Um, actually, that's what math is.
We can all take a lesson from this: Listen to your words. Choose them carefully. Try to fight the mental palsy that can cause even the best writer to spew nonsense. If you pay attention to your words, you can spot these problems and rewrite in a way that captures what you really mean, perhaps something like this:
You needn't do the math to see how quickly the costs can mount.
This remains true to what the writer wanted to say. Her point was that these costs compound so quickly that it's immediately evident. This rewrite captures that while eliminating a nonsensical assertion.
Here's another sentence in which the words got away from the writer:
The concert venue holds higher stakes for its performers by having the reach of a global audience through onsite TV and radio production broadcasting facilities.
This sentence is all-around clunky, but the problem that interests me is by having the reach of a global audience. That of could be construed to suggest possession. Think, to have the brains of Albert Einstein or the wit of Stephen Colbert. So, if you have the reach of a global audience, it means that you reach as far as a global audience reaches. But that wasn't the intended meaning. The writer meant that the venue can reach a global audience. The audience is not the reacher but the reachee. Somehow, the writer got too attached to the expression the reach of and didn't want to let it go, even after it was clear that it didn't work. All he had to do was think about what he really wanted to say:
The concert venue holds higher stakes for its performers by having the because it can reach of a global audience through on-site TV and radio production broadcasting facilities.
Here are two more sentences I came across in my copyediting work:
It's as enticing as the caramel topping on a candied apple.
and
Autumn is a great time to enjoy the region's ambient weather.
Caramel topping on a candied apple makes me smile. Ambient weather makes me laugh. Ambient means "of the surrounding area or environment." Yet the writer seemed to think it was necessary to distinguish that from all the nonambient weather in the region. No doubt, she just liked the sound of her words and didn't think about meaning. I deleted ambient.
As for our fusion dessert, if there's some region of the country where people serve those hard-shell, bright red candy apples with a dollop of caramel on top, it still doesn't excuse this sentence. If you find the caramel on an apple enticing, then you probably find a caramel apple enticing. Specifying the part you find most appealing— the topping—isn't worth the extra words. Not in this case, anyway. On the other hand, if the writer loves caramel but doesn't like apples, a caramel apple is not a great example of something that's enticing. Chocolate-covered ants come to mind.
I changed the sentence to
It's as enticing as a caramel apple.
This problem—the writer paying too little attention to her words—seems most common in news and feature writing. But many novice fiction writers seem to have the opposite problem: They pay too much attention to their words. They try to concoct powerful metaphors. Or they try to find an original turn of phrase. Ironically, they end up having the same problem as the unthinking nonfiction writers: meaning wriggles out of their grasp.
The sun had stewed all night for that morning. At first light it glared furiously on Lucy's hometown. Lucy was an illness-fated girl. She had passed away during the night. Her body distilled into morning where it slowly began to suppurate. Her basement room drew dark stains as electricity became one with the aged drywall. An indifferent monotone shirred. There was an aroma of singed hair when it happened.
The original version of this disguised excerpt wasn't quite this bad, but it was close, and it contained all the same problems.
When I read stuff like this, I can't help but think of Narcissus. He was the guy from Greek mythology who became so transfixed by his own reflection in a pool of water that he fell in and drowned. If you want to gaze lovingly at your own ability to imagine the sun stewing or a dead body distilling, disconnect your Internet, stick a wad of gum in your flash drive, close the door, and have a ball. Just don't expect your Reader to jump in the reflecting pool with you to willingly drown in the beauty of your words. Metaphors can indeed be beautiful and powerful, but for many writers (present company included) they're very hard to pull off.
I can't tell you how to write good metaphors. But I can offer you a sort of guiding light to help you distinguish good metaphors from bad. You already know it: it's the concept of Reader-serving writing versus writer-serving writing.
A Reader of fiction—be it popular or literary fiction—wants to be told a story. If you can craft metaphors that enhance that story, do. If you can craft metaphors that are so beautiful that they can stand on their own—that they can provide the Reader with as much pleasure as the story—that's an art in itself. But as a rule, if a turn of phrase, a parallel, a comparison, or a metaphor doesn't enhance your Reader's experience, cash it in for straightforward language. That way, though you may not be turning words into divine music of the heart, at least you're not messing up your story.
Here's a bare-bones approach to the same passage that opts for substance over style:
Lucy had always been a sickly girl. On the night she died, dark stains appeared on the aged drywall of her basement room. The next morning, as the sun beat down mercilessly, there was a mysterious sound—an indifferent monotone. The smell of burned hair hung in the air.
Chances are this would not be well received by the writer. The unpublished author who inspired our passage was in love with his descriptions. Indeed, he openly admitted that he loved the idea of one of his metaphors and didn't want to let it go—even after several other writers told him to bag it.
A lot of Readers might not prefer our revised paragraph, either. (Heck, even I am not totally sold on it.) The rewrite discards a lot of information—facts and imagery some might consider pivotal. But most people would agree that this version better facilitates story. It tells you what happened—not what the sun had been doing during and prior to something happening. And it does so with words whose meanings are clear.
