Words Fail Me Read online

  How can you detect a dull verb? Your nose knows. Take a whiff. If a sentence has a musty smell, there's a stale verb lurking somewhere—in a cliché (Intel plays hardball ), in a predictable or routine phrase (A shot rang out), or maybe in a passive guise (He was given an A instead of the active and more forceful He got an A). Passive verbs, by the way, are often a symptom of indirect writing. There's more about how to protect yourself from this highly communicable disease in chapter 21.

  English is a vast, rich language, packed with interesting verbs. Use them. I'm not saying you should sit with Roget's Thesaurus at your side, plucking out wacky, eccentric verbs and shoehorning them into every one of your sentences. Just try a juicy verb once in a while.

  Interesting verbs are easy to recognize: they're fresh or unusual; a small surprise now and then grabs the reader's attention. They're active (I'll talk about the exceptions later). And they're strong.

  The strong ones are more than interesting—they're economical. They don't need to be propped up with extra words. Weak verbs need help (The stockholders asked insistently; The detective walked with a swagger), but strong ones support themselves ( The stockholders insisted; The detective swaggered). So if you spot too many props in your writing—adverbs like insistently and prepositional phrases like with a swagger—replace them with stronger verbs.

  Rooting out wussy verbs is an excellent way to start revising your work. (There's more about revision in chapter 30.) For instance, it's been my experience that experience is a mighty weak verb. Replace it if you can—and you nearly always can. In the handwritten draft of one of his lectures on literature, Vladimir Nabokov crossed out the word, changing "experience that magic" to "bask in that magic." Notice how the stronger verb illuminates the phrase.

  As for passive verbs, before condemning them I'll offer a word or two in their defense. You might prefer them in these situations:

  • When it's not important to say who did something: The merchandise was stowed in the cargo hold.

  • When you'd rather not say who's responsible: My homework has been lost.

  • When you don't know whodunit: Norman's manuscript was stolen.

  • When you want to delay the punch line: Julia was done in by a spinach soufflé.

  In most cases, though, a passive verb sits there like a plaster Buddha, one step removed from the action. The sentence Their meal was eaten in three hours is a snooze. You can hear the clock slowly ticking.

  An active verb has more energy, more buzz; it gets to the point sooner and with fewer words. The sentence They ate for three hours has blood in its veins, not embalming fluid. You can imagine hungry people gobbling and snarfing. Life, my dear, is being lived, if I may be allowed a passive verb.

  8. Call Waiting

  PUTTING THE SUBJECT ON HOLD

  I can't stand call waiting, an annoying necessity at our house. I get discombobulated when I have to interrupt one conversation and start another, and maybe even another, then try to pick up where I left off.

  Sentences can be confusing and disorienting, too. The subject is mentioned early on, then comes some other stuff, and maybe some other stuff, and by the time the verb shows up we've forgotten who's on hold. Putting a subject too far from the verb is asking the reader to take another call in mid-sentence.

  Here's what happens when a verb falls too far behind: Taking up his meerschaum, Holmes, secure in the knowledge that Moriarty's goose was cooked, popped it into his mouth. That's a confusing sentence, and not because it's too long. It's disorienting because the subject (Holmes)in too far from the verb (popped). What did Holmes do? We assume he put the pipe into his mouth, but for all we know, he might have popped the goose into Moriarty's.

  The solution is to bring the actor (Holmes) and the action (popped) closer together: Taking up his meerschaum, Holmes popped it into his mouth, secure in the knowledge that Moriarty's goose was cooked. The sentence is just as long, yet there's no way to misread it.

  If putting subject and verb close together is so easy and works so well, why do writers separate them? Perhaps they think it's less clunky to cram a lot of information in the middle of a sentence than to tack it on either end. Not true. Most of the time, it's smoother and clearer to put extra information at the front or the back than to lump it in the middle.

  Even when we understand a sentence, we can often improve it by moving the subject and verb closer together. Keep your eye on the actor and the action in this example: Drew, seriously ticking off the personal trainer who was helping her drop twenty pounds for her role as a bulimic princess, ate a whole quart of Cherry Garcia.

