Writing

Elements of Critique: Adverbs, Why?

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Never Gonna Give You Up.

Nickelback, or Creed.

Amy’s Baking Company. (It’s from an episode of Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares that created a viral outlash on the Internet.)

Some things are universally reviled. (Seriously, the baking company episode is amazing and horrible. My wife is watching it now and like a train wreck, I cannot avert my eyes.)

While compiling my list for the A to Z, I saw ‘y’ and the first thing that came to mind was the much-hated ‘-ly’ of adverbs.

Soon after joining a critique group, I discovered that “-ly” words have a huge target painted on them. They were one of several problems highlighted with comments and lengthy explanations from our hostess. At first, I thought, “Surely they’re not so bad. I can occasionally use them, right? Sometimes they help clearly and fully communicate the meaning of the sentence.”

I was wrong, or at least too optimistic.

It’s so bad that I find submission guidelines for magazines with statements like the following:

We do not use adverbs in our magazine. If a sentence is written with an adverb, rewrite the sentence with a stronger verb.

The general rule is that adverbs are a form of telling instead of showing. I feel I’m breaking my ‘R’ post of repetition since I talked about showing versus telling already. But adverbs show up so often, and receive so much negative feedback, I wanted to devote an entire post to this subject.

The problem is, using an adverb tries but fails to tell the reader how a thing is done, which makes for weak writing and less interesting reading.

If a character is walking slowly, writing “walking slowly” doesn’t give the reader a picture. It tells the reader how a thing was done, and does a poor job of it. What does that even mean? How slow is “slow” in this case? Is it a careful kind of slow, a stumbling gait, or a casual stroll?

“Snow fell quickly” is… something, I suppose. My mind pictures more snowflakes fluttering down to the ground with the adverb present, sure. But is it a blizzard? Is it blinding? Is it building up or melting away, weighing down branches and covering rooftops? Who knows?

“The wind blew strongly in Lyllithe’s face” tells nothing. Is she uncomfortable or is she hypothermic? Does she struggle to make headway? Are her clothes flapping with each gust?

On the other hand, “Lyllithe stumbled through knee-deep snow, shivering and rubbing her arms in the driving wind” is showing the reader a picture through action.

The difference is obvious. So I look for adverbs when I critique, and point out these problems where applicable. On my better days, I’ll provide a suggested verb or two.

The magazine’s standard is a good rule of thumb: When an adverb feels necessary, consider if there’s any other stronger verb instead. There are exceptions, and we’ll see adverbs in published material. (I even used an ‘-ly’ adverb in my fourth line.)

These don’t have to be forbidden, but they should at least be rare. After all, even “Never Gonna Give You Up” is good sometimes for a laugh or a rick-roll.

Writing

Elements of Critique: X

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When thinking through my list, I came to X and wondered what to choose. Algebra came to mind first:

7 + 2x = 19
Solve for x.

X, or some other letter, is substituted for a number. And that made me remember times when numbers in writing stand out.

X also means the missing piece of information, the solution we need. That calls to mind times when there’s something missing in a piece of writing.

So today, let’s solve for x.

First, what are the rules for using numbers in text?

The Air Force rule of thumb is to write out single-digit numbers in words, and type numerals for anything double-digits or above. That makes great sense in professional or academic writing, where figures and statistics might come into play. It also works in personal writing like blogs where a sudden appearance of numerals won’t likely distract the reader.

The collapse of the Ottoman Empire took place 200 years ago. Eight nations sprang up in the ensuing chaos.

I started writing 35 years ago, working for two different newspapers, earning 12 cents an article.

In fiction, however, the reader’s attention is on the words telling a story. Interjecting numerals in the text sucks away the reader’s focus. We expect words but find numbers. It looks wrong. For example:

The ancient Cerune empire collapsed 10,000 years ago after a 500 year war with the barbarians of the north.

Compare with:

The Bloodsworn hordes crawled over the mountains, ten thousand strong, racing toward formations of Aulivar’s finest. The militia lined up in Suns of five hundred spears, shifting and trembling at the oncoming threat.

Oddly enough, the general rule is that the professional style writing can handle numerals, while the entertainment style of a story requires a more formal spelled-out number.

So when I critique, I pay close attention to the way numbers are used, because they will get the attention of readers.

I also try to notice when x is missing. Writing shouldn’t feel like an algebra problem where the reader is not provided crucial information.

