Redlines Twelve: Had and Was

I'm so busy right now. I keep wanting to return to our pitches, and we will, but until I clear a couple of major projects off my desk, we'll have to be content with the next redlines article.

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Once upon a time, someone started a rumor that the words “had” and “was” should be excised ruthlessly from all prose. As with many good rumors, this one grew from a seed of truth. This month, we’re going to examine the reason behind the rumor and give you some guidelines for when to change these verbs.

Weak Verbs, Strong Verbs

Some say that English is a noun-based language, and they might be right. Our dictionaries are packed with nominalizations (verbs turned into nouns, such as “rely” into “reliance”), and with verbs that pull double duty as nouns (such as “walk” and “dance”).

One peculiar result of this noun-dependency is that in sentence structure, the main verb often works harder than all the attendant nouns and modifiers.

Think about the sentence, “She ate eggs, toast and fruit.” In this simple sentence, a single verb describes an action taken on three separate objects. That’s a lot of work for one little word to do.

It is important, then, that the crucial main verb in a sentence be a strong one whenever possible. In a previous column, we examined the concept of strong and weak verbs. To review, the strongest verbs describe a dynamic action. “Cooked,” “danced” and “fluttered” are examples of simple past forms of strong, active verbs.

The weakest verbs describe states of being instead of actions. Conjugations of the verbs “to be” and “to have” are generally weak verbs. Thus, writing, “She had eggs, toast and fruit,” is weaker than writing, “She ate eggs, toast and fruit.” “Ate” is stronger than “had” because it is active.

There is a middle ground of interesting verbs that describe states of being instead of actions. “Yearned” and “desired” are good examples of interesting verbs. Both are stronger than their counterpart, “wanted,” because they amplify of the state of being implied by the weaker verb.

Here, then, is the source of the rumor about cutting “was” and “had.” Conjugations of “to be” and “to have,” when standing alone, are weak verbs in a powerful sentence slot. Of course, they are not the only culprits. Let’s look at some examples.

“We took a walk by the lake.”

In this sentence, the word “walk” is functioning as a noun. The word “took” occupies the main verb slot. If you want to strengthen the sentence, change it to:

“We walked by the lake.”

Similarly,
“He had a fight with the bartender”
becomes
“He fought with the bartender.”

And,
“She was full of hope for a call from Billy”
becomes
“She hoped for a call from Billy”
or, by amplifying the verb,
“She yearned for a call from Billy.”

These may not be brilliant sentences, but they illustrate the point. Do you see how the revised sentences are stronger because verb is stronger? Obviously, there will be times that this particular edit does not apply, but as a general rule, stronger verbs lead to better sentences.

Because “was” and “had,” standing alone, are conjugations of weak verbs, many writers embark on search and destroy missions to eliminate these two words. But “was” and “had” do not always stand alone. Both are needed to form other verb tenses--tenses that are necessary in sentences describing actions in sequence.

When The “Was” Rumor Is Wrong

Let’s start with participles. The past progressive tense is generally formed by adding “-ing” to the end of a verb, and “was” or “were” before it. For example, the past progressive of “to walk” is (singular) “was walking” or (plural) “were walking.” This verb tense is used to describe an ongoing action that is paired with a discrete act. Confused? Let’s look at an example:

“She was walking by the lake when the bomb exploded.”

The action of walking is ongoing, and the explosion is a discrete event that occurs while the walking is occuring. In order for the sequence of events to make sense to the reader, the participial form of the verb--with the dreaded “was”--is necessary. If you switch the past participle for the simple past, you get:

“She walked by the lake when the bomb exploded.”

This sentence is less clear because the timing sequence is not as precise. Did the walk lead to the explosion, or the explosion lead to the walk? Were the two events simultaneous?

When The “Had” Rumor Is Wrong

Now let’s look at past perfect. The past perfect tense is generally formed by placing “had” in front of the simple past form of a verb. So, the past perfect of “to ask” is “had asked.” This verb tense is used to describe events that occur prior to events in the simple past. Again, this definition is confusing, so let’s look at an example that might take place at a wedding reception:

He wanted to dance with her, but when he had asked her at the rehearsal dinner, she had said, “Not likely.”

It’s a clumsy sentence but it illustrates the point. The wedding rehearsal occurs before the wedding reception. If we use the simple past in the main body of the narrative--as we do in most fiction--then the past perfect is needed to keep the timeline straight.

Look at what happens when we edit out “had” from our wedding reception scene:

He wanted to dance with her, but when he asked her at the rehearsal, she said, “Not likely.”

Even with the temporal reference to the rehearsal, this sentence feels disjointed. The time sequencing is slightly off because of the incorrect verb tense. To my eyes, the edited sentence reads as if the entire thing takes place at the rehearsal. The version with the past perfect makes it clear that wanting to dance is placed in the time of the wedding reception, and asking and answering is placed in the time of the rehearsal.

As always, this is not a one-size-fits-all solution. Sometimes, simple conjugations of “to be” and “to have” are appropriate (as in this sentence--“are” is a form of “to be”).


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Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialogue sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.
Redlines Four (on avoiding the need for "sequel") can be found here.
Redlines Five (on description) can be found here.
Redlines Six (on passive voice) can be found here.
Redlines Seven (on strong verbs) can be found here.
Redlines Eight (on tension statements) can be found here.
We'll skip Redlines Nine because its topic has already been covered in other posts.
Redlines Ten (on backstory and narrative compression) can be found here.
Redlines Eleven (on parsing and pitching) can be found here.

Theresa

Redlines Eleven: Parsing and Pitching

Someone asked in the comments recently if we would talk about pitching. What a coincidence! The next in the redlines series is about one method to parse and pitch a manuscript. Two caveats: This method will give you a long pitch, and it's geared toward romance. We'll talk about ways to build loglines and other pitching methods later. (Worth noting -- this method might be a good way to build a short synopsis.)

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With RWA National fast approaching, I thought this would be a good time to share one method for parsing and pitching a manuscript. As an added bonus, this method can be used to come up with a short synopsis or, with modification, a query letter. We’ll use the novel “Jane Eyre” as our example throughout.

Imagine your pitch shaped like the opposite of an hourglass. Your pitch will start with a focused summary statement, then widen out to provide an overview of the story. Finally, you narrow it and close with summary information, such as the word count and target market. Sound easy? Get out a pen and paper, and you’ll see how easy it is. You might want to read through the instructions before trying the method yourself.

Start by making a list. This is just a list, and it doesn’t have to be sparkling or detailed.

Number 1: The narrow summary.
Write down a one sentence summary of your premise or hook, plus your subgenre. Describe characters by trait (orphaned governess) rather than by name (Jane) or function (heroine). This summary doesn’t have to be a good sentence. For now, anything will do.

Example:
(1) Jane Eyre is a gothic romance about an orphaned governess who teaches her dark-tempered employer that love heals all wounds.