  If this sounds awkward, it's because we have to wait so long to find out what happened. There's too much information crammed in between the actor (Drew)and the action (ate). By the time we learn what Drew did that was so off-ticking, we've had a bit of a workout ourselves. Now let's put the doer next to what's being done: Drew ate a whole quart of Cherry Garcia, seriously ticking off the personal trainer who was helping her drop twenty pounds for her role as a bulimic princess.

  That's still a mouthful, but isn't it better? By keeping subject and verb near each other, you're dealing with one idea at a time. You aren't asking the reader to take another call, to put a thought on hold while you interrupt with more information.

  There's a bonus here that goes beyond the sentence. Once you get into the habit of avoiding digressions on a small scale, you'll be able to spot them in larger chunks of writing. Just as the parts of a sentence sometimes get separated or out of order, so do the ideas that hold together paragraphs, chapters, even whole books. Hold that thought.

  9. Now, Where Were We?

  A TIME AND A PLACE FOR EVERYTHING

  Did you ever wake up in the middle of the night, maybe while traveling or on vacation, and wonder where you were and what day it was? That's the feeling readers have when they can't tell where or when something is happening.

  And when more than one thing is happening, the confusion multiplies. Take this sentence, please! The director of technology announced that several employees were abusing their Internet privileges Tuesday at the staff meeting.

  Excuse me? Did the chief techie say this at the staff meeting? Or was that where the hanky-panky took place? And goodness, look at the time. What happened Tuesday? The cybercrime or the announcement?

  When we write, we often take such details as time and place for granted because they're obvious to us. They won't be obvious to the reader, though. This version clears things up: At Tuesday's staff meeting, the director of technology announced that several employees were abusing their Internet privileges. Simply by moving the time and the place, we leave no doubt about what happened on Tuesday, and where.

  The Space–Time Conundrum

  Even when there's only one thing happening, a sentence can be confusing if the time or place is unclear. Readers won't know where is there and when is then. Here's an example of fuzzy timing that you might find in an investment newsletter: Our technical analysts predicted the stock market correction last week.

  What happened last week, the prediction or the correction? Be clear. Make it: Last week our technical analysts predicted the stock market correction. Or: Our technical analysts predicted last week's stock market correction.

  When a reader is lost in space, a simple sentence can be simply maddening. What's the poor reader to make of this one? Buck lectured about the typhoon in Dublin.

  Was the typhoon in Dublin, or is that where Buck gave the lecture? The last I heard, Ireland wasn't in the tropics, so make it: In Dublin, Buck lectured about the typhoon. Or: Buck lectured in Dublin about the typhoon.

  The Misplaced Reader

  Words that help point us in the right direction (prepositions such as on, about, and around) sometimes give confusing signals. The reader might take an unnecessary detour or even a wrong turn. Notice how the preposition on can give a sentence two very different meanings: Jon wrote a book on Mount Everest.

  Is Mount Everest the subjec
t of the book? Or is that where Jon wrote it? You could clear up the confusion by using a clearer signal: Jon wrote a book about Mount Everest. Or if Jon likes to write in thin air, you could move the mountain: On Mount Everest, Jon wrote a book.

  Here are two more examples of how crossed signals can send readers in the wrong direction:

  The mouse ran around the clock. If the mouse ran nonstop, say so. If the mouse circled the clock, write it that way.

  There were rumors about the dormitory. Was the dorm the subject of the rumors? Or were the rumors spreading through the dorm? Say it one way or the other.

  Infinitive Wisdom

  Time and place sometimes go astray when a sentence has two or more verbs and one of them is an infinitive (a verb that's usually preceded by to). This example could be read in two ways: Alec asked Kim to marry him in the Jacuzzi.

  Did Alec propose in the Jacuzzi, or is that where he wants to get married? (Stranger things have happened.) Unless he wants a wedding in a whirlpool, make it: In the Jacuzzi, Alec asked Kim to marry him. Better yet: Alec proposed to Kim in the Jacuzzi.

