Tag: Write Better (Page 4 of 6)

How Much Should I Study the Art and Craft of Writing?

November 15, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 0 Comments

Folks have asked me that question (the title of this post) more often than I can recount—mostly editing clients past and present, and members of writing groups I’ve participated in over the years. My answer is always this simple: As professionals, we never stop learning.

Learning comes in many forms, of course, but one of the important methods is the basic act of self-education, taking advantage of the ever-expanding library of books on the subject. I’ve read somewhere in the neighborhood of 70-80 of those over the past 30 years, many of them twice. I refer to a few of them repeatedly as reference guides.

Hey, there’s a lot to soak up.

The inevitable follow-up question has been this: “Hey, Diamond, if you had to pick just a few, which books would you recommend I start with?”

Everyone has their favorites, and many could, and surely would, offer alternatives to these, but here are my recommendations: Scroll down the page on the left, until you come to a section of book covers under the heading, “On WRITING: I Recommend these Books (Amazon).”

Each of those 8 books informed heavily my approach to both writing and editing. How strong has their influence been over the other 62-72 books? Or the thousands of articles I’ve read? I think the fact that I return to them regularly is all the answer I need give.

You would do well to absorb all eight of those books. Even if you can only start with one… start! Those covers are simple links to Amazon, if that helps. Or get them on eBay, or Barnes & Noble, or your local bookstore… but get them.

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

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Under the Heading of SHOW, DON’T TELL: With Words as Paint and the Page as Canvas, Paint Us a Picture.

October 24, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 3 Comments

This is a continuation of my last post, though I focus on a slightly different element of “SHOW, DON’T TELL.” Those three little words constitute one of the High Commandments of effective writing. It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Yet it requires commitment, determination, vigilance and inexhaustible effort.

We writers tend to get lazy with our prose as we rush through the first draft of a story. We so focus on the plot, the characters, the setting, the central conflict and eventual resolution—a proper focus, of course—that we pay too little attention to the words. If I may revisit a metaphor I use often: we so focus on the forest that we forget to enjoy the trees.

This, my fellow writer, is why the writing gods created self-editing, lest we fail to honor our covenant. We have much to address in the self-editing process, but for the purposes of this blog entry, I’ll focus on that one commandment: “SHOW, DON’T TELL.”

We most engage a reader when we create for him a scene he can visualize, when we fire-up the film projector in his mind. The longer our piece drags on without affording him the opportunity to exercise his mind’s eye, the likelier he is to set our story aside out of boredom. Put another way, the reader should see not our words, but the images those words create. Think of words as your paint and the keyboard as your brush, and paint a picture to compel the reader forward.

Simile and metaphor function as effective tools in this artistic pursuit, as they force the reader—if you’ve done your job well—to visualize your image and translate it to, or associate it with, the underlying, true meaning of your scene. Symbols will also enhance this experience for the reader. As a simple example, a gray, overcast day mired in a constant drizzle might highlight and heighten your character’s depression.

As is true of so many writers’ tools, you must use these to maximum effect, which not only means using them in the proper places, but also that you must not overuse them. Too much of a good thing can be… well, not so good. Give the reader a slice of chocolate cake as dessert, but don’t skip the meat and vegetables and force him to eat the entire cake at one sitting. We writers mustn’t make our readers sick.

As a rule, the shorter your similes and metaphors, the more frequently you can employ them. If you pop a quick, one-sentence simile into your story, you needn’t wait several pages to offer another. On the other hand, if you just completed a three-page metaphor, you don’t want to jump into another metaphor on the next page. Like all artists, you must apply a deft hand. Let your instincts guide you initially, and let your editor, your writers’ group, or your trusted reviewer help you refine and polish it. I offer now a series of examples from pieces I’ve edited or reviewed. As always, I shall keep confidential the authors’ names and story titles to protect the not-so-innocent.

TELL: He was by far the tallest person in the meeting room. >>>>> Note: First, the author started with the weak state-of-being verb. Second, the author provided nothing to stretch the reader’s imagination, to engage his mind’s eye. >>>>> SHOW: He towered above the others in the meeting room as if they’d all skipped over from the local chapter of the Lollipop Guild. >>>>> Note: Did you just see that moment after Dorothy landed in Oz? Perhaps you even heard their song. In the end, you should have concluded that the character “was by far the tallest person in the meeting room.”

TELL: He walked slowly and without enthusiasm toward the door. >>>>> Note: The author fell into a typical lazy trap here. Few adverbs are duller than slowly, quickly, loudly or quietly. Remember the value of body language to express a character’s mood and mental state. >>>>> SHOW: His shoulders slumped and his face drooped, as he dragged his feet toward the door.

