Today’s How To post is short and sweet, intended to shorten a manuscript and sweeten it for publication.

Writing economically makes a story more engaging and readable. These tips are not about massive revision or changing scenes. They explain ways to trim the unnecessary from what’s already written.

1. Write in the active voice rather than the passive voice.  “Was” phrases and gerunds (-ing words) add one word with each use.

~  He was standing becomes He  stood.

~  She was beating the dog becomes She beat the dog.

~ He was thinking about becomes He thought.

2. Remove words that don’t add value to the story.

~  Superfluous words like really, just, even, sort of, kind of, basically, actually, that, very add to word count, but little to content.

3. Remove sentences that must be explained.

~ Something was wrong – Instead of making this announcement, tell what’s wrong.

~ She could see something was out of place – We don’t need this preamble, which is also telling. Show us what’s out of place.

3. Search out meaningless gestures. Characters who look around, breathe deeply, or close their eyes over and over in a manuscript may seem busy, but they also may be performed busywork. Is every action necessary, interesting and adds to the story? Will the moment be significantly changed without it? If no, cut it out.

~ Everyone sleeps, gets dressed in the morning, and goes to the bathroom, but that doesn’t mean I want to read about it. – One of my favorite writing axioms.

4. Search and destroy adverbs. If it ends in -ly, it should have an excellent reason for being in the sentence. If the sentence can survive without it, cut it.

~ Said loudly can be shouted; walked quickly can be jogged; spoke softly can be whispered; put down angrily can be slammed

5 – Trim dialogue tags. “He said” and “She said” are necessary to identify speakers, but attributes are not needed after every spoken line. Dialogue tags can be staggered, or an action which identifies the speaker can replace it–but only if the action tells something of its own.

~ “Lies, all you tell me are lies,” John said. He slapped his hand on the table in frustration.

becomes

~“Lies, all you tell me are lies.” John slapped his hand on the table in frustration.

Chipping away at a manuscript can be tedious, but if a lower word count is your goal, one word is better than two. Clean, tight writing is more enjoyable to read, and easier to sell.

Do you have habit words you often cut?

Ramona

What is Leading a Reader?

Leading a reader is a term I use to describe habits that alert a reader about what’s ahead but doing so undermines tension.

Leading the reader can happen in two ways. One employs melodramatic statements that are intended as lures. The other states a fact and piles on unnecessary proof.

Have you ever read something like these?

~ Eileen opened the door to the ballroom. There before her was the surprise of her life! Never again would she take Boyd’s love for granted.

~ Jonathon read the report. With each paragraph, the words killed off a bit of his soul. By the time he was finished, his heart felt like an empty pouch.

These examples lead the reader because they tell of a grandiose or terrible something, but after the description is over, the reader is no more enlightened than before. What did Boyd do for Eileen that removed all doubts? What did the report reveal that was so soul-destroying for Jonathon? What comes next is an explanation, but the momentum of the story goes in reverse while the writer expounds on what just happened.

Some writers place a leading statement at the end of a chapter hoping it will fuel an irresistible urge to turn the page. While getting the reader to turn the page is a good thing, using a cheap trick to do so is not so good. A statement such as “What she saw before her changed everything she thought was true” is not only melodramatic, it’s a tease. Nobody likes a tease.

A second type of leading the reader is when a character express a conclusion as a fact, and then follows up the statement with unnecessary proof.

For example:

~ Eileen ran down the rain-slicked road toward where Boyd lay next to the fallen tree. Ten feet away she stopped. She was too late. He was dead. A sob caught her throat as she threw herself at his body. She checked his pulse. She tore open his shirt and started CPR.

Now wait a minute. Boyd is dead. She just told us so. She didn’t say he looked dead or seemed dead. She said she was too late. She said he was dead.

So if he’s dead, why’s she wasting her time–and mine–to check his pulse and start CPR?

A second way of looking at this is:

~ Jonathon walked in and instantly knew his wife was gone. After all the threats, Marsha had left him. “Marsha?” he called. He went into the kitchen. No Marsha. He ran upstairs to their bedroom. No Marsha. He yanked open the closet door. Marsha’s clothes were gone.

