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Wanted: Verb

November 13, 2014

If you wanted to hang a picture, and had to hammer a nail into the wall, you’d use a hammer for the job. Sure, you could probably use the blunt end of an axe, or a heavy-heeled shoe, but the best tool for the job would be the hammer, because that’s what hammers do.

They hammer.

When writing, you need to treat your selection of verbs the same way. You need to find the right verb for the right job. It doesn’t have to be a fancy verb, it doesn’t have to be a verb that’ll send readers to the dictionary, it just has to the verb designed for that particular job.

Of course, there are lots of different verbs that do similar things. If this occurs, then you need to find the verb most appropriate for what’s happening. Sometimes, this is easy. Sometimes it’s not.

Consider this scenario: Bob’s partner Gloria sits on the couch in the lounge. The kitchen explodes. Bob wants to get Gloria out of there fast. So how does he grab her from the couch?

Bob grabbed Gloria’s wrist and pulled her from the couch.

It’s simple. No extravagance here. And it works … doesn’t it?

Yes, it works, but lacks the immediacy the situation demands. The damn kitchen’s just blown up! And he’s just pulled her up, like he’s inviting her to dance? Uh uh. So what’s the alternative?

Bob grabbed Gloria’s wrist and pulled her quickly from the couch.

That tells us more, right? He hasn’t just pulled Gloria up; he’s pulled her up quickly! But the reality is if you need an adverb (quickly) to modify your verb (pulled), then your verb’s probably not the right tool for the job. You need to find a verb that is going to do the work of, in this case, ‘pulled quickly’.

Bob grabbed Gloria’s wrist and yanked her from the couch.

How’s that? Better? At the very least, ‘yanked’ communicates the immediacy and urgency the situation demands.

As writers, we develop our craft through one primary tool. Can you guess what it is?

If you said ‘vocabulary’, well, you’re not quite right. A good vocabulary is important, but the primary tool is actually ‘habit’. We like to say things a certain way, use certain phrases, develop certain idiosyncrasies – this becomes our voice. That’s fine, but if we develop the habit that we just go with the first thing that comes to mind, then we won’t think about the verbs (or words) we use.

Stop. Think about it. Look at your narrative. Are the right words doing the right jobs? Or do you have half-assed workers just making a good fist of it? Or, even worse, do you have imposters?

Gloria shouted at Bob, which caused Bob to be upset.

Or:

The wind blew across the river, causing the surface to ripple.

At least in the case of yanking Gloria from the couch, pulling is in the realms of the same action – pulled, yanked, jerked, etc. Caused? Well, it tells us something happened, it just doesn’t tell us how. It’s a trigger that turns the actual verbs (upset and ripple) into adjectives. This dilutes what’s going on. Here, we should put the verbs back in charge.

Gloria shouted at Bob, which upset Bob.

And

The wind blew across the river, rippling the river’s surface.

Or, with this second example, even something like …

The wind rippled the river’s surface.

As an aside, note with the second example of the river, we leave out ‘The wind blew across the river’, because that’s now become implied. If the wind rippled the river’s surface, the wind must be blowing across the river.

In any case, aren’t these examples better than the ones using caused?

Get in the habit of thinking about your writing, about the words you’re using, and finding the right ones for the right jobs.

LZ.

P17 Issue 11 Reflections – Kevin Gillam, Holly Zwalf and Ben Grech

November 11, 2014

In just over a week, the wait is finally over. The open mic night on 19 November is open invitation, so come along if you can and celebrate the launch of Issue 11 with us!

If you’re curious about some of what you can expect in the latest offering from page seventeen, read on: three more of our latest contributors have a little something to share about their work. Some of it will resonate now, some will hit you later after you’ve read the issue. Either way, maybe there’s something in their path of inspiration that you can relate to, or tale something from? Hmm…

* * *

Kevin Gillam on ‘The hush’

‘The hush’ was written as an attempt to create a poem with an utterly tangible syntax, using some of my favourite and deliberately obscure topics as content. The essence of the poem is in the creation of its argumentative voice, one that spins a kind of distorted logic in the hope of being convincing. My own writing style is very like this – always collecting phrases, thoughts and snatches of conversations, particularly from philosophers and scientists in discussion.