To clarify, I don’t mean that stories cannot have an element of mystery. No detective story could meet that standard. Good storytelling in most cases leaves juicy tidbits, a breadcrumb trail that consumes the reader’s interest, a question that needs an answer. That’s required.

What I mean is when a piece of writing feels off.

It doesn’t connect. It feels flat. Maybe there’s no clear symptom or issue, but the reader is left with a general feeling of “bleh” like a case of a common cold. Perhaps “common” is the problem–the writing feels just like something familiar and expected, nothing that stands out.

I may not be able to identify the cause, but I know x is lacking in the piece. So I will at least highlight that sensation.

However, unlike math, critique is sometimes subjective. (Expect a post on this once A-Z is done.) I may feel that this piece has a fundamental yet unidentified flaw, and point that out. But I will clearly state this is merely my opinion.

It’s like ranch dressing. I hate it. Plenty of people love it. If I feel it’s wrong, I’ll offer my take, while recognizing my take’s value.

How much is that? Solving for x, I come up with an answer of “two cents.”

Writing

Elements of Critique: Wordiness

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In three months of limited mobility after a couple months of relaxation, I ballooned up to 250 pounds. No judgment of any readers intended in that statement–but the Air Force does not look favorably on an active duty service member gaining so much weight.

Over the last two months or so, I’ve put in hours on the bike and elliptical every week, while carefully tracking every bite I eat. I started programs to build back my push-ups and sit-ups to where they once were. I’ve eaten carrots while my friends enjoy carrot cake.

Today was my first PT test since surgery. I lost 30 pounds, hobbled through a 16-minute 2K powerwalk, more than doubled the push-ups I was able to do at first, and improved my sit-ups to my second best score ever.

I barely met the standards, but I passed the test. A half-inch more on the waist, or a couple less push-ups or sit-ups, and I would have failed.

Wasted words have a similar effect on our readers. We never know when a reader will say “That’s one too many,” and put down our writing. So I look for wordiness when I critique writing.

Sometimes my writing gets fluffy, bloated with excess words. Paragraphs fill up with empty “calories” and sentences struggle to push their meaning to the reader. Unnecessary words weigh writing down. It becomes sedentary and slow, when it should be direct and dynamic.

There are two kinds of wordiness that I look for: flowery and flabby.

Flowery is the elaborate description or long, drawn-out paragraphs that say nothing while sounding artistic. When a writer describes a table for a couple paragraphs, discussing the waves in the grain of wood as though the years reflected in the tree’s core like the tides of the ocean, leaving small traces of life… stop. Please.

Flowery is the woman who wears makeup and perfume to the gym, who spends most of her time pretending to exercise while attracting attention. It’s the guy who spends more time flexing in the mirror than lifting any weight. It’s writing that says, “Look at me, aren’t I just the prettiest sentence?”

In other words, flowery wordiness serves no purpose in a piece of writing and doesn’t belong. Critique should point this out and politely suggest a cut.

Unlike flowery wordiness, flabby wordiness at least tries to get the job done. But it huffs and puffs, pushing through exhaustion because of the added weight it carries.

Flabby wordiness shows up when included words say nothing to strengthen the point of a sentence. In critique, I point these out when they appear to offer no benefit to the intended meaning.

I’ve made part of a sentence with several examples of empty words I look for. These words add weight we don’t want our writing to have to carry around:

What I took out “was just that which very suddenly has really had” enough usage.

In almost all these cases the offending word can be removed with no significant loss of meaning. There are instances where they should be used, but these are rare.

Was verb-ing is a frequent structure that shows incomplete action. Incomplete action reads weak compared to completed action. Reword where possible. A similar problem word is “started,” as in “he started to verb.” There’s no need for that unless the writer is saying how long ago a thing began, e.g. “I started playing piano when I was eight years old.”

Just is often used as filler, as a way to show some slight difference. “Just after 9 PM…” “Just when I got back from the party…” Since the difference is so slight, it is unnecessary. The reader will get the meaning without this filler.

That is often used in a passive style of writing. “It was after 9 PM that I got back from…” “She is the one that Mr. Smith saw…” We want to write active, not passive. We want cardio writing, not couch potato sentences.

