I love the Nixon reference: "Mistakes were made." The most profound passive statement ever.
Alicia
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Weasel words
Stephen has a blog post about "weasel words": http://manuscriptsburn.
I love the Nixon reference: "Mistakes were made." The most profound passive statement ever.
Alicia
I love the Nixon reference: "Mistakes were made." The most profound passive statement ever.
Alicia
Friday, May 4, 2012
Homophones
A homophone is a word that sounds like ("phone") another word but means something different: To, two, too.
Well, most of us have words we've heard but never seen written, and when we write them, we think of the alternate word....
Anyway. Just came across-- "The agent must explain the contract in Lehman's terms." Huh? Who is Lehman? That happens to be my grandmother-in-law's married surname, but.... I had to read it aloud to get what the writer meant: "layman's terms," that is, ordinary-person-not-expert terminology. The mistake comes from not having "layman" in the vocabulary. I do, because I grew up Catholic, and the world was divided among the clergy (priests and nuns and their superiors), the laymen (us who were in the True Church but not ordained), and all the heathens (everyone else). So I know what "layman" means (not an expert), but of course to a youngster who has heard it but never seen it, it's going to mean less than the surname.
So come on, confess! When have you made a similar mistake because you didn't understand context, because you had only heard and not seen a word?
And more embarrassing even.... When have you only seen and never heard a word, so you mispronounced it? I'll start: I remember getting to college and telling a professor that I thought TS Eliot was the"epp-it-home of modern poetry." The professor gently suggested that maybe I meant "epit-oh-mee."
Groan!
Alicia (The epitome of too soon old, too late smart)
Well, most of us have words we've heard but never seen written, and when we write them, we think of the alternate word....
Anyway. Just came across-- "The agent must explain the contract in Lehman's terms." Huh? Who is Lehman? That happens to be my grandmother-in-law's married surname, but.... I had to read it aloud to get what the writer meant: "layman's terms," that is, ordinary-person-not-expert terminology. The mistake comes from not having "layman" in the vocabulary. I do, because I grew up Catholic, and the world was divided among the clergy (priests and nuns and their superiors), the laymen (us who were in the True Church but not ordained), and all the heathens (everyone else). So I know what "layman" means (not an expert), but of course to a youngster who has heard it but never seen it, it's going to mean less than the surname.
So come on, confess! When have you made a similar mistake because you didn't understand context, because you had only heard and not seen a word?
And more embarrassing even.... When have you only seen and never heard a word, so you mispronounced it? I'll start: I remember getting to college and telling a professor that I thought TS Eliot was the"epp-it-home of modern poetry." The professor gently suggested that maybe I meant "epit-oh-mee."
Groan!
Alicia (The epitome of too soon old, too late smart)
Thursday, May 3, 2012
I admit-- this puzzled me for a moment!
One thing editors look for is subject/verb agreement, basically, if the subject is plural, the verb should be too. This gets more complicated with long subject phrases where there are several nouns. Here's an example of one that kind of stumped me for a moment. Usually I can "hear" the right verb, but this one... well. Took a moment's thought:
He pointed to the 2008 public offering, which exemplified the threat Facebook and the other social media companies pose(s) to Microsoft and other traditional internet companies.
Hmm. What poses? The threat? (singular, so "poses"--ever notice how "s" signifies plural in nouns, but singular in verbs?) Or "Facebook and the other social media companies?"
The latter. But I had to parse that, because the "ear" first put "threat" as the subject. Fortunately, the other "ear" is more skeptical, and "heard" something off there. So lesson is: When a sentence is complicated, read more carefully.
Alicia
He pointed to the 2008 public offering, which exemplified the threat Facebook and the other social media companies pose(s) to Microsoft and other traditional internet companies.
Hmm. What poses? The threat? (singular, so "poses"--ever notice how "s" signifies plural in nouns, but singular in verbs?) Or "Facebook and the other social media companies?"
The latter. But I had to parse that, because the "ear" first put "threat" as the subject. Fortunately, the other "ear" is more skeptical, and "heard" something off there. So lesson is: When a sentence is complicated, read more carefully.
Alicia
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Complexity
I've been trying to figure out for a while how to write this post. I want to talk about ways to build complexity into texts without undercutting the integrity of the story. This is not an easy thing to explain in general terms because -- well, it's one of those "know it when you see it" things. But let me try to explain what I mean, and bear with me if this gets a little abstract.
