Triple-Dot-Dare You!

Another opening, this time for a western historical romance.

“Betrothed…you can’t be serious!”

Calvin O’Donnell watched his daughter jump to her feet, knocking the chair to the floor.

“Now, Mairin, lass, calm down.” He had to be firm or else he’d never go through with it.


First Impressions

I would have known this was an historical even if the writer hadn't told me so in her email. I would have known it with the first word, betrothed. If this had been a contemporary, the word used would have been engaged. We sometimes say that a single word can change an entire story, and I think this first word is a good example of that principle.

My attention is caught right away despite some problems. We're entering a scene already in motion, a conflict already erupting, with nothing weighting down the pace. That's all good. So despite some of the weak spots, I would probably keep reading.


Breaking it Down

“Betrothed…you can’t be serious!”

Warning! Pet peeve alert! I'm fed up to the teeth with misused ellipses. An ellipsis -- a series of three dots -- is used to signal the point of ellipsis in an elliptical sentence. Does that sound like a circular definition? It's not. An ellipsis (the punctuation mark) is used to signal the point of ellipsis (the place where information is missing) from an elliptical sentence (a sentence with words left out).

There are two classes of elliptical sentences (sometimes also simply called an ellipsis, or, in the plural, ellipses). In the first class, the missing words are grammatically implied and are not required for meaning. Nor does the sentence require an ellipsis. One common form of elliptical sentences are imperative sentences:

"Stop in the name of the law!"

The ellipsis is the subject you. We don't need the triple-dot punctuation there because the meaning of the sentence is clear without it.

Another common form involves the use of the word as or than.

elliptical:
I haven't read as many mysteries as Alicia.

non-elliptical:
I haven't read as many mysteries as Alicia has read.

elliptical:
I like chocolate more than my sister.

non-elliptical:
I like chocolate more than my sister likes chocolate.

The second class of elliptical sentences requires punctuation with an ellipsis to signal the missing information. Most commonly, this is used in academic writing to indicate omitted words from a direct quotation:

"To be or ... to be."
"It was the best of times, ... worst of times."

In fiction writing, an ellipsis can also be used to signal a trailing off -- that is, when the end of a sentence goes missing because the speaker stops mid-thought without ever restarting. It signals distraction, mental wandering, and other points where the elliptical character disconnects from the narrative. It is not to be used in place of end marks, em dashes, or other punctuation. Nor should it be used to signal cadence in speech.

I don't know who started the rumor that an ellipses is a decorative objet to be liberally sprinkled through stories. They're every bit as distracting as multiple exclamation points, typos, and odd fonts. I trim probably 4 out of 5 ellipses marks from every manuscript I edit. I encourage you all to form the habit of reading elliptical sentences aloud, and substituting the word "wander" for every dot. You'll discover very quickly whether the cadence you're creating is the cadence you actually want.

So, now that we've endured the rant, let's look again at the culprit and fix that punctuation.

“Betrothed…you can’t be serious!”
which we should all read now as,
“Betrothed, wander, wander, wander, you can’t be serious!”

Now, of course, we already know why we shouldn't start with unattributed dialogue, but we'll avoid flogging that poor dead horse and just agree that Mairin is the speaker. Do we think that Mairin's mind is actually wandering away from the topic of betrothal? No. Of course not. She may be shocked, but she isn't losing track of things.

I think the writer meant to signal a pause after the word Betrothed, but of course, that would be accomplished by the use of a proper end mark. Because I read the tone as shocked and disbelieving, I think a question mark is the right choice.

“Betrothed? You can’t be serious!”

OMG, I feel so much better now. Whew. I can unclench my jaw and stop biting back all the things I want to shout about ellipses. Yes, believe me, the rant can get much worse.

Calvin O’Donnell watched

The word watched signals whose pov we're in: Calvin's. And he's not the speaker of the previous dialogue, so this is a bit jarring. Also, I want to point out that watched is passive (not passive voice, just passive as in non-dynamic) and contains no emotional component.

his daughter jump to her feet, knocking the chair to the floor.

