writing

You are currently browsing articles tagged writing.

Adverbs, particularly those ending in -ly, have gone out of fashion these days. Many advisors to writers are now advising that we not use them. Preferably not at all. Or, if we must, then as seldom as possible. Naturally (oops), this leads to the question: What should a writer should use instead?

Here are some answers.

  • When the adverb is a qualifier (mostly, somewhat, possibly, very, extremely, actually, etc.), just don’t use it. Most sentences are stronger without the qualifier. Try it and see. I promise you: You NEVER need “very”. Ever.
  • Use strong, picturesque verbs, nouns, and adjectives instead of weak ones with descriptors. For example, replace “He spoke loudly” with “He shouted” or “screamed” or “ranted.”
  • Use metaphors. Instead of “He looked at her vacuously” try “He looked as if he hadn’t had a thought in weeks.”
  • Substitute an adjective. Thank heavens adjectives are still in fashion. Many writers do this these days. Instead of “She glared at him angrily” they write “She glared at him, angry.” Personally, I think this is a bastardization of the language, but many of these writers otherwise know their craft.
  • Substitute a prepositional phrase. “She glared at him in anger.” Hey, now you’ve got a rock-solid NOUN here!

If you are beginning to find this list arbitrary and even a bit nonsensical, please join the crowd. Many writers, published and not, rightly find the current campaign against adverbs unwarranted. I’ll go out on a limb here and say that all the great writers used adverbs. Even Shakespeare used adverbs.

This is a fashion we’re talking about, folks, and like all fashions, it will pass. Take the good parts and ignore the nonsensical ones. Lose the qualifiers. Strengthen nouns and especially verbs. Choose dynamic adjectives. Find metaphors that wake your readers up. Then, if you still have a place for them, use adverbs that sing. And use them effectively.

Tags: ,

Thank you, Catherine Ryan Hyde, for this quote from author Elmore Leonard. When asked what a person should write if he wants to make money, Leonard replied, “Ransom notes.”

You can read Ms. Hyde’s full article (on the economics of being a novelist) in DailyFinance here.

Tags: , , , ,

…it’s generally best not to say the things that go without saying. This is not, however, always true when it comes to real life.

Tags: ,

Gimme Grammar

Okay, I’ll admit it: I love grammar. I particularly love getting it right. When I was in high school about two and a half centuries ago I really enjoyed diagramming sentences. I could probably still do it, and I’d take some pleasure from it, too.

Like anyone with a passion about something, I do have my pet peeves on the subject–misuses that particularly annoy me. Don’t you?

One of the grammatical errors that I especially love to hate is the misuse of “whoever” and “whomever”. I once almost got fired over this. Really.

The incident occurred when I worked as a director of a software delivery and customization organization inside a fast-growing software product company. I was asked to review a brochure about our services that had been drafted by a young man who worked as a contract writer in the marketing department. The precise offending sentence has long been forgotten, but it was structurally similar to the following:

Our company’s services are indispensable to whomever wants up-to-date Web-site information.

Naturally, I corrected “whomever” to “whoever”, but the young writer didn’t make the change.

This went on for two revisions. I took the trouble to quote Garner’s Modern American Usage and other sources, all of which he ignored. After all, he was the expert on writing, not me. I was the software manager, and what do software managers know about English? Obviously–nothing. Finally, I lost my cool. I wrote him a scathing note about the importance of professional writers using correct grammar. He retaliated by complaining to his manager about me. (He showed her my final note, but not all the correspondence that led up to it.)

Despite the fact that I was correct on the matter and he unwilling to listen, I was the one who got the reprimand. The grounds, quite correctly, were that as a senior manager in the organization, I had acted unprofessionally toward a non-management worker. The fact that I was right had no impact on the matter. I kept my job only because I had my own evidence. I was able to show to what lengths I had gone to try to work with him before losing my cool.

In my part of the organization at least, we all cheered when the young man was finally let go.

That was a long time ago, and I really do hope that the young writer has since then learned the very simple rule that applies to “whomever” and “whoever”.