There's a certain kind of easiness in books that can result from everything being very clear-cut. Most books aimed at younger readers have this ease, and many commercial books tilt toward this end of the spectrum. The good guys are always good, even when wrestling moral demons. They might face temptation, but they prevail. The bad guys are always bad, even when their motivations are explained in a sympathetic or empathetic way. The characters say what they mean. There might be surprises along the way, but the action is clean and straightforward. We know what is happening, why it is happening, and what the consequences are. These can be excellent books -- "ease" is not code for "bad" in this case, but rather expresses a kind of clarity in the story that leaves less ambiguity for the reader. (ETA: The word "transparent" is sometimes used to describe this kind of writing.)
I don't like to use the word clarity here, really, because clarity in writing has a very specific meaning. Normally, when we talk about clarity, we are talking about the author's relative success in communicating a point to a reader. When the writing is clear, the reader understands the point the author is trying to make. When the writing is unclear, the reader is unsure of the meaning intended by the writer. All good writing is clear, whether it is simple/straightforward or complex/ambiguous.
The opposite of this, what I will call complexity, is not the result of unclear writing, then. Rather, the author's point is something that might be subject to interpretation, something that contains inherent contradictions or uncertainties. Think, for example, of "The Turn of the Screw" by Henry James. This is a ghost story -- or is it? A governess goes to a country estate to care for two children. She begins seeing adult figures who behave in unpredictable ways, and she learns that the former governess and her lover, an apparent molester, died before her arrival on the estate. The lover may have interfered with the children, as they say, and after an incident in which one of the children is lost on the grounds, the new governess is left alone at night with the older boy. She sees a reflection in the window. The boy tries to see it, too, but she prevents him. She tells the boy the dead man can never hurt him again, and the boy dies in her arms. The events in the story are presented with great clarity. And yet, literary scholars have been arguing for decades about whether this is a ghost story or a story about an insane governess who murders her charge.
The complexity comes from the ability to read the same thing in different ways without any loss of clarity. You can decide that the governess killed the boy, or that the ghost killed the boy, and either way, you could be correct. The text supports either interpretation. But what's more important, for our purposes, is that regardless of the interpretation you choose, the choice will not result in any confusion. The text is clear in either case.
So, if this is complexity -- a type of depth, perhaps, that allows for different shades of meaning -- how do we build it into the narrative? Can complexity be created deliberately? I think the answer is yes, but I also think there are many pitfalls in that path. The most common pitfall I see is the author who tries to narrate simultaneous but conflicting positions. At its most simple level, this is the character who is brooding over the unhappy state of her life in one paragraph, and filled with excited anticipation over an outing in the very next line. Is it possible for an unhappy person to look forward to an outing? Yes. Is it possible to present both aspects of that character in the same scene? Yes. But it's also possible to botch it badly, and I think the difference lies in the way these contradictions exist on the page. There must be some kind of transition between the ideas, some kind of causal connection. Compare:
My life sucks
and
tonight will rock.
My life sucks
but
tonight will rock.
My life sucks
but
I have to make sure tonight will rock.
My life sucks
but
I'm grateful that tonight will rock.
The first example presents two ideas that might be mutually exclusive, or that, at the very least, don't rub along easily together. The second presents a general rule with an exception, and it's straightforward without any added subtlety. The third presents a general rule with a goal for an exception, and it will generate some reader interest in the events and outcomes. The fourth presents a general rule with an emotional disposition toward an exception, and it will create some reader interest in the character's inner state.
The first doesn't work, and instead of creating complexity, it creates confusion. The rest work better, but each with different results. Depending on the rest of the narrative, each of those three might work, and any can be perfectly clear in the ordinary sense of the term clarity. If you choose the wrong one -- if you reach for goal-setting when we need emotional bonding, for example -- you might not end up with the right kind of complexity or depth in the text. And I'm convinced that if this isn't carefully controlled on a micro-level, moment by moment in the text, then there's no hope of adding up to a "Turn of the Screw" type complexity -- an entire story, rather than a single moment, that contains simultaneous different meanings.
