So the next time an adjective or adverb comes too readily to mind, do what your favorite writers do. Use your imagination instead. Rather than reach for the thesaurus to describe something, imagine it. Think of that little cigar with wings.
12. Too Marvelous for Words
THE SENSIBLE SENTENCE
Like a superhighway, the sentence is a triumph of engineering: the stately capital letter, the procession of words in their proper order, every arch and tunnel, bridge and buttress perfectly fitted to its job.
If many writers believe bigger is better, who can blame them? Building a sentence can give you a thrill. It's easy to become infatuated with your own words, and once you get started you hate to stop. The noble pageant goes on and on, especially if you've discovered dashes and semicolons, and gluey words like however and nevertheless. Your mighty sentence swells, as does your head. "Awesome," you think.
Your poor readers, meanwhile, trudge on, peering wistfully toward the horizon in search of a period. They soon lose track of the subject, and the mighty sentence becomes a road to nowhere.
What went wrong? Length alone isn't the answer. If you've been told that short sentences are always better than long ones, forget it. It's better to mix them up, because writing that has too many short, choppy sentences is just as tedious as writing that has too many long ones. What matters most with any sentence, short or long, is how it's put together. A long sentence will hold up if it's structurally sound, and a short one will collapse if it'snot properly constructed.
This business about sentence construction isn't some abstract idea. It can determine whether your writing makes sense. Let's inspect some of the structural flaws that can undermine sentences.
Speed Bumps
When a sentence works, we can follow it smoothly from beginning to end. If you saw this one in your local paper, you'd have to read it twice:
The get-rich-quick scheme that Karl LaFong, the former mayor, and Egbert Souse and Cuthbert J. Twillie, his confederates, cooked up—a theme park built on alligator-infested swampland near a derelict nuclear power plant on the northern outskirts of the city—is believed to have bankrupted some of Lakeville's leading citizens.
The problem with the sentence isn't its length but its bumpy construction. Ideas don't follow one another smoothly. One interrupts another (bump!), and is interrupted in turn (bump!), until we lose the point of the sentence.
Look again at some of the speed bumps. The subject in the sentence is that get-rich-quick scheme. But before we learn what mayhem the scheme caused (the point of the sentence), we hit two teeth-rattling bumps, interrupting to tell us (1) who did the fleecing and (2) what the scam was about. Even those interruptions get interrupted. No wonder we lose our way.
Here's a version that gives us one idea at a time: Former Mayor Karl LaFong and his confederates Egbert Souse and Cuthbert J. Twillie are believed to have bankrupted some of Lakeville's leading citizens with a get-rich-quick scheme—a theme park built on alligator-infested swampland near a derelict nuclear power plant on the northern outskirts of the city.
It's still a whopping big sentence, bigger than I'd like, but it works. It gives the reader one idea at a time, each completed before another is introduced. No speed bumps, thank you.
Long Division
In the hands of our best writers, long sentences can knock your socks off. In this passage from Rabbit, Run, John Updike alternates long and short sentences to build suspense as Rabbit Angstrom, cigarette in mouth, shoots a basket before a group of schoolboys.
"As they stare hushed he sights squinting through blue clouds of weed smoke, a suddenly dark silhouette like a smokestack against the afternoon spring sky, setting his feet with care, wiggling the ball with nervousness in front of his chest, one widespread white hand on top of the ball and the other underneath, jiggling it patiently to get some adjustment in air itself. The cuticle moons on his fingernails are big. Then the ball seems to ride up the right lapel of his coat and comes off his shoulder as his knees dip down, and it appears the ball will miss because though he shot from an angle the ball is not going toward the backboard. It was not aimed there. It drops into the circle of the rim, whipping the net with a ladylike whisper."
We can follow a long sentence when it's presented one idea at a time. But often, long sentences are too much to swallow. This one would choke a horse:
The play of moonlight and shadow in the darkened, unfamiliar kitchen, which reminded Fergie of her boarding school days and her daring midnight raids on the pantry, hair-raising adventures that could have gotten her expelled, made it difficult for her to copy her mother-in-law's secret recipe for Windsor compote.
Unless a long sentence demands to be consumed in one gulp, break it in two:
The play of moonlight and shadow in the darkened, unfamiliar kitchen made it difficult for Fergie to copy her mother-in-law's recipe for Windsor compote. She was reminded of her boarding school days and those daring midnight raids on the pantry, hair-raising adventures that could have gotten her expelled.
Don't rule out long sentences—just remember that they're hard to write well. If you've written a long sentence and you're not sure that it works, it probably doesn't. Break it up. Not many writer scan handle long sentences as gracefully as Updike.
Betwixt and Between
There's an old saying that it's not the pearls that make a necklace—it's the string. The parts of a sentence won't make a necklace, either, without something to hold them together.