The error that he made was one of overcorrecting. He correctly noted that the “who(m)ever wants information” clause of the sentence was the object of the preposition “to”, and so he used “whom” (as in “to whom it may concern”). However, “who(m)ever” plays a role in the dependent clause also, as subject of the clause. And this role trumps the relationship with the preposition.

Garner puts it this way: Look at whatever grammatically follows (not preceeds) the “ever”. If it’s the verb of the following clause, use “whoever”. If it’s not the verb, use “whomever”. If you are in doubt, don’t overcorrect. Stick with “whoever”.

I learned an even simpler rule that accomplishes the same result: Substitute “the person who” or “the person whom” for “whoever” or “whomever”, and see how it sounds. The correct structure immediately becomes obvious. “Our company’s services are indispensable to the person who wants up-to-date information.” Not “the person whom wants the information.” Whoever, not whomever.

No question. No argument. No reprimand.

Do you have a favorite grammatical peeve, dear reader? Or a point of grammar that has always confused you? Please let me know. I will be happy to clear things up. I’d bet my Strunk & White on it.

Tags: , , ,

I’m attending Readercon this year for the second time. What a great con! For people interested in reading (and writing) speculative fiction, this is the con to attend. There aren’t many tracks compared to, oh, say, Worldcon–but all the tracks have to do with stories. And the folks attending, as you might imagine for a con devoted to literature, are literate. Also intelligent, friendly, and interesting to be around.

But, about the topic of this post. On Thursday night, Barry Longyear gave a one-and-a-half-hour presentation on “the care and feeding of imagination, how to unleash it and let it run.” What he showed us was, essentially all the background research he did to write his current book series, Confessions of a Confederate Vampire. In addition to copious background material on every character, real and fictitious, he has done meticulous research–historical, factual, visual, tactile, acoustic, gustatory and olfactory (where applicable) on every aspect of Confederate life and every place where his characters ever were. We’re talking hundreds and hundreds of pages and images and (where applicable) objects ranging from bullets to hard tack. He even learned to play a banjo and to pick out songs of the period.

I was so awed by the incredible depth of his research that it took me about the next hour to realize that he hadn’t talked about imagination at all.

What he did is to lead us to the door that opens into the silent, indescribable numinous space where imagination dwells and point beyond where words fail.

Thank you, Mr. Longyear, for the inspiration.

Tags: , , , , , ,

Today, my guest post about neurolinguistic programming (NLP)–and its usefulness for writers–appears on writer Jagi Lamplighter’s blog. NLP ties together speech patterns, unconscious subliminal actions and reactions, neurological processing, psychology, and self- and organizational improvement. Heady stuff–and fun.

Also, if anyone wants to know the true story about how I decided which dress to wear at the wedding, you’ll find it in that post.

Check it out!

Tags: , , ,

I’m thirsty.

I’m thirsty, and there are weeds in my garden that I can see from the study window.

I’m thirsty; there are weeds in my garden that I can see from the study window; and the protagonist of my novel has a major character-development problem that will be devilishly hard to fix. I’ll probably have to rewrite the first four chapters. Again.

I think I’ll go get a bottle of cold water out of the fridge.

I think I’ll do that and then put on my gardening shoes and go out and pull some weeds while the ground is still soft.

Who knows–maybe by then it will be time for dinner.

Tags: , , , , ,

Last week I wrote about how one popular writer gets around the “-ly” problem. Diana Gabaldon is the author of the much acclaimed Outlander series. I think the acclaim is well deserved. These are wonderful time-travel romance books that I am enjoying thoroughly and would recommend to anyone.

But Ms. Gabaldon has developed one stylistic quirk that brings me up short and right out of the story every time I encounter it. Which is, regrettably, often. In what might be a response to the current undeserved disfavor in which adverbs ending in -ly find themselves among self-proclaimed writing gurus, Ms. Gabaldon often simply leaves off the -ly. I’m not sure how she punctuates this particular variation on the language (I’m listening, not reading). Problem solved, right?

Well, gentle reader, here are some real examples from An Echo in the Bone. You decide:

“He turned for the shore, cutting smooth through the water.”

“Roger shrugged helpless.”

“‘What?’ I said startled.”

“‘You can’t leave,’ I whispered urgent.”

“Tears welled in his own eyes then, unexpected.”