Which is similar to ‘that.’ It specifies certain details to distinguish this one from that one or from all others. But the structure is often unnecessary, and often brings ‘was’ along with it. Consider: “The bird which was in the tree eyed the cat which was climbing toward it.” vs. “The bird in the tree eyed the cat climbing toward it.”

Very is horrible. It’s telling the reader instead of showing, but it doesn’t even tell anything. “The loud noise” vs. “The very loud noise” shows no significant distinction. Find a different word. “The very mean old man” could be “The old curmudgeon” or “The cruel miser” or “The aged tyrant who ruled the kingdom of Front Lawn.” Anything is better than ‘very.’

Suddenly is telling. “Reader! Something happened! Be surprised! It happened ‘suddenly’ so you should gasp or something!” Exclamation points are clearly the punctuation version of this. If showing sudden change is necessary, then we should show it in the reaction of a character to the event.

Has is usually found in “has been verb-ing.” This is still not past tense complete, so it’s still not as strong as it could be. Ironically, writing an action in the completed form makes it sound more alive and exciting to the reader, as if it’s happening right now.

Really is another attempt, like ‘very,’ at trying to show emphasis. In the same way, it offers no measurement or indication of how significant an emphasis. We can use a stronger word instead. “The night air felt really cold” vs. “The frigid night air”

Had is often used to show an action took place long before the current scene. Sometimes “had” is used in flashbacks. Inspired by the noble rules of grammar and a desire to avoid any possible confusion, some writers turn into Sir Galahad’s brother, Addahad. They make every verb into “had verbed” because the reader has to know this is a flashback! However, if the sentence clearly shows the time the action took place, well before the current action, then there’s no need for “had.” Likewise if the flashback start point and end point are obvious, the reader doesn’t require “had” before every verb. They’ll understand.

Case in point, compare “When I had originally written this, I had been sitting in Starbucks where I had an iced Americano” with the following:
“When I originally wrote this, I sat in Starbucks sipping an iced Americano.” Eighteen words in the first version, thirteen in the second. Five words isn’t much, but this is one sentence.

Imagine reducing a plethora of sentences by five words each. That would be like spending hours on the “writing craft treadmill,” cutting down flab and achieving tighter writing.

And who knows? That might be the last bit standing in the way of passing a test and getting published or winning a lifetime reader.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Voice

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Watching kids learn to speak is one of my favorite parenting experiences.

I had my three year old in the car on a quick errand. We decided to bring lunch home to wifey and the other kidlets, so I asked my son where we should go.

“Umm… we need… cake pop!” (He recently tried a Starbucks cake pop for the first time.) “And I want… Power-ate!” (He has also developed a love for blue PowerAde.)

“So, Starbucks for cake pops, then McDonalds to get lunch and PowerAde?”

He replies, “Yeah. That is good idea!”

No one intentionally taught him the concept of a “good idea.” He’s learning and developing his own patterns of speech from what he hears us saying. He’s developing his own voice.

I have four children. I know what each of them sounds like, but I also know innately how they speak. Give them a bit of information to communicate, and it’s going to come out four very different ways–no surprise, because we each have our own way of speaking.

When critiquing, I look for a consistent voice that seems authentic to the character or the writer.

Consistency matters because once a voice is established, any break in it will create a distraction. If a character speaks with a drawl and drops the ‘g’ in all ‘-ing’ words, then I expect to see that telltale sign in the dialogue throughout the entire story. (Of course, writers must beware. The difficulty of reading altered spelling to depict an accent or dialect might outweigh any desired benefit.

If a character speaks with formality, thus she does not use contractions or vulgar speech, that may be a fine way to give her a voice. I will watch to see if she breaks that form at some point for reasons that don’t advance the story. (The prim and proper lady who curses in the face of mounting difficulties might be a way to show the reader how the stress is affecting her.)

In non-fiction, the writer’s voice still shines through, and must be consistent. If the piece is informal, such as a blog post, then maybe levity and an “at-home” sense of freely flowing speech would be appropriate. The writer might type out exactly what he would say out loud if the reader were sitting across a table. On the other hand, if a piece is more academic, then levity and familiarity in writing would not serve the purpose. That shift in voice would probably feel out of place or even inappropriate.

Consistency builds up the authenticity of the character or writer. Once I know how they “speak,” I come to believe them. They seem more real or influential as I read.

