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 write, 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: The city of Freedonia must be prepared for development on all land that is vacant or underdeveloped-about twelve percent of the total acreage. To estimate the development potential of these parcels, our chief planner, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff, weighed the physical, regulatory, and environmental constraints. Taking these into consideration, he estimates that about half of this land is developable, excluding easements for the viaduct. Development pressures will continue to increase while Sylvania, Dukesbury, and other neighboring municipalities become more developed and people are attracted by the character of your city. As our legal adviser, J. Cheever Loophole, has pointed out, the challenge is not whether to grow, because growth is inevitable. The challenge is to find a way to grow while preserving the ambience of Freedonia.
Quite an eyeful, isn't it? You might argue that the paragraph is reasonable as it is. You might even like it, since it does seem to follow one train of thought from beginning to end. Well, I like cheeseburgers but I don't try to swallow them whole. I'd recommend breaking the paragraph in two after the word viaduct. Why viaduct? Because a shift in focus takes place there, as the writer turns from statistics to what it all means. Now read the example again, this time as two paragraphs. It's no less reasonable, and the reader gets a break.
The city of Freedonia must be prepared for development on all land that is vacant or underdeveloped-about twelve percent of the total acreage. To estimate the development potential of these parcels, our chief planner, Professor Quincy Adams Wagstaff, weighed the physical, regulatory, and environmental constraints. Taking these into consideration, he estimates that about half of this land is developable, excluding easements for the viaduct.
Development pressures will continue to increase while Sylvania, Dukesbury, and other neighboring municipalities become more developed and people are attracted by the character of your city. As our legal adviser, J. Cheever Loophole, has pointed out, the challenge is not whether to grow, because growth is inevitable. The challenge is to find a way to grow while preserving the ambience of Freedonia.
Pauses aren't merely restful. They're convenient in other ways as well. By dividing a piece of writing into eye-size chunks, paragraphs help readers who want to review what they've read. I find paragraphs especially useful when I want to reread a passage, refresh my memory quickly, or find my place again after stopping to check on the souffle or walk the Rottweilers.
If all a paragraph did was give the reader a break, that would be enough. But it does something even more important. Each pause is a signal from the writer that one train of thought has passed and another is arriving.
That's why you can't just start a new paragraph every two sentences, say, or every three or four. A new one should begin when a new idea comes along. By "new idea" Idon't mean a complete change of topic. If a paragraph gets too long, you might divide it where there's a shift in the direction, the perspective, or the focus (as in the Freedonia example, when we moved from the details to the big picture). Or if there's an important sentence buried deep inside, you might use it to start a new paragraph. No matter what they say, size does matter.
Nice Work If You Can Get It.
Each sentence in a paragraph has a job-to nudge the main idea along. If a sentence isn't doing its job, it doesn't belong in the paragraph. I know it's hard to dump a nifty sentence you like simply because it doesn't fit in. But a writer's got to do what a writer's got to do.
Let's take a look at a few sentences that might have been written for an ornithological journal: The courtship behavior of the reclusive bristlerumped partridge is unique and rarely observed. Native only to Utah, the partridge performs its mating dance entirely on one leg, the male on the right leg and the hen on the left. As with other grouse, the male is polygamous. One mating pair, recorded by Dr. Rufous Piper, performed the ceremonial dance while hopping in concentric circles, grooming each other's bristles and waving their free legs in the air.
With one exception, each sentence advances the paragraph's main subject, the birds' unique mating ritual. Yes, as you've probably guessed, the sentence about the male's polygamy belongs in some other paragraph. The polygamy isn't unique, and it has nothing to do with the mating dance.
A Sense of Purpose.
Just as each sentence in a paragraph has a job, so does each paragraph. Sentences advance the main idea of a paragraph, and paragraphs advance the main idea-the purpose-of the piece you're writing. In both cases, you're using a part to move the reader farther along in the whole.
The difference, though, is that paragraphs aren't knit as closely together as sentences. The leap from paragraph to paragraph is bigger than the leap from sentence to sentence. That's because successive paragraphs don't necessarily get us from here to there by moving in a straight line. They can change direction by giving us something new. They can change focus by moving from the specific to the general or vice versa. Or they can change perspective by showing us a subject from a different angle.
Like sentences, paragraphs can be in the right order and still not follow one another smoothly. You may need a bridge to link them, to let the reader know where you're going. That's why we have such expressions as on the other hand and to make matters worse and meanwhile.
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.
15. The Elongated Yellow Fruit.
FEAR OF REPETITION.
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.
Nicely Nicely.
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."
16. Training Wheels.
BELABORING THE OBVIOUS.
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.