Especially for wordsmiths, ink-slingers, and painters of words

 

If you’re a wordsmith—an ink-slinger, a painter of words—I suspect you’ve been enjoying our lessons on the crafting of sentences.

 

We started by looking at short sentences and sentence fragments—they offer impact and punch. (Click on “Sentences are a little like purses” if you missed it.)

 

Next, we looked at using long sentences in your memoir. (Click on "The beauty of long sentences.")

 

Today we’ll continue with long sentences. They can be very effective, but writers must be cautious because “Most of us aren’t terribly good at writing good, long sentences,” according to one of my favorite teachers, Peter Jacobi.

 

“If we write not-so-good long sentences for not-so-good readers,” he says, “confusion sets in—fast. The reader forgets by midsentence what the root of the sentence was about.” (The Magazine Article)

 

Here are today’s tips for writing long sentences:

 

To test for clarity—or lack of it—in any sentence longer than three typed lines, Joseph F. Williams suggests you read it aloud. (I suggest that you also use your computer’s “Read Aloud” feature.)

 

Joseph’s paragraph, below, will leave you with a smile:

 

“If the process of reading one of your own long sentences

gives you the feeling that you are about to run out of breath

before you come to a place where you can pause

in order to integrate all of the parts of the sentence

to get a sense of how its whole fits together

to communicate a single conceptual structure,

you have identified a sentence

that your readers are likely to wish that you had revised.

Like that one.”

(Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace)

 

Notice how other people write long sentences. Some don’t work—as Williams so cleverly showed us above—but others do work well.

 

Here’s an example of a brilliantly crafted sentence. It’s worth your time to linger and savor it:

 

“Riding down to Port Warwick from Richmond, the train begins to pick up speed on the outskirts of the city, past the tobacco factories with their ever-present haze of acrid, sweetish dust and past the rows of uniformly brown clapboard houses which stretch down the hilly streets for miles, it seems, the hundreds of rooftops all reflecting the pale lights of dawn; past the suburban roads still sluggish and sleepy with early morning traffic, and rattling swiftly now over the bridge which separates the last two hills where in the valley below you can see the James River winding beneath its acid-green crust of scum out beside the chemical plants and more rows of clapboard houses and into the woods beyond.” (from Lie Down in Darkness by William Styron, quoted in Elements of the Writing Craft by Robert Olmstead)

 

Olmstead helps us analyze Styron’s sentence:

 

“The weight of the train at ever-increasing speed

[is] evoked in the first line,

and the rest is the landscape

that sweeps past our window.

The images come to us rapidly and clearly

because we are moving so quickly

and because our eye focuses through the window

as if it were the lens of a camera.”

 

That sentence “mirrors the action of the train,” writes Olmstead, “moving over the page the same way the train moves over the land. What the sentence says and does are the same.”

 

Olmstead points out how Styron crafted his long sentence (121 words!) so well:

 

“ . . .  tobacco factories with their ever-present haze . . .

sweetish dust and past the rows . . .

brown clapboard houses which stretch down . . .

for miles, it seems, the hundreds of rooftops all reflecting . . .

roads still sluggish and sleepy with early morning traffic,

and rattling swiftly. . . . ”

 

Olmstead wants us to notice this about Styron’s sentence:

 

“The words in italics are simple,

but they make the sentence work.

They are as important to master as the clever turn of phrase.

They are like gristle or cartilage.

They are the stuff between joints and bones

that smoothes the action.

Without them, the setting goes flat.”

 

Retrieve your rough drafts and look for places long sentences would be effective.

 

Maybe you, too, have written a vignette about a train ride, or about lifting off a dirt airstrip in a six-seater plane in the jungle—or the desert. (I have.) Have you ever bungee jumped? What other scenes come to your mind—stories in which long sentences, like Styron’s, would work?

 

Don’t be intimidated: Go ahead and experiment with long sentences because they can add texture and dimension and movement to your writing.

 

Remember:

 

“Very few sentences come out right the first time,

or even the second or third time.”

(William Zinsser, Writing About Your Life)

 

Read them aloud for clarity

and if your experimental sentences don’t work,

keep tweaking them—

or even toss them, just for now.

 

Most of all, have fun!

 

“Before you can write clearly, you have to be able to think clearly”

You labor and toil to write your memoir and place it in the hands of others. I know you do—because I’ve done it myself. Twice. I want to encourage you: If you persevere, in the end, you’ll find your effort worth it!

 

Remember significant motivations for telling your story: You want to bless your readers in any number of ways—you want your story to inspire them in their lives:

• to never give up, never quit fighting, and always hope
• to make good choices and be trustworthy people of integrity
• to speak up when something’s not right
• to always love, always forgive, and always extend grace
• to grow in their faith
• to laugh and love—to love God and others. 

The list goes on and on.

 

But all that depends on whether they can understand—really understand—your message. That’s why lately we’ve been talking about clarity. We need to write clearly and concisely if we want readers to (a) read our memoirs and (b) understand them—to get all the richness and wisdom and blessing out of them.

That means you and I need to find—have a good grip on—that clarity ourselves first.

Sometimes that’s a problem.

I’ve read thousands of passages

written by others in rough draft form

and it’s very revealing. And convicting.

Because here’s the deal: In reading someone else’s writing, we spot all the gaps in communication, the ambiguities, the words and sentences that leave us confused.