Kevin Gillam is a West Australian writer with three books of poetry published: other gravities (2003) and permitted to fall (2007) both with Sunline Press, and ‘songs sul G’ in Two Poets with Fremantle Press (2011). He works as Director of Music at Christ Church Grammar School in Perth.

* * *

Holly Zwalf on ‘Out of season’

One cannot help but be aware of an absence that clings to Australian landscape poetry; an absence that seems to suck dry our already barren continent, leaving it flat and drained of colour. The omission of the human inhabitants of these landscapes is sometimes conventional and often political, performing a poetic terra nullius through verse.

I am deeply in love with Australia’s landscapes but I am soon bored by photographs of mountains or statues or sunsets, unless there is a person located somewhere in the shot. While not explicitly political in its content, through my writing I try to offset the natural environment with the people who inhabit it, to locate bodies and their emotions within a wider ecosystem, and to combine confessional and landscape poetry in an attempt to explore the relationship between the personal and the environmental.

Holly Zwalf is a queer smutty spoken word artist and poet who grew up on a boat, but who gets horrifically seasick. She likes free medicare and hates birds in cages.

* * *

Ben Grech on ‘Pikes Ridge’

I started writing this piece while on exchange in Canada. I loved Montreal, but after a month I was homesick. I began reading Australian literature obsessively. I was ignoring coursework. I demanded my housemates read the books so I’d have people to talk with about them. I took on a heavy Australian tone and lexicon. I caught myself saying things I’d never said before: ‘G’day,’ ‘Ooroo,’ and ‘Beaut’ somehow found their way into my everyday conversation.

As part of my exchange I was accepted into a creative writing course instructed by Kathleen Winter, whose invaluable mentorship has kept me writing. The prose I unloaded onto the class was unquestionably Australian. ‘Pikes Ridge’ began as part of a free writing activity during which I wrote about a young boy admiring a mountain. I knew this was going to be a large part of the narrative. Stories like The Kiss by Peter Goldsworthy and The Boat by Alistair MacLeod, which both revolve around young boys in small towns, immediately became strong influences.

From there the story turned into little unconnected, overwritten vignettes of imagery and narrative. By the end of the course major themes were outlined, tensions were exposed, metaphors discovered, and a narrative structure loosely implemented. That was two years ago. It was ninety percent finished when I left Canada, but the last ten percent has taken hours of editing, rearranging, rereading and thinking about to get it to a place that I was happy to start sharing.

Ben Grech is an aspiring teacher and writer living in Melbourne. Writing has been a hobby since he was young. He started taking it seriously when he was accepted into a competitive writing course in Montreal taught by Kathleen Winter, whose intimate mentorship and advice gives him confidence whenever he writes.

Attributors

November 6, 2014

Attributors.

Firstly, let’s define what they are.

They’re the bit of narrative that tells you how dialogue is being said.

For example:

said

asked

said

I saw a blog recently, where the blogger suggested you didn’t have to be boring when it came to using attributors, and then she listed about forty alternatives you could use – things like:

Etc.

There is a school of thought that if your dialogue is written well enough, ‘said’ and ‘asked’ are the only two attributors you’ll ever need.

Personally, this is a school of thought I subscribe to. If you have a line like this …

’Stop being such a prude!’ exclaimed Gloria.

… do we really need to be told that Gloria ‘exclaimed’ when the exclamation mark is telling us she exclaimed? That’s the exclamation mark’s job, after all – to signify an exclamation’s been made.

As an editor, though, I’m not as stringent on authors who decide to be versatile with their attributors. I can concede that things like ‘shouted’ and ‘shrieked’ and ‘screeched’ might have their use to try to offer context, so being a bit lateral with attributors is fine … as long as they’re not extravagant.

