Words Fail Me Read online

  The city of Freedonia must be prepared for development on all land that is vacant or underdeveloped—about twelve percent of the total acreage. To estimate the development potential of these parcels, our chief planner, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff, weighed the physical, regulatory, and environmental constraints. Taking these into consideration, he estimates that about half of this land is developable, excluding easements for the viaduct. Development pressures will continue to increase while Sylvania, Dukesbury, and other neighboring municipalities become more developed and people are attracted by the character of your city. As our legal adviser, J. Cheever Loophole, has pointed out, the challenge is not whether to grow, because growth is inevitable. The challenge is to find a way to grow while preserving the ambience of Freedonia.

  Quite an eyeful, isn't it? You might argue that the paragraph is reasonable as it is. You might even like it, since it does seem to follow one train of thought from beginning to end. Well, I like cheeseburgers but I don't try to swallow them whole. I'd recommend breaking the paragraph in two after the word viaduct. Why viaduct? Because a shift in focus takes place there, as the writer turns from statistics to what it all means. Now read the example again, this time as two paragraphs. It's no less reasonable, and the reader gets a break.

  The city of Freedonia must be prepared for development on all land that is vacant or underdeveloped—about twelve percent of the total acreage. To estimate the development potential of these parcels, our chief planner, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff, weighed the physical, regulatory, and environmental constraints. Taking these into consideration, he estimates that about half of this land is developable, excluding easements for the viaduct.

  Development pressures will continue to increase while Sylvania, Dukesbury, and other neighboring municipalities become more developed and people are attracted by the character of your city. As our legal adviser, J. Cheever Loophole, has pointed out, the challenge is not whether to grow, because growth is inevitable. The challenge is to find a way to grow while preserving the ambience of Freedonia.

  Pauses aren't merely restful. They're convenient in other ways as well. By dividing a piece of writing into eye-size chunks, paragraphs help readers who want to review what they've read. I find paragraphs especially useful when I want to reread a passage, refresh my memory quickly, or find my place again after stopping to check on the soufflé or walk the Rottweilers.

  If all a paragraph did was give the reader a break, that would be enough. But it does something even more important. Each pause is a signal from the writer that one train of thought has passed and another is arriving.

  That's why you can't just start a new paragraph every two sentences, say, or every three or four. A new one should begin when a new idea comes along. By "new idea" Idon't mean a complete change of topic. If a paragraph gets too long, you might divide it where there's a shift in the direction, the perspective, or the focus (as in the Freedonia example, when we moved from the details to the big picture). Or if there's an important sentence buried deep inside, you might use it to start a new paragraph. No matter what they say, size does matter.

  Nice Work If You Can Get It

  Each sentence in a paragraph has a job—to nudge the main idea along. If a sentence isn't doing its job, it doesn't belong in the paragraph. I know it's hard to dump a nifty sentence you like simply because it doesn't fit in. But a writer's got to do what a writer's got to do.

  Let's take a look at a few sentences that might have been written for an ornithological journal:

  The courtship behavior of the reclusive bristlerumped partridge is unique and rarely observed. Native only to Utah, the partridge performs its mating dance entirely on one leg, the male on the right leg and the hen on the left. As with other grouse, the male is polygamous. One mating pair, recorded by Dr. Rufous Piper, performed the ceremonial dance while hopping in concentric circles, grooming each other's bristles and waving their free legs in the air.

  With one exception, each sentence advances the paragraph's main subject, the birds' unique mating ritual. Yes, as you've probably guessed, the sentence about the male's polygamy belongs in some other paragraph. The polygamy isn't unique, and it has nothing to do with the mating dance.

  A Sense of Purpose

  Just as each sentence in a paragraph has a job, so does each paragraph. Sentences advance the main idea of a paragraph, and paragraphs advance the main idea—the purpose—of the piece you're writing. In both cases, you're using a part to move the reader farther along in the whole.

  The difference, though, is that paragraphs aren't knit as closely together as sentences. The leap from paragraph to paragraph is bigger than the leap from sentence to sentence. That's because successive paragraphs don't necessarily get us from here to there by moving in a straight line. They can change direction by giving us something new. They can change focus by moving from the specific to the general or vice versa. Or they can change perspective by showing us a subject from a different angle.

  Like sentences, paragraphs can be in the right order and still not follow one another smoothly. You may need a bridge to link them, to let the reader know where you're going. That's why we have such expressions as on the other hand and to make matters worse and meanwhile.

  Keep in mind that change is what a new paragraph is all about, and readers know that. Paragraphs don't have to hold hands the way sentences do. It's enough that they share a sense of purpose.

  15. The Elongated Yellow Fruit

  FEAR OF REPETITION

  Some writers think there's an unwritten rule against repeating themselves. They'll do anything to avoid using the same word twice in the same passage, coming up with ungainly synonyms only the late Mr. Roget could love.

