“Sentences are a little like purses. . . .”

 

After you’ve written a few chapters of your memoir, or even a few vignettes, reward yourself by taking a break—a productive break, one that will not delay progress on finishing your story.

 

How does that work?

 

Read what you’ve written with fresh eyes, your oldest writings first.

 

Read aloud. Even more helpful, I find, is using the “read aloud” feature on my computer. Your ears will catch what your mind skips over.

 

Today we’ll look at how to best fashion your sentences.

 

Specifically, scrutinize how your sentences read, how they flow, how they sound, and whether they make sense.

 

First, let’s acknowledge this:

“Very few sentences come out right the first time,

or even the second or third time.”

(William Zinsser, Writing About Your Life)

 

As you write, believe this:

rewriting is not punishment.

Even pros and experienced writers

revise their sentences numerous times.

 

For the sake of your readers, commit to crafting good sentences. Why? First, you want readers to enjoy your story and, second, you also want them to understand your message. 

 

“Just as there are arts of weaving and fly-fishing and dancing, so there are arts of sentence making,” write Collette and Johnson, authors of Finding Common Ground, A Guide to Personal, Professional, and Public Writing.

 

“. . . Writing is a partnership with the reader. . . . The way you put your stories together counts a good deal toward how your reader will understand what you say.

 

“You can . . . arrange, rearrange, or prearrange them to suit particular purposes.

 

“The writer shapes the sentence to indicate how readers should construe the meaning . . . . Building a sentence, then, is a way of defining and specifying meaning, of focusing a reader’s attention. . . .” (Finding Common Ground)

 

As you begin to evaluate your sentences, Bill Roorback points out that “sentences are a little like purses: They come in various sizes and can hold a little or a lot.” (Writing Life Stories)

 

So, let’s start by looking at those of the smaller size:

 

Short Sentences:

 

“ . . . In artful prose, [sentence] length is controlled and varied. Some stylists write short sentences to strike a note of urgency.” (Joseph F. Williams, Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace)

 

“ . . . Short sharp sentences increase tension in a scene.” (Lynda  R. Young)

 

For example, here’s how Kristen Welch writes short sentences to express tension and urgency:

 

“She came to us alone, with a baby she didn’t want stirring in her womb.

 

“Orphaned at a young age, she wandered this earth unloved and unwanted.

 

“Charity came to us broken, detached, angry.

 

“Outwardly she pushed others away, isolating herself through pain, distancing her heart from love.

 

“But we loved her anyway. We set firm boundaries and we loved. We prayed. We fasted. We begged God to draw her close. We shed so many tears over this child having a child.

 

“We feared for her unborn son. How would this detached girl attach to a baby she never wanted?

 

“He was born to an angry mother. She didn’t want him.

 

“And we didn’t know what to do. . . .” (Kristen Welch, We Are THAT family)

 

 

Sentence Fragments:

 

Consider writing short sentences here and there in your vignettes, but also think about writing sentence fragments—incomplete sentences and thoughts.

 

Grammatically, sentence fragments are incorrect, but “There are occasions when a sentence fragment can be stylistically effective, exactly what you want and no more. [For example] ‘Harrison Ford has said that he would be more than willing to take on another Indiana Jones project. In a New York Minute.’ As long as you are clearly in control of the situation, this is permissible, but [doing so] depends on the circumstances.” (CCC Foundation)

 

Breaking the rules occasionally with sentence fragments can add punch to your writing. Or sizzle. Or grief.

 

 

Next week we’ll look at long sentences

but for now, examine your rough drafts

and look for sentences that need spiffing up.

 

Where can you write “quick, breathless utterances” (Williams),

like Kristen Welch did, to create tension,

urgency, drama, or emotion?

 

Where might sentence fragments

work even more effectively than complete sentences?

 

And throughout, ask yourself:

Will readers understand

what I’m trying to get across?

Have I written each sentence clearly?

 

And remember, rewriting is not punishment.

(Smile!)

Back to Basics: “Make ‘em cry” by re-living the painful parts so that you can write them

 

Have you made progress in applying “make ‘em cry” to your memoir? I hope so! (Click on last week’s Make ‘em cry, make ‘em laugh, make ‘em wait.)

If you’re a writer, or want to be a writer, follow Wilkie Collins’ counsel, “Make ‘em cry, make ‘em laugh, make ‘em wait” because those three keep readers engaged in your story.

 

By “engaged,” I mean that if readers can get into your story,

they can grasp what you’re offering them.

 

Yes, I said, “what you’re offering them.”

 

Readers want to get something for themselves from your memoir.

 

Ron Hutchcraft explained how that can work:

“Often, a major life-storm means a major life-loss of some kind: your health, your income, your future plans, your marriage, your loved one.  And that loss leaves a gaping hole. . . .

“But after the storm, you have a choice. Let your loss—and the hole it leaves—define your life from now on. Goodbye, hope.