Ew. That’s all I can say. Ew.

Actually, I can (and will) say more. Do we really need to know Bob’s counter? Isn’t his answer counter enough? Similarly, isn’t Gloria’s dialogue proposition enough that we don’t need to be told she’s propositioning? (I guess you could say the same for ‘asked’, but that’s so simple, it escapes any especial attention.) Isn’t Bob’s answer enough to tell us he’s putting off the proposition? Do we really need to be told he ‘vacillated’?

Usually, you’ll see the more colourful attributors in children’s and young(er) adult fiction, because the language tends to be vivacious. But when you’re writing for a maturer reader, are fancy attributors really necessary? Isn’t there times when they actually become redundant?

Bob reiterated. Or some might write repeated. Why do we need to be told that dialogue was repeated when the existence of the repeated dialogue is all the proof you need it’s repeated? It’s tautological. And Bob stammered? Lots of writers use something like this, or stuttered, when it would be better just to show us in the dialogue itself, e.g. ‘T –t–tom–m–morrow.’ The hissed and mocked are just colorful descriptors telling us a tone we should imply anyway.

Other people like to use adverbs.

When using adverbs, you need to question their necessity. Whilst I guess Gloria could shriek all manner of ways – angrily or hysterically or happily – you need to ask whether the dialogue isn’t communicating the correct emotional state anyway. In this case, we know Gloria isn’t shrieking happily. She could be hysterical, but we’d hope that the whole picture of the story would contextualise whether Gloria’s prone to such abrupt hysterics. That leaves us with her being angry, which the exclamation point and the shrieked imply is occurring. As for Bob answering defensively, isn’t this self-explanatory?

Others throw in an adverb that mightn’t be as closely related to the dialogue, and is trying to show the character’s state.

‘I think I’ve just about had it with you,’ Gloria said wearily.

Yet again, we need to question the necessity of the adverb. Is it telling us something new? Is it adding layers to Gloria’s character? Providing depth?

Some people use actions as attributors.

Uh uh. You cannot sigh dialogue. Try it. A sigh is an exhalation of breath. Words do not – can not – ride it out. And a snort is a sound people make. These are separate actions. However close their relationship to the dialogue, they should be treated as narrative.

Then there’s another school of thought that you can add an adjectival phrase that contextualises not only the dialogue, but the emotional state of the character saying it.

‘You didn’t have to say that.’ Bob’s voice was like sandpaper.

That’s something, isn’t it? And it conjures up an interesting image. Many would argue this adds a new dimension to the dialogue. Whilst I can see why it does (or accept that argument that it does), I’d ask again whether it’s necessary.

Does that mean dialogue needs to be free of any descriptive elements? No. Think about actions that add depth to your characters.

‘You are such a child.’ Gloria tensed, and her shoulders drew up.

This isn’t telling us about the dialogue now, but about Gloria herself. A person might tense when they’re angry or frustrated. You draw your shoulders up when you’re preparing to become aggressive.

As an aside, this little bit here shows us Gloria’s response, and from that we infer our own meaning. All the attributors and adverbs tell us. Which is more effective?

One final thing to consider with dialogue is how often you want to interrupt it – because that’s what attributors, adverbs, adjectival phrases, and actions are doing. You’re interrupting a conversation. In doing that, you need to insinuate yourself as seamlessly as possible to provide whatever additional information you believe is required. Too much becomes disruptive and hurts both the pacing and flow.

Ultimately, we always come back to the same point: how necessary are all these things? If you feel they’re pivotal, the actual query might be that your dialogue itself is not conveying what you want it to.