  Put down the thesaurus. A snake by any other name wouldn't be as snakelike. Why call it a serpent the second time it slithers into view, a legless reptile the next time, and a member of the suborder Ophidia the time after that? Editors call this phobia "elegant variation." Charles W. Morton called it the "elongated-yellow-fruit school of writing," for people who can't bring themselves to use "banana" twice. A word that's just right is always better than a lame imitation.

  Fear of repetition is especially common among journalists. In the belief that variety is creativity, many of them go through painful contortions to avoid using an important word twice:

  As the Cardinal briefed the Pope on plans for the Holy Father's visit, His Eminence told His Holiness that the Pontiffs trip was eagerly awaited by worshipers who had never seen God's Vicar in person.

  If you're guilty of writing like that, cease and desist. Skilled writers (some are even journalists) know they can use repetition to their advantage, building power with each echo of a word or phrase or sound. You're already familiar with some famous examples, from Shakespeare ("And Brutus is an honorable man") to Lincoln ("of the people, by the people, for the people") to James Joyce ("and yes I said yes I will Yes")to the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. ("I have a dream"). Thank heavens they didn't avoid repeating themselves. What if Poe's Raven had squawked "Nevermore" only once and never more? I cringe to imagine it: Quoth the Raven, "Fat chance," or "In a pig's eye," or "Not bloody likely."

  Variety is a wonderful thing, and I'm not putting it down. But when carried to ridiculous extremes, it has a monotony of its own.

  Nicely Nicely

  The same can be said of repetition, of course. There are times when enough is enough is enough. Gertrude Stein, who nearly made a fetish of repetition, has been both ridiculed and acclaimed for it. You can decide for yourself. Here's a typical passage of hers:

  "He had been nicely faithful. In being one he was one who had he been one continuing would not have been one continuing being nicely faithful. He was one continuing, he was not continuing to be nicely faithful. In continuing he was being one being the one who was saying good good, excellent but in continuing he was needing that he was believing that he was aspiring to be one continuing to be able to be saying good good, excellen
t."

  One editor turned down a manuscript of Stein's with this explanation: "Being only one, having only one pair of eyes, having only one time, having only one life, I cannot read your MS three or four times. Not even one time. Only one look, only one look is enough. Hardly one copy would sell here. Hardly one. Hardly one."

  16. Training Wheels

  BELABORING THE OBVIOUS

  Remember when you needed training wheels to ride a bike? Well, some grown-ups still use them—when they write. They shore up their prose, belaboring the obvious with unnecessary words.

  When you write with props, you don't say merely that a melody is pleasing, you say that it's pleasing to the ear. A dancer isn't just graceful, she's graceful on her feet. Take off the training wheels. You don't need them and neither do your readers.

  You'll have to search carefully for props in your writing because they're hidden in plain sight. The obvious, as we all know, can be hard to see.

  Look first at phrases starting with prepositions (by, for, in, of, on, to, and so on), and be sure they're necessary. This sentence includes a classic example of an unnecessary prop: Tom planned in advance to steal the jam. Since planning is generally done ahead of time, who needs in advance?

  People toss off redundant expressions when their minds are elsewhere. Pretty soon they don't notice them. Someone fond of prop words might write a real estate flyer that reads like this:

  The Neo-Tuscan farmhouse is filled to the rafters with charm. Barn-red in color, it is built of handmade Belgian brick that was flown in by plane from Bruges. Situated on a rise of ground amid formal gardens, the house is minimalist in design yet spacious in size. It's an easy drive by car to prime shopping, and a leisurely walk on foot to a secluded nature preserve.

  A prepositional phrase that doesn't add anything should be subtracted. If you're unsure, just imagine that the phrase isn't there. Then, if it isn't missed, drop it. Don't put up with things that are sour to the taste, soft to the touch, haughty in manner, stocky in build, ringed around the edge, rough in texture, short in stature, pretty in appearance, assembled in a group, sturdy in construction, or given away for nothing.

  Another kind of prop is the unnecessary adjective or adverb (these are words describing things or actions). Reconsider such expressions as piercingscream, sudden start, advance reservations, future plans, forward progress, initial beginning, and that old upward surge. And try to avoid demanding insistently, screeching loudly, seeing visually, experiencing personally, concealing secretively, and filing singly onto a bus. There's more about this problem in chapter 11.

  Pay attention. Prop words sneak into your writing when your mind is elsewhere. I've used them myself, but that's past history.

  17. Critique of Poor Reason

  THE ART OF MAKING SENSE

  Your first duty to the reader is to make sense. Everything else—eloquence, beautiful images, catchy phrases, melodic and rhythmic language—comes later, if at all. I'm all for artistry, but it's better to write something homely and clear than something lovely and unintelligible.

  Of course, no one sets out to write nonsense. We do it because we're careless with words. We know what we mean, naturally, but others can't read our minds. Words are all a reader has. What makes perfect sense to us might seem illogical, incoherent, insensitive, or silly to someone else.

  Say you're recommending a new kind of software to your boss. Don't say it's incomparable, then go on to compare it to Microsoft's version. Don't call two things virtually identical, then list their many differences. Too often we write on automatic pilot, not giving enough thought to the meaning of our words.

