Words Fail Me (11 page)

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.

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.

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, excellent."

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."

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
piercing
scream,
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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
not
s.