So I guess what I'm trying to say (I'm still struggling to find the best way to elucidate this concept) is that complexity is built up in small moments, but each of those moments must be clear in and of themselves. If the contradictions in your narrative aren't presented in a clear way, in a way that allows the reader to easily grasp them, then you're not building complexity into the text.
Theresa
There's a certain kind of easiness in books that can result from everything being very clear-cut. Most books aimed at younger readers have this ease, and many commercial books tilt toward this end of the spectrum. The good guys are always good, even when wrestling moral demons. They might face temptation, but they prevail. The bad guys are always bad, even when their motivations are explained in a sympathetic or empathetic way. The characters say what they mean. There might be surprises along the way, but the action is clean and straightforward. We know what is happening, why it is happening, and what the consequences are. These can be excellent books -- "ease" is not code for "bad" in this case, but rather expresses a kind of clarity in the story that leaves less ambiguity for the reader. (ETA: The word "transparent" is sometimes used to describe this kind of writing.)
I don't like to use the word clarity here, really, because clarity in writing has a very specific meaning. Normally, when we talk about clarity, we are talking about the author's relative success in communicating a point to a reader. When the writing is clear, the reader understands the point the author is trying to make. When the writing is unclear, the reader is unsure of the meaning intended by the writer. All good writing is clear, whether it is simple/straightforward or complex/ambiguous.
The opposite of this, what I will call complexity, is not the result of unclear writing, then. Rather, the author's point is something that might be subject to interpretation, something that contains inherent contradictions or uncertainties. Think, for example, of "The Turn of the Screw" by Henry James. This is a ghost story -- or is it? A governess goes to a country estate to care for two children. She begins seeing adult figures who behave in unpredictable ways, and she learns that the former governess and her lover, an apparent molester, died before her arrival on the estate. The lover may have interfered with the children, as they say, and after an incident in which one of the children is lost on the grounds, the new governess is left alone at night with the older boy. She sees a reflection in the window. The boy tries to see it, too, but she prevents him. She tells the boy the dead man can never hurt him again, and the boy dies in her arms. The events in the story are presented with great clarity. And yet, literary scholars have been arguing for decades about whether this is a ghost story or a story about an insane governess who murders her charge.
The complexity comes from the ability to read the same thing in different ways without any loss of clarity. You can decide that the governess killed the boy, or that the ghost killed the boy, and either way, you could be correct. The text supports either interpretation. But what's more important, for our purposes, is that regardless of the interpretation you choose, the choice will not result in any confusion. The text is clear in either case.
So, if this is complexity -- a type of depth, perhaps, that allows for different shades of meaning -- how do we build it into the narrative? Can complexity be created deliberately? I think the answer is yes, but I also think there are many pitfalls in that path. The most common pitfall I see is the author who tries to narrate simultaneous but conflicting positions. At its most simple level, this is the character who is brooding over the unhappy state of her life in one paragraph, and filled with excited anticipation over an outing in the very next line. Is it possible for an unhappy person to look forward to an outing? Yes. Is it possible to present both aspects of that character in the same scene? Yes. But it's also possible to botch it badly, and I think the difference lies in the way these contradictions exist on the page. There must be some kind of transition between the ideas, some kind of causal connection. Compare:
My life sucks
and
tonight will rock.
My life sucks
but
tonight will rock.
My life sucks
but
I have to make sure tonight will rock.
My life sucks
but
I'm grateful that tonight will rock.
The first example presents two ideas that might be mutually exclusive, or that, at the very least, don't rub along easily together. The second presents a general rule with an exception, and it's straightforward without any added subtlety. The third presents a general rule with a goal for an exception, and it will generate some reader interest in the events and outcomes. The fourth presents a general rule with an emotional disposition toward an exception, and it will create some reader interest in the character's inner state.
The first doesn't work, and instead of creating complexity, it creates confusion. The rest work better, but each with different results. Depending on the rest of the narrative, each of those three might work, and any can be perfectly clear in the ordinary sense of the term clarity. If you choose the wrong one -- if you reach for goal-setting when we need emotional bonding, for example -- you might not end up with the right kind of complexity or depth in the text. And I'm convinced that if this isn't carefully controlled on a micro-level, moment by moment in the text, then there's no hope of adding up to a "Turn of the Screw" type complexity -- an entire story, rather than a single moment, that contains simultaneous different meanings.
