Words Fail Me Part 4

Here's one interpretation: The roads were slippery and it was now the car began to skid, even before the rain turned to sleet. Here's another: The rain turned to sleet on the slippery roads, and it was now the car began to skid.

Two more words, this and that, can also be used to indicate time and place. And like the others, they can be misread: The Hotel Pierre is in the East Sixties, and this is where she'd like to stay. Where is this? In the hotel, or in the neighborhood?

We can clear things up by dropping this: The Hotel Pierre is in the East Sixties, where she'd like to stay. Or: She'd like to stay at the Hotel Pierre, which is in the East Sixties.

Incidentally, these words (here and there, now and then, this and that)can trip you up in other ways, as well. For more on them, and on other kinds of illogical writing, see chapter 17.

As is often the case, what's good for a single sentence is good for the whole enchilada. Get used to thinking about time and place with each sentence you write. Then you'll be less likely to muddle the larger picture. You'll keep the wheres and the whens straight from paragraph to paragraph, section to section, chapter to chapter.

Now, where was I?

10. The It Parade.

p.r.o.nOUN PILEUPS.

How about it? And while we're at it, let's talk about us-also he, she, him, her, they, and a slew of similar words, the small conveniences that refer to things or people we'd rather not mention by name.

These words are called p.r.o.nouns because they're subst.i.tutes for nouns (pro means "for" or "in place of"). Most of the time we can decipher the shorthand and figure out what it is and who they are. When the words in a sentence are in the right order, there's no doubt about it. Even when the word order is iffy, logic and context usually help us fill in the blanks-but don't count on it.

This sentence leaves no doubt: The La-Z-Boy is moth-eaten, so Homer's replacing it. Here, it can only mean the La-Z-Boy.

Add another noun, though, and the shorthand is blurry: The upholstery on the La-Z-Boy is moth-eaten, so Homer's replacing it. Is it the La-Z-Boy or the upholstery? Will the mystery noun please stand up? You might mean this: The upholstery is moth-eaten, so Homer's replacing the La-Z-Boy. Or this: The La-Z-Boy is moth-eaten, so Homer's replacing the upholstery.

It is one of those creepy-crawly words that sneak up on writers. Every time you write it, imagine a reader asking, "What is it?" If it isn't obvious, either ditch it or rearrange the words.

Be careful with sentences like this, with two or more nouns in front of an it: Philippe kept his opinion of the painting to himself until it became popular. Until what became popular, the painting or his opinion? Make sure the reader knows what it is. Try this: Until the painting became popular, Philippe kept his opinion of it to himself. Or in case he's an art critic: Until his opinion of the painting became popular, Philippe kept it to himself.

If you'll pardon the deja vu all over again, here's one more example: Yogi's book about the World Series was sold even before it was completed. Before what was completed, the book or the World Series?

One way to fix the sentence is to drop completed and use a more precise verb that clears away the fog: Yogi's book about the World Series was sold even before it was written. Another solution is to add he, making clear who did it: Yogi's book about the World Series was sold even before he completed it.

Who's Who.

If one shorthand word can gum up a sentence, imagine what a whole pack can do. Try to identify the p.r.o.nouns in this pileup: Fred told Barney he'd ask a neighbor to feed his pterodactyls, but he forgot, they died, and now they aren't speaking.

Whose pterodactyls? Who forgot what? Who (or what) died? Who's not speaking to whom? When you use p.r.o.nouns, you know the cast of characters. Readers won't know and shouldn't have to guess. This might be what the writer means: Fred said he'd ask a neighbor to feed Barney's pterodactyls, but the neighbor forgot, the pets died, and now Fred and Barney aren't speaking. It's not elegant, but at least we know who did what.