Authenticity comes from the writer knowing their own style or that of the character. I know I have missed something concerning authentic voice when a reader says, “I can’t hear the hero saying that. It sounds wrong to me.” I will note that if I am critiquing and find such an instance.

The problem might be a choice of words that doesn’t match the setting or tone of the piece. I had a teenager in a fantasy novel replying to an adult woman in an argument with “Lady.” Not “my lady” at the end of a statement, but “I don’t know what you expected, lady.” The biting tone might have been correct, but the word choice sounds far too modern.

Word choice can also trip writers up when we grab words without a good understanding of their nuances. Like a child using a word the wrong way because they don’t fully grasp its meaning, a writer armed with a thesaurus can be a dangerous thing. Without careful attention, we might see constructs like “the aroma of sewage” and “the stench of fresh-baked pie.” The words are correct for which of the five senses is utilized. But clearly they’re not the right words for the job.

Similar issues might arise from “Word of the Day” aids, new words we discover and love, or attempts at showy and evocative description. The words we select must feel natural; writing that calls attention to itself misses the point. Usually this is where I find metaphors that don’t quite translate and descriptions that fall flat.

In most of these cases, I will highlight, offer what that passage said to me, and offer a suggestion on how to clarify or fix the issue. That way writers can learn how readers receive their words, and make appropriate changes.

That creates a better piece now and a stronger voice and more consistent writer down the road.

And that, for certain, is “good idea!”

Writing

Elements of Critique: Unclear

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Imagine trying to get anywhere if directions on Google Maps had a “shuffle” setting like an iPod.

“Turn down 10th street then drive 5 miles on Highway 20? How do I get to 10th? I’m still on Washington, I have to get on Highway 20 to even reach 10th.”

Writing is like a road map for the mind. This is particularly true of non-fiction pieces with an academic style. The writer is giving the reader directions to follow the story or topic.

If the reader hits a giant Detour sign and wonders how they arrived at this point, something has become unclear. Good critique looks for lack of clarity in a submission.

Sadly, this is one area where “no news is good news.” It’s more difficult to search for good transitions and sufficient descriptions than to note their absence. I don’t think of all the times I’ve driven home with no delays, but every time road construction blocks my path, I remember it.

I’ll give some examples of what I look for, to ensure my point is clear.

For fiction, this may mean when we encounter whatever weird creative stuff is in the story, the writer needs to provide some additional description or information. The writer knows the world and can picture all the details of setting. Significant thought has gone into the backstory of each character, giving them real motivations and reasonable goals. The writer understands the rules of the society or culture and how those impact the scene.

The reader knows none of that until it’s put onto the page in a way the reader can understand.

Any time the writing slams the brakes on my reading and makes me ask what’s happening, I note that reaction in critique. That’s not what we want for our eventual readers, so it deserves the writer’s attention.

Similarly, with non-fiction, if the topic is unfamiliar or the knowledge presented is obscure, more description or background may be necessary. That will depend on the purpose of the writing and the audience for whom it is written.

A pamphlet might cover a problem with a broad brush approach, touching on many things while not going into deep detail. This will differ from a self-help book with entire chapters devoted to each symptom of a problem. A persuasive speech will make its case and potentially overlook the reasonable counter-arguments that might weaken the writing.

The rule of tight writing is to include only what the story or piece needs. Unclear writing might happen with both too much and too little information. It’s hard to define boundaries here. When critiquing, I have to trust my inner reader a bit and go with how a piece feels to me. If nothing else, that might be small feedback that confirms what the writer has heard from others.

Beyond “too little” or “too much,” there’s a bigger issue: a lack of transition.

Whether it’s an action scene, a detective chasing down a lead, or an article giving advice on writing critique, there has to be a sense of following a trail, going down a path, getting to the point. Writing can’t bounce around like a super ball.

When writing jumps from one point to another, that’s a place to highlight for critique.

Try having a conversation with a teenager. Their minds race and their mouths jump from topic to topic without any seeming rhyme or reason.

“I went skating with my friend – no, not Amanda, it was Vickie – hey did you know that Vickie got first place in the band competition? I want to learn to play the flute. Did I tell you about the sleepover tonight? I didn’t? Oh. I need five bucks for a gift for Tiffany. Who’s Tiffany? She’s Johnny’s sister. Who’s Johnny? Ugh… I told you about him last week. Can I go skating tomorrow? I need five bucks for that too.”