TELL: “What are you doing with these jokers?” asked Little Butch. <P> Rosemary said, “Partying. What else?” She was sloshed. “You still going with Jennifer?” >>>>> Note: At issue is the simple description: She was sloshed. Sometimes simple is fine, and you don’t want to paint with too heavy a hand, but consider these types of sequences opportunities to paint a picture for the reader. >>>>> SHOW: “What are you doing with these jokers?” asked Little Butch. <P> “Partying. What else?” Rosemary’s words mixed in an alcoholic slur as she leaned against the car to prevent herself from falling over, and her eyelids bobbed in time with her head, as if they weighed a hundred pounds each. “You still going with Jennifer?”

TELL: The sky was a brilliant blue with a few white wisps scattered here and there. Her long smooth legs were warm from the sun. >>>>> Note: The key here is to replace the weak state-of-being verbs with more active verbs that bring the image to life for the reader. This typically requires some simple restructuring. >>>>> SHOW: Sunlight, broken occasionally by scattered white wisps, radiated through a brilliant blue sky and bronzed her long, smooth legs.

TELL: He knelt by the gravestone, completely exhausted and desperately needing sleep. He’d never been so sad and lonely. He couldn’t imagine what life would be like without Karen, the only woman he’d ever loved. >>>>> Note: It’s important to remember that readers hear you telling them that something happened, or merely that something was, when you pile on the adverbs and adjectives. Conversely, they envision the scene (see what happened) when you utilize active verbs and descriptive nouns. >>>>> SHOW: He collapsed to his knees alongside the gravestone, and expelled his last ounce of energy in a sputtering, tearful gasp. Silence shrouded the cemetery, broken only by his heavy breathing and the uncertainty that pounded like war drums in his mind. The love of his life, the object of his greatest dreams and desires, lay six feet beneath him, beyond his reach for all time. How would he survive without Karen?

Remember: The reader must see more than your words; he must see the images those words create. When you write, live within the scene, and paint a picture of everything that happens around you. Don’t tell the reader what happened; let him see what you see, hear what you hear, feel what you feel, as though he’s standing beside you inside the scene, witnessing and experiencing it right along with you and your characters.

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

———-

Under the Heading of SHOW, DON’T TELL: Make Your Characters Blind, Deaf and Dumb

October 20, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 5 Comments

No, I’m not suggesting you write a story where the only characters are Ray Charles, Helen Keller and Marlee Matlin. Although, now that I think of it, that would be quite the writing exercise, wouldn’t it, to create a scene in which the three of them interact?

I’m merely suggesting that a reader doesn’t really care what characters see, hear, feel, etc, in the most direct sense. In other words, she doesn’t want you, Dear Author, to TELL her THAT the character saw something. She wants you to SHOW her WHAT the character sees, right along with him, at the very moment he sees it. She wants to experience it as the character does. She doesn’t want to hear from the author, after the fact, that the character saw it.

This is truly the essence of storytelling. Perhaps we should coin a new, more appropriate term: Storyshowing.

The first step in eliminating excessive telling from your story is to find all instances such as those I list as “triggers” below, and to replace them with sequences that show instead.

SAMPLE TRIGGERS: She heard, he saw, I thought, we listened, they noticed, she felt, he looked, I peered, we smelled, they anticipated, she observed, he imagined, I wondered, I knew, etc.

NOTE: Like all “rules” of writing, this is not a 100%-er. You may have occasion to use appropriately these phrases in your story. However, these should be the exceptions, not the rules. These phrases should trigger a self-review. How can you better show what happened rather than tell that something happened? I offer now a series of examples from pieces I’ve edited or reviewed. As always, I shall keep confidential the authors’ names and story titles to protect the not-so-innocent.

BAD: I could feel the intense heat radiating from the smoldering hulk. >>>>> Note: In a first-person narrative like this one, the author is clearly in the character-narrator’s POV. Thus, when he mentions “heat radiating,” the reader already knows it’s because the character “feels” it. Not only should the author not tell us (show us instead); Author doesn’t need to tell us. >>>>> GOOD (Simple): Intense heat radiated from the smoldering hulk.

BAD: She heard the crashing waves of an incoming tide and she saw the gleam of whitecaps under the stars. >>>>> Note: Not only does the author tell us that the character heard and saw, he does so in a wordy way. Note how, in the show-us-what alternative below, I cut the word count from the original 19 to a more concise 11. >>>>> GOOD (Simple): Waves crashed on the shore and whitecaps gleamed under the stars.

BAD: She saw a wound at his hairline, deep and ragged. She peered closer and didn’t feel the horror she expected. She saw a portion of the white skull. >>>>> Note: First are the various triggers: saw, peered, feel, and saw again. Second, “white” is unnecessary in “white skull”—everyone knows the color of human skulls. Third, although the scene teases at an intense, gruesome image, its weak construction fails to deliver. >>>>> GOOD (Detailed): A deep and ragged wound pierced his hairline, and a portion of his skull protruded from his scalp, laced by tattered skin and tissue. Horror lingered at the edge of her mind, yet the grisly scene compelled her to investigate closer.