Even a short sentence can be confusing if it has a mystery p.r.o.noun: Duke said Boomer broke his nose. Since two guys are mentioned, we don't know whose nose was broken-Boomer's or Duke's. If Boomer took the blow, we could write: Duke said Boomer broke his own nose. If Duke's face was rearranged, we might say: Duke said his nose was broken by Boomer. (A pa.s.sive verb comes to the rescue.) Those solutions aren't as economical as the original sentence, but clarity comes first. Sometimes we can solve a p.r.o.noun problem by using a different verb altogether: Duke accused Boomer of breaking his nose.

Oh, one more thing about fuzzy p.r.o.nouns. Don't subst.i.tute the former and the latter to make your meaning clear (Duke said Boomer broke the latter's nose). The result is annoying and pretentious. A good rule of thumb is to avoid the kind of pompous language used by people you'd like to punch in the nose.

11. Smothering Heights.

MISBEHAVING MODIFIERS.

Mrs. Trotter, my fourth-grade teacher in Des Moines, once wrote a sentence on the blackboard-"The family sat down to dinner"-and asked us to imagine the scene. Then she added a word-"The Hawaiian family sat down to dinner"-and asked us to picture the scene again. Everything changed: the room the people were in, what they looked like, the clothes they wore, the food they ate. (This was before the Big Mac and Pizza Hut h.o.m.ogenized the American diet.)By adding only one word, Hawaiian, she transformed the whole sentence. I've never forgotten that lesson in what an adjective is and what it can do.

Words that modify-or change-other words are miraculous inventions. Plain old family could mean any family at all. When you modify it with an adjective, in this case Hawaiian, you've narrowed the possibilities-ruling out, say, j.a.panese and Swedish and Nigerian families-but you've also widened the meaning, adding a flavor that wasn't there before. You've made a word, family, smaller and larger at the same time. If that's not a miracle, I don't know what is.

Modifiers come in two basic varieties-those that describe things and those that describe actions. What adjectives are to nouns (words for people, places, ideas, and other things), adverbs are to verbs (words for actions).

To appreciate the power of an adverb, imagine a sentence without one: The family rose from the table. Then imagine these: The family rose sullenly from the table. The family rose jubilantly from the table. The family rose drunkenly from the table. Only one word, rose, is modified, yet the entire picture changes.

You can see why modifiers are so popular with writers. Tack on a modifying word or phrase and you get noticeable results with very little work. While you should know how to use modifiers, though, you should also know how not to use them. A skillfully placed modifier can bring a dull sentence back from the dead, but an inept one can be fatal. Think of these tools as weapons: load carefully, conserve ammunition, and always know where they're pointed.

Too Much of a Good Thing.

It's no crime to be fond of adjectives and adverbs. Some writers, however, are so enamored that they can't resist slipping in a modifier wherever possible. Every thing and every action-every noun and every verb-is dressed up with a descriptive word or phrase, like cutout clothes on a paper doll. A simple sentence- Her face glistened in the moonlight-is not good enough. It has to be dolled up: Her tear-stained face glistened palely in the s.h.i.+mmering moonlight.

Adjectives (tear-stained, s.h.i.+mmering)and adverbs (palely) are meant to make writing colorful and lively. But too many of them can have the opposite effect. Every time you use a modifier, ask yourself whether you need it: Are you telling your readers more? Do they need to know it? Does it do what Hawaiian did for family or what sullenly did for rose? Try getting by without the modifier, and if it's not missed, lose it.

Vivid writing doesn't have to be propped up by a lot of modifiers. This sentence from The Witchfinder, a mystery by Loren D. Estleman, has almost no modifiers, but it still gives me goose b.u.mps: "In a little while the streetlights would blink on and then the headlamps, a set at a time like bats awakening, and the city would turn itself darkside out like a reversible jacket, shaking out the creatures that breathed and bred in its folds." Think of all the adjectives and adverbs Estleman might have used and wisely didn't.

Statesmen aren't known for rhetorical austerity, but Abraham Lincoln pa.s.sed up many chances to use modifiers when he wrote the opening of the Gettysburg Address: "Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal."