“Gothic romance” is the subgenre. “Love heals all wounds” is the theme. The hook (employer/employee forbidden relationship) is implied in the rest of the sentence.

Numbers 2-4: The non-sagging middle.
Write three sentences describing the most important plot developments in the middle of your manuscript. I can almost hear the collective squawk. “What? Only three?” But if you focus on the middle of the story, leaving out the black moment and final resolution, it will be easier. Focus on events, even if you state those events without describing the actual scenes.

Example:
(2) While teaching Rochester’s young ward, Jane discovers that there is a madwoman living in the attic of their isolated country estate.
(3) Rochester proposes marriage, but their wedding is interrupted with the news that Rochester is already married to the madwoman.
(4) Jane flees to protect her virtue and nearly dies on the road, but is saved by strangers who help her see that her love for Rochester can survive all obstacles, even attempted bigamy.

Number 5: The black moment.
Write down the plot event that indicates that things are at their lowest point. In romance, this is the final reversal before the happy ending.

Example:
(5) Jane returns to Rochester’s home, and finds it burned to the ground and abandoned.

Number 6: The resolution.
Write down the plot event that resolves the conflict and leads to the happy ending.

Example:
(6) Jane finds Rochester blinded and scarred from the fire, and learns that his madwoman wife died as a result of her arson, leaving him free to marry Jane.

Number 7: The internal conflict.
This should be a quick statement of the emotional forces that keep the hero and heroine apart. Sometimes, this will need to be in two parts: one part for the heroine, and one for the hero.

Example:
(7) Rochester feels he is doomed by the youthful mistake of his tragic marriage, and Jane is haunted by a subtle sense that she can never belong to any person or any place.

Number 8: The case for romance.
Write down why they belong together, the reason that the reader will believe that these characters are each other’s soulmates. Again, this might be a two-part statement. It might even echo some of what you have written in number seven or in other parts of the list.

Example:
(8) Rochester finds forgiveness and tolerance in Jane, and Jane finds belonging and freedom in Rochester.

Number 9: The technical stuff.
Write down your word count, target market, and any other technical information you feel the editor should know. For example, if you have written a medical romance and you are a nurse or doctor, write that down. Or, if your book is similar in tone or scope to another book that the editor or agent worked on, write that down.

Example:
(9) “Jane Eyre” is a 150,000 word gothic romance which would appeal to Victoria Holt fans. As a former bigamist, I am personally familiar with the destruction that these illegal relationships can create. (Kidding! Of course!)

That’s the entire list. Read through it from top to bottom. Steps one through six should read like a skeletal outline of your plot. The next step, which can be tricky, is to decide where on that list to include the internal conflict and the case for romance. The three most likely placements each have relative advantages and disadvantages.

First, if you leave the internal conflict and the case for romance at the end, you are closing with a powerful description of the core romance. But leaving these items for the end might make the plot seem dislocated from the romance, depending on your plot.

Or, second, you might put the internal conflict and the case for romance right after your narrow opening sentence, before the three middle plot points. Doing it this way may create a transition between the opening statement and the meat of the plot. However, it might also sound like you are wrapping up and then following with expanded information, instead of presenting a smooth flow.

Or, third common option, put the internal conflict statement right after the narrow summary at step one, and put the case for romance at the end, either before or after the resolution. Doing it this way will highlight the characters’ journeys, but separating these two statements might undermine the coherency of your pitch.

Regardless of where you choose to weave in the internal conflict and the case for romance, once you have them organized, write the word “because” as often as possible. This magical little word is what you are going to use to flesh out your pitch and make your manuscript sound cohesive and tight.

You may have already included some causative elements in your list. For example, we have the statement, “Jane flees to protect her virtue.” We could just as easily have written, “Jane flees BECAUSE she wants to protect her virtue.” The meaning is there, even if the word is not.

Study your list and weave in short statements of causation. But keep in mind your time limit. If you have eight minutes, your pitch should be no longer than four or five -- you want to save time for questions, introductions, and the all-important request details. You might want to leave time to add in a one-sentence summary of your next project. But you want to appear as though you are getting behind one of your ideas, and just mentioning the second to show your commitment.

You may find that you still have extra time. If so, consider including additional details that enhance those already on your list. In our example, we might want to mention that the madwoman wife tries to burn Rochester alive in his bed, and Jane saves his life. This foreshadows the black moment (when Rochester’s house burns down), and the ultimate resolution (where we see that Jane has also saved Rochester’s heart). These details tie in more neatly than, say, Jane’s experiences at the Lowood School.

Now all you have to do is shine it up. Use words and phrases that resonate with the theme, or reinforce the case for romance. Practice saying your pitch to make sure there aren’t any tongue-twisters or other awkward phrasings. Practice with a timer until you are sure that you can pitch with confidence.

One final suggestion: reduce each step of the pitch to a single word. List the words in order on a cheat sheet to lay on the table before you during your pitch. For example, the word “widower” neatly sums up step six in our “Jane Eyre” pitch. Creating this key word cheat sheet will allow you to stay focused and avoid reading, though many writers do read their pitches. Good luck, everyone!

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Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialogue sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.
Redlines Four (on avoiding the need for "sequel") can be found here.
Redlines Five (on description) can be found here.
Redlines Six (on passive voice) can be found here.
Redlines Seven (on strong verbs) can be found here.
Redlines Eight (on tension statements) can be found here.
We'll skip Redlines Nine because its topic has already been covered in other posts.
Redlines Ten (on backstory and narrative compression) can be found here.

Theresa

Redlines Ten: Backstory

Most writers occasionally find themselves battling backstory. This is a battle you can win. Let’s start by defining a few key terms.

What Is Backstory?

Remember the timelines that decorated your high school history text? If you were studying World War One, the timeline began with an assassination and ended with the Allied victory.

Your book can be mapped in a similar way. The first event in the book is the starting point of your timeline. The final resolution of the plot is the end point. Everything that happens in chronological book time between these two points constitutes your plot.

Here is the simplest definition of backstory: every relevant *event* that occurs before your book’s timeline begins is backstory. If the event can be plotted on your book’s chronological timeline (like the battles of World War One in the history text) then the event is plot. If the event precedes your book’s chronological timeline, it is backstory.

Confusion over backstory sometimes results from misunderstanding this definition and confusing bacsktory with narrative summary.

What Is Narrative Summary?

Narrative summary is a technique for compressing events within the book’s chronological timeline. We use it to avoid writing a scene that would focus on relatively minor details.

For example, let’s say your heroine’s car breaks down and prevents her from catching a plane to meet the hero. Perhaps writing a car repair scene with the heroine and a mechanic would slow down the pace of the romance. So we compress these events in narrative summary at the opening of the next scene:

Five hours later, Susan stashed her carry-on bag in the overhead compartment of the wrong flight. She had a new water pump in her car and was finally on her way, but her wallet was five hundred dollars lighter. Damn the mechanic for not letting her call Marco from his shop. She eyed the plane’s in-flight telephones, praying that she would soon be able to reach Marco.