For example, we changed an indifferent monotone shirred. Monotone in its original context was painfully unclear. The writer was trying to say that there was a noise coming from somewhere, but a noise and a sound are far more concrete than a monotone. The original raises the question: a monotone what? We answered that question by making monotone an appositive—a repeat, so to speak—of a new word we brought in: sound. When you have a strange sound coming from somewhere unknown, that fact is important and interesting and needs to be treated as such. By stating it outright in clear terms, we do justice to this intriguing story element.
Also, we ditched shirred. The writer had misused the word, which really means "to gather up cloth and sew it together in bunches or rows." Even so, this shirred almost worked for me—almost. It conjured up something like a whirring, just silkier. But in a passage composed almost exclusively of vague words—words that dance around meaning—some of them had to go. The subject of the original sentence was a monotone. The action was shirred. A sentence whose core says nothing more than a monotone shirred is pure mush that, when surrounded by more mush, just won't do.
We replaced illness-fated with sickly. Is this because sickly is a good word? On the contrary, it's cliched. But it's still a heck of a lot better than illness-fated. Made-up compound modifiers are always risky. You can say a man is doomed to failure, but are you really nailing it when you call him a failure-doomed man ? Our writer was reaching for a good idea—that Lucy was fated to suffer illnesses. But the writer couldn't find a way to say so in meaningful language. He needed to "kill his darlings"—Stephen King's favorite term for letting go of stuff that just doesn't work.
We ditched the wording about how the walls drew dark stains. Did drew, a past form of draw, mean that the drywall attracted dark stains, the way manure draws flies? Di
d it mean that the walls sketched the stains, as if with a pen? Neither of these common definitions of drew makes sense here. The writer might answer that this ambiguity is exactly what he was shooting for. But that doesn't matter because it doesn't work. So we cashed in drew dark stains for plain vanilla language that lets the interesting story detail shine through: dark stains appeared.
Of course, these edits are purely subjective. Creative writing need not be bound by things like logic or clarity or common sense. But Reader-serving writing requires that we at least consider such alternatives.
When writing, you may want to call a man "a towering steel-belted radial," you may want to call a woman "a field of lichen," or you may want to call a gun "a glinting and gaping death tube," but before you do, stop and think about whether it's really best for the story and for the Reader.
For quintessential examples of words completely devoid of meaning, you must stray outside both fiction and feature writing to the realm of marketing writing. And if you're looking for the gold standard of empty words, read about spas:
Customized scrubs and sea salt baths begin with the choice of one of four aroma essences. Each essence, a blend of 100% pure essential oils with certified organic ingredients, is inspired by the elements.
That's right—an essence that's made of essential oils and ingredients! Genius. Of course, it's genius only if you're trying to avoid saying anything of substance. But this is a rare situation—rare even for marketing writers because most good marketing writing conveys actual information. Spas are an exception because the only alternative to writing empty words is to say, "We smear mud and food on you for an hour."
The point is: Pay attention to your words. Try not to zone out or become hypnotized by the cliches that live in all our heads and that try to slip into everyone's writing. When you reread your writing, try to do so with a scrutinizing eye that asks, Did I really mean that you don't have to do the math to figure out the number? Is there really any meaning in a monotone shirred?. Or is there a better way to nail down what I really mean?
Which is more compelling?
The person was moving through the place carrying the things.
or
The escaped Bellevue patient was hauling ass down the diaper aisle grasping a clump of Tom's hair in one hand and Grandpa's truss in the other.
Remember this contrast because, though it seems like a no-brainer now, choosing specific words can be harder than you think. In fact, choosing generic, overly broad, noncommittal words is a very common mistake of writers at all levels. Writing, as they say, is about making choices. And the sentence is the tool the fiction writer uses to show her Reader that she is fully committed to the choices she has made. It's the place where the writer of features or news demonstrates that she made an effort to pay attention to details in order to bring the Reader the full experience. Writers do this by choosing the most specific words at their disposal.
Let's look at some of the opaque words that can plague writers and some alternatives to these words.
Words like structure and items and person usually have no business in your sentences. They're just wispy shadows of the things they're trying to represent. Ask yourself whether there's a more concrete word that can create a more real experience for your Reader. Sometimes, the answer will be no. But often you'll find that there are much better alternatives to these opaque words.
CHOOSING SPECIFIC WORDS OVER VAGUE ONES
Whatever you do, don't let laziness or cowardice dictate your word choices. If you're not sure whether your character likes sardines or sleeps with guys named Ronaldo or wears a brassiere, well, sorry. You must figure that out before you pen your final draft because otherwise you're unfairly burdening your Reader: "Geez, I just couldn't decide what kind of gun she would have, so you figure it out." The same basic principle applies to journalists and other nonfiction writers. If you didn't notice what the queen was nibbling at as you were interviewing her, you can't just write, "She took a bite of something." Unless you can be more specific, don't mention it at all. You don't have to report every detail, but the details you do report should reflect an effort to create a rich, tactile, immersive experience for the Reader. True, too much description and detail can backfire. But replacing vague words with specific ones is an efficient way to make sentences vivid.