The emotion is all on the daughter's side. It's well demonstrated -- notice that we're not being told she's shocked or distraught, but the emotion is expressed through actions. Nevertheless, the pov character isn't the one feeling, acting or responding.

“Now, Mairin, lass, calm down.”

This dialogue conveys quite a lot in few words. He calls her lass, which indicates to me that they're somewhere in Great Britain. Her name, which we get here now, too, reads Gaelic to me. So my guess is Ireland, though Scotland is also a strong possibility.

I also like it that he avoids responding directly to the content of her dialogue. This creates some very subtle tension in the prose by leaving her exclamation sort of hanging out there. Yet at the same time, we get the idea that yes, he is very serious about betrothal. (Whose betrothal? Calvin's or Mairin's? This needs to be clarified.)

He had to be firm or else he’d never go through with it.

Well, now we're getting a hint of his internal state, though it's a mild hint. "It" must be the betrothal, right? I keep wanting to believe that we're talking about Mairin's betrothal here, but you know, signs point to it being Calvin's. We're in his point of view, for one thing, and Mairin's actions mark her as being rebellious, maybe a bit rash, much like a young teenager. So is Calvin breaking his own betrothal to his young daughter who still grieves for her lost mother?

I'd keep reading. This is taut, clean, dramatic writing. Maybe not the freshest thing I've ever seen, but it's strong enough to get me to read a few pages. If, as I fear, Mairin turns out to be one of those fiesty heroines, and Calvin is arranging her marriage, I might lose interest pretty quickly unless there's something unique in the premise. But for now, I want to read more.

Theresa,
once again forgetting to sign my name!

More Responses to Comments

About Those Pesky Ellipses

Let’s continue responding to some comments and questions. JanW asks,

Theresa, I've used the three dots in a dream sequence to indicate the scattered nature of the experience from the POV of the character. Would that bother you? I've been consistent and used in all the dream sequences in the book.

Well, this is sort of hard to answer, because the real answer is that it depends on the rest of the writing. A skilled writer of tightly controlled prose can get away with almost anything.

There are times, though, when highly stylized prose is going to be a little easier to accept. When the point-of-view character is in an altered state -- dreaming, drugged, in a trance, whatever -- ellipses and italics and even purple raccoons wearing roller skates will be a bit easier for the reader to process. Ditto for sex scenes in romance fiction, though in that case, maybe someone else should wear the roller skates.


More on Paragraphing Dialogue

When we were talking about dialogue paragraphing, nature nut/jj loch said,

I find it awkward to add dialogue of the same speaker later on in the paragraph.

This is probably because you’ve got some heightened sensitivity to action/reaction dynamics in prose. This is a good thing. Your writing will be better for it.

Storytelling is really just a gussied-up chain of causation. A happened, which caused B reaction, which led to C decision and D event, and so on until you reach the end. In this causal chain, dialogue between characters is generally (but not always) an action requiring a reaction. Jane asks a question, and Joe is standing right there. What will happen if Jane doesn’t let Joe answer but keeps talking herself? Maybe Joe will get mad. Maybe Joe will cut her off and talk over her. Maybe Joe will stop listening to her altogether.

In other words, the fact that she talks *and keeps talking without allowing Joe’s reaction* will itself require some reaction.

Every so often we come across a paragraph which is a whole bunch of dialogue and a whole bunch of action braided together in small bits.

Mary forced herself not to grind her teeth. “I don’t know why you would think you can talk to me like that.” She crossed the carpet and stabbed the air between them with her finger. “You don’t know my family. You don’t know my friends.” She dropped her hand, but clenched her fingers into a fist. “And you certainly don’t know me,” she said, her voice humming with resentment.