This paragraph weaves details from the current scene on the airplane with the previous skipped breakdown events. The summarized details of the breakdown might have been dramatized in a scene--Susan begging for assistance, worrying about Marco and her flight. These events might even result in a dynamic scene, and would have fit within the plot.

Regardless, the narrative summary is not backstory, even though it contains event information that happen outside the current scene. The events themselves still take place on the chronological time line of the book’s plot. People sometimes use the term “backstory” to describe narrative summary, but that is merely shorthand. The two elements of the narrative remain separate creatures, no matter how they are described.

How To Fix It

Whether you are using narrative summary or backstory, the effect is the same. The forward momentum along the timeline is broken, and the reader is removed from straight narration in to exposition. But the editing fixes are slightly different.

Think again of our timeline analogy. Narrative summary does not interrupt this flow, but merely compresses events on the timeline. If your readers complain about narrative summary, the fix might be creating a new scene to dramatize the compressed events. Alternatively, you might be summarizing irrelevant events like showering and eating. These don’t require summation and can be cut.

If your readers complain about too much backstory, examine the backstory in relation to the current scene. Ask yourself how the *action* of the current scene would be different if the backstory did not exist. If the answer is, “not at all,” then cut the backstory. Backstory is only relevant if it qualifies the current event on the timeline.

If backstory is necessary to explain current plot events, then you cannot cut it. Instead, trim it as much as possible. Give the reader just enough to allow them to comprehend how the past event is linked to the current event. Use a minimal number of words, and return to the story timeline as quickly as possible. The story, after all, is what keeps the reader turning pages.

Special note for romance writers: Internal conflict in romance often has roots in the characters’ pasts, which can lead to misplaced emphasis on the past, even when the current scene provides ample conflict to drive the plot. The fix here requires re-balancing the scene to focus on what is most pressing at that moment on the plot’s timeline. Minimize or cut background information to achieve this balance.

Sequels (rather than scenes) are a more natural place to develop backstory because sequels tend to rely on interior monologue and exposition feels more natural when blended with interior monologue. The key, again, is to use a light touch. Let the character ponder the backstory, but balance the backstory against the current plot, much as you would balance background information.

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Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialogue sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.
Redlines Four (on avoiding the need for "sequel") can be found here.
Redlines Five (on description) can be found here.
Redlines Six (on passive voice) can be found here.
Redlines Seven (on strong verbs) can be found here.
Redlines Eight (on tension statements) can be found here.
We'll skip Redlines Nine because its topic has already been covered in other posts.

Theresa

Redlines Eight: Tension Statements

I don’t know about you, but I’m bored with grammar and sentence structure. So I thought this month, we’d look at a way to reduce reader boredom.

We all know what conflict is, right? It’s the engine that drives the plot scene by scene. But let’s face it, not every sentence in your book is going to bristle with conflict. Sometimes sentences need to accomplish other missions, such as describing a setting or character, controlling pacing, or performing other less-conflicted tasks.

So how do we keep these sentences from boring readers? By turning them into tension statements.

Tension statements take many forms, but the basic idea is a sentence (or small cluster of sentences) containing elements that are unexpected, unsettling, and/or contrasting. These elements set up subtle tension in readers’ minds and keep them interested while you deal with simple mechanics like setting the scene or providing exposition. Writers from across the fiction spectrum rely on tension statements to hold reader interest.

Let’s look at some examples. We’ll start with the opening lines from “Northanger Abbey” by Jane Austen:

“No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be an heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, though his name was Richard--and he had never been handsome. He had a considerable independence, besides two good livings--and he was not in the least addicted to locking up his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful plain sense, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as any body might expect, she still lived on...”

Austen flaunts reader expectations of a gothic heroine’s background, and creates a contrast between that expectation and Catherine’s character. She introduces the heroine by saying she is not a likely heroine--a self-contrasting statement that creates a subtle reader tension by making us wonder, why not? A lesser writer might have accurately written, “Catherine’s family was abundant, happy, healthy, and financially stable.” But Austen unsettles us by taking the expected gothic romance elements (poverty, being locked in attics, being an orphan) and presenting these as desirable expectations. This contrast, this use of unexpected images, although humorous, creates subtle tension for the reader, who becomes instantly engaged.

What’s missing from Austen’s opening lines? Conflict. In fact, we can safely assume that the Morland family gets along well.

A less humorous form of tension statements is in opening lines of “Cold Mountain” by Charles Frazier:

“At the first gesture of morning, flies began stirring. Inman's eyes and the long wound at his neck drew them, and the sound of their wings and the touch of their feet were soon more potent than a yardful of roosters in rousing a man to wake. So he came to yet one more day in the hospital ward. He flapped the flies away with his hands and looked across the foot of his bed to an open triple-hung window. Ordinarily he could see to the red road and the oak tree and the low brick wall. And beyond them to a sweep of fields and flat piney woods that stretched to the western horizon. The view was a long one for the flatlands, the hospital having been built on the only swell within eyeshot. But it was too early yet for a vista. The window might as well have been painted grey.
“Had it not been too dim, Inman would have read to pass the time until breakfast, for the book he was reading had the effect of settling his mind. But he had burned up the last of his own candles...”

Look at the opening image: flies landing on a wounded man, their wings loud enough and their feet busy enough to wake him. It's not a soothing image. It's an image that creates tension--not conflict, but tension--through its sheer creepiness. Frazier compares the flies to a “yardful of roosters.” We all know what roosters sound like: loud and strident. And we all know what flies’ wings sound like: not much. Saying that the flies are now like the roosters creates an unexpected contrast between things that are usually unalike, and builds line-by-line tension.

More tension statements follow. Usually Inman can see out the window, but now he can't. The land is flat, but the hospital is on a swell. Reading his book would settle his mind, but he can't read now. The window is open but might as well be painted grey. One tension statement after another. Something is unavailable, something is an irritant, something is different from its usual state. These are all forms of tension statements. We're intrigued and keep reading because even though Inman is merely laying in a bed, there's loads of tension.

Finally, let’s look at Georgette Heyer’s “The Foundling,” which opens with a guide book description of a Duke’s house as the Duke returns from hunting. His house, his servants, and his childhood are explored in the first five pages. Heyer focuses on the Duke’s desire to be left alone, and his household’s conflicting desire to monitor him, a situation that is key to the plot but not very lively despite the obvious conflict. Heyer keeps it interesting by sprinkling in tension statements:

“[T}he butler . . . went in a stately way down the passage to open the door that led into the main hall of the house.
But the Duke again disappointed him, this time by electing to run up the secondary staircase at the end of the passage.”

