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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
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
The myth of the serial comma
The Oxford comma, or serial comma, is a standard convention in many publishing houses—but almost no newspapers. The serial comma is the final comma before the conjunction in a list:
Angela bought eggs, milk, and butter.
Some serial comma enthusiasts say that serial commas are required, and that the recent tendency away from serial commas is yet another sign of the deteriorating state of English literacy, blah blah blah. But the most common argument in favor of the serial comma is that it just takes care of so much ambiguity, such as in this famous example:
I’d like to thank my parents, Ayn Rand and God.
And yes, it’s true that if this person had used the serial comma, it would be clear that they didn’t use “Ayn Rand and God” to mean “my parents” (hello, apposition!). But let’s be honest—you knew what this person meant, didn’t you?
It’s just simply not the case that the serial comma always clears up ambiguity. How many people are in this list?
I’d like to thank my father, the man who saw me through so many hard times, and my mother.
Is “the man who saw me through so many hard times” the same person as “my father”? (That sneaky appositive again!)
And then there are even times when the serial comma can’t fix the ambiguity:
I’d like to thank Angela, my editor, and my wife.
I’d like to thank Angela, my editor and my wife.
So is Angela his editor, his editor and his wife, or neither?
What to do:
Use the serial comma—or don’t—as you’re used to (or according to your publisher’s style guide). Add it or remove it if there’s any ambiguity. And if that doesn’t work, reword. (I’d like to thank my wife, Angela, who edits my work.) Just don’t claim that one way is always right—because it’s not.
Do you use the serial comma?
Photos by Xavi Blanch and Leo Reynolds
Posted in Mechanics
Tagged comma, commas, grammar, oxford comma, punctuation, serial comma
2 Comments
The lesser of two evils: weak verb or adverb use?
I have a problem with smiling. And nodding.
Thee problem is this: there’s only a handful of words in the English language to express those actions: smile, beam, grin, smirk, simper. Nodding is even worse: nod. Other versions of this one tend to draw attention to the words instead of showing the characters’ actions: bobbed his head (“up and down,” if you want to make it even more annoying).
But the real problem here is that every smile and every nod don’t look like or mean the same thing. There are sinister smiles, eager grins, coy smiles, small smiles, half smiles, half smirks. There are greeting nods, indicating nods, assenting nods, effusive nods, reluctant nods, slow nods, quick nods.
Obviously my problem is not identifying the kinds of smiles and nods humans use. My problem comes from describing them in writing, because that’s against the rules. There are a lot of so-called rules in writing. As with anything with a body of ad hoc regulations, many of the rules contradict each other. Like these:
1. Never use adverbs. Ever! (Corollary: adjectives are bad; they are trouble!)
and
2. Always use strong verbs. Until you make yourself, your characters and your readers tired!
(We’ll talk more about Rule #1 another day.)
When do they conflict? I’ll show you. Consider:
He gave her a kind smile OR He smiled at her kindly
He shot her a bemused look OR He looked at her bemusedly
He gave his thumb a pensive chew (LOL) OR He chewed his thumb pensively
And do they need the forbidden modifier? I think so. Can you infer the meaning of his grin with just “He smiled at her”? (I have two images in mind here: “He smiled at her. Mmm. Lunch.” and “He smiled at her. Oh, a friend.”) A thumb chewer may be a small child seeking comfort, an adult pondering a problem or a guy with a nervous habit.
Now, of course, there are lots of other ways to show the intent behind nods and smiles. But setting aside all of the myriad other possible constructions, what do you think: which of the above contrasts are better? Which is the lesser of two evils?
Photo credits—Mona Lisa: Songkran; Jack-o-lantern: Joanie Cahill
Posted in Mechanics
Tagged adjective, adverb, grammar, rule conflict, rules, strong verb, verb, weak verb
2 Comments
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
3 Comments
To split or to boldly split!
I’ve been pretty bold in our verb series so far, so I won’t stop today. Legend has it that this is a sin against good grammar:
To boldly go where no man has gone before
I know—can you believe it?! They put a modifier between the “to” and the verb in the infinitive form. I know we’ve all committed this venial sin at least once. (Come on, raise your hands—there’s no shame here.)
Good news: I absolve you. Because there’s no such thing as a split infinitive.
I know, right now you’re sputtering in disbelief: “But—but—but my crit partner/mother/English teacher/editor said…”
Your crit partner/mother/English teacher/editor is a lovely person, I’m sure. I’m also quite certain that s/he has a firm grasp upon most of the finer points of the English language, syntax, grammar, etc. In fact, that’s probably why s/he repeated this notorious lie to you.
But the truth of the matter is that split infinitives are not wrong in English. The split infinitive rule, like the “don’t end a sentence in a preposition” rule, is made up.
GASP
Yeah, most of the rules of grammar are made up. They were codified by someone who wrote a book. (My rant on why writing a book doesn’t make you an authority on writing will have to wait for another day .) The “don’t split infinitives” rule was first written in 1834. In fact, in Middle English, infinitives were split all the time.
Granted, sometimes split infinitives are awkward. If that’s the case, avoid, avoid, avoid! But if it’s more natural to split the infinitive, ignore anyone who cites this pedantic rule.
I’ll be honest: I don’t mind grammatical pedantry over some issues: the subjective mood, for example. However, I’m opposed to most grammar rules like the split infinitive rule because they’re artificial and awkward (and not just a little because I have a degree in Linguistics, where we’re not allowed to use rules to prescribe how you should construct language, but to describe how people actually use it).
