would be not only grammatically incorrect, but physically impossible:
Chomping down on her food, she stuck her tongue out. (Ouch.)
Sneezing, he sang an aria.
However, there are lots of things you can do simultaneously:
Smiling, she walked down the aisle.
An important note here is that reading is a very linear activity—we read one word and then the next—and these phrases can make it easy to misunderstand or just slow us down as we try to figure out the order of the actions and picture them. This is so important it could warrant its own letter, but I don’t think I really need to explain this more.
C: Present participial phrases frequently cause misplaced modifiers.
The action or state described in a present participial phrase must ALWAYS describe/be done by the subject of the sentence. If not, you get a misplaced/dangling modifier:
Running to the car, the cat darted between his ankles.
The only grammatically correct way to understand this sentence is that the CAT was running to the car. At best, this sentence is ambiguous—we really can’t assume that it means the man was running. If I want to say the man was running to the car and the cat darted between his ankles, I’d be much safer to say THAT.
Walking down the street, a bat bit the man on the thumb.
Grammatically speaking, this sentence says a bat was walking down the street and bit a man on the thumb. Paraphrased from a famously bad police report.
D: If we’re supposed to be writing in our character’s thoughts and minds, present participial phrases would appear sparingly at best.
People rarely think that way. Really, think about how you think. Okay, generally we think in pictures, but when you do use words, is that how your thoughts go? If we’re seeking to replicate our characters’ voices and internal thoughts, then, would they use them?
Varying sentence structure isn’t a good enough reason for these either. As editor/author Alicia Rasley points out, varying sentences isn’t an end to itself: it’s an intermediate goal to create a smooth read.
Since these constructions do stick out if used incorrectly or awkwardly or too frequently, and so many first drafts contain so many present participial phrases that you can’t construe their usage as actually varying the default sentence structure anyway. Again, important enough to get its own letter, but I don’t want to beat you over the head with this.
To conclude:
Okay, maybe present participial phrases aren’t exactly evil, but just like commas, but we have to be VERY careful about how we use them (or we’ll end up with something ungrammatical or bizarre) and very judicious about when we use them.
In my opinion (formed by the careful tutelage of the editors I mentioned above), the best use of a participial phrase is for something that describes the state of the subject of the sentence, NOT an action:
Hoping she wasn’t too late, she dashed into the room.
Her emotional state in this sentence is one of hoping.
Yes, sometimes published and unpublished authors use present participial phrases. I invite you to find a book published in your target market or by your target publisher, flip to any page and count the number of sentences that begin with present participial phrases. I was amazed when I did this: books that were decades old or only a few months both yielded very few.
What do you think? How often do you really use present participial phrases? What did you find when you opened a book in your target market?
Photo by Bird Eye
Posted in Mechanics
Tagged commas, gerunds, grammar, participles, present participial phrases, present participles, sentence structure
2 Comments
For the love of commas!
Get ready for Writing Wednesday tomorrow!
This has bugged me for a long time (I actually have a draft about this from a year ago), and I don’t know how much help I can really be, and I did just post something kinda ranty on Monday—but the time has come. I must take a stand for and against commas.
Okay, mostly just for the proper use and against the incorrect use of commas. (Note: we’ll be using the linguistic convention of marking incorrect sentences with an asterisk.)
When you DO NOT need a comma
- When you are using a title with a name
He is not President, Barack Obama. You are not author, Jimble Berry. The comma implies we don’t necessarily need the element, that the sentence would be complete without it. But Barack Obama isn’t the only president ever in the history of the universe.
If the title can’t stand by itself, do NOT put a comma in there. You wouldn’t say:
*I had lunch with president!
*You spoke with head chef.
*Vice president fired him.
Thus, you wouldn’t use a comma there: I had lunch with President, Obama. VP, Wilsher fired him.
- Kinda the same thing: when the thing after the comma isn’t the only example of the the thing before the comma
This might be easier to illustrate with examples:
*Last night I watched the television show, Jeopardy!.
*My sister, Brooke, had a baby three weeks ago. [I have three sisters. And one new niece!]
The comma in the first sentence indicates that Jeopardy! is the only television show. At all. Ever. I didn’t know that. As addictive as Jeopardy! is, I’m not sure how I waste so much of my life in front of the television if that’s the only show ever. But hey, when my turn finally comes up, I’ll know answer question to that question answer.
When you use a comma there, it means that “the television show” and “Jeopardy!” are the same thing. But the “the” is equally culpable, since that means there’s only one. So it’d be fine to say, “I was watching Jeopardy!, a television show, last night . . .” (You know, if you were on Mars and talking with someone who didn’t know what Jeopardy! was.)
- When you’re using multiple adjectives that modify one another or that must read in that order
*I have a bright, red dress.
*She loves her Marine, drill, instructor boyfriend.
*Two, old, men played chess.
The first would be correct if your dress is both red and bright—but if you’re trying to say it’s a bright shade of red (which I’m guessing you are, unless your dress has LEDs), you need to drop the comma. Unless it’s a red, bright dress.
The second and third examples illustrate the other point. The commas tell us the order of these adjectives could change: that’s your long, old, dirty shirt could be written with those adjectives in any order and still make sense. “Her instructor, Marine, drill boyfriend” and worse yet, “men, old, two played” don’t work there.
- Between an adjective and its noun.
Along with example #3 from the last round:
*I have a big, fish.