There are several contrasts here that provide tension:
* the butler’s expectation versus the Duke’s disappointing behavior
* the butler’s stately gait versus the Duke’s running
* the “main” hall versus the “secondary” staircase

Note that Heyer uses the word “passage” in both sentences. She is a very deliberate and controlled writer, and this echo is meant to link the two sentences and heighten the subtle perception that they contrast each other. They are the same, and yet they are different, and therein lies the tension.

Later in the same book, she uses a different type of word-pairing to create tension in a transition between two scenes:

“The rest of the day was spent, as far as he was concerned, in a singularly profitless fashion.”

Which are the related words? “Spent” and “profitless.” When we spend, we expect to gain something in return. But in this case, the expectation was defied -- and subtle tension is created within this simple transitional sentence through nothing more than the deliberate use of two opposing words. Subtle and effective.

Do you get the general idea? This is the kind of thing that gets easier with practice, so here are some more examples. See if you can identify the source of tension in each example.

“If he had to wine, dine and proposition her, at least he wouldn’t be bored.”
- from “Simply Sinful” by Carly Phillips

“Donnalee had suggested that she join a gym to meet men, and she would, Hallie told herself, once she was at her goal weight.”
- from “This Matter of Marriage” by Debbie Macomber

[about New Year’s Eve] “You’re thrown in with people you don’t know and don’t want to be with, but you’re all going to share this intimate event with glee. If it kills you.”
- Laurie Graff, “You Have to Kiss a Lot of Frogs”

“Life will be wonderful. I will wake up every morning with a smile on my face like the perma-smile women in coffee commercials.”
- Sarah Mlynowski, “Milkrun”

[about coffee] “I focus on my beverage, attempting to stir the sweetened foam into the darker liquid below. It refuses to harmonize, clinging in wispy clumps to the wooden stirrer like the cottony clusters of mealy bugs on my sickly philodendron at home.”
- Wendy Markham, “Slightly Single”

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This is the eighth in my old column called Redlines. If you've been reading edittorrent for a while, the ideas in this column will be familiar to you. We've talked about tension statements in other contexts before, mainly when we were talking about sentence-level reversals as a first sentence. (Look here for more.)

Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialogue sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.
Redlines Four (on avoiding the need for "sequel") can be found here.
Redlines Five (on description) can be found here.
Redlines Six (on passive voice) can be found here.
Redlines Seven (on strong verbs) can be found here.

Theresa

Bloggus Interruptus

Things have been insanely busy chez nous, which you may have already guessed because of the blog silence. The world blew up on Wednesday, and I've just now caught enough of the falling pieces to start cobbling it back together. Happens sometimes. I'm sure everyone knows what it means to be busy.

I want to respond to some of the comments to the post on dull verbs, but before we do that, I thought I'd post the next Redlines column. This one tackles the same basic idea from a different angle. After we've looked this one over, we'll come back to some ideas and questions about dull verbs.

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Last month, we continued examining subject-verb-object dynamics. This month, we’re going to look at other types of tangled constructions, in particular, sentences that don’t put the strongest verb into the best sentence slot. In other words, we’re going to learn a trick to help you organize sentences for power and impact.

Let’s start with a core idea. As we have already seen, simple sentences contain a main subject, verb, and sometimes an object. But not all sentences are simple -- some are compound, complex, or all dressed up with phrases and clauses. Unfortunately, the more pieces you hang onto the basic subject-verb-object spine, the more likely it is that your sentence will lose focus.

One form of lost focus occurs when you have lots of action words -- verbs of any tense or variation -- competing for attention. Generally, verbs do the heavy lifting in a sentence because they literally tell the reader what is happening, where the action is. But not all verbs are active.

Here’s an example:
He was the kind of man who liked to build model airplanes.

In this case, everything that comes before “who” (the relative pronoun) is the main part of the sentence. Everything that comes after “who” is a subordinate clause. The subject-verb-object slots in the main sentence generally will draw a reader’s attention more than the subordinate idea. This is why we say that ideas of greater importance usually go in the main part of the sentence, and ideas of lesser importance (subordinate ideas, get it?) usually follow the relative pronoun.

The sentence contains three action words: was, liked and build. Of these three, one is very weak (was), one is weak (liked), and one is strong (build).

What’s the difference between a weak and a strong verb? Weak verbs describe states of being, emotional states, preferences, and similar intangibles. Conjugations of the verb “to be” are so weak as to be nearly transparent. The reader’s mind interprets “to be” verbs similar to the equal signs in math equations. “He = the kind of man.” It barely registers, which makes it weak.

Strong verbs, by contrast, are ones that describe an activity or a dynamic state. Strong verbs can be simple enough to include in first grade primers (run, walk) or precise enough to describe distinct shades of activity (waddle, toddle).

In our sample sentence, the weakest verb is the main verb of the main clause. This is a powerful slot in the sentence, and is being filled with a nearly invisible word. So, to maximize impact, remove the weak verb from the strong slot.

Thus,
He was the kind of man who liked to build model airplanes.
becomes
He liked to build model airplanes.

Notice that “who” is nowhere to be found in the second sentence. So the edit completely removes the weak main clause, and lets the formerly subordinate idea claim a more important role. If we wanted, we could take it a step further, by letting the dynamic “build” function as the main verb instead of as an infinitive. Remember, dynamic verbs (build) are stronger than verbs of emotion (liked).

In that case,
He liked to build model airplanes.
becomes
He built model airplanes.

There are shades of meaning between these two sentences that might not warrant the change. For example, perhaps the second sentence would be more appropriate if the man’s job was building model airplanes, and the first sentence would apply more to a hobby. So I present this second-level edit of our original sentence mainly as a way of completing the thought, with the caveat that authorial judgment must come into play.

I want to return now to the word “who.” It’s a danger word, a red flag. Along with its cousins (whom, which, that, whose), “who” signals the possibility of a twisted sentence. Writers are generally aware that “that” is a dangerous word. But how do you untangle sentences loaded with danger words? The process is similar to the one we’ve already described -- identify the verbs, measure their relative strength and weakness, and sort them out accordingly.

Let’s practice on a couple examples.

Past relationship failures were the issue that kept her from trusting Lucas.

You see the weak verb, “were,” in a position of power. The other verb is “kept” and it follows one of our red flag words, “that.” If we move “kept” into the power slot, we get:

Past relationship failures kept her from trusting Lucas.

Let’s try one more:

She’d been in a weird limbo for months, a limbo that made her feel as though her life was going nowhere.

Once again, we have a weak verb as the main verb in the main clause -- been. We have a red flag word -- that. But this time, the writer needed to repeat the object (limbo) in order to append the descriptive clause. Why? Most likely, the original sentence contained a dangling modifier. (Think, “She’d been in a weird limbo for months that made her feel as though her life was going nowhere” -- obviously, the months didn’t make her feel anything, but the limbo did.)

A better fix would be to ditch the weak main verb and avoid dangling by putting the temporal reference right up front and out of the way.

For months, a weird limbo made her feel as though her life was going nowhere.

The sharp-eyed among you will note that "as though" also introduces a clause. It's an adverb clause, not a relative pronoun clause, and we'll leave it be for now.