So I guess what I'm trying to say (I'm still struggling to find the best way to elucidate this concept) is that complexity is built up in small moments, but each of those moments must be clear in and of themselves. If the contradictions in your narrative aren't presented in a clear way, in a way that allows the reader to easily grasp them, then you're not building complexity into the text.
Theresa
Monday, April 30, 2012
Want to be an editor when you grow up? :)
This question came to me via my editing page rather than this blog, but I thought I would answer it here.
My wife wants to try her hand at editing. She didn't study it, but has a natural cnack for it. I would like to know what is needed to become an editor, or at least a private editor. Does an editor required to have contacts from the start or can she start by doing the actual editing and building her client base?
Are there any things we need to be aware of before heading this way?
Oh, boy. This might not be the answer you want, but I will be truthful. There is certainly a knack to editing, or an instinct, if you will. I just know that I can see things in the way the words lay down on the page, and things like grammar and mechanics came easily to me. I've had that knack my whole life, but -- and this is kind of the bad news -- it's not enough, on its own, to make someone a good editor. It's an essential start, but it's not enough on its own.
So what else do you need? Hmm. A list.
In the beginning, especially, it helps to have seasoned bosses or mentors to help you with the process. I was grateful to have people who could guide me. When I had a question about the fixability of a particular issue, I had people I could ask. Later, after I became managing editor and then chief executive editor, I found myself in the position of being the one to help other, newer editors. That's a whole 'nother kind of skills-sharpening process, and it's very different from the way we teach and train writers. Part of what we have to do as editors is maintain objectivity about the book -- we can adore the writers and their books, and we often do develop close relationships with authors, but we can't let love of the book cloud the process, even if it was love of the book that led to the acquisition. It's sometimes difficult to be intimately connected to a project you love, and still, somehow, by some trick of mind and heart, remain separate from it. And I found it was even harder to help other editors find that balance -- and thank god, I had excellent editors on my staff. They made up for my weakness in this regard.
The best editors I know have all put in long hours in agencies and publishing houses. They've come up through the ranks, learning from seasoned pros, and most of them have degrees in literature or rhetoric or writing. A surprising number of them have teaching experience, too, which is more valuable than you might guess. I don't know how to substitute for that kind of background. Are there inexperienced people outside the publishing ranks with a talent for editing? Yes. Absolutely. I have no doubt of it. But it's how that talent is honed and developed that takes it from instinct to art.
And I just don't know how you get there on your own, without the help of seasoned mentors. Or, maybe I should say, I know I wouldn't be where I am today without the help of others. Maybe others could do it on their own, but man, that is not a task I envy anyone. You know the old saying, you don't know what you don't know? That's the trouble with a craft like writing and editing -- you can be excellent at one or more aspects, but if you haven't been exposed to the ones that don't come naturally, if you haven't had someone take you in hand and show you what you missed, how can you learn what you don't know? There are books, certainly, but there's really no substitute for working on a manuscript with someone smarter than you acting as your fallback. Theory is all fine and well, but it's the application of the theory that matters most.
So this is to say, I don't think anyone should start off as a private editor. I think that's something you grow into. A good starting position would be as an editorial assistant or an assistant to an agent, something that would put you in a position to be able to read and read and read some more. Raw work, not finished books. There are also quite a lot of digital presses who will hire new editors, but they generally pay wages that make their editors envious of children working in third-world factories. But it's a great way to get a lot of experience very quickly, so in the right circumstances, it might be the way to go.
Good luck! And have fun -- this really is a fun job!
Theresa
My wife wants to try her hand at editing. She didn't study it, but has a natural cnack for it. I would like to know what is needed to become an editor, or at least a private editor. Does an editor required to have contacts from the start or can she start by doing the actual editing and building her client base?
Are there any things we need to be aware of before heading this way?
Oh, boy. This might not be the answer you want, but I will be truthful. There is certainly a knack to editing, or an instinct, if you will. I just know that I can see things in the way the words lay down on the page, and things like grammar and mechanics came easily to me. I've had that knack my whole life, but -- and this is kind of the bad news -- it's not enough, on its own, to make someone a good editor. It's an essential start, but it's not enough on its own.
So what else do you need? Hmm. A list.
- You have to have good eyesight, and you have to be willing to sacrifice it. Eyestrain is a constant issue in this business.