BAD: I knew then that there would be no more looking back to the future. My destiny lay ahead of me in the past. >>>>> Note: The author almost—almost—creates a compelling paragraph here. The first problem is the telling trigger: I knew. Please, it’s a first-person narrative—if the narrator is relaying events, of course he knew the events. The second problem is that it’s wordy and awkward. Some simple tightening, along with showing rather than telling, makes all the difference. >>>>> GOOD (Simple): There would be no looking back to the future. My destiny lay ahead of me in the past

BAD: He felt the wolf pack curl around him and his grandmother, and when he looked up, he saw his mother and his baby brother sleeping peacefully among them. >>>>> Note: We have the usual triggers here: felt, looked and saw. We also have redundancy: “he looked up” before “he saw.” Finally, we can trim back on the word count, from 28 to a more concise 19. >>>>> GOOD (Simple): The wolf pack curled around him and his grandmother, and his mother and baby brother slept peacefully among them.

BAD: “Come Fire,” he murmured before each life breath he blew. “Wake Fire,” he whispered as if into a lover’s ear and a timid crackle he heard. >>>>> Note: Set-up: The author uses “Fire” as a character, and thus capitalizes it as a name. The first thing that struck me was the length of the dialogue tags, which feel forced and awkward. By combining the tags into a single dialogue lead, the reader will better hear the tone of voice and emotion. Finally, the author ends with a classic telling trigger: he heard. >>>>> GOOD (Detailed): He murmured before each life breath he blew, as if whispering into a lover’s ear. “Come, Fire, and wake.” A timid crackle provided his first reward.

BAD: John looked at the sack with uncertainty. “I thought we would be attempting another animal first.” >>>>> Note: The first sentence, the dialogue lead, is a perfect example of where we writers must earn our keep. Most writers, and a fair share of editors, would think nothing of that sentence, and the author might be fine leaving it be. However, it is all telling. Now, let me make clear that some telling is fine, but you should always consider a situation like this an opportunity to engage the reader. The keys here are “looked at” and “with uncertainty.” The author could have run him through one or two brief mannerisms here—I’m talking about body language—that clearly shows John’s uncertainty to the reader. The telling is… well, dull; a little in the story is fine, but every reader has his own boredom threshold, so it’s always risky. When you show the reader, you pull her into the scene, you engage her, and that’s interesting for her. This author needed to stretch a bit. >>>>> GOOD (Simple): “I thought we would be attempting another animal first.” >>>>> Note: Yep, the author decided (rightly so) that the dialogue flowing between the two characters of the scene—their actual words—said all that needed to be said. The dialogue lead was unnecessary, and it interfered with the scene, so the author simply cut it—a good choice. However, for the sake of illustration here, let’s assume that he still needed to paint the scene and show John’s uncertainty. >>>>> GOOD (Detailed): John bounced his leg up and down and nibbled on his lip. “I thought we would be attempting another animal first.”

BAD: The lighting was dim and the only sound he heard was the piped in elevator music that played in a seemingly endless loop. He could hear Karen Carpenter’s “Close to You” over the relentless rain tapping on the ceiling of his cell. >>>>> Note: Note the weak word choices (was [2], seemingly, could) and the usual triggers: heard and could hear. Once again, the author should trust in the character’s (“he”) POV and just show the reader—paint the scene. >>>>> GOOD (Simple): Dim lighting deepened the sullen mood as piped-in elevator music played in an endless loop. Karen Carpenter’s Close to You accompanied the relentless rain that tapped on the roof of his cell.

When you allow the reader to experience your story at the instant your characters do, you make it possible for her to share in the emotion and impact of the moment. This mechanism, more than any other, draws a reader right into the story as though she’s a spectator at the scene. The difference may be subtle at times, the reaction hidden in the reader’s subconscious. Yet it’s often the key to making a reader say, even for reasons of which she’s not consciously aware, “I liked this story.” If you fail, she might instead say, “Eh, this story didn’t really do it for me.”

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

———-

Under the Heading of SHOW, DON’T TELL: Readers Can’t See What Something Is “Not,” They Can Only See What Something “Is”

October 6, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 3 Comments

If you’re a writer, you’ve already heard this primary commandment of effective writing: Show, Don’t Tell. Yet most writers say at some point, “Great! And just how do I do that?” Ah… if only one could offer a single, simple answer to that.

One example of violating this commandment is the placing of statements in negative form. E.g. John was not big. When you read that sentence, and you try to visualize John, what do you see? Right. Nothing. The words “not big” are vague and meaningless, and thus evoke no mental image. You must first decide what “big” even means, and then you must decide, by contrast, what “not big” means. That’s too roundabout—never takes you to a clear image.

In my well-worn copy of The Elements of Style (Third Edition, Macmillan, 1979), by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White, the authors state definitively on page 19, “Put statements in positive form.”