As with any editorial technique, this is not a one-size-fits-all application. Some sentences will function beautifully with a relative pronoun (who, whom, which, that, whose) and would actually suffer otherwise. I leave you with one of my favorite examples of a good one, the first sentence from “Pride and Prejudice” by Jane Austen:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

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This is the seventh in the Redlines series.
Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialogue sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.
Redlines Four (on avoiding the need for "sequel") can be found here.
Redlines Five (on description) can be found here.
Redlines Six (on passive voice) can be found here.

Theresa

Redlines Five: Passive Voice

Don't forget to enter our really bad pov contest! Deadline tomorrow, details on the sidebar. If you're on a feed reader, go here to see the sidebar.

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Last month, we looked at how to load description into a sentence for impact. In doing so, we reviewed the three main parts of a sentence: subject, verb, and object. This month, we’ll examine passive voice, which is a useful -- but dangerous -- way of obscuring the true subject of a sentence.

Let’s start with a quick review of the three parts of a sentence. Here’s our sample sentence from last month:

The dog ... barked ... at the intruder.
subject ... verb ... predicative object

It’s a simple sentence in active voice. A simple sentence is one with one subject, one predicate, and no subordinate clauses. Sometimes sentences -- or parts of a sentence, such as the verb -- are compound. Here’s an example of a compound sentence (two independent clauses joined by a conjunction):

The dog ... barked ... and ... the intruder ... jumped.
subject ... verb ... conjunction ... subject ... verb

Keep this in mind for later.

Has anyone ever told you to avoid passive voice? There’s a lot of misunderstanding out there about what passive voice is and what it can accomplish.

Here’s a terrible but accurate definition: passive voice removes the true subject from a sentence, and replaces it with the true object so that the true object is the subject within the sentence structure. With a definition like this, it’s no wonder that there is so much confusion!

It’s much easier to understand by looking at an example.
Active voice:
The dog ... barked ... at the intruder.
subject ... verb ... predicative object.

Passive voice:
The intruder ... was barked at.
subject (true object) ... verb

The dog -- the actor in the sentence, the one actually doing the barking -- has fallen out of the sentence and is only implied. The true object of the sentence, the intruder, functions like the subject.

Sometimes writers try to “fix” passive constructions by attaching the subject in the place where the object is usually found. As in:

The intruder ... was barked at ... by the dog.
subject (true object) ... verb ... object (true subject)

But the better fix is to put the sentence in active voice, letting the actor (the dog) be the subject and take the action, instead of being the object and receiving the action.

There will be times that you actually want to remove the subject from the sentence. For example, you may want to hide the identity of the subject, or it may be impossible to know the subject’s identity. Let’s say the point of view character is alone in a house and you want to heighten the tension. Passive voice might be appropriate. Here’s an example:

The doorknob ... was jiggled.
object ... verb

The pov character doesn’t know who is making the doorknob jiggle, so the subject is removed and the passive voice is appropriate. Hiding the subject creates tension. Who is jiggling the doorknob? The reader must turn the page to find out.

The problem with passive voice comes when the identity of the subject must be disclosed in order for the sentence to make sense. Remember our compound sentence?
The dog barked and the intruder jumped.

What happens when we put it in passive voice?
The intruder was barked at and jumped.

Sentences like this can slip into even the most lucid prose. The intruder looks like the functional subject, with a compound verb. But only one of the actions (the jumping) is being taken by the intruder. The other action (the barking) is being taken by a dropped subject. The result is confusing, even though there are only seven words in the sentence.

If your sentence feels tangled and you suspect that passive voice might be the problem, here is the fix:
1. Identify the verb. In the sentence, “A home run was scored by Sally,” the verb is “was scored.”
2. Next, identify who is taking the action of the verb. In the sample sentence, the action of the verb is scoring, and Sally is the one doing the scoring, so the actor is “Sally.”
3. Next, identify the structural subject of the sentence. In the sample sentence, the subject is “home run.”
4. If the actor is not the subject, you’ve got passive voice. Put the actor back in charge of the action by untwisting the parts of speech, and you’ll eliminate the passive voice: “Sally scored a home run.”

If this four-step fix doesn’t seem to apply to your tangled sentence, then passive voice might not be the problem. There may be something else clouding the meaning. Next month, we’ll look at other confusing types of passive construction that might be the culprit, including the dreaded “that” construction.

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This is the sixth in the Redlines series.
Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialogue sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.
Redlines Four (on avoiding the need for "sequel") can be found here.
Redlines Five (on description) can be found here.

Theresa

Redlines Five: Description-itis

Recently, we have looked at ways to structure short passages for a variety of effects. This month, we’re going to change directions and look at sentence mechanics. Specifically, we’re going to look at how to create descriptive impact within the parts of a sentence.

Let’s start by reviewing the structural parts of a sentence. For our purposes, there are three parts of a sentence: subject, verb, and object. The subject is the actor within the sentence. The verb is the main action taken by the subject. And the object-- when there is one-- is the receiver of the action.

Here are a couple examples, with and without objects:
The dog ... barked.
subject ... verb

Sometimes dogs just bark.

The dog ... barked ... at the intruder.
subject ... verb ... object

And sometimes, the dogs bark for reasons we can identify. The action is directed at something. This is the object.

(Note to grammar gurus: Yes, “intruder” is the object of a preposition. But for our purposes, we are breaking the predicate into two pieces, and for convenience, the second piece will be called the “object.” Please forgive this sleight of hand-- this is not a grammar lesson, but an attempt to provide writers with practical tools to control the flow of their sentences.)

Both examples are simple sentences with clear action, but not very descriptive. Sometimes, we want to convey more descriptive information. Description, after all, brings readers into the scene in a vivid way, and helps them visualize the scene events.

But not all description is good. Here’s what happens when we add description to all three parts of the sample sentence:

The brown mangy dog, his spindly legs trembling as his paws scrabbled at the packed earth, barked loudly and wildly in a series of staccato bursts at the black-cloaked intruder who moved like a shadow against the fence.

The subject, “dog,” is loaded with adjectives (brown mangy) and dependent description (his spindly legs ... packed earth).

The verb is still “barked,” but we have added adverbs (loudly and wildly) and a descriptive phrase (staccato bursts).

And the object, the intruder, now sports a black cloak and moves in a certain way in relation to a certain object.

Let’s consider the impact of that string of words on a reader. C’mon, now, be honest. Your eyes glazed over before you reached the end of the sentence, right? It’s information overload, plain and simple. Description-itis, an inflammation of the sentence caused by too much information and leading to bored readers and bad reviews.

Luckily, there is an easy cure for description-itis. All you need is a bit of authorial judgment, and a decision about which of the three parts of the sentence is most important.

If the subject is most important, then keep the description about the dog and cut the rest. The sentence becomes:

The brown mangy dog, his spindly legs trembling as his paws scrabbled at the packed earth, barked at the intruder.

