Tag Archives: diction

Diction, distance and—singing?

I haven’t formally studied singing, but I know several people who have (including my dad, who studied voice throughout my childhood). From what little I do know, diction is a very important aspect of a vocal performance. And what a coincidence, diction (word choice) is very important in writing, too.

In singing, of course, diction means pronunciation and enunciation. When we speak, we often mumble or speak very rapidly, eliding many sounds, and we can still convey our meaning (or most of it). While singing, you have to put more effort into clearly pronouncing the sounds, or you’ll never get the message across. Singing is a stylized form of speech—you manipulate the length and the pitch to add more meaning and emotion (and beauty).

There are some general rules for “good” diction in singing—some of them more widely-accepted than others. For example, holding out the vowels, not the letters (cf. country-western singing, or many Asian styles) is used in most styles of singing. Yes, some vowels are just dang ugly to hear extended over several beats.

But I’ve also been instructed to roll an ‘r’ (and say “Amerrrica or Amedica the Beautiful”), and to avoid such-and-such a vowel (I hope that accurately portrays the esteem I have for that rule) and always sing X instead.

While slavishly following those rules might make your music teacher happy, some of those rules will make actually make it more difficult for most listeners (we untrained masses) to understand the words and appreciate the music (change the vowel in bid or bud, for example—people won’t know what you’re saying). And highly stylized (or just flat out trying-too-hard) diction in writing can actually make it more difficult for readers to understand what we’re trying to say.

I had this problem with a pretty good book I read recently—sometimes the diction flowed beautifully, using stunning new imagery that was still perfect. Other times, however, it seemed like the diction was trying so hard, the author was right there belting out, “Look at me, I can build a simile!”

But that didn’t get his message across—it made me stop reading and shake my head. What was he trying to say?

While writing, you do have to put more thought and care into choosing your words than you would in dashing off an email or writing a research paper. But like in singing, trying too hard can distance your audience instead of drawing them in with your art and your message.

What do you think? How does diction call attention to itself in writing? How can you tell if you’ve “gone too far”?

Photo by apdk

Eliminate “scaffolding” for elegant deep POV

This entry is part 5 of 14 in the series Deep POV

When you see a building under construction, your eyes are naturally drawn not to the building, but to the latticework of metal encasing its facade. In writing, the same attention to certain words and phrases—in this case “head words”—creates the same effect.

Sometimes we use phrases like “he thought” or “she knew” to reinforce the POV character’s connection with the thoughts in narration. But instead of drawing our readers’ attention to the character’s thoughts, too many of these phrases can draw attention to that scaffolding—the words that encase the character’s thoughts. Remember the example we used early on of watching a character looking out the window versus seeing the view ourselves?

This passage from the otherwise excellent Scene & Structure by Jack Bickham exemplifies the thinking behind this problem:

Failure to use constructions that show viewpoint is quite common, and, we can be thankful easy to fix. . . .

Consider the following statements:

The cold wind blew harder.
A gunshot rang out.
It was terrifying.

These are fine observations, but in none of them do we know where the viewpoint is. Ordinarily you should recast such statements to emphasize the viewpoint, thus:


She felt the cold wind blow harder.
He heard a gunshot ring out.
It was terrifying, she thought. Or:
Terror crept through her.(89)

I can’t say whether it’s just publishing trends or the version of deep POV that’s au courant, but today, publishing trends have moved far, far away from his “fixes” (other than the last one, of course). Today, such “scaffold fixes” smack of telling instead of showing.

Showing versus telling

By emphasizing the viewpoint character in these sentences, we are doing exactly what Bickham wants us to—show the viewpoint. However, we’re telling what that character is seeing/feeling/hearing.

The question readers should be asking upon reading a sentence like Bickham’s first examples isn’t “Who’s seeing/feeling/hearing this?” It’s “What’s next?”

Naturally, these examples are pretty much begging for this kind of scaffolding—because they’re in isolation. If you start your scene with a sentence like any of these (without a clear POV, that is), then yes, readers could be confused whose POV you’re in. You must establish the viewpoint character early on—but not by telling.

The cold wind blew harder and Jack flipped up the collar of his coat. He hated the winter.
A gunshot rang out. Maria flung herself under the nearest car before the terror could even register.

If you establish the POV at the beginning of the scene, and continue to show your character’s thoughts throughout the scene, simple declarations and observations of the world around him don’t require you, the author, to tell us that the POV character is the one seeing/feeling/tasting, etc. Cutting back the unnecessary scaffolding lets the elegant architecture of the sights and senses of your story shine through.

For Thursday, we’ll look at when you should use “head words” and how to not “eject” your readers from the characters’ point of view.

What do you think? Don’t you want to wish me a happy fifth wedding anniversary? Do you notice “scaffolding” or head words when you’re reading? Do you try to avoid them while writing? Or do you see them as a useful tool to establish viewpoint?

Photo credits: scaffolding—Paula Navarro; Colosseum—Hannah Di Yanni

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!