Now, many people revolt against The Elements of Style because the authors take such a dictatorial approach to their lessons: you must do this, and you must not do that. Okay, so there’s no such thing as a 100%-er; after all, writing is art, not science. Nonetheless, if you apply a dollop of common sense and a dash of critical thinking, and pay attention to how the human mind works, I believe you’ll come to agree with most of what Strunk & White command.

In the case of negative versus positive statements, at least, they’re dead on.

Reading is a visual experience. Now before you say, “Well duh, Diamond,” let me clarify. Reading is more than just seeing words on the page, it’s seeing the images those words represent. Your aim as a writer is to evoke those vivid images through the power of your words.

When you tell a reader what something is not, you’ve only told her what not to visualize. If you want to evoke that image, and tell the reader what she should see, you must tell her what something is. Let’s revisit my simple example above: John was not big, which contributed to his lack of confidence. >>>>> As discussed, this is meaningless. We know what you’re trying to say, but we can’t see it. >>>>> John was small, and rather self-conscious about it. >>>>> This is better, but still lacking. Five different readers will likely have five different ideas of what the vague “small” means. The good news is that they may visualize John in some way; the bad news is that they won’t necessarily see him as you intended. >>>>> At 5’4″ tall and 132 pounds, John fought constantly to embrace and project his masculinity. >>>>> See the difference?

You might be saying, “Wait just a minute, Diamond. It’s not about negative versus positive, but rather vague versus specific.” Actually, it’s both. Imagine if I had said this: John was not exactly a 6’2″ strapping hulk, and thus fought constantly to embrace and project his masculinity. >>>>> Once again, we have nothing to see. Indeed, it is impossible to say only what something is not… and be specific… at the same time. Specificity requires that you place the statement in positive form. I’ll leave you with this silly example to cement the point:

“Harry, what was it that broke through your front door and ripped your living room to shreds?”

Harry just stared at Tom.

“Please, Harry, I simply must know what the heck happened here!” Tom fidgeted on the edge of hyperventilation. “What was it? What did all that damage?”

“Well, it was not an aardvark.”

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

———-

Infinite-Verb Phrases Give Readers an “Act without an Actor”

September 29, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 12 Comments

Too many writers use infinite-verb phrases to open sentences. Way too often. Yes, that’s a strong statement, but I’ll stand by it, because I believe we writers harm our cause when we attempt to rationalize bad writing. The old excuse, “Well, lots of writers do it,” is no excuse. Lots of people do lots of bad things; that’s never proper justification for us to do them too.

We see stories through a series of visual images, and when a writer creates a disconnect in any given image, he reduces the effectiveness of his story. When an act occurs, and then the actor appears in the scene, we have that disconnect. Imagine going to a Broadway play, and you hear crying behind the curtain, but there’s no actor on stage. Then the actor appears, no longer crying. Disconnect.

Some people think that just because a participial phrase ties, at some point later in the sentence, to a subject committing the act, that it’s okay. Wrong. A participial phrase needn’t be left dangling to qualify as poor writing. All acts require an actor, yes; but in the proper sequence, please.

I once saw a post online that indicated this dangling participle was bad: Hiking the trail, the birds chirped loudly. Why is that a dangling participle? Because the subject who committed the act of hiking never appeared in the sentence. That point is correct, as far as it goes.

The problem arises when the author suggests this “fix”: Hiking the trail, Squiggly and Aardvark heard birds chirping loudly. Never mind the other terrible parts of that sentence—the telling (heard) in lieu of showing, or the weak adverb. The author suggests that because of the addition of subjects, the sentence is now okay. Not.

Let us just focus on the infinite-verb phrase to start the sentence. An act occurs (hiking the trail), and then the actors show up (Squiggly and Aardvark). Disconnect. The visual image is out of sequence—broken. That, Dear Writer, is bad prose. Great prose unfolds like a film reel; at no point in a film would we see hiking, even for a moment, without hikers. Disconnect.

When we deny the intricacies of human psychology, of the way our minds work, in order to rationalize bad writing, we’ve defeated ourselves. If you place the cart before the horse, how in the world can you expect the horse to pull you to your destination? Here’s a more effective sentence: Squiggly and Aardvark hiked the trail beneath a cacophony of chirping birds. As I’ve said so many times, Dear Writer, please keep it strong and direct. Your readers will love you for it.

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The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers – John Gardner (Vintage Books Edition, June 1991 — excerpted, in applicable segments, from pages 100-101)

Sentences beginning with infinite-verb phrases are so common in bad writing that one is wise to treat them as guilty until proven innocent—sentences, that is, that begin with such phrases as “Looking up slowly from her sewing, Martha said…” or “Carrying the duck in his left hand, Henry…”

In really bad writing, such introductory phrases regularly lead to shifts in temporal focus or to plain illogic. The bad writer tells us, for instance: “Firing the hired man and burning down his shack, Eloise drove into town.” (The sentence implies that the action of firing the hired man and burning down his shack and the action of driving into town are simultaneous.)