All of the descriptive focus is on the dog, and the reader’s mind stays on point. A sentence like this would be useful if, for example, the point of view character is more concerned about the dog than about either the barking or the intruder.

But that’s not too likely, is it? The intruder seems more interesting. So let’s look at how the sentence reads when the descriptive impact is focused on the object.

The dog barked at the black-cloaked intruder who moved like a shadow against the fence.

Not a great sentence, but it illustrates the point. The description focuses the reader’s attention on the object -- the intruder, who now seems both intangible and threatening.

To complete the example, let’s say that the most important part of the sentence is the verb. Maybe the point of view character isn’t concerned about the pending battle between the intruder and the dog, but really wants some peace and quiet. In that case, loading the verb with description highlights the noise.

The dog barked loudly and wildly in a series of staccato bursts at the intruder.

The sentence is a little clumsy. In fact, it suffers from having the subject and object separated by all those words, but that is a topic for another column. The main point here is that modifying the verb keeps the reader’s attention focused on the action of the sentence, the barking. We know what is most important in this sentence -- the noise.

Here is a simple process for fixing overly-descriptive sentences.
1) Identify the most important part of the sentence. Where do you want the reader’s attention focused? What is the most important purpose of the sentence?
2) Identify which words in the sentence link back to that important part. If this gives you trouble, it may be because you have two ideas competing for supremacy. Pick one.
3) Now cut everything that’s not linked to the most important idea. Leave the subject, verb and object intact. But otherwise, be ruthless. You can always put things back in, and see how they impact clarity, once you are sure that the sentence is clear to begin with.

Now that we have had our refresher course on the three main parts of a sentence, next month we’ll look at passive and active constructions and how to manipulate them for impact.


This is the fifth in the series of my dusty old Redlines column.
Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialogue sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.
Redlines Four (on avoiding the need for "sequel") can be found here.

Theresa

Redlines Four: Avoiding the Need for "Sequels"

Last month, we structured some interior monologue (IM) so that action framed the IM and oriented the reader. That technique is effective in “sequels” -- narrative bits in which we pause for reflection, planning, and the like. IMand its weaker cousin, exposition, can also be used in scenes. This month, we’ll braid interpetive bits into a scene where plot information is conveyed through dialogue.

One of the primary differences between a scene and a sequel is the narrative emphasis. In a scene, the narrative focuses on events -- action or dialogue moving the plot forward. Anything that detracts from the events will slow the pacing of the scene.

By contrast, a sequel focuses on the internal reaction of the point of view character to a prior scene or scene sequence. The character will literally be exploring thoughts and feelings, which means that sequels are generally heavy in exposition.

Some writing teachers advocate a one-to-one ratio of scenes and sequels. But even where a lot of internal landscaping is necessary -- as in romance -- following every scene with a sequel can slow the pace and create a mechanical narrative. This is true even when the sequels are shorter than the scenes.

One alternative is to weave small pieces of IM and/or exposition into scenes. For this to work, the IM/expo and the scene action must remain in balance. Knowing how to balance these elements requires analysis and judgment, because the balance will vary depending on the plot and characters.

Think, for example, of a dialogue scene in which Tex tells Kate that his mother doesn’t like her. If this is a major plot element -- if, for example, Tex will lose his inheritance if his mother does not approve of his bride -- then the reader might need Kate’s emotional reactions in the scene, plus a sequel. Balance is the key. Big movements in plot action require bigger amounts of character reaction.

In that case, the sequence might look like this:
“My mother doesn’t like you,” Tex said.
*Kate has an internal reaction.*
*Kate responds to Tex directly.*
*The scene concludes.*
*IM-heavy sequel where Kate reflects and decides how to proceed.*

But maybe Tex’s mother’s feelings are not outcome-determinative. The reader will still want Kate’s reaction. The question becomes, how much information is needed for Kate’s reaction to make sense? If a lot of information is necessary -- for example, backstory about Kate’s dealings with the mother, things that happened outside the narrative timeline -- then the scene may need to be briefly interrupted to convey that information.

Then the sequence might look like this:
“My mother doesn’t like you,” Tex said.
*Kate starts to react, but pauses.*
*Exposition: Kate reflects on backstory that explains her reaction.*
*Kate returns to her reaction and more dialogue ensues.*
*The scene concludes.*

In that case, no sequel would be needed. Here’s another option:
“My mother doesn’t like you,” Tex said.
“But we’ve sat on committees together, and she’s never acted like she hates me,” Kate said. (introduce backstory)
*Conclude scene quickly.*
*Sequel to fully develop backstory and Kate’s IM.*

But maybe Tex’s revelation is not outcome-determinative and any backstory has already been revealed. In that case, you can avoid interrupting the scene and/or providing a sequel. In order for this to work, the bits of reaction must be succinct and understandable.

One way to do this requires dialogue beats. Beats are little drops of action that fall outside the quotation marks and let the reader know who is speaking and what they are doing. For example:

“My mother doesn’t like you.” Tex folded his arms across his broad chest.

The beat is the second sentence. It replaces the dialogue tag (Tex said) with a stage gesture that provides insight into Tex’s internal dynamics. It’s not true IM because we’re not in Tex’s point of view, but it is a clue into what his IM might be, and provides something more for Kate to react to.

Now let’s add Kate’s reaction:
“My mother doesn’t like you.” Tex folded his arms across his broad chest.
His gesture was at odds with his casual tone. All right, then, he didn’t want her to take it too hard, even though he clearly felt a need to brace himself for her response. But Kate was not about to let his mother stand between them.
“She’ll change her mind once she knows me better.” Kate spread her hands wide, a gesture of openness, and was relieved to see that he dropped his arms to his sides.
“If anyone can win her over, it’s you.”

The IM comes through in Kate’s analysis of his gesture, her planned responsive gesture, and her relief when he relaxes. If we map it, it looks something like this:

*dialogue* *beat*
*her IM in three sentences*
*dialogue*
*she mirrors his gesture* *his new gesture*
*dialogue*

The dialogue acts like touchstones, framing the gestures and bridging his changing responses. The IM acts like a fulcrum, balancing Tex’s first action with his changed reaction.

Now we don’t need a sequel that explains Kate’s or Tex’s state of mind, because it should be clear from the scene. The reader not only sees the characters’ gestures, but why the gestures are important. But it takes a lot of narrative to load the gestures with meaning -- three sentences in Kate’s IM to qualify what they’re doing with their arms. This goes beyond the scope of a typical beat in a dialogue exchange, which is usually much shorter.

And that’s the danger in weaving IM or exposition into an active scene. Dialogue is fast-paced, but exposition in particular feels slow. The key, again, is balance. If the dialogue is important, more qualifying details can be braided in without grinding the pace down too much. But if the dialogue is relatively unimportant, the interpretive details should be confined to pieces no longer than typical beats -- or even eliminated altogether.