  Thoughtless writing might even be unintentionally cruel. A talented city official who happens to be a double amputee might be offended if you called him the mayor's right-hand man. Then again, he might not. In some circumstances, ordinary expressions can be hurtful or inappropriate. A casual phrase that's acceptable in conversation (saying that a blind person has failed to see a point, for example, or that a deaf person didn't listen) might look insensitive on the page. If in doubt, take it out.

  Fools Rush In

  The best way to avoid using a word or phrase foolishly is to think about all of its possible meanings. Take the word penniless. We all know what it means: poor. But what if Bill Cosby takes a handful of change out of his pocket and discovers he doesn't have any pennies? To call him penniless would be accurate, strictly speaking. But it would be a dumb thing to write unless you were trying to be funny.

  Everyone who writes has common sense to some degree. But we don't all use it as often as we should. We become careless about what we've written, never imagining it might look silly to readers. If you don't want them to snicker, don't write sentences like these:

  Milton found that he was lost.

  Françoise struck a candid pose.

  Olga bent over backward to please her gymnastics coach.

  Martha says tortilla chips are handy in a crunch.

  There was a stony silence at the granite quarry.

  The search for Santa Fe's first street turned up an alley.

  A ton of cocaine is nothing to sneeze at.

  You might say those examples fill a much-needed gap.

  The Overactive Imagination

  An imaginative flourish here or there can make dry writing come to life. But ill-considered imagery can create the wrong picture—or too many pictures. Put yourself in the reader's place and think about the images you've created. They might be unintentionally ditsy, as in these examples:

  Mrs. Proudie left no stone unturned in her search for a son-in-law. Maybe her daughter goes for worms.

  As Jethro ate squid for the first time, his heart was in his throat. Heimlich maneuver, anyone?

  Some writers think two images are twice as nice, but they're only half right. Two is a crowd, especially if they're within spitting distance of each other, as they are here:

  Tonya's ace in the hole took the wind out of Nancy's sails.

  Mario was on a wild-goose chase and ran out of steam.

  When Job got the short end of the stick, it was the last straw.

  A dyed-in-the-wool vegan doesn't cotton to meatballs.

  Daisy and Tom didn't see eye to eye, so she gave him an earful.

  Don't make too many demands on the reader's imagination. One image at a time, please.

  References Required

  Our writing would be awfully klutzy if we had to repeat ourselves whenever we referred to something already mentioned. Luckily, we don't have to. There are proxies we can substitute for words or phrases we've used before. But a proxy—especially this, that, which, here, there, now, then— can be misleading if it's used thoughtlessly. The problem comes up when we've mentioned more than one thing and the reader has to guess which one the proxy refers to.

  A research paper on dietary habits in small countries might include this sentence: Every day the average adult in Grand Fenwick consumes two gallons of raw milk, which can be dangerous.

  What's dangerous? The raw milk? Or drinking gallons at a time? The writer probably means the milk, so here's a solution: The average adult in Grand Fenwick consumes raw milk, which can be dangerous, at the rate of two gallons a day. That's awkward, perhaps, but it's clear. I'd rather drop which entirely: Raw milk can be dangerous, but the average adult in Grand Fenwick consumes two gallons a day.

  Sometimes that is the question. Imagine this sentence in a customer's complaint to a bookshop: You claim the book is rare because it's a first edition, but that's incorrect.

  What's incorrect? That the book is rare? Or that it's a first edition? There are several possibilities. The customer could mean this: You claim the book is rare, but that's incorrect, even though it is a first edition. Or perhaps this: You claim the book is a first edition, but that's incorrect, even though it is rare. I'd find it more graceful to drop that. For example, The book is a first edition, as you claim, but it's not rare.

  In the next sentence, which we might see in
an Internet newsgroup, there's more than one there there: I said the software was compatible so the hard drive wouldn't crash, but I was mistaken there.

  Exactly where is there? Was the writer mistaken about the software, the hard drive, or both? Assuming the worst, make it: I said the software was compatible, but I was mistaken there, so the hard drive crashed.

  Computers can get us into trouble in more ways than one. You might find this item on a hackers' bulletin board: Kevin couldn't stop breaking into the Pentagon computer system even though the FBI was watching him, now that he was an Internet celebrity.

  What does the sentence mean? Now that Kevin's a celebrity, he can't stop? Or now that he's a celebrity, the FBI is watching? Here's one solution: Now that he was an Internet celebrity, Kevin couldn't stop breaking into the Pentagon computer system, even though the FBI was watching him.

  People don't normally read a sentence in a vacuum. They can usually figure out what it means. But they shouldn't have to. If there's any chance that readers might misunderstand, tinker with the sentence.

  Say It Isn't So

  An explanation can be confusing when it tells us why something isn't so. The danger signs are the words not and because. Used together, they can tangle an explanation in nots.

  Can you untie this one? He did not marry her because she was a Methodist. Do you see why that sentence is tangled? No, it has nothing to do with religion or romance.