  This sentence could also be read in two ways: Aunt Agatha threatened to disinherit Bertie when she caught him gambling.

  Did she threaten Bertie when she caught him? Or if she caught him? Make it: When Aunt Agatha caught Bertie gambling, she threatened to disinherit him. Or: Aunt Agatha threatened to disinherit Bertie if she caught him gambling.

  Every Now and Then

  Some of the words we use to tell us when and where—here, there, now, then, this, and that—can leave readers scratching their heads. If these words are used carelessly, readers can't tell where is here and when is now.

  In a letter to the local library board, you might find a sentence like this: Since the new branch is so popular and the main library is underused, it is here we should spend our resources. What does the writer mean? Should the bucks go to the new library, or the old one? In other words, where is here?

  The writer might mean this: Since the new branch is so popular, it is here we should spend our resources, not on the underused main library. Or this: Since the main library is underused, it is here we should spend our resources, not on the popular new branch. Those sentences may not be graceful, but their meaning is obvious. When here or there could refer to more than one place, rearrange the sentence to make clear which place you mean. Otherwise the reader will be nowhere.

  We can run into the same sort of trouble with now and then. Here's part of an e-mail that an insurance agent might receive after a fender bender: The roads were slippery even before the rain turned to sleet, and it was now the car began to skid. When is now? Did the car start to skid before or after the rain turned to sleet?

  Here's one interpretation: The roads were slippery and it was now the car began to skid, even before the rain turned to sleet. Here's another: The rain turned to sleet on the slippery roads, and it was now the car began to skid.

  Two more words, this and that, can also be used to indicate time and place. And like the others, they can be misread: The Hotel Pierre is in the East Sixties, and this is where she'd like to stay. Where is this? In the hotel, or in the neighborhood?

  We can clear things up by dropping this: The Hotel Pierre is in the East Sixties, where she'd like to stay. Or: She'd like to stay at the Hotel Pierre, which is in the East Sixties.

  Incidentally, these words (here and there, now and then, this and that)can trip you up in other ways, as well. For more on them, and on other kinds of illogical writing, see chapter 17.

  As is often the case, what's good for a single sentence is good for the whole enchilada. Get used to thinking about time and place with each sentence you write. Then you'll be less likely to muddle the larger picture. You'll keep the wheres and the whens straight from paragraph to paragraph, section to section, chapter to chapter.

  Now, where was I?

  10. The It Parade

  PRONOUN PILEUPS

  How about it? And while we're at it, let's talk about us—also he, she, him, her, they, and a slew of similar words, the small conveniences that refer to things or people we'd rather not mention by name.

  These words are called pronouns because they're substitutes for nouns (pro means "for" or "in place of"). Most of the time we can decipher the shorthand and figure out what it is and who they are. When the words in a sentence are in the right order, there's no doubt about it. Even when the word order is iffy, logic and context usually help us fill in the blanks—but don't count on it.

  This sentence leaves no doubt: The La-Z-Boy is moth-eaten, so Homer's replacing it. Here, it can only mean the La-Z-Boy.

  Add another noun, though, and the shorthand is blurry: The upholstery on the La-Z-Boy is moth-eaten, so Homer's replacing it. Is it the La-Z-Boy or the upholstery? Will the mystery noun please stand up? You might mean this: The upholstery is moth-eaten, so Homer's replacing the La-Z-Boy. Or this: The La-Z-Boy is moth-eaten, so Homer's replacing the upholstery.

  It is one of those creepy-crawly words that sneak up on writers. Every time you write it, imagine a reader asking, "What is it?" If it isn't obvious, either ditch it or rearrange the words.

  Be careful with sentences like this, with two or more nouns in front of an it: Philippe kept his opinion of the painting to himself until it became popular. Until what became popular, the painting or his opinion? Make sure the reader knows what it is. Try this: Until the painting became popular, Philippe kept his opinion of it to himself. Or in case he's an art critic: Until his opinion of the painting became popular, Philippe kept it to himself.