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This is the third in the series of my dusty old Redlines column.
Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialoge sequencing) can be found here.
Redlines Three (on using frames within scenes) can be found here.

Theresa

Redlines Three: Framing Scene Elements

This is the third in the series of my dusty old Redlines column.
Redlines One (on paragraph logic faults) can be found here.
Redlines Two (on dialoge sequencing) can be found here.

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Recently, we have been looking at small scale logic problems. This month, we will take a look at an editing trick that helps balance interior monologue (IM) with action so that logic problems are avoided. But first, in order to understand this month’s concept, let’s look at the structural element usually called a “frame.”

Some of you may be familiar with the idea of a frame story; that is, a novel that opens and closes with linked pieces that “frame” the long middle. The frame can be set off from the main story piece in any number of ways -- most commonly, by being in a different time or setting.

Need an example? Think of The Odyssey, which opens with Odysseus’s return home, then tells the story of the last ten years, then returns to the present homecoming. In that, the homecoming is the frame.

The sequence can be mapped like this:

• introduce an event in the present
  
• event in the past
  
• event in the past
  
• event in the past.
  
• return to complete the event in the present

with the number of events in the past varying according to the needs of the story.

This same structure, shrunk down to a smaller level, provides a model for balancing IM and scene action. IM is a crucial element in romance, where the romance plot centers on emotions rather than actions. But IM -- like backstory -- takes the narrative out of the action of the present story time. Because things that interrupt the story time will feel slower-paced than the action/dialogue scenes themselves, IM needs to be carefully handled to maintain reader interest.

Let’s imagine our heroine needs to step back from the story action and think about her attraction to the hero, Jake. Let’s say you draft this bit of IM and, upon re-reading it, it feels slow and chunky, almost disconnected from the story line.

By framing that short IM bit with present story-time action, you can effectively lower the reader into the IM, and then draw them back into the story line with the same idea. The action itself doesn’t matter much, as long as it makes sense within the overall context. So let’s have Kate saddle her horse while thinking about Jake.

• start saddling horse in present story time
  
• think about Jake’s shoulders
  
• think about Jake’s hair
  
• think about Jake’s lips
  
• finish saddling the horse

Then continue the story.

You’ve probably seen that done hundreds of times, maybe even learned to recognize that the “saddle” sentences are transitions. They take the reader into and out of the IM, and simultaneously bridge the action interrupted by the IM. The technique would not be effective if we opened with the saddle, and closed with, say, a pitchfork or loose fencepost.

When the IM is complex, we can link framed pieces. Let’s say Kate is attracted to Jake’s body (piece one) but doesn’t like his temperament (piece two):

• New Paragraph -start saddling horse in present story time~ think about Jake’s shoulders~ think about Jake’s hair~ think about Jake’s lips~
  
• New Paragraph -tighten a jangly thingie on the saddle~ think about Jake’s scowl~ think about Jake yelling at his brother~
  
• New Paragraph -finish saddling the horse~

Then continue the story.

Now we have two clusters of IM ideas, which are framed and linked by saddle action. This not only creates a smooth, balanced passage of IM, but it also fools the reader into interpreting the IM as part of the present story time action, thereby making the passage feel pacey instead of pokey.

It’s not a one-size-fits-all technique, but is one effective way of controlling the flow of IM. Next month we’ll try the same idea out on a dialogue passage.

Theresa

"Telling" As a Warning Sign

The other day, I posted the second in an old column series of mine called Redlines. The series starts by examining the way prose can be rearranged for greater impact and fluidity. To prove a point, the before and after examples use identical sentences, and we do nothing more than change the order of presentation. The lesson: Sequencing counts.

After the second article was posted the other day, a wonderful thing happened in the comments. The commenters homed in on the final two sentences in the "after" example and rightly criticized these sentences for "telling" instead of "showing."

Rube could always be counted on to know exactly what the week’s schedule was. He was a good worker and a good friend.

Consider the Source

If sentences like those are firmly embedded in one character's perceptions, they would be considered interior monologue and might be left alone. As interior monologue, thoughts like these are a natural part of the mental chat reel, the constrant stream of the character's consciousness. We pass judgments and reach conclusions about the people around us almost constantly, even when we don't voice those thoughts. Deft writers can use this type of interior monologue to lead the reader to reach the same conclusions the character has reached: in other words, the character informs the reader's opinions of other characters through the interior monologue.

But there's a difference between one character thinking conclusory thoughts and a narrator presenting those same thoughts as exposition outside of any character's frame of reference. In other words, there's a difference between Tex silently opining, Good man, that Rube, and the narrator stating as empirical fact that Rube is a good man.

Good Transitions

It's important to be alert to these kinds of empirical narrative statements for two reasons. First, they interrupt the flow of the narrative and are, as Susan commented, "Gah. Yuck." (Exactly! Great eye, Susan!)

But second, these kinds of empiricisms often are a warning sign that the prose is out of control. As readers and writers, we understand that narrative compression (a different form of exposition in which events are compressed into exposition) is a useful way to create shorthand transitions between key events.

For example, let's say we have Maria, a devoted wife whose husband has just called to inform her that he won a lottery jackpot. Thrilled, Maria takes the rest of the afternoon off and plans a celebration surprise dinner, unaware that her husband has other, less loving things in store. But the writer doesn't want to follow Maria up and down the grocery store aisles or through every beat of her whisk in the kitchen, so instead we read,

Six hours later, after a whirlwind of shopping, cooking and primping, the lasagna was stone cold, the cherry pie was picked clean of half its crust, and Maria's two coats of Great Lash painted trails down her cheeks.

This is an acceptable format for a transition. We get a time frame, a list of events that have happened in that time, and a description of the current state of things. We don't see Maria cry, but we see the tear tracks on her cheeks after her crying is done. It's compressed rather than beat-by-beat. So even thought this is exposition, it's the good kind. Not all "telling" is bad.

And maybe it won't be a temporal transition. Maybe it will be some other kind of exposition that shifts us from one scene to the next.

Mack might have been a lottery winner, but it turned out he was also a rat bastard with a cliche of a blonde, teenaged mistress. They were going to backpack through Peru, Mack had told Maria as if he actually knew where Peru was.

(Assume the writer has a good reason for presenting this information in summary rather than in scene.)

Is Mack actually, empirically a rat bastard? Who is proclaiming his rat-bastardy here? Wait. Don't assume too quickly. See if you can follow that transition with interior monologue in Maria's point of view. Then try doing the same from Mack's point of view. Want to go for a mistress next? You can play that game all day because exposition is omniscient and we can move almost anywhere from there.

Bad Transitions

But now let's say we're not at the top of a scene. We're within the scene with events already in progress. And we're out of control, with events skipping around and characters doubling back to open doors after they've already walked through them. We know we need to fix things, so we reach again for summary -- a statement about Rube's character followed by a statement of Tex's emotional state.