Or the bad writer tells us, “Quickly turning from the bulkhead, Captain Figg spoke slowly and carefully.” (Illogical; that is, impossible.)

But even if no illogic or confusion or temporal focus is involved, the too frequent or inappropriate use of infinite-verb phrases makes bad writing. Generally, it comes about because the writer cannot think of a way to vary the length of his sentences. The writer looks at the terrible thing he’s written: “She slipped off the garter. She turned to John. She smiled at his embarrassment,” and in a desperate attempt to get rid of the dully thudding subjects and verbs he revises to “She slipped off the garter. Turning to John, she smiled at his embarrassment.”

The goal, sentence variety, may be admirable, but there are better ways. One can get rid of the thudding subjects and verbs by using compound predicates: “She slipped off the garter and turned to John”; by introducing qualifiers and appositional phrases: “She slipped—or, rather, yanked—off the garter, a frayed, mournful pink one long past its prime, gray elastic peeking out past the ruffles, indifferently obscene” (etc.); or by finding some appropriate subordinate clause, perhaps: “When she had slipped off the garter, she turned to John”—a solution that gets rid of the thudding by lowering (hastening) the stress of the first “she.”

…Used indiscriminately, the introductory infinite-verb phrase chops the action into fits and starts and loses what effectiveness it might have had, properly set.

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‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

———-

Quality Counts when Publishing eBooks

September 12, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 3 Comments

I’ve been sampling some indie-published eBooks lately, and I must say that most writers are not helping the long, sad reputation held by self-published authors. Only the rare exception is edited and polished to a fine sheen.

No, I don’t think readers expect to see absolute perfection, which is, in any event, largely subjective. Even legacy publishers put out the occasional sloppy piece. The difference is that their sloppiness represents perhaps 10% of releases, whereas self-publishers offer sloppiness at the rate of about 99%. Big difference.

Spelling errors, bad grammar, punctuation errors, a bucketful of adverbs, POV issues and structural errors—all on the first 2 pages? Come on. How are they going to succeed in the long run when presenting that to readers?

I’m fascinated by the manner in which indie publishers respond to these kinds of posts. Most of them get angry, or feel offended, or both. Yet they’re often just one step away from an excellent book: professional editing. I’m not trying to insult, I’m trying to help. I promise.

Too many indie authors choose to forgo this expense, offering any number of excuses—though it’s invariably about money. They fear they won’t recoup their investment. Let’s be honest: that’s possible. They enjoy no guarantee of success, no assurance they’ll sell enough copies of their book, at a high enough royalty, to recoup those costs. Yet without solid editing, their chances of success decrease dramatically. We return to the old “chicken and egg” argument. Q1: How can I afford editing until I’ve sold a lot of books? Q2: How can I sell a lot of books if I don’t have them professionally edited?

If they stop for a moment to extend the logic, to consider their business model, they’ll come time and time again to Q2—and to its clearly implied answer.

When they publish their own work, they’re no longer JUST an author; they’re now a publisher. And publishing, like any business, requires a little up-front investment in order to do it right. They can minimize these costs, if creative (heck, just look at the Evolved Publishing model), but they cannot eliminate them—at least, not without dooming their business to failure before they’ve even left the starting blocks.

Many indie publishers are languishing with poor sales, finding the spigot turned off as soon as their family and friends stop buying. Why? Because only their family and friends will support them no matter what… even if the work is substandard.

They simply must have a well-edited manuscript, and an attractive, professional cover, and some kind of coherent marketing plan, preferably with the help of others working on their behalf.

When will I get tired of this preaching? When the world of indie publishers has converted. Let me have an, “Amen!”

Look, I say this not just as a publisher of eBooks, or as an editor of eBooks, or as an author of eBooks—I say this as a READER of eBooks. I’ve been sampling works to purchase and download to my Kindle, but I’m picky. If I’m going to spend my hard-earned money on a book, whatever the price, I expect a professional product.

One look at how few indie authors are actually making a living at it makes one thing clear: I’m not alone in that requirement.

Please, Dear Aspiring Author, do not shoot yourself in the foot. Be a professional. Do it right. And reap the rewards.

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

———-

Compelling Characters – Great Books Are All About the People

August 20, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 6 Comments

Think of your favorite novels. What did you love most about them? Sure, they offered a fun and interesting story, but I’ll bet that, in many of those books, you were compelled most by the people you met on your journey—the characters.

We’re not just readers; we’re people. We relate to other people… even if they’re fictional. The real trick to effective writing is to make us suspend our disbelief long enough to consider that maybe, just maybe, your characters are real people too.