“She bit her lip at that and nodded reluctant.”

I offer these examples reluctant, since I love this book wholehearted. But I do wish somebody had edited a few -lys back into it.

Tags: , ,

It’s all the rage these days among writer-mavens to advise the disuse, where possible, of –ly adverbs. (Some of us, for the record, disagree.) Substitute instead, these mavens urge, a stronger form of the verb. Use of –ly adverbs weakens your writing, they say, by implying poor verb choice.

I absolutely agree.

Oh. Excuse me. That was a mistake. What I meant to say is that I am in complete concordance. There. Much stronger.

Writers should use the strongest appropriate verb instead of a weaker verb and one of those pesky –ly adjectives. Where possible.

But of course this is not always possible.

In particular, these same writer-mavens also advise never to use speaker dialog tags other than “said” because they get in the way of the dialog itself.

“But my third-grade teacher encouraged me to use verbs other than ‘said’!” I gasp.

I remember—I remember, and this was half a century ago—the class making a list on the blackboard of all the picturesque, strong verbs we might use instead of “said.” And our teacher encouraged us to use them.

Oh. Half a century ago, that explains it. Times change, and so do writing styles. Nowadays, if dialog tags must be used, “said” is the one. It’s the only one where the writing does not insert itself between the reader and the dialog. This is fine. But now we face the conflict of two writer-maven rules: Always use the strongest verb form possible, except always use “said.”

And forget those –ly adverbs, even with “said.” What’s a poor writer to do?

I have been listening to Diana Gabaldon’s An Echo in the Bone, the seventh in her brilliant Outlander series. This generally well-written and thoroughly enjoyable book has almost completely solved the –ly adverb problem. (Which, you may have noticed from the previous sentence, I have not.) You see, it turns out that adjectives are still acceptable. Use them instead of those pesky –ly adverbs. Behold, actual quotes from this book.

“Only until the war is over,” he said, encouraging.

“You never said anything about wanting to write a book,” Ian said, curious.

There must be at least one construction like this on every page. Maybe more. I love this book, but the eradication of –ly adverbs is painful to listen to. Every time the –ly should be there but isn’t, I cringe.

Tags: , , ,

I have recently joined a new writing critique group, organized at least loosely through the Kentucky Romance Writers of America.

(Aside to everyone who knows me, knows my fiction, knows my home in New England: You are thinking, “Romance?” You are thinking, “Kentucky?” It’s complicated. Don’t ask.)

This crit group was so successfully subscribed that it divided itself into subgroups, and I am in the Fantasy subgroup.

(Aside to everyone who knows me: You are thinking, “Well, aha!” You sit back in satisfaction at knowing *something*, at least, that makes some sense. And I feel the same way. I know something about you, too.)

There are nine of us in this group. So far, maybe half a dozen have submitted pieces to be critiqued, and each of the submittals has received three to six reviews. The reviews are detailed and thoughtful. I can honestly say that the three reviews I received so far on my story have been eye-opening.

And not just the reviews. *We* are eye-opening. We are so different, one from another. We live in all parts of the country (okay, maybe more in Kentucky than elsewhere, but plenty of elsewhere too). Some of us are still in college and some of us have children who have already finished college. Though we all write “fantasy,” our works are in quite different genres. You would be surprised. Some of us have published many books; others are still hoping.

And here’s the thing that blows Dan away. The critiques are given generously, carefully, wholeheartedly. I’d even say lovingly. (Adverbs… one of our topics of discussion… Aren’t writers an interesting bunch? ;-)  In a profession where competition is so mind-bogglingly fierce, writers are unselfishly kind and helpful to one another. If any of us makes it, we are all genuinely happy. We want to boost every last one of us over the fence.

We’re in this together.

And here’s the thing that blows me away: We’re also all in our own separate worlds. Jagi frets over Kestrel and shapes him and smooths him and lives with him and loves him and molds him and makes him real. I do the same for Kell, and Linda for Moira. There’s no overlap. Not of time, space, world, or destiny. We create them with such love and such tenderness and such difficulty, and so imperfectly.

This is *hard work*.

We have to help each other, or we wouldn’t stand a chance.

Tags: , , ,

« Older entries