There’s a thought process that takes the teen to each of those points. But we can’t see it, so we can’t follow it. The same is true of writers and readers. The reader can only follow what the writer gives them as road signs and directions.

A good transition touches on both what came before and what’s coming next. It connects where we were to where we are now. Crossing that bridge in writing tells the reader the previous point has been made, and it gives them an idea of what’s next.

The purpose of writing is to communicate thought–a multitude of individual thoughts, in fact, arranged neatly in a logical progression into either a story (fiction) or a presentation of facts or opinions (non-fiction).

In critique, when bad directions, detours, and orange cones block the flow of those thoughts, make it clear to the writer. That way, the bad news becomes good news. The error can be fixed, the path smoothed out, so that future readers can take that same road trip and simply enjoy a clear view of the scenery.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Tense

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Some of my favorite sci-fi stories involve time travel.

Back to the Future was a fun and silly adventure when I was younger. The first episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation that I remember clearly involved an alternate timeline created by a starship accidentally traveling through time. Later, movies like 12 Monkeys and Terminator 1 & 2 echoed elements of some of the classics I read in high school English, like Oedipus. We also read the short story that captures the meaning of the term “Butterfly Effect.”

These all posed questions like, “If you know the future, can you change it?” Or “If you can travel to the past, could you affect the present?”

Though it can be fun to wonder and read stories that give possible answers, we may never know. Time travel seems impossible.

Even so, it’s something I look for when critiquing a piece of writing.

By that I mean I look for changes between past and present tense.

One of the fundamental decisions a writer makes is selecting the tense of the piece. Will this be written in present tense – actions as they happen – or past tense – actions completed?

Which one chooses doesn’t matter so much. (I mean, yes, of course there are debates that could go on about what tense is best for which genre, for which POV, for which type of story, and so on.)

What matters is consistency. The tense cannot change mid-sentence, mid-paragraph, mid-article, mid-chapter, mid-novel. Writers can give us glimpses into other times through their creativity and skill, but they must not make us travel through time through failure to maintain the verb tense of their piece.

Consider this example:

I looked across the room and my eyes met hers. She walks over to my table and introduces herself. “Hey there,” she said. “My name’s Amanda.” Her lips part into a sultry smile and she winks at me.

Pick a tense and stick with it. All past tense completed, or all present tense as it happens.

Most often, I’ve seen first person POV writing use the present tense.

I turn to him and level the gun at his face. “You can’t take her,” I say, “unless you go through me.” The hammer clicks back. His look tells me he doesn’t think I’ll do it. Then he lunges.

I close my eyes and pull the trigger.

The idea here is that, like life, we see what’s happening as the POV character does. We react to emotions and events because we’re in the passenger seat right next to them as this roller-coaster plot careens down the tracks. It can make for interesting action, though first person POV comes with its own set of challenges.

Certainly a first person work could tell the story in the past tense. A personal account of an experience as an example in a self-help article is an instance of this kind of writing. It’s the friend sitting over tea saying, “Have I told you what happened to me twenty years ago? Well, I struggled with self-loathing for years, and it got to the point that I considered…”

I’m personally not a fan of a novel or fiction story written in first person past tense unless done exceptionally well. I don’t like the idea that the character in the book is recounting to me the way things happened in his or her story. (For one, that’s almost always a good spoiler clue this character survived whatever conflict the story contains.) I’m not saying it’s impossible, just less common.

For third person works, most often I see verbs in past tense, actions completed, events written as though they already happened long ago.

She turned to him and leveled the gun at his face. “You can’t take her,” she said, “unless you go through me.” The hammer clicked back and she noted the sneer in his smile. He doesn’t think I’ll do it.

He lunged at her.

She closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

Even though all these actions are written like they happened in the past and the conflict is already resolved, our brains process the story like it’s happening now because we don’t know what happens — er, what happened next.

So what might seem like a boring, conflict-already-settled choice actually creates a dynamic tension in the reader. It’s just like how no one watches a movie thinking, “Well, this story has already been filmed completely. The ending is set. All these events already happened.”

Third person present tense is also an option not commonly seen, but possible to pull off with great skill.

She says to him, “We aren’t meant to be together.” So he grabs her arm, demands her affection one more time, and counts off all the reasons she ‘owes’ him.

She slaps him across the face so hard his nose starts bleeding. The other women in the room spontaneously cheer and give her a standing ovation as she stalks off.