*He likes raw, bacon.
I hope this is obvious!
- Between a subject and its verb
This doesn’t include phrases set off by commas, though.
*President of the United States Barack Obama, gave an address yesterday.
*The biggest problem here, is that we don’t know what a subject and a verb are.
(Note that if you added a “the” to the beginning of sentence 1 and a comma before “Barack,” you’d have it right!)
When you DO need a comma
- When you’re using a title with the
The “the” makes it grammatical to drop the name, so you need commas to set it off.
The President of the United States, Barack Obama, addressed Congress.
He was fired by the vice president of internal sales, Jim Ferrera.
It would be okay to drop the names from these sentences: “He was fired by the VP of internal sales.” So the comma is necessary.
- Kinda the same thing: when the thing after the comma IS the only example of the the thing before the comma
Again, easier to illustrate with examples:
Last night I watched the longest-running Broadway musical in the history of all time, Springtime for Hitler.
My middlest sister, Brooke, had a baby three weeks ago. [She's in the middle of my three younger sisters. That makes her middlest. I reserve the right to make things up.]
Just like above, if you can completely drop the element, it needs to be set off by commas.
- Between interchangeable adjectives
If you could say the adjectives in another order and still have a grammatical sentence, use commas:
Your old, long, dirty shirt stinks.
Your dirty, old, long shirt stinks.
Your long, dirty, old shirt stinks. (Wash it!)
- To set off a dependent clause.
These clauses can’t stand alone as sentences. They include participial phrases, clauses of time and other modifiers.
Walking out the door, she noticed how scuffed the frame was.
When he woke up, he found a shiny nickel.
She hopped down the stairs, yelping all the way.
However, when these elements are in order in the sentence (i.e. not moved to the beginning), you don’t need one:
He found a shiny nickel when he woke up.
She held up her hands as she backed away.
It might seem complex, but with practice and meticulous self-editing, you really can become a comma wizard. Don’t give up on grammar or claim that it’s someone else’s responsibility!
When do commas stump you?
Photo credits: Obama by Floyd Brown; laundry by supermayd
My favorite word
My favorite two words might be “The End”—but that’s not what we’re talking about right now!
My favorite word in the whole world is cream. Yep. I like the word. I like the roll of the ‘c’ and the ‘r’ at the back of the throat and the smooth finish of the ‘m.’ I like the smooth richness the word connotes. I like cream soda and ice cream—I even want to try an egg cream (though carbonated chocolate syrup doesn’t sound that good to me).
Lately, I’ve found myself pausing over another word: flavor. After reading a hilarious essay on “flavor” as an ingredient, I’m increasingly wary of “artificial flavor,” “natural flavor” and most especially the ambiguous neuter, simply “flavor.”
Flavor. Fllllavor. Flavor. Flavor. It just starts to sound weird. Flavor.
Plus, it’s funny:
Somehow, I don’t think it’s a coincidence my favorite words have to do with food.
What are your favorite words?
The building blocks of writing
I like the Food Network game show Chopped. It’s cool to see the unusual ingredients the contests must use and the amazing things they make with them. The competitors are experienced and/or trained chefs. They know everything about the tools of their trade, from the knives to the appliances to the techniques to the ingredients.
Although they’re probably not planning a flash fiction reality game show any time soon (darn!), we writers need to know the tools of our trade just as well—perhaps even more so, since we don’t have the excuse of a 20-minute time limit or a set of necessary ingredients we’ve never seen before. One of the ingredients we always need is grammar.
It’s not optional! We know, obviously, we’re not going to get published with dozens of dangling modifiers and comma splices littering every page. “I have critique partners who’ll catch all that,” claim some aspiring authors. That’s a very worrisome attitude for someone who calls himself a writer, trying to argue that grammar is 1.) not important enough to learn and 2.) something I can shuttle off onto someone else.
If you want to be a writer, grammar is YOUR job.
Imagine if a cook wanted to become an executive chef, but he absolutely refused to learn knife techniques, or how to use a frying pan, or what a risotto should taste like. Would you take his goal seriously, or would you think he wasn’t really dedicated to it?
But, our imaginary cook argues, when I’m an executive chef, I’ll have other people to do those things for me. The people who’re beneath me. Yeah, he will—but he’ll also have people he’ll need to teach. And if they mess up, they’re not going to be the only ones held responsible.
If you have your name on a published book, writing and the English language are your business—even if you want to claim you’re only a storyteller. People will think you know something about those subjects. (Duh, I know this isn’t always right, but they’ll assume it anyway.) How are you going to feel (and look!) if someone asks you a basic question and you can’t answer? Or what if you can’t tell good grammar from bad and you pass along something unreadable to your agent or editor? What will they think?
Grammar is not impossible—and it’s not optional. You don’t have to learn the exact definition of a periphrastic tense (though obviously it might come in handy if you’re my CP 
), but it’s my opinion that you should be able to construct a coherent sentence. You should be able to tell the difference between a complete sentence and a fragment. For the LOVE, learn to use commas and apostrophes correctly.
We all make mistakes—but we all need to try not to. That might mean learning to write excellent grammar on the first try (and I do believe that can be learned!), or it might mean a rigorous self-edit. Critique partners and copy editors will always help, but the primary responsibility—and effort—should come from the writer himself.
What do you think? Is grammar important? Could you use some grammar instruction?
Photo by Robert Johnson
