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One of my friends pinned this cheat
sheet on Pinterest and I made a comment that I absolutely disagreed with the
title. This seems to be a hot button issue with writers as within minutes, a
lot of my writer friends were commenting on it. This blog post will address this
controversial subject, as I like to go where the action is.
For
those of you who are just starting to write, I’m going to tell you something
that is going to make your life a lot easier: your English teacher is wrong.
Paragraphs
are not made up of five sentences. It’s okay to start a sentence with a
conjunction. Said is NOT dead. “Said” often gets overlooked as a great word
because people have become so accustomed to reading it that their eyes glaze
over it without taking it in. But this is exactly what makes it so great.
Nothing encumbers a dialogue scene like getting stopped up by “reported”,
“roared”, and “sobbed” at the end of every sentence. It makes it feel heavy and
stops all flow that exists when people talk in real life. It calls more
attention to the fact that they are talking rather than the words they are
saying. To prove this, here are two versions of the same section from one of my
stories:
1) Ana
had stretched out her arm, a few inches of clear tape stuck to the tip of each
finger. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re stupid,” she said. “I just think
you guys are going too fast.”
Christine
plucked the five pieces of tape from Ana’s fingers. “How else am I supposed to
take it?” she said. “You’re supposed to be supporting me in this. You’re supposed
to he my best friend.” She stuck two pieces into the end of a yellow streamer
before twisting it and taping it gently to the ceiling.
“You’ve
known each other eight months, and in those eight months, you’ve done nothing
but complain about how immature he is.” Ana grasped the sides of the ladder to
steady it and looked up at Christine.
“It’s
not that bad,” she said.
“What
did he buy you this time?”
“What?” She turned to look
down at Ana.
“You
only say that after he buys you something extravagant and pink. Like when he
surprised you in the shower with that pink Nikon. Or when he guilted you into
moving in and then gave you that pink beach cruiser.”
“I’m
not marrying him because he buys me pink things,” she said angrily.
“I didn’t say
that.”
“Then
what are you saying?”
“I’m
saying that you’re a smart, independent woman. You need someone who will let
you be that way.”
Christine
rolled her eyes. “Someone like you?” She
stuck the last few pieces of tape on the top step of the ladder, saving them
for the next streamer, and climbed down.
Ana didn’t move
from where she was, arms still stretched to hold each side of the ladder. They
stood face to face when Christine reached the ground. The insides of Ana’s arms
were touching Christine’s shoulders on either side. Ana was suddenly aware of
Christine’s breathing and of the warmth she radiated. She could see the flecks
of auburn in Christine’s green eyes. She could feel her own heartbeat.
An unfamiliar
glint of panic seemed to flicker in Christine’s eyes, and then she twisted
sideways, breaking free, and went to the table quickly for another roll of
crepe paper.
Ana let go of the
ladder and took a step back. “I’m
sorry,” she said.
One end of the yellow streamer came loose from
the ceiling and fluttered down, untwisting itself until it reached the floor.
Christine kept her back turned and rummaged in the bag of crepe paper rolls
much longer than seemed necessary. “I think I can finish this up on my own,”
she said.
2) Ana
had stretched out her arm, a few inches of clear tape stuck to the tip of each
finger. “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re stupid,” she spoke. “I just think
you guys are going too fast.”
Christine
plucked the five pieces of tape from Ana’s fingers. “How else am I supposed to
take it?” she fumed. “You’re supposed to be supporting me in this. You’re supposed
to he my best friend.” She stuck two pieces into the end of a yellow streamer
before twisting it and taping it gently to the ceiling.
“You’ve
known each other eight months, and in those eight months, you’ve done nothing
but complain about how immature he is.” Ana grasped the sides of the ladder to
steady it and looked up at Christine.
“It’s
not that bad,” she entreated.
“What
did he buy you this time?”
“What?” She turned to look
down at Ana.
“You
only say that after he buys you something extravagant and pink. Like when he
surprised you in the shower with that pink Nikon. Or when he guilted you into
moving in and then gave you that pink beach cruiser.”
“I’m
not marrying him because he buys me pink things,” she thundered.
“I didn’t say
that.”
“Then
what are you saying?”
“I’m
saying that you’re a smart, independent woman. You need someone who will let
you be that way.”
Christine
rolled her eyes. “Someone like you?” She
stuck the last few pieces of tape on the top step of the ladder, saving them
for the next streamer, and climbed down.
Ana didn’t move
from where she was, arms still stretched to hold each side of the ladder. They
stood face to face when Christine reached the ground. The insides of Ana’s arms
were touching Christine’s shoulders on either side. Ana was suddenly aware of
Christine’s breathing and of the warmth she radiated. She could see the flecks
of auburn in Christine’s green eyes. She could feel her own heartbeat.
An unfamiliar
glint of panic seemed to flicker in Christine’s eyes, and then she twisted
sideways, breaking free, and went to the table quickly for another roll of
crepe paper.
Ana let go of the
ladder and took a step back. “I’m
sorry,” she whimpered.
One end of the yellow streamer came loose from
the ceiling and fluttered down, untwisting itself until it reached the floor.
Christine kept her back turned and rummaged in the bag of crepe paper rolls
much longer than seemed necessary. “I think I can finish this up on my own,”
she commanded.
I
don’t know if I’ve made my point come across, but you have to listen to me. I
am a Baroness now.
much love,
hedgie