Dialogue
With Trimmings		Without Trimmings
‘Hello,’ Bob said. ‘Are you coming over today?’ Gloria asked. ‘I don’t know that I should,’ Bob said. ’Stop being such a prude!’ exclaimed Gloria. ‘I’m just a little tired,’ Bob countered. ‘Would you like to go out?’ propositioned Gloria. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ Bob vacillated. ‘What?’ Gloria hissed. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ Bob reiterated. ‘Tomorrow?’ Gloria mocked. ‘Tomorrow,’ Bob stammered. ‘It’s always tomorrow with you!’ Gloria shrieked angrily. ‘No, it’s not,’ Bob said defensively. ‘I think I’ve just about had it with you,’ Gloria said wearily. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ Bob sighed. ‘You’ve gone beyond a disappointment,’ Gloria snorted. ‘You snort like a pig.’ Bob chuckled. ‘You’d know, being one and all.’ Gloria smirked. ‘You didn’t have to say that.’ Bob’s voice was like sandpaper. ‘You are such a child.’ Gloria tensed, and her shoulders drew up.		‘Hello,’ Bob said. ‘Are you coming over today?’ Gloria asked. ‘I don’t know that I should,’ Bob said. ‘Stop being such a prude!’ ‘I’m just a little tired.’ ‘Would you like to go out?’ ‘Maybe tomorrow.’ ‘What?’ ‘Maybe tomorrow.’ ‘Tomorrow?’ ‘T –t–tom–m–morrow.’ ‘It’s always tomorrow with you!’ ‘No, it’s not.’ ‘I think I’ve just about had it with you.’ ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ Bob sighed. ‘You’ve gone beyond a disappointment,’ Gloria snorted. ‘You snort like a pig.’ Bob chuckled. ‘You’d know, being one and all.’ ‘You didn’t have to say that.’ ‘You are such a child.’ Gloria tensed, and her shoulders drew up.

LZ.

A Partially Weeded Garden

November 4, 2014

In my last post I talked about ‘weeds’ in writing – extra adverbs, dangling plot threads and so on. They’re all derided almost universally as pests, and able to overrun your garden of words if left unchecked. That post was the practical advice – the list of things to watch out for to prevent your garden and lawn being turned into an unappealing landscape of thickets.

Does this seem like a common theme? That’s because it is. Adverbs in particular – it’s practically fashionable to hate them.

But what if we stepped outside of that viewpoint for a moment?

Weeds, talking literally for a moment, aren’t always straight-out villains with no purpose other than ruining a perfectly manicured lawn. Some common weeds can be used for medicinal and health purposes – just a few examples in this article if you’re interested – and sometimes they can have a beneficial impact on the soil. They still ruin the garden if left to grow unchecked, but single-mindedly running them over with a mower may be ignoring their possible virtues. You can even make wine from dandelions – God knows how it would taste, but it’s a done thing.

The catch is that any visitors who see a dandelion in the backyard will instantly assume you’re a messy gardener – or at least one who doesn’t fit in with their perspective of the basic rules in maintaining a garden. The same is true for writing. Drop a ‘suddenly’ into a sentence and many professional readers and editors will treat it with derision, as an amateur’s fallback.

The unconventional can sometimes be irrelevant, or even part of a particular book’s charm. Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep is a favourite of mine. It’s full of dangling plot threads, and a pretty central scene with a murder that ends up being a total and jarring dead end. Chandler later admitted he had no idea who killed that chauffeur, and it’s a scene that modern editors would ravage for its lack of utility.

Despite this and what other flaws may be picked out of the book, The Big Sleep often features in top 100 lists for books written in the 20^th century. What it did get right – the tone and atmosphere, the characters, the loose but weighty narrative voice – outweighed the smaller faux pas and the otherwise crippling mishandling of plot elements. That’s a great big weed to have to work around without just ripping the damn thing out altogether. And yet it’s now part of the garden. Not everyone likes it, but it’s there and the garden has plenty of admirers nonetheless.

And as far as the structure of expressing detail is concerned, the long and winding history of writing and literature are filled with examples of where new tricks have been implemented. Have a quick look at this article to see how some household names in classic literature have used punctuation in ways that would still be considered novel, or at least not standard. Whether you like these particular books or not is a moot point if their less conventional methods of handling detail has something to offer in your writing.