- You have to be able to read quickly, but it's a very particular kind of reading. Reading for pleasure is not the same as the kind of analytical reading we do with a manuscript. You have to be able to not only absorb the page quickly, but also spot the flaws and fixes very quickly.
- You have to know when to leave it alone. This is probably the hardest thing to learn, and it can take a long time to really get the trick of editing without interfering.
- You have to have a truly advanced understanding of grammar. If you have only one set of grammar rules in which you can operate fluidly, you are at a disadvantage, and so are your clients. You have to be able to assess the author's native grammar patterns and know how to correct their errors, which is different from making it conform to your rules. And you have to be able to balance that native grammar with house rules, which is how editors sometimes get wild-eyed over things like serial commas.
- Above grammar, you have to understand sentence structure in a deep way. You have to understand how and why changing a sentence will change the way the reader absorbs it. It's a matter of controlling impact and pace.
- Ditto that understanding for paragraphs, scenes, subplots, and so on.
- You have to be able to correctly identify narrative elements and know how to shift story elements from one narrative element to another.
- You have to know point of view cold. I'm not talking about mere pronouns here. I'm talking about the way a character's perspective will influence the text, and how to work within and around that perspective.
- You need some understanding of market forces and how that affects reader preferences and manuscript choices. I don't edit children's or MG books because I lack the knowledge in these areas to make the editing process valuable and reliable.
- Contacts and reputation help. A lot. Mentors are essential.
In the beginning, especially, it helps to have seasoned bosses or mentors to help you with the process. I was grateful to have people who could guide me. When I had a question about the fixability of a particular issue, I had people I could ask. Later, after I became managing editor and then chief executive editor, I found myself in the position of being the one to help other, newer editors. That's a whole 'nother kind of skills-sharpening process, and it's very different from the way we teach and train writers. Part of what we have to do as editors is maintain objectivity about the book -- we can adore the writers and their books, and we often do develop close relationships with authors, but we can't let love of the book cloud the process, even if it was love of the book that led to the acquisition. It's sometimes difficult to be intimately connected to a project you love, and still, somehow, by some trick of mind and heart, remain separate from it. And I found it was even harder to help other editors find that balance -- and thank god, I had excellent editors on my staff. They made up for my weakness in this regard.
The best editors I know have all put in long hours in agencies and publishing houses. They've come up through the ranks, learning from seasoned pros, and most of them have degrees in literature or rhetoric or writing. A surprising number of them have teaching experience, too, which is more valuable than you might guess. I don't know how to substitute for that kind of background. Are there inexperienced people outside the publishing ranks with a talent for editing? Yes. Absolutely. I have no doubt of it. But it's how that talent is honed and developed that takes it from instinct to art.
And I just don't know how you get there on your own, without the help of seasoned mentors. Or, maybe I should say, I know I wouldn't be where I am today without the help of others. Maybe others could do it on their own, but man, that is not a task I envy anyone. You know the old saying, you don't know what you don't know? That's the trouble with a craft like writing and editing -- you can be excellent at one or more aspects, but if you haven't been exposed to the ones that don't come naturally, if you haven't had someone take you in hand and show you what you missed, how can you learn what you don't know? There are books, certainly, but there's really no substitute for working on a manuscript with someone smarter than you acting as your fallback. Theory is all fine and well, but it's the application of the theory that matters most.
So this is to say, I don't think anyone should start off as a private editor. I think that's something you grow into. A good starting position would be as an editorial assistant or an assistant to an agent, something that would put you in a position to be able to read and read and read some more. Raw work, not finished books. There are also quite a lot of digital presses who will hire new editors, but they generally pay wages that make their editors envious of children working in third-world factories. But it's a great way to get a lot of experience very quickly, so in the right circumstances, it might be the way to go.
Good luck! And have fun -- this really is a fun job!
Theresa
Friday, April 27, 2012
Exchanging slackitude for attitude
Sometimes a passage or scene feels "slack" to me-- without tension. And often it's not the action or conflict, but the sentences. And you know, I think I can pinpoint one common problem, easily remedied: using "and" as the most common conjunction between clauses.
He was late again and I let him get away with it.
He was late again and I let him have it.
He was late again and it was his mother's fault.
He was late again and it was too late for the movie then.
He was late again and that wasn't usual for him.