When that happens, I stop and re-read sentences, paragraphs, and maybe even pages, trying to make sense of the writer’s message, trying to figure out what his point is.

Here’s what I’ve learned: The writer doesn’t always know what he’s trying to say. (And by the way, that makes it pretty much impossible for me to edit or critique the person’s writing.)

Jesse Hines says it this way: “Before you can write clearly, you have to be able to think clearly. A big reason [writers fail to convey] their message is that they were not focused on a clear message. Good writing usually stems directly from clear thinking.”

Ask yourself, then, “Am I thinking clearly?”

• Do you know the point of the paragraph you’re writing? What purpose does it serve?
• Where do you want it to take your readers—that is, does it take readers from one significant point to the next significant point? In the right order?
• Does the passage hold relevance for the main point of the larger vignette or experience?

 

If you’re confused, your readers will be confused, too.

Outlining your paragraphs

(the ideas and points within each)

should help you think more clearly,

rearrange words and sentences, and delete others.

Figuring out what you want to say is only the first step. Next, you need to write with clarity.

“Take great pains to be clear,” wrote C.S. Lewis. “Remember that though you [can] start by knowing what you mean, the reader doesn’t. . . . It is terribly easy just to forget that you have not told the reader something he wants to know—the whole picture is so clear in your own mind that you forget that it isn’t the same in his.” (C.S. Lewis, Writing Advice, “To a Schoolgirl in America”)

Think clearly, write clearly.

  

Especially for wordsmiths, ink-slingers, and painters of words

 

If you’re a wordsmith—an ink-slinger, a painter of words—you’ve been enjoying our lessons on the crafting of sentences.

We started by looking at short sentences and sentence fragments—they offer impact and punch. (Click on “Sentences are a little like purses” if you missed it.)

Next, we looked at using long sentences in your memoir. (Click on The beauty of long sentences.)

Today we’ll continue with long sentences. They can be very effective, but writers must be cautious because “Most of us aren’t terribly good at writing good, long sentences,” according to one of my favorite teachers, Peter Jacobi.

“If we write not-so-good long sentences for not-so-good readers,” Jacobi says, “confusion sets in—fast. The reader forgets by midsentence what the root of the sentence was about.” (The Magazine Article)

Here are today's tips for writing long sentences:

To test for clarity—or lack of it—in any sentence longer than three typed lines, Joseph F. Williams suggests you read it aloud. (His paragraph, below, will leave you with a smile.)

“If the process of reading one of your own long sentences gives you the feeling that you are about to run out of breath before you come to a place where you can pause in order to integrate all of the parts of the sentence to get a sense of how its whole fits together to communicate a single conceptual structure, you have identified a sentence that your readers are likely to wish that you had revised. Like that one.” (Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace)

Notice how other people write long sentences. Some don’t work—as Williams so cleverly showed us above—but others do work well.

Here’s an example of a brilliantly crafted sentence. It’s worth your time to linger and savor it:

“Riding down to Port Warwick from Richmond, the train begins to pick up speed on the outskirts of the city, past the tobacco factories with their ever-present haze of acrid, sweetish dust and past the rows of uniformly brown clapboard houses which stretch down the hilly streets for miles, it seems, the hundreds of rooftops all reflecting the pale lights of dawn; past the suburban roads still sluggish and sleepy with early morning traffic, and rattling swiftly now over the bridge which separates the last two hills where in the valley below you can see the James River winding beneath its acid-green crust of scum out beside the chemical plants and more rows of clapboard houses and into the woods beyond.” (from Lie Down in Darkness by William Styron, quoted in Elements of the Writing Craft by Robert Olmstead)

Olmstead helps us analyze Styron’s sentence:

“The weight of the train at ever-increasing speed [is] evoked in the first line, and the rest is the landscape that sweeps past our window. The images come to us rapidly and clearly because we are moving so quickly and because our eye focuses through the window as if it were the lens of a camera.”

That sentence “mirrors the action of the train,” writes Olmstead, “moving over the page the same way the train moves over the land. What the sentence says and does are the same.”

Olmstead points out how Styron crafted his long sentence (121 words!) so well: “ . . .  tobacco factories with their ever-present haze . . . sweetish dust and past the rows . . . brown clapboard houses which stretch down . . . for miles, it seems, the hundreds of rooftops all reflecting . . . roads still sluggish and sleepy with early morning traffic, and rattling swiftly. . . . ” and so on.

Here’s what Olmstead wants us to notice about Styron's sentence: “The words in italics are simple, but they make the sentence work. They are as important to master as the clever turn of phrase. They are like gristle or cartilage. They are the stuff between joints and bones that smoothes the action. Without them, the setting goes flat.”

Here's your assignment for this week: Retrieve your rough drafts and look for places long sentences would be effective.

Maybe you, too, have written a vignette about a train ride, or about lifting off a dirt airstrip in a six-seater plane in the jungle—or the desert. (I have.) Have you ever bungee jumped? What other scenes come to your mind—stories in which long sentences, like Styron’s, would work?

Don’t be intimidated: go ahead and experiment with long sentences because they can add texture and dimension and movement your writing.

Remember: “Very few sentences come out right the first time, 

or even the second or third time.” 

William Zinsser, Writing About Your Life) 

Read them aloud for clarity 

and if your experimental sentences don’t work, 

keep tweaking them—or even toss them, just for now.

Most of all, have fun!