“Tuesday. Wednesday, if it rains.”

Rube could always be counted on to know exactly what the week’s schedule was. He was a good worker and a good friend. Tex was glad that Rube had apologized for talking about Jane that way. “She’s a lady, not a horse.” Tex knew he was pushing his point, but wanted to make sure Rube got it.

Because we understand that we can't logically move from a weather report to a defense of Jane, we put some crappy (Gah. Yuck.) transition there to create a bridge between these two events. This exposition might mimic a good transition in some ways, but it's actually pretty darn bad. As we've already seen, the real fix is to put the events in their proper order in the first place and avoid the need for bad transitions at all.

Which is to say -- commenters, you may rewrite those sentences if you'd like, but if this were a real manuscript, we'd probably just cut them and move forward. And good on ya for catching the weak exposition there. :)

Theresa

Dialogue Sequencing

You know the feeling when you're talking to someone, and much later on, you think of a comeback to something they said? I've heard several writers say that they like writing because, while they’re drafting a scene, they can use the comeback no matter how long it takes to think of it. Trouble is, it doesn't always get added in the right place. This and other logic errors can contribute to dialogue flow problems.

Consider the following dialogue between a hero (Tex) and his mirror character (Rube):

“Bet you can’t wait to find out how wild that little filly is.” As Jane walked away, Rube leered at her, making Tex want to blindfold him with anything that might be handy. Like a fist. “And you’re just the man to break that horse.”

“Don’t talk about Jane like that.” Tex clenched his fists by his side.

“Wow, you must really like this one.” Rube raised his drink in a mock toast. “Sorry about that.”

“Anyway, we should be talking about the back forty, not about Jane.” Tex unclenched his fists. “When will you get to it?”

“Tuesday. Wednesday, if it rains.”

Rube could always be counted on to know exactly what the week’s schedule was. He was a good worker and a good friend. Tex was glad that Rube had apologized for talking about Jane that way. “She’s a lady, not a horse.” Tex knew he was pushing his point, but wanted to make sure Rube got it.


The progression in the dialogue doesn’t follow a smooth arc of action and emotion. For example:
* Presumably, Jane would walk away BEFORE Rube makes the filly comment.
* Tex’s thought about blindfolding Rube with his fist interrupts Rube’s dialogue, breaking the flow. Although often it’s a good idea to use action sentences like this in place of dialogue tags, the strategy backfires when the action sentence has more impact than the dialogue itself.
* Tex unclenches his fists and changes the subject, reminding himself that Rube is a good guy. But then Tex returns to Rube’s “filly” comment without any further prompt. Tex’s emotional arc jerks and skips as a result.
* In addition, “lady-horse” is a reaction to “filly,” not to a discussion of rain and the back forty. Having these comments separated by all those other ideas breaks the action-reaction sequence.

Here is an edited version of the dialogue sequence. Note that the sentences are identical and have only been rearranged.

As Jane walked away, Rube leered at her, making Tex want to blindfold him with anything that might be handy. Like a fist.

“Bet you can’t wait to find out how wild that little filly is,” Rube said. “And you’re just the man to break that horse.”

“Don’t talk about Jane like that.” Tex clenched his fists by his side.

“Wow, you must really like this one.”

“She’s a lady, not a horse.” Tex knew he was pushing his point, but wanted to make sure Rube got it.

Rube lifted his drink in a mock toast. “Sorry about that.”

Tex unclenched his fists. He was glad that Rube had apologized for talking about Jane that way. “Anyway, we should be talking about the back forty, not about Jane. When will you get to it?”

“Tuesday. Wednesday, if it rains.”

Rube could always be counted on to know exactly what the week’s schedule was. He was a good worker and a good friend.

See the difference?

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This is the second in the series of Redlines article reprints.
Read Redlines One Here.

Theresa

Paragraph Logic Faults

Theresa says:

I have just a few minutes before the next installment of the Masterpiece series of Jane Austen adaptations. Am I the only one watching these? Am I the only one who still twitches at the thought of that awful Persuasion adaptation? The didn't just blow it. They blew it to hell and gone, destroyed the plot so thoroughly that I feel like I need to sleep with the Ciaran Hinds dvd version under my pillow to cleanse my subconscious of any lingering ill effects.

(Note to self: Must stop obsessing over that atrocious adaptation.)

Anyway, I have this series of short articles I wrote several years ago for a writer's newsletter. It was reprinted in several small channels, so some of you may have seen one or another of these entries. I'm going to post them here over the next few weeks or so, just because I think they might serve as a useful counterpoint to our ongoing discussion of openings and sentence scrutiny.

The series was called Redlines. I'll post them in order because they sort of build off each other.

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We'll lead off with a problem that I have encountered in almost every manuscript I have ever read: faulty paragraph logic. This is a particular issue in romance novels, with their unique need to continually balance action with the internal monologue of the point of view character. Consider the following paragraph:

The phone call spurred Kay into action. She could pay off her credit cards, be completely debt-free. She ran to the closet and grabbed a sweater, clean jeans, things she could pull on quickly. The news had been stunning, to learn that her raffle ticket had been pulled. Just the good news she had been praying for. Her shoelaces knotted and snarled from her haste. With the money from her winnings, she had options now, options that had not existed before she had plunked down two dollars for the ticket. She could fix her car. She ought to wear a raincoat, too, because the sky was gray. She didn't want the check to get wet! It was a new beginning, a chance to start over, and this time, she wasn't going to blow it.

In this example, there are two external plot factors: the phone call about winning a raffle, and getting dressed. As she is dressing, the internal monologue focuses on her plans to spend the money. The way the paragraph above is written, the two plot factors and internal monologue are interwoven – a technique that is often good and necessary, but here results in a choppy, disorganized paragraph.

When you have a paragraph logic problem, the solution is easy.
* First, identify the clusters of related ideas, the external and internal factors.
* Second, identify any causal relationships between them. For example, here we have a phone call that causes the rush to dress.
* Third, group related ideas together. Because the phone call causes her to get dressed, the ideas related to the phone call logically should precede the wardrobe discussion.

We end up with a paragraph like this:

The phone call spurred Kay into action. The news had been stunning, to learn that her raffle ticket had been pulled. Just the good news she had been praying for. She ran to the closet and grabbed a sweater, clean jeans, things she could pull on quickly. Her shoelaces knotted and snarled from her haste. She ought to wear a raincoat, too, because the sky was gray. She didn't want the check to get wet! With the money from her winnings, she had options now, options that had not existed before she had plunked down two dollars for the ticket. She could fix her car. She could pay off her credit cards, be completely debt-free. It was a new beginning, a chance to start over, and this time, she wasn't going to blow it.

Still not perfect -- we might consider, for example, whether this should be broken into two or more paragraphs. But the paragraph is better organized and easier to read. Again, sometimes braiding multiple lines of thought in one paragraph is a useful technique. But a little goes a long way, and too much results in paragraph organization problems.