To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee – If you love this book as much as I do, then you also love Atticus Finch and Scout. You see what they see. You feel what they feel. Personally, I imagined myself seated in a rocker on Atticus’s front porch, as we spoke of the law, of politics, of our mutual hope that Scout would know a better world someday. Perhaps because I knew so little of my own father, I imagined what life might be like if Atticus were my dad. Such is the power of great characterization.

The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck – I can still feel the dust of Oklahoma layered over me. I can still smell my traveling mates, the Joad family and Casy, as it had been several days since we last had the opportunity to take a decent bath. I can still taste the mush, made only slightly better by the one spoon of sugar Ma allowed each of us. I can’t see Tom in that coal-black cave of vines, but I can hear him breathing. “I swar, I even spoke Okey fer awhile, like they done.” I loved the Joad family—Ma, Tom, Rose of Sharon, and the whole gang. I starved with them. I cried with them. I hoped against all odds with them. Such is the power of great characterization.

The Stand, by Stephen King – This story offers a character-rich environment—easily a dozen characters to whom you can open your heart. How could you possibly not like Nick, Stu, Glen, Frances, and of course, Mother Abigail. You can even sink your teeth into a number of bad guys. It’s an imaginative story, to be sure, but the characters kept me going for all 1,153 pages (complete & uncut edition). I feared with them. I cared with them. I sacrificed with them. Such is the power of great characterization.

A Soldier of the Great War, by Mark Helprin – As I read the story, I truly learned to love Alessandro Giuliani, the protagonist. If I could have chosen my own grandfather, I might have chosen Alessandro. I so missed him ten years after first reading the book that I had to read it again. It didn’t matter that I knew the story; I needed to visit the old man I loved. Eight years later, I visited him for a third time. Soon, we’ll be meeting again. Such is the power of great characterization.

A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving – How effectively did John Irving bring Owen Meany to life? Despite the fact that the story itself often antagonized me, the reader, by virtue of politics with which I often disagreed, I still couldn’t put the book down. Owen Meany is one of the most compelling and unique people I’ve ever met. Yes, I met him, and he was just as amazing as I imagined he would be. Such is the power of great characterization.

These are only a few examples, varied in genres and styles, of novels that succeeded wildly not just because the authors told good stories, but because they brought to life great characters. They gave to us people who breathed, walked and talked on the page. They came to life and, in doing so, became a part of our lives.

What makes for great characterization? I can tell you what it’s not: he has blue eyes; she has red hair; she’s short with tiny feet and freckles; he has an aristocratic nose and wavy blonde hair. Are those details bad? Not necessarily. Are those details good? Not necessarily.

As a reader, I don’t like a lot of physical description. I always develop, when the author allows me to, my own mental image of the characters. I knew what Jack Ryan, from Tom Clancy’s novels, looked like long before Alec Baldwin or Harrison Ford played the character in movies. I knew what Nick, from Stephen King’s The Stand, looked like long before they released the TV movie. Rob Lowe as Nick? Sorry, but I don’t think so. Have you ever had that same reaction to an actor? Have you ever said, “No, no, no; he doesn’t look anything like that character?”

I liked Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch. I did not like Matt Damon as Jason Bourne. I liked Robert Urich as Spenser. I did not like Stacy Keach as Mike Hammer. I liked Tom Hanks as Forrest Gump.

You may feel different about each of those actors and characters, and that’s my point. For you, that female lead may be a short redhead with green eyes, a bit chubby, with freckles and an unfortunate birthmark. For me, she may be a long-legged blonde with blue eyes, a disarming smile, and a figure that takes my breath away. (Yeesh, I’m such a guy.) The freedom to exercise our imaginations draws us into a story, drives us to know your characters better.

Dear Author, please give us, your loyal readers, a little freedom.

What do readers really want in a character? We want to see her with our own eyes, hear her with our own ears, feel what she feels. We don’t want you to tell us that she’s afraid; we want you to show us the hair standing up on the back of her neck. We want to see her shiver, and see the goosebumps rise on her arms. We want to hear and feel her anguish over a lost love. We want to know her heart, her soul, her attitudes and desires—as if she were a good friend.

Such is the power of great characterization.

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

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Grammar

July 28, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 2 Comments

Okay, be honest. When you saw the title of this post, you thought, “Ah geez, do I even want to read that?”

Unless you’re a word geek, you hate grammar—as a subject; as a list of rules you must learn, and to which you must adhere; as an 80-lb ball and chain tied around your ankle and preventing you from sprinting to the finish line.

Yet language is little more than a recognizable set of rules by which we communicate. No rules? No language.

Can we ever break the rules? Of course, but be careful. Pick your spots, make sure they lend your prose a nice punch, and keep them to a minimum.

You’ll find the rest of this discussion here: When Is Good Grammar Required?