  If you'll pardon the déjà vu all over again, here's one more example: Yogi's book about the World Series was sold even before it was completed. Before what was completed, the book or the World Series?

  One way to fix the sentence is to drop completed and use a more precise verb that clears away the fog: Yogi's book about the World Series was sold even before it was written. Another solution is to add he, making clear who did it: Yogi's book about the World Series was sold even before he completed it.

  Who's Who

  If one shorthand word can gum up a sentence, imagine what a whole pack can do. Try to identify the pronouns in this pileup: Fred told Barney he'd ask a neighbor to feed his pterodactyls, but he forgot, they died, and now they aren't speaking.

  Whose pterodactyls? Who forgot what? Who (or what) died? Who's not speaking to whom? When you use pronouns, you know the cast of characters. Readers won't know and shouldn't have to guess. This might be what the writer means: Fred said he'd ask a neighbor to feed Barney's pterodactyls, but the neighbor forgot, the pets died, and now Fred and Barney aren't speaking. It's not elegant, but at least we know who did what.

  Even a short sentence can be confusing if it has a mystery pronoun: Duke said Boomer broke his nose. Since two guys are mentioned, we don't know whose nose was broken—Boomer's or Duke's. If Boomer took the blow, we could write: Duke said Boomer broke his own nose. If Duke's face was rearranged, we might say: Duke said his nose was broken by Boomer. (A passive verb comes to the rescue.)

  Those solutions aren't as economical as the original sentence, but clarity comes first. Sometimes we can solve a pronoun problem by using a different verb altogether: Duke accused Boomer of breaking his nose.

  Oh, one more thing about fuzzy pronouns. Don't substitute the former and the latter to make your meaning clear (Duke said Boomer broke the latter's nose). The result is annoying and pretentious. A good rule of thumb is to avoid the kind of pompous language used by people you'd like to punch in the nose.

  11. Smothering Heights

  MISBEHAVING MODIFIERS

  Mrs. Trotter, my fourth-grade teacher in Des Moines, once wrote a sentence on the blackboard—"The family sat down to dinner"—and asked us to imagine the scene. Then she added a word—"The Hawaiian family sat down to dinner"—and asked us to picture the scene again. Everything changed: the room the people were in, what they looked like, the clothes they wore, the food they ate. (T
his was before the Big Mac and Pizza Hut homogenized the American diet.)By adding only one word, Hawaiian, she transformed the whole sentence. I've never forgotten that lesson in what an adjective is and what it can do.

  Words that modify—or change—other words are miraculous inventions. Plain old family could mean any family at all. When you modify it with an adjective, in this case Hawaiian, you've narrowed the possibilities—ruling out, say, Japanese and Swedish and Nigerian families—but you've also widened the meaning, adding a flavor that wasn't there before. You've made a word, family, smaller and larger at the same time. If that's not a miracle, I don't know what is.

  Modifiers come in two basic varieties—those that describe things and those that describe actions. What adjectives are to nouns (words for people, places, ideas, and other things), adverbs are to verbs (words for actions).

  To appreciate the power of an adverb, imagine a sentence without one: The family rose from the table. Then imagine these: The family rose sullenly from the table. The family rose jubilantly from the table. The family rose drunkenly from the table. Only one word, rose, is modified, yet the entire picture changes.

  You can see why modifiers are so popular with writers. Tack on a modifying word or phrase and you get noticeable results with very little work. While you should know how to use modifiers, though, you should also know how not to use them. A skillfully placed modifier can bring a dull sentence back from the dead, but an inept one can be fatal. Think of these tools as weapons: load carefully, conserve ammunition, and always know where they're pointed.

  Too Much of a Good Thing

  It's no crime to be fond of adjectives and adverbs. Some writers, however, are so enamored that they can't resist slipping in a modifier wherever possible. Every thing and every action—every noun and every verb—is dressed up with a descriptive word or phrase, like cutout clothes on a paper doll. A simple sentence— Her face glistened in the moonlight—is not good enough. It has to be dolled up: Her tear-stained face glistened palely in the shimmering moonlight.