Join the ranks of John Donne, Benjamin Franklin, William Wordsworth, Abraham Lincoln, Henry James, and Willa Cather and defy this rule. If people can still understand the meaning of your sentence and splitting the infinitive and ending in a preposition are the best way to go, do it! I give you permission. Heck, I’ll even write your editor a note .
Posted in Mechanics
Tagged grammar, grammar rules, split infinitive, split infinitives, verb
2 Comments
Animus and animacy
One of my favorite “nongrammatical” sentences from my Linguistics textbooks was:
*My theory rolled down the hill.
(The asterisk denotes it’s nongrammatical.)
Nope, that’s not just nonsensical, it’s nongrammatical. Why? A little thing I like to call “animacy mismatch.” Theories can take verbs (oh, look, it just did):
My theory is awesomer than yours.
My theory explains everything that has ever happened.
Your theory disappoints me.
So why can’t theories roll down hills? Because rolling requires a certain amount of “animacy”—being alive/moving/changing as opposed to being . . . well, inanimate.
Animacy mismatches extend to other grammatical areas. You can have an animacy mismatch with an object (“He thinks the book” as an attempt at a complete sentence.), or a wh-question word (“What thinks the book is stupid?”—”What” questions are answered with objects; “who” questions are answered with people. Does an object or a person think the book is stupid?).
Sometimes, however, animacy mismatches aren’t as clear as theories rolling down hills. Anything strike you as funny about these examples?
- Jerrica is a glut of information.
- The pie, which was only $7.99 full price, so $6.29 didn’t seem like a great deal, ran the sale.
- The stench of week old garbage brushed her nostrils.
- Her euphoria ebbed.
To me, these examples sound a little off. Can a stench brush (if so, that’s one powerful smell!)? Have you ever seen a pie run anything? They might be okay—animacy can be a slippery thing. Can “a feeling of well being” really “fall back or fall away”? Maybe, if you’re writing in a somewhat literary register (even then, unless you’re already using liquid words to describe emotions ["elation flooded her heart"] it’s still a bit of a stretch—you might want to go with a verb requiring a little less animacy, such as fade).
In our search for the right word, sometimes we have to get a little creative. And of course, the style we’re writing in (genre vs. literary fiction, Shakespearean iambic pentameter vs. prose) can play a big role in what is acceptable. But if ever you’ve been wondering how Jerrica turned into a collective noun, now you know why!
What “animacy mismatches” have you found, in your own work or in others’ (I swear someone is putting mistakes in my writing )? What phrases just never seem right to you?
Past progressive (imperfect) vs. passive
Our verb series continues!
Think of the differences between these examples:
| She was crying. | She cried. | |
| He entered the room. She leaned toward the door, eavesdropping. | He entered the room. She was leaning toward the door, eavesdropping. | |
| He smiled at her. | He was smiling at her. | He was still smiling. |
There are lots of books and websites out there that will tell you that the verb “was” and the construct “was [verb]ing” is passive voice. It’s not.
Can I repeat that? The construct “was [verb]ing” is NOT passive voice.
The passive voice means that the actor is not in the subject position. Instead, the thing acted upon is in the subject position. Most people can identify this:
Passive (obvious): The conversation was heard by him.
Passive (sneakier): The conversation was heard.
Active: He heard the conversation.
Note here, too, that the passive voice isn’t past tense. It’s also seen in the present tense (and all the others): The conversation is/will be/would be/could be/might be heard by him.
There are sometimes occasions when the passive voice is called for, or even necessary—to conceal the actor, or if the POV character doesn’t know who the actor is. But mostly the passive voice is awkward and thus to be avoided. (Catch the passive in there?)
The construct “was [verb]ing” is the past progressive (or imperfect) tense. (Again, it’s NOT the passive voice.) Compare the examples at the beginning of this post. How does “She was crying” differ from “She cried”? To me, “she was crying” means tears were falling. “She cried” is most likely a speech tag. If not, it almost seems like she’s done crying. Maybe my Spanish training is showing here, but can I just clarify that this is the preterite?
Note that the past progressive is necessary to show an ongoing action in the past. In the second example, when does the leaning start? In “He entered the room. She leaned . . .” the simple past tense (preterite) can indicate consecutive actions—he walks in, then she leans. In “He entered the room. She was leaning . . .” the progressive shows an ongoing action that began before the simple past action—he walks in and finds her already leaning. If you really hate the imperfect, you can rephrase this as “He found her leaning against the door, eavesdropping, when he walked in the room,” or some such.
The third example, “He smiled/was smiling/was still smiling” might have a few more shades in it. When I picture these, I see someone break into a smile for “He smiled.” “He was smiling” show someone already grinning. “He was still smiling” is a bit more specialized—we’ve already seen him begin to smile (or just smiling) . . . and he’s still at it. (Don’t you wish he’d stop?)
When using a “was [verb]ing,” be sure it’s on purpose, to generate a specific effect—and don’t overuse it, or it kills that effect. If that’s why you’re using it, and it seems to be working, don’t let anyone bully you out of it, especially if they claim it’s “passive.”
What are some other good uses for past progressive tense and passive voice? Let me know!
Posted in Mechanics
Tagged conjugation, diction, grammar, imperfect, passive voice, passivity, past progressive, preterite, tense, verb, voice
4 Comments
