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Craft of Writing
Wayne Scheer
On Writing and Writhing
The best advice for writing I know comes from George Orwell. After listing
solid, common sense rules for good writing, he adds: "Break any of these rules
sooner than say anything outright barbarous."
Of course we writers try to follow such wisdom. Don't we? What writer would
knowingly offer his readers "barbarous" prose in order to stay true to even the
best rules for good writing?
Me, and, I fear, most of us.
For example, the rules for writing in complete sentences make good sense. But
fragments work, too. Sometimes better. Yet how often have we extended a
perfectly good fragment into a full sentence in order to please that old English
teacher stuck in our heads? And in the process created a dull, wordy, ordinary,
but complete, sentence.
It's a good thing William Faulkner paid more attention to the sound of his words
than to the voice of that hag in his head. Listen to how well the following
fragments from "A Rose for Emily" capture the spirit of place and time: "And so
she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a
doddering Negro man to wait on her." Of course, he could have reworded the first
sentence so it didn't start with a dreaded conjunction and he certainly could
have added a subject to the second one. But why? They communicate clearly. And
more, they sound right.
How often have we avoided beginning a sentence with a conjunction like "And" or
"But" or "So" because we remember that same old teacher scolding us in the third
grade for committing this grievous sin? And we know better, right?
Yeah, right.
Like being rejected at a high school dance, there are some things we never get
over, no matter how wise or wizened we might be. We write, or more likely
writhe, within the narrow confines our teachers and our consciences allow.
Rarely do we follow our imagination. Instead, we rein it in with rules we half
recall. Why? Because we're afraid of our creativity. We don't know where it
might lead us, what grammatical back alley we might find ourselves in. We could
end up out of control, babbling incoherently, with our prepositions dangling.
Do one-size-fits-all rules really fit all? Of course not. We know that, yet we
still make up rules for ourselves. "Always start with a smashing opening." Good
advice? Sure. But a quick glance though the books on your shelves will find
scores of less than graceful sentences beginning great stories.
At random, I just picked up a standard collection of short stories in an
anthology used widely at colleges in the United States. I opened the book to
Herman Melville's classic, "Bartleby the Scrivener." See how it begins:
"I am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocation, for the last thirty
years, has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an
interesting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom, as yet, nothing that I
know of, has ever been written—I mean, the law-copyists, or scriveners."
Although the short first sentence gets right to the condition of the narrator,
the second one would surely try the tolerance of Orwell. All those commas and
dashes, the wordiness—"more than ordinary," "would seem." Why, an editor could
make a career of hacking away at Melville, and yet, the sentence captures the
spirit of the narrator and sets the tone of the story perfectly. The reader
knows exactly what to expect—sit back, relax, don't be in a hurry.
"A sentence should never be more than twenty-six words long." I know someone for
whom this is her mantra. Keep it short is good advice. Orwell, himself, said,
"If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out." But Melville's
sentence is forty-six words long. Horrors! It's a good thing my friend never
edited Henry James.
Or Orwell, for that matter. He begins "Shooting an Elephant" with a thirty-two
word sentence.
What about the importance of keeping a consistent point of view? What's that
about "consistency being the hobgoblin of little minds?"
So what am I advocating? That we liberate our writing and let our words dance
naked in the sun? That we free ourselves of the bondage of grammar and expose
our participles? Hardly. I'm a retired English teacher who knows what happens
when young writers, filled with hormones and exuberance, experiment without
protection. We need the rules, just as we need to break free from them. It's the
conflict between freedom and control, the tension between meeting the readers'
needs and challenging their expectations that makes writing interesting. And
spirited. And alive.
About the Author
After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne
Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. He's been nominated for a
Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. Some of his work has appeared in The
Christian Science Monitor, The Pedestal, flashquake, Apple Valley Review,
Hamilton Stone Review, Blood Orange Review, The Potomac and Triplopia. Wayne
lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at
wvscheer@aol.com.
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