To me this has the feel of a guy at the bar telling a wild tale. “You wouldn’t believe what I just saw happen.” I’m not a fan.

Past tense is generally preferred in 3rd person.

But sometimes a sentence may start with a past tense completed verb then show an ongoing action: “She thrust the spear at the bandit, yelling a formation command to her troops.” Even in that case, it’s clear that the action happened in the past, and another action was happening at the same time. It’s a way of depicting what’s going on in the “present” moment of the past tense story.

I’ve heard both sides of debate that such a formation is wrong or acceptable. I personally use it. And I don’t care one way or the other.

The only thing I’m looking for as far as verb tense is concerned is consistency. I’ll borrow a David Tennant Doctor Who quote here:

The Doctor: People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but *actually* from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint – it’s more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly… time-y wimey… stuff.

No, it’s not. Not in good writing. Broken verb tense creates a mess even the Doctor cannot fix.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Show vs. Tell

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“You never show me that you love me anymore!”

In some marriages (not mine of course, no, never) the couple sometimes discuss the status of their romance, and the above quote can (in rare cases) spill out into the open.

The man–assuming it’s the man being told this–will probably try to deflect the conversation with, “But I told you I loved you just the other month, and on our anniversary a couple years ago.”

We can safely doubt the success of that argument. Usually the complaint is coupled with examples of actions undone, such as “You don’t bring me flowers,” or “You haven’t done that thing I asked you to do every week for the last six months,” or perhaps “Will you stop typing on that stupid blog for a few minutes and stay awake long enough to have a conversation more than two grunts with me?”

(Note: No specific examples from my experience were utilized in the above paragraph.)

A similar complaint may sometimes arise: “You never tell me that you love me!”

The man being told this, in this case–although again it is wild speculation to assume it’s the man–may resort to defenses such as “But I did X, Y and Z.” In other words, “But I showed you how important you are to me by doing some action.”

Yet sometimes, a person likes to be simply told a thing they need to hear.

While I would never resort to critiquing such marital dysfunction–being far too humble and also unfamiliar with those frustrations common to less blissful pairings–I choose this eminently relatable example to demonstrate today’s topic of Showing vs. Telling.

There’s a simple truth in the above analogy: “Actions speak louder than words.” Most of what we need as readers (and what to look for when critiquing a piece) are the actions characters do which reveal their thoughts, motives, feelings, and goals. The default rule among writers is “Show, Don’t Tell.”

Here’s an example of hyper-telling to drive the point home:

The chill made Jo uncomfortable because it was so cold. Thankfully, she was so mad that she hardly noticed. She was so mad in fact that she was infuriated. There was lots of snow.

This should pain our inner editor to read.

Jo could shiver. Her teeth could chatter. The writer could describe her breath coming out in clouds around her face. Is snow still falling? Could it be?

Jo could clench her fists, or stomp around in the snow. She could mutter an imaginary argument with the object of her anger. Or maybe her thought might show us that she’s ignoring the cold because she’s seething and burning inside.

Any showing is better than the example provided.

Showing lets the reader play amateur psychologist and decipher characters’ personalities from their outward actions. Showing tells the reader what they need to know, without merely telling them a fact like a textbook.

Even my dripping sarcasm in the analogy at the beginning of this post tells the reader something without simply coming out and stating a fact. Humor and sarcasm can be a way of showing. (Warning: I do not recommend this method during arguments like those in the opening analogy.)

The default rule is correct. I look for writing that shows exceptionally well, and highlight that for praise. I also look for writing that merely tells when showing would better support the story and invest me in the characters. That I highlight for rewriting with a suggestion or example.

However, “Show, Don’t Tell” is only the default rule. There are always exceptions. First, some things aren’t important enough to the story or to establishing the scene to merit showing. Second, when dealing with anything supernatural or out of the ordinary expected experience of a reader, some telling is merited.

In fantasy and sci-fi, for example, a character may use technology or special powers unique to the story world and thus unfamiliar to the reader. A good way of doing this is to adjust the rule and play Show and Tell. The reader gets a description of what this mysterious thing looks like or what happens when it is used, and then they get a snippet of information about it.

Something similar applies to unfamiliar concepts in other writing. A religious piece might need to explain some of the theology or background information supporting the provided description. A non-fiction piece might relate the unknown new to something the average reader would understand.