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

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Writers Need To Make a Living Too

July 27, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 0 Comments

A recent online article by C. Hope Clark, Are we speaking for free, too?, prompted me to dust off a piece I wrote long ago at www.Writing.com. I’ve decided to reprise it here, since I have a primarily new audience.

What’s a writer?

I once installed a new kitchen sink and garbage disposal in my condo. That doesn’t make me a plumber. I once built some shelves for my closet. That doesn’t make me a carpenter. I once watched a meteor shower streak through the night sky. That doesn’t make me an astronomer.

Writers are professionals. Professionals are paid for their work. Hence, writers are paid for their work.

Everyone else is an “aspiring writer,” or a hobbyist.

As an example, if you write short fiction and you’ve looked around at print markets for your work, you’ve no doubt discovered that more outlets don’t pay than do pay. Sure, they may offer “2 free contributor copies.” Oh goodie! Now I can eat something besides PB&J sandwiches and macaroni & cheese. Oh wait! Never mind.

Just in case that’s not bad enough, you might subsequently have this conversation:

MAGAZINE EDITOR: I discovered that you posted your story on a website where people have access to it.

ME: That’s right. It’s an interactive writer’s site. We review each other’s material and offer some constructive feedback, perhaps a little encouragement. We can all use more of that.

EDITOR: Sure, but people can read your story there.

ME: Yes, this story has had 138 views as of this morning, primarily by other writers, no doubt.

EDITOR: See, that’s what we consider “previously published,” and we expect “First-Time” rights.

ME: But it’s 138 people.

EDITOR: That doesn’t matter.

ME: 138. That’s 138 people in the whole world. How many of those do you suppose are part of your 1,200 subscribers?

EDITOR: That’s not the point. We pay for first-time rights.

ME: Really? What do you pay?

EDITOR: We pay 2 free contributor copies.

ME: Oh goodie! Now I can pay the rent this month!

(Pregnant pause)

Imagine calling a plumber to install your new water heater:

YOU: I’d like you to remove the old water heater, install my new one in the same spot, and dispose of the old one.

PLUMBER: Okay, that will require three hours of labor, which costs $270. Additionally, there’s a $50 fee for disposing of your old water heater.

YOU: Well, I don’t actually offer money for plumbing services, but I will pay “2 free written references.” Man, that’s gonna look good on your resume!

(Pregnant pause)

Yeah, how’s that new water heater working out?

It’s amazing how many magazine editors think we writers should feel “honored” that they want to publish our material… absolutely free. Yep, we should be thrilled that their 1,200 readers (Oh joy!), or 800 readers (How wonderful!), or 300 readers (Are you kidding me?) are going to read our story.

Let’s close out that first conversation:

EDITOR: You know, this would be a good job if it weren’t for you damned writers!

Yeah, it’s so nice to be loved and respected.

I’ll give you a little hint, Dear Writer: You create this problem for yourself… every time you agree to work for free. The sooner we all stop doing that, the sooner we’ll get paid for our work. You have the power. We have the power, and it’s time for a little peaceful revolution.

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

Wordiness Is Not a Style – Part 3

July 22, 2011 / Lane Diamond / 6 Comments

This article continues two earlier posts: Wordiness Is Not a Style – Part 1, and Wordiness Is Not a Style – Part 2. If you haven’t yet read those preliminary articles, please do so before continuing here.

Okay, so here’s the part a few people have been anxiously awaiting: practical examples.

Triggers: Specific Phrases that Often Lead to Wordiness

These seven items are some of the most common Wordiness Triggers I see when I edit.

There were / There was

Bad: There were stars shining….
Good: Stars shined….

Gave a/an

Bad: John gave a short laugh….
Good: John laughed….

It was [blank] that

Bad: It was the dog that ate it….
Good: The dog ate it….

There was a [blank] that

Bad: There was a cat that scratched….
Good: A cat scratched….

Found himself / To find himself / Found that

Bad: He found himself lying in a ditch….
Good: He lay in a ditch….
Bad: He awoke to find himself soaked in sweat….
Good: He awoke soaked in sweat….
Bad: He found that he’d been sleeping….
Good: He’d been sleeping….

In what they were / Of what they were

Bad: The humor in what they were singing was….
Good: The humor of their song was….

I’ve got / He’s got / They’ve got / Etc

Bad: I’ve got a terrible headache….
Good: I have a terrible headache….

EXAMPLES:

Now, let’s review a series of specific examples from pieces I’ve edited or reviewed. As always, I shall keep confidential the authors’ names and story titles to protect the not-so-innocent.

BAD: There was screaming, and it pierced my ears like needles of ice. NOTE: “There was” is one of our classic triggers. GOOD (Simple): Screams pierced my ears like needles of ice.