Of course, he was in a hurry, writing in a train and all, Or so we're told. A writer with more time on his hands might have put it this way: "Fourscore and seven fateful years ago our doughty fathers gamely brought forth on this bonny continent a s.p.u.n.ky new nation stoutly conceived in steadfast liberty and pluckily dedicated to the bracing proposition that all men are created utterly equal in perpetuity."

Which version do you like?

The Repeat Offender.

Some of us are programmed to dole out modifiers in twos, others in threes, producing prose that has a monotonous regularity. If we're wired for twos, each adjective or adverb is sure to be followed by another. If we're programmed for threes, each modifier is robotically followed by two more.

The result is a.s.sembly-line writing: Lucy's swollen, red cheeks threatened to burst as she stood at the swift, relentless conveyor belt and wildly, desperately stuffed more and more chocolates into her mouth.

Now let's crank it up a notch: Lucy's swollen, red, aching cheeks threatened to burst as she stood at the swift, relentless, heartless conveyor belt and wildly, desperately, futilely stuffed more and more and more chocolates into her mouth.

If you consistently use modifiers in irritating, monotonous, and singsong patterns, break the habit promptly, decisively, and completely.

Rhyme without Reason.

Speaking of singsong patterns, here's another-the echo effect. That's what you get when you use a modifier that jingles or rhymes. Think of combinations like prudent student, delightfully frightful, better sweater, stunningly cunning, ruthlessly truthful, mottled bottle-don't stop me, I'm on a roll-abysmally dismal, feral ferret, cruelly grueling, bizarre bazaar, fearful earful, terse nurse.

Rhyming modifiers come in two varieties: premeditated and unpremeditated. You can easily avoid unpremeditated ones by going over your writing, mentally listening for unintended sound effects. As for the premeditated ones, they aren't necessarily bad. A writer might use an echo effect because it's pleasing (nicely spiced), humorous (doubly bubbly), or unavoidable (prime time). Jingles and rhymes are also used for emphasis or for catchiness in names and t.i.tles (Weed Eater, Roto-Rooter, Famous Amos). Unfortunately, some combinations that may have been just right the first few times around have grown tattered around the edges: dream team, true blue, gender bender, white knight, low blow, deep sleep, brain drain, h.e.l.l's bells.

Are your ears ringing yet?

The lesson is listen. Think about how your modifiers sound alongside the words they modify. If you don't want to call attention to them, don't make them rhyme or jingle. If you do want to attract attention, be certain it's the right kind. You wouldn't want to use the lighthearted term legal eagle, for instance, in a solemn eulogy for a dignified lawyer. Ask yourself: Is this the effect I want? And remember that jingling references to people may have derogatory overtones: fat cat, plain Jane, shock jock, wise guys, rude dude, wheeler dealer, boy toy. Those are just the clean ones.

Be sure there's a reason for your rhymes. You'll turn out more inviting writing.

No a.s.sembly Required.

One of the big stories of the 1970's, when I was a copy editor for the Des Moines Register, was the energy crisis. If people weren't at home fiddling with their thermostats, they were waiting in long lines at the gas station. (Luckily, I drove a Beetle.) Everyone seemed to be talking about OPEC and the geography of the Middle East, home of oil-rich Kuwait. No, not Kuwait-oil-rich Kuwait. The name "Kuwait" never appeared alone.

Oil-rich Kuwait introduced me to a literary phenomenon: the prefabricated phrase that appears on cue, saving writers the trouble of coming up with fresh modifiers. These prea.s.sembled packages, as I soon learned, are almost everywhere. In a prefab weather report, for example, plain old hail never falls from the sky, only golf-ball-size (sometimes baseball-size) hail.

You've probably read articles that sound like this: Hastily summoned, the world leaders seriously considered the broad initiatives and issued a measured response that promised sweeping change to deal with the overwhelming odds that threatened their inextricably linked economies.