“Or begin to rebuild your life around that hole. And to rebuild your life on what you've learned from that loss. Now that's a blueprint for hope.  From the devastation of one storm comes a new strength to withstand future storms.”

  

That’s what you can offer readers:

Tell them what you ascertained about hope,

and how you learned that

 “from the devastation . . . comes a new strength

to withstand the storms.”

 

You see, if they recognize they have something in common with you,

they can find courage and healing and solutions the way you did.

 

Readers are looking for the takeaways you extend to them.

 

Takeaways are your insights—the lessons you learned—

which they can apply to their own lives,

gems you uncovered that will guide them in the future,

a reason to trust God,

a better understanding of themselves,

and a resource for living well.

 

That means you must write your story.

 

But that means you must re-live the painful parts so that you can write them.

 

And today I offer you help with that: 

 

When you’re ready to write—even the blistered parts—Bill Roorbach, in his Writing Life Stories, explains a creative, helpful way to (a) recall situations that made you cry, and then (b) write about them.

 

Bill suggests you utilize method writing, a spin-off of method acting.

 

Here’s how method acting works:

 

Before the curtain rises, the actor remembers an occasion in which he experienced the emotion he needs to act out. He spends time reliving that emotion so that when he steps on stage, he’s all wrapped up in the ache or the passion or the anger and succeeds in playing his part.

 

Method writing, then, requires you to step out of the present and into the past. If you’re writing about a tragic event, take time (set aside time) to remember the event and relive it so you can rediscover the emotions you felt.

 

Avoid over-the-top hysteria

but be honest in admitting your emotional response.

 

In the midst of the reliving, ask yourself:

 

• What was at stake? What did I have to lose or gain?
• What dreams would never come true?
• At the time, how did I envision my life would never be the same?
• Where would I find courage to live another day?
• What were my fears?
• My hopes?
• My prayers?

 

When you’re caught up in the emotion, get it onto paper or computer screen.

 

Your “emotion should be so realistic and gripping that the reader can’t help but feel it too. . .” (Becca Puglisi)

 

To paraphrase Larry Brooks, make your readers happy they are not there, yet grateful to feel what it was like to be you.

 

Emotion: That’s how you create a way for readers to join you in your story, to make them care, to compel them to keep reading, and to find the gems and blessings you’re offering them.

For now, make 'em cry. In future weeks, we'll make 'em laugh and make 'em wait.

Using method writing to make ‘em cry: Your memoir must evoke an emotional response

 

“Leave your readers with their mouths open in awe, or laughing hysterically, or crying tears of sympathy and sadness—all three,” writes The Write Life Team.

 

Why?

 

Because that keeps audiences engaged. And that’s important because it enables them to join you in your experience, learn from you, and apply your life lessons to their own lives.

 

I’m talking about offering readers takeaways: your insights that they can apply to their own lives, lessons you learned that will guide them in the future, a resource for living life well, a reason to hope, a reason to trust God, and a better understanding of themselves.

 

And so, your memoir needs to evoke an emotional response in readers.

 

“Take them on an emotional journey which will provoke them to read the next chapter, [and] wonder about you well after they finish the last page,” the Write Life Team continues.

 

“The best way to evoke these feelings in your readers is to connect your emotions . . . with pivotal events happening through your narrative arc [plot].”

 

Regarding that narrative arc, or plot, the Team says, “In school, our teachers used to draw a ‘mountain’ and once we reached the precipice, we were to fill in the climactic point of the book. . . . You need to create enough tension to shape your overall story, as well as each individual chapter, with that narrative arc.” (The Write Life Team)

 

With that in mind, let’s get back to what we’ve been studying in recent weeks, Wilkie Collins’s advice to writers: “Make ‘em cry, make ‘em laugh, make ‘em wait.”

 

Making readers cry means that in order for you to write about your painful experiences, you must re-live that pain. (See Make ‘em cry along with you as you cry.)

 

When you’re ready to write the seared, charred, blistered parts, Bill Roorbach, in his Writing Life Stories, suggests you utilize method writing, a spin-off of method acting.

 

Here’s how method acting works: Before the curtain rises, the actor remembers a time in which he experienced the emotion he needs to act out. He spends time reliving that emotion so that when he steps on stage, he’s all wrapped up in that emotion and succeeds in playing his part.

 

Method writing, then, requires you to step out of the present and into the past. If you’re writing about a tragic event, take time (make time) to remember the event and relive it so you can discover the emotions you felt.

 

Avoid over-the-top hysteria but be honest in admitting your emotions.

 

While reliving that situation and emotion, ask yourself:

 

• What was at stake? What did I have to lose or gain?
• What dreams would never come true?
• At the time, how did I envision my life would never be the same?
• What did I fear most?
• Where would I find courage to live another day?
• What did I pray for??—beg God for?

 

When you’re caught up again in that emotion, get it onto paper or computer screen. Remember: You’re only writing a rough draft. You can revise it later. For now, begin by searching for the best words.

 

Your “emotion should be so realistic and gripping

that the reader can’t help but feel it too.”