He was late again and he appeared disheveled and distracted when he appeared.
He was late again and it was usual for him.
He was late again and I had texted him to remind him of the time.
He was late again and it was really late this time.
He was late again and I was too happy to see him to be mad.
He was late again and that was after I gave him an ultimatum.
He was late again and I found my way to the theater.
----
You getting the point? "And" is occasionally the right conjunction, but usually something else will indicate more of the relationship between the two clauses. That's what conjunctions do. They "conjoin," but they also connect. Whenever we opt for "and," we're pretty much saying the only thing connecting A with B is proximity.
Let's try to imbue some attitude and take away the slackitude (note the comma before the conjunction... that's 1) correct punctuation, and 2) gives that pause that emphasizes that connecting word):
He was late again, but I let him get away with it.
He was late again, so I let him have it.
He was late again because of his mother.
He was late again, making us too late for the movie.
He was late again, which wasn't usual for him.
He was late again, appearing disheveled and distracted when he got there.
He was late again as usual.
He was late again even though I had texted him to remind him of the time.
He was late again, really late this time.
He was late again, but I was too happy to see him to be mad.
He was late again even after I gave him an ultimatum.
He was late again when I found my way to the theater.
--
So if you're getting comments that your voice isn't distinctive, or that your action scenes aren't very active, look for "and" as a conjunction. Once in awhile, it's the right conjunction. But often it's unrevealing and tension-less. Why are these two clauses connected? Can you show that connection? That will infuse a lot more power and urgency into your sentences.
Alicia
He was late again and I let him get away with it.
He was late again and I let him have it.
He was late again and it was his mother's fault.
He was late again and it was too late for the movie then.
He was late again and that wasn't usual for him.
He was late again and he appeared disheveled and distracted when he appeared.
He was late again and it was usual for him.
He was late again and I had texted him to remind him of the time.
He was late again and it was really late this time.
He was late again and I was too happy to see him to be mad.
He was late again and that was after I gave him an ultimatum.
He was late again and I found my way to the theater.
----
You getting the point? "And" is occasionally the right conjunction, but usually something else will indicate more of the relationship between the two clauses. That's what conjunctions do. They "conjoin," but they also connect. Whenever we opt for "and," we're pretty much saying the only thing connecting A with B is proximity.
Let's try to imbue some attitude and take away the slackitude (note the comma before the conjunction... that's 1) correct punctuation, and 2) gives that pause that emphasizes that connecting word):
He was late again, but I let him get away with it.
He was late again, so I let him have it.
He was late again because of his mother.
He was late again, making us too late for the movie.
He was late again, which wasn't usual for him.
He was late again, appearing disheveled and distracted when he got there.
He was late again as usual.
He was late again even though I had texted him to remind him of the time.
He was late again, really late this time.
He was late again, but I was too happy to see him to be mad.
He was late again even after I gave him an ultimatum.
He was late again when I found my way to the theater.
--
So if you're getting comments that your voice isn't distinctive, or that your action scenes aren't very active, look for "and" as a conjunction. Once in awhile, it's the right conjunction. But often it's unrevealing and tension-less. Why are these two clauses connected? Can you show that connection? That will infuse a lot more power and urgency into your sentences.
Alicia
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
R.U.E.
In the old days of paper manuscripts, there was an editing shorthand, "R.U.E.," that found its way into the margins of many manuscripts. That stands for
Resist the
Urge to
Explain.
This is essentially a problem of redundancy or repetition, as we'll see in a moment. But first, let's talk about why this is a problem. Any time you pause the flow of the narrative to explain something to the reader, the pacing lags. This can happen in ways both big and small, from large backstory dumps to tiny repetitions. But it's not just a pacing issue. It sends a subtle message to the reader that the author doesn't trust her own skills enough to communicate something clearly the first time through. It builds boredom and uncertainty into the text. Not a desired outcome, right?
So let's look at a couple of examples.
Okay, it's a boring example, but it illustrates the point. We have action to start the paragraph. The final two sentences summarize what she did in the action sentences at the start of the paragraph. First, we watch her actively check the plugs and switches. Then, the author tells us that she checks the plugs and switches. It's repetitive, and we don't need that final bit of restatement that summarizes all the preceding action. Dump it.