I never want to read that your character heard a noise. I never want to read that the burglar stole some things. I never want to learn that your actions had an effect, that your CEO implemented a new procedure, or that your employees enjoyed a get-together.
I want loud thuds and Omega wristwatches. I want e-mail surveillance and sudden firings. Tell me that your CEO is cracking down on personal phone calls and that the accounting department held its annual drunken square dance and clambake in the warehouse.
Use specific words. Make it a habit to scrutinize your nouns and verbs to always ask yourself whether you're missing an opportunity to create a more vivid experience for your Reader. This habit will open up a world of choices.
The woman took her car to the dealer to get some needed repairs.
can become
The retired burlesque dancer drove her rusted pink Lincoln to Smilin' Bob Baxter's GM dealership for a new transmission and new tires and to patch the two dozen cigarette holes in the white leather upholstery.
or
The decorated veteran of Operation Desert Storm, a recipient of two purple hearts, undid the top button of her Kmart blouse and tried to smile as she drove her sputtering 1984 Celica up to the service window at the glistening Toyota/Lexus dealership.
or
"Shotgun Granny" Evans squealed her tires as her dusty F-150 pickup truck pulled in to Ward's Ford.
or simply
Lisbeth drove her Prius to Campbell's Toyota for new brake pads.
Not every sentence needs to be packed with details and descriptors. But learning to pinpoint and root out vague words will give you more choices and therefore more power to construct the best sentence for your piece and for your Reader.
It is, perhaps, the most famous bit of sentence-writing advice of all time: avoid adverbs. Yet I'd guess that about nine out of ten people who spout this advice would flunk the following test. Find all the adverbs in this sentence:
Knowing well that I can visit you there soon is not really very helpful, as I am not well and therefore cannot prudently travel tomorrow.
Did you catch prudently? Good. One point. If you also caught really, you're at two points. Did you also catch well? Excellent, but only if you counted it once. The second well is not an adverb, only the first one is. So, assuming you got all those right, you're at three points. Pat yourself on the back because three out of eight ain't bad.
That's right, there are eight—count 'em, eight—adverbs in this sentence. They are well (the first but not the second one), there, soon, really, very, therefore, prudently, and tomorrow. Yep, this tomorrow is an adverb. Don't believe me? Look it up in your dictionary. I'll wait.
When people say that adverbs hurt writing, they're talking about a specific kind of adverb, called a manner adverb—even though they may not realize it. Manner adverbs are the ones that describe the manner in which an action occurred: walk quickly, eat slowly, dance enthusiastically. When people say to avoid them, there's some wisdom in their advice, but only for those wise enough to understand it. So before we get into what this advice means and when to apply it, let's hunker down and get a basic understanding of adverbs.
Adverbs are the best-kept secret of the grammar world. Their true identity is cleverly hidden in plain view. I consider it one of the great mysteries of our language that, though we all learned about adverbs in school and though many of us can still remember the Schoolhouse Rock adverbs song, almost nobody knows what an adverb is.
Here is the best way to understand what an adverb is. Adverbs answer the questions
• when? I'll see you tomorrow.
• where? Go play outside.
• in w
hat manner? Sue ran quickly.
• how much or how often? You're very early. You're rarely late.
Adverbs also give commentary on whole sentences: Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Those are called sentence adverbs. And they can create a link to the previous sentence: Consequently, the engine exploded. Those are called conjunctive adverbs.
Adverbs can modify verbs (Mark whistles happily), adjectives (Betty is extremely tall), other adverbs (Mark whistles extremely happily), or whole sentences (However, I don't care).
But there are also things called adverbials, which may or may not be adverbs:
Additionally, there will be cake.
In addition, there will be cake.
Think of an adverbial as any unit doing an adverb's job: answering when, where, or in what manner, or modifying a whole thought. So in our first example, we have a conjunctive adverb, additionally, working as an adverbial. But in our second example, we have a prepositional phrase, in addition, working as an adverbial. Think of adverb as a word class—a club. Adverbial is a job. And often the dictionary makers get the final say on whether any word does the job enough to earn membership in the club. That's why your dictionary probably says that tomorrow can be an adverb but that Tuesday is exclusively a noun. In I'll see you tomorrow, the word tomorrow is an adverb doing the job of an adverbial, answering the question when. But in I'll see you Tuesday, the word Tuesday is a noun doing the same job. Tuesday does not qualify as an adverb only because most dictionary makers haven't admitted it into the club.
A lot of words that are adverbs also count as other parts of speech. For instance, if you look up tomorrow, you see that it's also a noun, depending on its job in a sentence. In Tomorrow can't come soon enough, the word tomorrow performs the action of the verb. So it's a noun. In I'll see you tomorrow, the same word answers the question when. So it's an adverb.
It was the best of Sentences, it was the worst of sentences. Page 5