Tag Archives: grammar rules

Mechanics

When to follow the verb rules

There’s a time and a place for everything, naturally, and while I love to talk about flouting stupid rules, most of the rules are actually good advice that’s just a bit . . . misapplied. As Mr Knightley says:

Better be without sense than misapply it as you do.

Right! So, let us understand the so-called rules so that we can apply them correctly, shall we?

Avoid passive voice
This is almost always good advice. Generally speaking, passive voice is awkward. Naturally, there are exceptions to that—sometimes rephrasing the passive into active voice is even more awkward, sometimes we have to conceal the actor, sometimes it’s just not important.

Avoid the past progressive
In general, the past progressive form (was [verb]ing) isn’t the strongest. (How’s that for diplomacy?) There are a few specific reasons to use it—mostly to show an ongoing or interrupted action in the past. Overusing it, though, results in flabby writing.

Avoid the verb “to be”
It’s true that sometimes the verb “to be” can be used to make such evils as the passive voice, the past progressive, and really boring, flat writing. Compare, too:

The stockings were hung by the chimney.
The stockings hung by the chimney.

The first one is passive voice (and The Night Before Christmas, yes?), longer and takes the oomph out a verb. (‘Hang’ isn’t very oomphy in the first place, so let’s try to help it out, eh?)

However, again, “to be” is an important verb that you don’t want to completely excise from your writing—or it’s gonna get really weird.

What other rules do we see that are pretty good advice?

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Mechanics

Debunking a Myth: Avoid the verb “to be.”

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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.

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Mechanics

To split or to boldly split!

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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 subjunctive 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 😉 .

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