When descriptive writing is prefabricated, the reader is never surprised. A question is searching, a grip is viselike, a bungalow is modest, clouds are threatening, a source is reliable, a transfusion is life-giving, an escape is narrow, a hopeful is either young or presidential, reactions are knee-jerk, and that famous knoll is always gra.s.sy. Still, if you insist on using a prefab expression, at least get it right. I recently saw a real estate ad declaring that a house was "one of its kind." Yes, I'm sure it was.

Modifiers should be fresh, alive, interesting, not predictable. So if a descriptive phrase springs to mind, prea.s.sembled and ready to use, put it back in the box.

Sort of Disposable.

Adjectives and adverbs are supposed to add flavor to your writing, but puny, useless ones only water it down. We toss around these disposable modifiers without really thinking. Come to think of it, really is a good example.

It's easy to find throwaways in your writing-just use the Search function in your word processor and look for very, a little, a bit, pretty, somewhat, sort of, kind of, really, rather, and actually. If a word does nothing but take up s.p.a.ce, it's disposable. So dispose of it.

Very, in particular, can become a meaningless tic. Imagine a speech before the Chamber of Commerce: I'm very proud, and very honored, to accept this very distinguished award on behalf of Mr. Dithers, who is very sorry that he could not be here on this very special night.

A latecomer, overly, has started showing up in negative sentences. These days, we aren't overly surprised to read sentences like this: Ariadne's dissertation is not overly original.

I'm not saying that these words are all bad all the time. If what you're after is an informal, chatty tone, perhaps in first-person fiction or a breezy office memo, then very, a bit, somewhat, and the rest of the crew might be appropriate. And if you're legitimately using them to make a point, go right ahead. How late is Ariadne's dissertation? It's very late.

When they're overused, though, such words as very are no longer modifiers. They're mere filler, really. (Or do I mean actually?)

Misplaced Affections.

No matter how we love them, modifiers aren't much good if they're in the wrong place. A word or a phrase may be colorful, even essential, but it can't properly describe something if it's attached to something else.

Here's the kind of unsuitable attachment I mean: At sixty, those tight swim trunks still make Burt look like a hunk. The descriptive phrase at sixty is supposed to describe Burt, but it's attached to those tight swim trunks. Unless the trunks are sixty years old, the modifier is in the wrong place. Put it closer to Burt: At sixty, Burt still looks like a hunk in those tight swim trunks. (Okay, Burt, you can breathe now.) That one was easy. You could have guessed that Burt was sixty, not the swim trunks. But some sentences with badly placed modifiers are harder to figure out: Tina surprised Harry wearing her new pumps.

Who was in the pumps, Tina or Harry? Hey, you never know. Since two people are mentioned before the modifying phrase, wearing her new pumps, the reader has to guess who's being described. One possibility: Wearing her new pumps, Tina surprised Harry. Another: Tina surprised Harry as he was wearing her new pumps.

Most of the time, poorly placed modifiers are harmless. The writer may look silly, but the reader knows what's meant. Only a mind reader could figure this one out: Paul didn't see Vincent well.

Try this: Vincent wasn't well when Paul saw him. Or: Paul didn't see well when he met Vincent. For the second meaning, I'd prefer Paul didn't see Vincent clearly.

Serial Crimes.

Imagine you're a food consultant who's been asked to revive a failing restaurant's bill of fare. Your initial proposal might read: I recommend a radically new menu featuring pumpkin ravioli, fettuccine, and linguine.

Now read the sentence again, and keep your eye on the pumpkin. Since it comes at the head of the list, it could refer to all the pasta in the series, not just the ravioli. How fond of pumpkin are you? Do you really want to serve pumpkin ravioli, pumpkin fettuccine, and pumpkin linguine? If so, lots of luck. But if there's supposed to be only one pumpkin dish on the menu, this is a ridiculously easy problem to solve. When an adjective garnishes only one item in a list, put that item last: I recommend a radically new menu featuring fettuccine, linguine, and pumpkin ravioli.