(My example, of course.) There are times you can get away with something like that. Maybe you’ve already established that Mary’s target is the laconic type. Or maybe the reader knows he’s voluntarily holding back for some reason or other, or that he’s feeling guilty and consequently is willing to let Mary rant a little bit.

In that case, stretching out the dialogue with a load of stage directions isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It gives the dialogue more heft and gives the writer more opportunity to hammer home Mary’s emotional state.

But if this moment hasn’t been properly set up or if it’s not the kind of moment worthy of this much text, it might read like a bad soliloquy. Mary is clenching and stabbing and grinding and humming. Mary is talking and talking, and her target is just standing there. Doing nothing. Responding? No. He might as well step to the side of the stage while the spotlight shines on her for a moment.

If any of these bits of dialogue or action warrant an immediate response from him, then the passage should be broken up.

Mary forced herself not to grind her teeth. “I don’t know why you would think you can talk to me like that.”

Will’s eyes narrowed over a feral grin. “Because I’m getting what I need even without you. I don’t need you. I know people.”

She crossed the carpet and stabbed the air between them with her finger. “You don’t know my family. You don’t know my friends.” She dropped her hand, but clenched her fingers into a fist. “And you certainly don’t know me,” she said, her voice humming with resentment.

Now the give-and-take highlights the conflict between Will and Mary rather than Mary’s emotional state.

If you want to downplay the moment instead of highlighting it, take out most of the stage direction. Most of it echoes the same emotions -- anger, resentment -- so you can cut it without changing the mood.

“I don’t know why you would think you can talk to me like that. You don’t know my family. You don’t know my friends.” Her voice humming with resentment, Mary stabbed the air between them with her finger. “And you certainly don’t know me.”

Can you see how these little changes shift the focus of the prose?

Theresa

Saturday Slush

Yes, it's Saturday, and not just any Saturday but the Saturday before Christmas, the Saturday leading into the week when the publishing industry is closed. I should be baking, wrapping, shopping, and doing the thousands of other things leading up to The Big Day. Instead I'm holed up for a spell with a bunch of slush submissions because a) the mall parking lot scares me, b) I'm avoiding my mother, who is always nuts for a few days before the holiday, and c) this is what I do. Editors read constantly, even when sanity suggests we should do otherwise.

We're going to be slowing the pace a little on this blog. We started off at a pretty fast clip because we wanted to get some content live so you'd all have things to read and ponder. But we don't want to overwhelm people, and we think the holidays give us a good excuse to settle into a somewhat more sedate rhythm. Just so you all know.

Here's what I'm seeing in the slush today.

Lots of doubled verbs, such as (my example, not taken from any manuscript):
He would--should find a different solution.

Lots of ellipses used to suggest cadence in the prose, such as (again, as always, my example):
The whole thing just made her feel ... tired.

Sentences crammed with verbs and verb forms, such as (again, ditto, ad infinitum):
She slipped, falling, tumbling, clattering down the stairs.

None of these things are technically wrong. All of these things suggest a lack of authorial control over the prose. Or even a lack of confidence. It gives the impression of a writer incapable of choosing the precise term best suited to the moment, who instead loads up on almost-right words (surely one of these will do!) or dressing up the wrong words with punctuation to try to create more impact (a pause! a pause will make it meaningful!).

What these all have in common is that they disrupt, on some level, a normal sentence's cadence. The first example reads like a stutter. The second, like a lost train of thought. The third, like a grocery list of present participles. Sometimes you might want a stutter or a pause or a list. Sometimes these little party tricks, these sleights of hand worked with punctuation and synonyms, will produce exactly the controlled effect you need and are therefore worth the odd way they look on the page. But, as with all party tricks, the fun goes out of them after you've seen them a time or two. Moderation is the key.

Normally these things don't bother me much. But today they're everywhere. I have one submission so full of ellipses it looks like the pages have acne. This is probably not the impression the writer hoped to make.

So why are these things so prevalent all of a sudden? Is someone out there teaching writers to write like this, or is it mere coincidence?

Theresa