This sentence, for example, has no string: Warren says the stock is undervalued, he doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet.
It sounds as if there's something missing, doesn't it? That's because the example isn't really a sentence. It's two sentences trying to be one. This sin of omission is sometimes called a run-on sentence because, well, it runs on. Its parts are unconnected, like pearls without a string. The comma alone can't hold them together.
There are three ways to fix a sentence whose parts aren't joined correctly:
• Add a connecting word (and, but, or, although, however, etc.): Warren says the stock is undervalued, but he doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet.
• Use a semicolon instead of a comma: Warren says the stock is undervalued; he doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet.
• Break the sentence in two: Warren says the stock is undervalued. He doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet.
All three are correct. But since the two-sentence version is choppy and the semicolon seems too formal, my choice in this case is to add a connecting word.
Be careful about some connecting words, however. In fact, let's use however as an example. It's often misused because writers don't make clear which part of the sentence it goes with: Warren says the stock is undervalued, however, he doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet.
Where does however belong, with the first part of the sentence or the second?Here's how to fix a however problem:
• Make two sentences, attaching however to the appropriate one. You could mean this: Warren says the stock is undervalued, however. He doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet. Or perhaps this: Warren says the stock is undervalued. However, he doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet.
• Use a semicolon and attach however to the appropriate part of the sentence. You might mean this: Warren says the stock is undervalued, however;he doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet. Or this: Warren says the stock is undervalued; however, he doesn't know whether it's hit bottom yet.
Before sharing your pearls of wisdom, make sure there are strings attached.
13. Made for Each Other
WELL-MATCHED SENTENCES
Gosh, I admire hosts who seat dinner guests perfectly every time, who have a knack for arranging a group of strangers so the conversation never flags. Seated differently, these same guests might endure an evening of awkward, throat-clearing silences.
I also admire people who know instinctively how to arrange sentences. Every sentence is in the
right place and leads comfortably to the next. Ideas fall naturally into line. For some writers, putting sentences together naturally is a gift. The rest of us have to learn how to make our sentences compatible. Happily, it's not hard to help them mingle.
The Lineup
When you feel your writing is choppy and disjointed—or when someone else tells you it is—suspect that a sentence is out of line. If a reader has to rearrange sentences to follow your thinking, then the sentences are in the wrong order.
You might find an example like this in the business pages of your newspaper, especially if the copy editors are on vacation:
Nervous investors struggled all day to understand the significance of the sell-off. Just before the market closed, a spokesman for Netscape said the company had no comment. The Dow's steep plunge followed early-morning rumors that Netscape would buy Microsoft.
The sentences seem disjointed because the thoughts are out of order. Readers can't appreciate the significance of the first two sentences (investor nervousness and Netscape's no comment) until they find out what everyone was so upset about (the Dow's steep plunge and the takeover rumors). Notice how everything falls into place when we put the last sentence at the head of the lineup:
The Dow's steep plunge followed early-morning rumors that Netscape would buy Microsoft. Nervous investors struggled all day to understand the significance of the sell-off. Just before the market closed, a spokesman for Netscape said the company had no comment.
The sentences now mingle naturally because they follow one another logically.
A zealous library volunteer might have written this notice for the community newsletter. What do you make of the lineup?
Books can't circulate when they're on your shelves instead of ours. So please return any overdue books you have at home. Overdue books are a serious problem for our library. If you don't bring them back, we'll post your name on the bulletin board.
Now, that's not a terrible piece of writing. All the necessary information is there, and each sentence reads well. But something feels wrong. Look at the order of the sentences. One of them—Overdue books are a serious problem for our library—interrupts two others that are clearly a couple and shouldn't be separated. Where does the stray belong? I'd put it up front, where the train of thought begins, since it tells us why the notice is being written in the first place:
Overdue books are a serious problem for our library. Books can't circulate when they're on your shelves instead of ours. So please return any overdue books you have at home. If you don't bring them back, we'll post your name on the bulletin board.
Your sentences will be easier to follow if they're in logical order. Unless you have some reason to do otherwise—you're building suspense, perhaps, or saving a surprise for last—keep them orderly. Search for stray sentences, then put them where they belong.
Getting to Know You
If your sentences are in the right order but still seem disjointed, maybe they haven't been properly introduced. One way to introduce them is to ask yourself what they have in common, then move their common interests closer together.
You might find a passage like this in a paper for a science class:
Edison worked as a telegraph operator for the Grand Trunk Railroad after dropping out of school. When he produced his first inventions, among them a means of sending multiple messages simultaneously, this experience came in handy.