BAD: There were men attacking the village, and through their actions of burning cottages, the forest itself began to flame. NOTE: First, “There were” is one of our classic triggers. Second, a phrase such as “through their actions of” is a major red flag. Third, why say “the forest itself” when a simple “the forest” will suffice? Fourth, don’t provide an action that only “began to” do anything, unless you intend to interrupt that action before it’s complete. GOOD (Simple): Men attacked the village and burned cottages, and the surrounding forest soon flamed. GOOD (Detailed): Men attacked the village and burned cottages, and the flames leapt from cottage to stable, from stable to field, from field to trees, until they cast the surrounding forest ablaze.

BAD: I’m hopeful that I’ll find something. NOTE: The red flag here is “hopeful that.” GOOD (Simple): I hope I’ll find something.

BAD: The few remaining cars are nothing more than burned out shells sitting on bare steel rims where tires once were. NOTE: First, the phrase “are nothing more than” raises a red flag. Second, the final four words are utterly redundant. After all, everyone knows what purpose the steel rims serve. This is no less intrusive and insulting than telling a reader “water is wet.” GOOD (Simple): The few remaining cars, mere burned-out shells, sat on bare steel rims.

BAD: As in all wars, each nation involved believes that the fight will bring improvement in some way; each combatant seeks to gain something, or at least keep all or some of what it already has. NOTE: The first nine words drag out the start of that sentence. Second, I’m always suspicious of phrases like “in some way.” Third, consider the phrase “all or some of.” Yikes! Why even mention it? After all, what else is there? GOOD (Simple): All nations involved in war believe the fight will bring some improvement; each combatant seeks to gain something, or at least to keep what is already theirs. GOOD (Detailed): All nations involved in war believe the fight will bring some improvement; each combatant seeks to gain something, or at least to preserve their treasure, their families, their way of life.

BAD: His tone became less harsh as he spoke to the child. NOTE: Beware of anyone that “becomes” anything. Slap the writer’s wrench around that thing and tighten it up. GOOD (Simple): His tone softened as he spoke to the child. GOOD (Simple): He spoke to the child in soft tones.

BAD: With an open hand, he pushed Steve backward toward the sunlit stream from which the people of Centerville obtained their water. Steve found himself setting among the summer brambles that grew there. NOTE: Hmmm… is “with an open hand” truly necessary? Does it add anything? What of the word “sunlit” in this case—how is it germane to the fact they get their water from that stream? Details are great, provided they’re also relevant. If this detail supplements others, then fine; if not, kill it. As for the second sentence, beware characters who “find themselves” doing anything. The Nike marketing folks had it right. “Just do it!” They didn’t say, “Just find yourself doing it!” Finally, if the summer brambles didn’t grow there, how would they have gotten there? Please don’t state the ridiculously obvious. GOOD (Simple): He pushed Steve backward toward the stream from which the people of Centerville obtained their water. Steve fell into a patch of summer brambles.

BAD: Their eyes and minds work furiously as they attempt to discern her purpose. NOTE: Why else would they “work furiously,” except to “attempt” to do something? GOOD (Simple): Their eyes and minds work furiously to discern her purpose.

BAD: From where he stood, he saw her fog-colored hair that moved with the breeze. NOTE: All right, now those first four words are just silly. Would that be as opposed to some sort of out of body experience—from where he didn’t stand? Also, “that moved” is too much here. NOT SO GOOD (Simple): He saw her fog-colored hair move with the breeze. GOOD (Show; Don’t Tell.): Her fog-colored hair bounced with the breeze and assaulted her head in a gray swarm.

BAD: He should have a place to rest through eternity where she might visit him often while she lived, and she would bring flowers. NOTE: We’re getting silly again. First, would that be as opposed to having NO PLACE to rest, WHERE she might VISIT him often? Second, would that be as opposed to her visiting him while she’s dead? GOOD (Simple): He should rest through eternity where she might visit him often, and she would bring flowers.

BAD: A blanket of mist clung to the ground as Mary and John found their way. They threaded the rows of graves. NOTE: First, “found their way” raises a red flag. Second, the two short sentences provide a choppy feel. GOOD (Simple): A blanket of mist clung to the ground as Mary and John threaded the rows of graves.

BAD: When his controlling progressed to violence, and he started hitting her, she hid it from everyone. NOTE: To first say, “his controlling progressed to violence,” and then to say, “and he started hitting her,” is to say the same thing twice, in two different ways. GOOD (Simple): When his controlling progressed to violence, she hid it from everyone. GOOD (Detailed): When he moved beyond simple controlling and started pushing her, slapping her, punching her, she hid it from everyone.

Well, that should be enough for now—plenty to think about as you don the self-editing cap and return to your manuscript. Remember: Pith is not your enemy; it is your friend. Pith will not preclude you from writing high prose; indeed, it will aid you in that endeavor.

Always adhere to this High Commandment of professional writing: Make Every Word Count.

‘Til next time, and as always, remember: To write well, you must work hard. To succeed in this tough gig, you mustn’t be lazy (or discouraged).

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