Sometimes, an author will reveal a trivial detail twice, using different narrative elements each time. Here, we have dialogue followed by action. Both accomplish the same task, to inform the reader that Carla is making coffee. Unless these are magical coffee beans or laced with arsenic or something, there's no reason to place this much narrative attention on them. And even if the are magic or poison, it's better to replace one of these redundant statements with something a little different. Maybe something like,
"I'm going to make a pot of coffee." And she'd make sure that bastard swallowed every drop.
"But wait!" the new writer says. "How will the reader know she actually made the coffee if I don't say so? She said she was GOING to make it. She didn't say that she MADE it. Different things, right?"
This cuts right to the heart of the confidence problem I mentioned above. If the character says, "I'm thirsty," in paragraph one, and then is holding a glass of ice water in paragraph five, the reader will understand what happened there. No need to show the character getting the glass, cracking the ice tray, running the tap, and so on. If the ice water is thematic or symbolic, you might want to give it this kind of narrative attention, but for the most part, there's no real point to super-detailed explanations of trivial actions. Hit the high points, and trust your reader to understand what's happening. You don't have to explain every minor step along the way.
What other things do you see in manuscripts that might fall under the "R.U.E." category?
Theresa
Resist the
Urge to
Explain.
This is essentially a problem of redundancy or repetition, as we'll see in a moment. But first, let's talk about why this is a problem. Any time you pause the flow of the narrative to explain something to the reader, the pacing lags. This can happen in ways both big and small, from large backstory dumps to tiny repetitions. But it's not just a pacing issue. It sends a subtle message to the reader that the author doesn't trust her own skills enough to communicate something clearly the first time through. It builds boredom and uncertainty into the text. Not a desired outcome, right?
So let's look at a couple of examples.
The Unnecessary Summary
Carla slipped into her raincoat and grabbed her purse and umbrella. Then she turned her back on the front door, and starting on the right wall, made a full circuit of her house. She checked all the light switches to be sure they were off. She unplugged the stereo, looping the cord across the top of the cabinet so it would be easy to reach the next time she wanted to listen to music. In the kitchen, she turned each stove burner as far to the right as it would go, and she made sure the toaster and coffeemaker were both unplugged. Carla never left the house without checking all plugs and switches. She was very cautious about doing anything that might start a fire.Okay, it's a boring example, but it illustrates the point. We have action to start the paragraph. The final two sentences summarize what she did in the action sentences at the start of the paragraph. First, we watch her actively check the plugs and switches. Then, the author tells us that she checks the plugs and switches. It's repetitive, and we don't need that final bit of restatement that summarizes all the preceding action. Dump it.
The Double-Down
"I'm going to make a pot of coffee." Carla made a pot of coffee.Sometimes, an author will reveal a trivial detail twice, using different narrative elements each time. Here, we have dialogue followed by action. Both accomplish the same task, to inform the reader that Carla is making coffee. Unless these are magical coffee beans or laced with arsenic or something, there's no reason to place this much narrative attention on them. And even if the are magic or poison, it's better to replace one of these redundant statements with something a little different. Maybe something like,
"I'm going to make a pot of coffee." And she'd make sure that bastard swallowed every drop.
The Blow-by-Blow
"But wait!" the new writer says. "How will the reader know she actually made the coffee if I don't say so? She said she was GOING to make it. She didn't say that she MADE it. Different things, right?"
This cuts right to the heart of the confidence problem I mentioned above. If the character says, "I'm thirsty," in paragraph one, and then is holding a glass of ice water in paragraph five, the reader will understand what happened there. No need to show the character getting the glass, cracking the ice tray, running the tap, and so on. If the ice water is thematic or symbolic, you might want to give it this kind of narrative attention, but for the most part, there's no real point to super-detailed explanations of trivial actions. Hit the high points, and trust your reader to understand what's happening. You don't have to explain every minor step along the way.
What other things do you see in manuscripts that might fall under the "R.U.E." category?
Theresa
Friday, April 20, 2012
Editing a Sample at RU
Today at Romance University, we take a look at a sample that needed a bit of a scramble to fix the pacing and focus. This is the kind of edit that walks the line between content and line editing. Take a look!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
AP allows "hopefully"
I hesitate to post anything so controversial as this, but it's a triumph of usage over rules.
Alicia
Alicia
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