Whle this is “telling” and thus arguably forbidden, it helps ground the reader in the reality of the setting. When I critique and find myself reading a showy description that leaves me clueless about what just happened, that’s something to note for the writer’s attention and revision. Likewise, when I find a useful tidbit of telling coupled with showing, I try to highlight that and praise the writer’s effort.

Because, as always, critiquing is about building up more skillful and confident writers. A thorough critique doesn’t just tell them “Good job.” It shows them what works, what doesn’t, and where to go from there.

Where are we going from here on the A to Z blog challenge? Well, I feel like a Time Lord writing this, but tomorrow in the future, we get to visit the present and the past. Grab your sonic screwdriver and charge up the flux capacitor. Get in your T.A.R.D.I.S. or deLorean, because things are going to get tense.

Fitness

Pain-ini

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Last week I whined about the juice bar in our gym on base selling what I presumed were pizzas at lunch time during my workout.
I’m all for unhealthy food choices as an exercise motivator. We used to celebrate Push For Your Pie Fridays at work, where we’d have a goal of total push-ups performed by the office team, with a pie to share at the end of the day as a reward. (I may re institute this plan in my next job.)
I’m the Spin Instructor who confessed I was only turning the pedals so I could justify a Caramel Macchiato later.
But at the 45:00 point in an hour on the elliptical, the aroma of fresh toasted panini is over the line of what is reasonable!

The political side of me says this is smart and this is capitalism. They have a perfect crowd of hungry customers.

But my rage will not forgive this affront.

It’s the Anti-Thin, the Abomination of Dietary Desolation. It is a wrong thing, a trap for the unwary. And there is nothing but despair within.

This is why I can’t come in here with money.

I want to burn that place to the ground.

I guess I’ll go eat my stinking can of tuna with some steamed green beans instead. And it will taste like ash, as my heart seethes with hatred.

They should know better than to mess with people on a diet.

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Writing

Elements of Critique: Repetition

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While going through this A to Z challenge, I’ve had to check my list often to make sure I haven’t written about something too similar to each new day’s post. When I originally organized the list, I ran into a couple topics that were almost repeats of another day. No reader is going to want to read the same thing a week later. We pick up on overused words and subjects. We notice when the writer is saying something they’ve already said.

That’s why I look for repetition when critiquing a piece of writing.

Repetition and overuse draw attention to the writing instead of keeping it on the story. Our writing is like a camera lens by which the reader can see the world we set before them. Repetition (like many other mistakes) is a smudge on the lens itself. We fix our eyes on the dirt as we read, and the image of the story behind it is obscured.

Consider these fairly egregious examples, and note that rarely is this issue so obvious:

He faced her and she noted his long face with a nose that jutted out of his face.

Flaming arrows rained down like flaming shooting stars, blanketing the area with flames.

Any time the same word is used twice in the same sentence, I want to rewrite it. With certain nouns (names, terms related to the topic at hand), this might be unavoidable. But when a descriptor is given twice in a paragraph, it feels like too much to me.

Sometimes the repetition is a character’s action or response to a situation:

“She cocked her head” (after having done so twice in as many pages).
“He furrowed his brow” (again, for the fifth time this chapter).
“She bit her lip” (as she always does in literally every tense situation in the book).

Reading out loud helps me catch some of these in my own work. “She cocked her head… wait, I just read that a few lines ago…”

The thesaurus can help here, so long as the selected replacements fit.

There’s one more area to watch out for, especially for fiction: the start of paragraphs. When a section involves a lot of action on the part of a character, the proper name or appropriate pronoun may find its way to the beginning of several sentences and paragraphs without the writer’s notice.

Lyllithe turned and faced her accuser… followed by a few sentences showing impending conflict.
Lyllithe ducked under his attack and sprang for the door… then some fight scene excitement for a couple lines.
Lyllithe slammed the crossbar down and felt the thump of his body when it hit… and this would make three in a row.

“She she she” can happen just as easily, and also occurs within individual paragraphs. For first person, the danger is compounded since there’s no real need for the POV character’s name. Thus we might see, “I this, I that, I some other thing.”

In writing clear, active sentences, we’ll see a lot of them start with a character’s name or a pronoun. That’s unavoidable.

The only cure for this I am aware of is rewriting to mix in description, dialogue, or POV character thoughts. Try anything to break up the monotony.