The lesson here is that there are always new ways to express things, and sometimes more maligned elements of one’s writing style can be turned into an advantage. If we all blindly follow every small rule that is proliferated without question or variance – kill every instance of ‘suddenly’, shun the passive voice, regulate your characters to fulfil certain roles and requirements – then we face a growing culture of institutionalisation in literature.

Always look for new ways to express things, and don’t shy away from incorporating some dandelions or nettle in your grand scheme if it fits. If you can find ways to use the weeds to your advantage, or to integrate them so well into your writing that they’re part of the package, then by all means experiment and see what you come up with that can bend the unwritten rules a little. It’s the same as any discipline – the rules and guidelines are there for a reason, and moving away from their guidance is a risk. But innovation can’t occur without some risk.

As always, there’s the word of warning: don’t necessarily expect the result to be marketable. Maybe it will be. But it might also get savaged by an editor for playing with fire on adverbs or passive language. Your garden is your own. Never stop dreaming of ways to make it both appealing on a base level to guests, and identifiably unique. How so-called weeds can fit into that scheme and create a unique style of writing is something that will require a dedicated spirit of experimentation. And maybe a glass of dandelion wine to get the creative juices flowing.

Beau Hillier | Editor, page seventeen

The Shape of Writing

October 30, 2014

Here’s a writing exercise to try before this blog unfolds in earnest: write a scene in which your protagonist comes home and finds the corpse of their beloved partner lying in a pool of their own blood.

Try it.

See how you go.

Well?

As writers, we have a number of tools at our disposal to tell our story. Our primary tools are words. We find the right word to fit what we want to say. The right combination of words in a sentence conveys an idea. Sentences unfold in paragraphs, paragraphs into pages, pages into chapters – and on and on we go to create our world into which, if we do it right, we suck the reader.

But something we need to give thought to is how we shape our words, our, sentences, our paragraphs, etc. It’s easy to obey the laws of English as a guideline, but sometimes we need to manipulate it to serve our needs, and thus the needs of our story.

Again, let’s go back to the original premise: your protagonist finds their partner dead.

You may try something like this:

He came into the kitchen, then stopped. Gloria lay on the floor, her body twisted unnaturally, blood pooling from a wound to her head, her temple indented like her skull had collapsed.

That would be the simplest way of writing a scene like this, but is this scene in any way distinguished from the rest of the narrative? Presumably, it flows as normal, even though our character is now in an extraordinary and shocking situation. Imagine you were in this situation. Would your digestion of what’s going on flow normally, like all you were doing was going out to pick up the morning paper from the veranda?

In all likelihood, you’d be in shock. Your mind would be overwhelmed, unable to process what’s happening the way it might normally. With this being the case we need to convey a similar disconnectedness in our narrative.

He came into the kitchen. Stopped. Gloria. Lay on the floor. Body twisted. Blood. So much blood. Pooling from her temple.

Note the difference – now, we’re using short, sharp sentences to illustrate the way the protagonist takes in the scene. Even the word choice is important. Do you go for something fancy? Or something simple, if not blunt? The choices you make here determine the impact your writing makes in this situation.

Here (in our example), everything jars. He sees specifics, like flashes of cognition. Through this, we get that his perception has changed, and it demonstrates the shock of what’s occurring, as well as provides a contrast from the rest of the narrative.

Good narrative takes the reader on a ride through the story. If it’s done well, the reader won’t know they’re on a ride. They’ll just follow the prompts unthinkingly, and in following the prompts unthinkingly you’ll create for them the world of your story.

Every now and again, though, the ride may need to change its course or pacing – like a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster that kept going up, or only went down, or only ran straight, would soon get boring. So you have peaks and troughs, which helps build anticipation or provides a burst of excitement.

Think about how you shape your narrative, as it controls the ride you’re taking your reader on. Life isn’t a singular-paced ride. Sometimes, it’s nothing but fragments. Other times it might run long and uninterrupted. Just as life has ups, downs, and rhythms, you can impress the same cadences into your narrative just by the way you shape your words and sentences.

LZ.