The sentences themselves aren't bad. Each one reads well, and they're plainly in the right order. But as a couple, they seem a bit stiff and uncomfortable. To strengthen their bond, bring their common interest—Edison's telegraph experience—closer together:
After dropping out of school, Edison worked as a telegraph operator for the Grand Trunk Railroad. This experience came in handy when he produced his first inventions, among them a means of sending multiple messages simultaneously.
Sentences are more comfortable together when the things they have in common are closer. Here are two more sentences that should get to know each other better:
Before the FDIC began insuring deposits in 1933, many people lost their life savings in bank failures. After the banking regulations were enacted, such losses became rare.
These sentences have two ideas in common: banking laws and lost savings. One way to get them better acquainted is to move the two sections on bank regulations closer together:
Many people lost their life savings in bank failures before the FDIC began insuring deposits in 1933. After the banking regulations were enacted, such losses became rare.
Another way is to move the two sections on lost savings closer together:
Before the FDIC began insuring deposits in 1933, many people lost their life savings in bank failures. Such losses became rare after the banking regulations were enacted.
Which way is better? That depends on which idea is more important to you. The first solution emphasizes the losses; the second, the banking regulations. Either way, the sentences work better when they have a common touch.
The Right Connections
I'm an incorrigible matchmaker. If I think two people are made for each other, I can't resist trying to bring them together. Sometimes we have to be matchmakers when we write, too. Sentences that are meant for each other may need a little help from their friends.
If sentences don't click, even though they're in the right order and have interests in common, they need something else to unite them. What's missing may be a connecting word or phrase to help the reader see why one sentence should follow the other.
These connections include also, and, as, at any rate, because, besides, but, furthermore, however, in the meantime, nevertheless, on the other hand, or, so, then, therefore, thus, and yet. (If you've been taught that it's incorrect to begin a sentence with and or but, you've been taught incorrectly. Look it up: Conjunctions are for joining words, phrases, clauses, and sentences.)
The right connection between sentences explains their relationship. It tells us why they belong where they are. Perhaps one sentence adds an idea to another, or clarifies an idea already mentioned. Maybe it zooms in for a close-up, or may be it zooms out for the big picture. May be a sentence tells us the cause or the result of something that happened in another.
Whatever the relationship, it has to be obvious. When one sentence doesn't smoothly follow another, the reader feels disconnected. If you read this in a college newspaper, for example, you might not get the connection:
The food manager has been inundated by complaints since the dining hall stopped serving three-alarm-chili dogs. They'll soon be back on the menu. The price will go up 50 cents.
The sentences are in the right order and have interests in common, but there's still some distance between them. We need connecting words to alert the reader that the second sentence is a result of the first, and that the third one puts a damper on the second:
The food manager has been inundated by complaints since the dining hall stopped serving three-alarm-chili dogs. As a consequence, they'll soon be back on the menu. However, the price will go up 50 cents. (A more casual writer might say: So they'll soon be back on the menu. But the price will go up 50 cents.)
Those sentences aren't just touching. They're holding hands.
14. Give Me a Break
THINKING IN PARAGRAPHS
Jazz aficionados will know this story. The great saxophonist John Coltrane was troubled because his solos were running way too long. He couldn't figure out how to end his improvisations. His friend Miles Davis had a suggestion. "John," he said, "put the horn down."
Some writers have the same problem. They have a propensity for immensity. Their paragraphs run way too long, and they can't seem to find the end. They'd do well to follow Miles's advice. Put the horn down. Hit the paragraph key.
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying long paragraphs don't belong in good writing. When they work, they're not too long—they're just long enough. (I'm a Proust fan myself.) But as a rule, short paragraphs are easier to wri
te, easier to read, easier to understand.
I think I hear a dissenting voice: "What's wrong with long paragraphs? You see them everywhere—just pick up an academic journal and turn to any page. Long paragraphs are evidence of the higher mind at work."
Sometimes they are. But sometimes they're evidence of a confused mind or a disorganized mind or a mind that's trying to impress.
The length of a paragraph isn't a measure of its intellectual depth. A paragraph expresses a train of thought, and some trains are longer than others. When one gets too long, it should probably be two. If the engine is too far from the caboose, it's hauling too much freight.
You may object that your train of thought is a very long one. But that doesn't mean it's indivisible. I'll bet there's a pause somewhere along the way, a slight shift in focus, a mental intake of breath. Hit the paragraph key! If you need to take a breath, so does the reader.
The reader, after all, is why paragraphs were invented. A solid, unbroken blob of type—whether on a page or on a screen—doesn't invite us to read or make us want to keep reading. We need a break every now and then, a chance to digest one thought before going on to another.
A Sight for Sore Eyes
Our eyes can use an occasional break, too, you know. If you were to read this paragraph in a consultant's report, your eyes would glaze over:
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