The one feeling we’re not trying to create in the reader is a sense of déjà vu.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Quotation Marks

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There’s an arguably crude joke about the Oxford comma (the one that you may have been taught does or does not go before ‘and’ within a list of items).

Consider the difference:

“The Secret Service agents brought the strippers, JFK, and Stalin to the party.”
vs
“The Secret Service agents brought the strippers, JFK and Stalin to the party.”

Maybe JFK and Stalin have a more colorful history than I knew.

Punctuation matters. But so does point-of-view, which is why that got the ‘P’ slot in this A to Z list. So today, I’ll focus on Quotation Marks (and other punctuation).

It’s my blog. I can cheat.

Quotation mark rules are easy to follow, but the marks are easy to miss, judging by the critiques I’ve done thus far. I watch for marks at the start and end of the quote, and I check whether the marks enclose required punctuation such as a comma, period, or question mark at the end of a phrase or sentence. And if the quote includes the speaker reciting a quote, then single quotation marks surround that recited quote within the double quotation marks.

There is one case where a question mark might not be enclosed in the quotation marks. If the speaker is asking a question using a quote, the question mark belongs outside the quote. For example:

“Did God really say, ‘If you eat the fruit, you shall die’?”

The fact that the first example I can think of is from Satan might be a clue that it’s easier to simply avoid this structure if at all possible.

Another note, with quote marks, is that you don’t have to end a paragraph with a quotation mark if the next paragraph starts with the same speaker speaking. The next paragraph starts with a quotation mark, and a quotation mark goes at the end of the speech, however many paragraphs it lasts.

Also, I look for new paragraphs to start with each new speaker. Having multiple speakers in one paragraph, even with proper punctuation, is a nightmare to the reader.

Enough about quotation marks; on to commas!

I started with a comma joke, and mentioned the Oxford comma. This is an example where either way is considered correct depending on the style required by whoever the writing is for. If it’s being submitted to an editor or publisher who wants it a certain way, then of course follow that guidance. Otherwise, I look for clarity or lack thereof, and critique as needed.

Comma overuse is the most common issue. Some of us probably learned to include commas wherever there might be a verbal pause. This can lead to some clunky writing. For me, commas separate clauses in a sentence, identify amplifying phrases, and establish lists of related items.

“She went to the store, but it was closed.” Separated clauses (independent first, dependent second)

“When writing, as with many creative endeavors, originality is of paramount importance.” Amplifying information phrase

“When he saw her, he waved to get her attention, but, shocked by the frustration on her face, he cowered.” Stuff like this just needs to be split into two sentences.

Shorter sentences with less modifiers read clearer than long, winding structures full of elaborate phrases. Those are things I look for in critique.

One special case of punctuation peril is the semi-colon. Sometimes we try to use them because they are often neglected, and it’s a nice change from the mundane. Contrary to what I often see, semi-colons only join two related independent clauses. That means if the semi-colon is removed, two complete sentences remain.

Both the independence and the relationship of the clauses matter. Wrong use looks like this:

“I try to use semi-colons sometimes; a neglected form of punctuation. It makes my writing look flashy and trendy; not mundane or mainstream.” In this case the problem is the latter phrases are not independent clauses.

“Sometimes I try new things in order to be creative; the semi-colon is a neglected form of punctuation.” The relationship is off here. I see this problem in fiction where two unrelated bits of description are thrown together with a semi-colon, like pulling ingredients out of the cabinet and throwing two at random into the pot, hoping for a good meal.

Semi-colons are a special kind of punctuation. They are almost never a case of must; we only use these when we should.

Finally, there is the ellipsis, those three dots symbolizing an omission of words from a quote. This can be in the middle, showing skipped words, or at the end of the quote, showing that the original quote goes on further but is not reproduced in the writing at hand.

Right example: “Four score and seven years ago…”
Wrong example: “I was reading Abraham Lincoln’s speeches, and… ugh, history is so boring.”
They aren’t designed or intended to be used as a symbol for lost train of thought, or walking into the middle of a conversation, or awkward pauses, or suggestive questions, and so on. Writers sometimes do this, and even get away with it. But that’s not the purpose of this punctuation mark, so I critique it. Misuse might draw unwanted attention (read: rejection) from prospective readers and editors.

You can quote me on it, so long as you use quotation marks properly.