My reaction to reading this is, Dude, give it up, Marsha is gone. I don’t need to see the empty kitchen or bedroom or closet. I know she’s gone because Jonathon instantly KNEW his wife was gone. He didn’t guess, think, wonder or hope. He said he knew it, and I believed him, so his running around to make sure were just histrionics. No wonder Marsha left him.

Expressing a conclusion as a fact before it’s proven or discovered kills the tension of the moment. Once I know Boyd is dead, so is the scene. There can’t be a faint pulse or a dying moment promise or a stranger who happens to be a handsome neurosurgeon screeching to a halt and popping out of his Jaguar to revive Boyd and, by doing so, steals Eileen from him.

Likewise, if Jonathon tells me Marsha is finally gone, he destroys my hope that maybe she’s hiding in the closet with a shotgun to put the lying, cheating jerk out of her misery once and for all.

A simple way of solving this problem is to turn the statement into a question.

~ Instead of “He was dead” change to “Was Boyd dead?”

~ Rather than “…instantly knew his wife had left him…” change to “Had Marsha finally left him?”

A question makes the following actions more plausible.

By telling  a fact too soon, the writer kills the drama. By making a melodramatic statement, the writer has to go backwards to back it up. This leads the reader by telling, not by showing the action as it happens.

Ramona

 

What is a Reaction?

A reaction is a response to an occurrence.

A reaction happens in three steps: Action, Instinct, Response. An event occurs. Instinct kicks in first. A reasoned response follows.

Let’s use an illustrative example, from my pretend novel Bad Sale:

Richard walks through his corn field, checking the crop. Nearby, a gunshot cracks off. Richard jumps at the sound. He crouches down and stares at the treeline, wondering who is shooting at his corn field?

Now let’s deconstruct:

Line 1 sets the scene (Richard walking)

Line 2 is the action (gunshot)

Line 3 is instinct (jumping in surprise)

Line 4 is Richard’s reasoned response (crouching for protection then wonder what’s happening)

In fiction, there are two reasons for this lesson in physiology.

First, how a character responds to the unexpected shows something about him. Richard, for instance, is a private citizen. He’s surprised by the gunshot and crouches, for his own safety. He wonders why there is gunfire because, apparently, it’s not a common occurrence.

If Richard lived in a crime-ridden city, his instinct would not change–he’d still be startled. His response would depend on his life experience. That’s what puts the reason in his reasoned response. He might hit the deck; he might jump into a doorway; he might reach for his own weapon. Instead of wondering why there is gunfire, he might wonder if it hit someone he knows.

If Richard is a police officer or soldier, his physical response would be the result of training: instead of cowering, he might seek cover or charge toward the gunfire; or he might command people around him to get down or hide.

How a character reacts to a surprise or event is full of clues about the character.

The second reason a fiction writer should understand the order of reaction is to understand what happens when the order is disrupted.

For instance, I often see a paragraph like this:

~ Jessica jogs through her quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Suddenly, a neighbor’s dog charges toward the street. How did it get loose? It’s always chained. Jessica stumbles at its ferocious bark. She rights herself and sprints away.

See the problem?

Line 1 sets the scene (Jessica jogging)

Line 2 is the action (dog charging)

Line 3 is part of the reasoned response (asking why question)

Line 3 is instinct (Jessica stumbles)

Line 4 is part 2 of her reasoned response (recover and run away)

By asking questions before she responds, Jessica pauses the flow of action. When a dog charges, do you run first or wonder first? On the page, she delays her immediate, instinctive physical response. The first question gives the dog time to catch her. A second question means the dog has latched onto her ankle. If she asked another one, the dog would be gnawing on her leg.

As a reader, I’m wondering why Jessica is asking questions when there’s a dog charging at her. I’m shaking the book, saying, “Run, Jessica, run!”

Think about it. When you are surprised, what do you do?

First, you react instinctively (jerk, jump, stumble, yell.)

Then you respond to protect yourself (duck, cower, raise your hands, cover your ears.)

Then you ask questions (Who let the dog out? Who’s shooting in my corn field?)

This is how it happens in real life. This is how it should happen in fiction. If you allow your characters to ask questions first and respond second, they’ll get dog bit.

Have you written a character whose life experience or training has altered their response to danger?

Ramona