(Becca Puglisi)

 

“Sentences are a little like purses. . . .”

Before you publish your memoir, analyze the quality of your writing. You’ll probably need to polish your skills in the craft and art of writing. To help you with that task, today we’ll look at how to fashion your sentences.

First, let’s acknowledge this:

“Very few sentences come out right the first time,

or even the second or third time.”

(William Zinsser, Writing About Your Life)

As you write, believe this:

rewriting is not punishment.

Even pros and experienced writers

revise their sentences numerous times.

For the sake of your readers, commit to crafting good sentences. Why? First, you want readers to enjoy your story and, second, you also want them to understand your message. 

“Just as there are arts of weaving and fly-fishing and dancing, so there are arts of sentence making,” write Collette and Johnson, authors of Finding Common Ground, A Guide to Personal, Professional, and Public Writing.

“. . . Writing is a partnership with the reader. . . . The way you put your stories together counts a good deal toward how your reader will understand what you say.

“You can . . . arrange, rearrange, or prearrange them to suit particular purposes.

“The writer shapes the sentence to indicate how readers should construe the meaning . . . . Building a sentence, then, is a way of defining and specifying meaning, of focusing a reader’s attention. . . .” (Collette and Johnson, Finding Common Ground; emphasis mine)

As we begin to scrutinize sentences, Bill Roorback points out that “sentences are a little like purses: They come in various sizes and can hold a little or a lot.” (Writing Life Stories)

So, let’s start by looking at those of the smaller size:

Short sentences:

“ . . . In artful prose, [sentence] length is controlled and varied. Some stylists write short sentences to strike a note of urgency.” (Joseph F. Williams, Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace)

“ . . . Short sharp sentences increase tension in a scene.” (Lynda R. Young)

For example, here’s how Kristen Welch writes short sentences to express tension and urgency:

“She came to us alone, with a baby she didn’t want stirring in her womb.

“Orphaned at a young age, she wandered this earth unloved and unwanted.

“Charity came to us broken, detached, angry.

“Outwardly she pushed others away, isolating herself through pain, distancing her heart from love.

“But we loved her anyway. We set firm boundaries and we loved. We prayed. We fasted. We begged God to draw her close. We shed so many tears over this child having a child.

“We feared for her unborn son. How would this detached girl attach to a baby she never wanted?

“He was born to an angry mother. She didn’t want him.

“And we didn’t know what to do. . . .” (Kristen Welch, We Are THAT family)

Sentence fragments:

Consider writing short sentences here and there in your vignettes, but also think about writing sentence fragments—incomplete sentences and thoughts.

Grammatically, sentence fragments are incorrect, but “There are occasions when a sentence fragment can be stylistically effective, exactly what you want and no more. ‘Harrison Ford has said that he would be more than willing to take on another Indiana Jones project. In a New York Minute.’ As long as you are clearly in control of the situation, this is permissible, but [doing so] depends on the circumstances.” (CCC Foundation, emphasis mine)

Breaking the rules occasionally with sentence fragments can add punch to your writing. Or sizzle. Or grief.

Next week we’ll look at long sentences

but for now, examine your rough drafts

and look for sentences that need a little spiffing up.

Where can you write “quick, breathless utterances” (Williams),

like Kristen Welch did, to create tension,

urgency, drama, or emotion?

Where might sentence fragments

work even more effectively than complete sentences?

And throughout, ask yourself:

Will readers understand

what I’m trying to get across?

Have I written each sentence clearly?

And remember, rewriting is not punishment.

(Smile!) 

Readers don’t want us to dillydally around

We mustn't waste our readers' time. We need to grab their attention from the outset, from the first sentence and the first paragraphs of our memoirs.

How do we do that? By deliberately crafting an opening to draw them in.

We need to make our readers curious. To hook them. To keep them reading.

But most writers don't know how to craft an effective opening. In fact, many of us don't even know what, specifically, we want to communicate.

So we scatter a few words and sentences across our computer screen and then we add or delete or move a few words—until we realize we're just flailing around. And we thank God nobody is reading over our shoulder because first attempts can be really embarrassing.

But don't worry. Believe it or not, we are making progress. We are experimenting and, in the process, we're constructing scaffolding which will help us build a sturdy opening. Really.

Our scaffolding gets us going, provides momentum, and helps us zero in on the story we want to write.

"As the tennis player rallies before the game begins,

so must the writer.

And as the tennis player

is not concerned with where those first balls are going,

neither must the writer be concerned

with the first paragraph or two.

All you're doing is warming up."

Leonard S. Bernstein

Decades ago, I learned about scaffolding from Donald Murray, and later from Roy Peter Clark and Don Fry, authors of Coaching Writers: Editors and Writers Working Together. They say, 

". . . Sometimes the writer must write her way into the story, creating sentences that can't appear in the final version but do get the writer to where she wants to go. So the writer erects a scaffold to build the story, but dismantles it to let the story show through."

So then, scaffolding is temporary, a structure that supports the construction of what will eventually stand alone.

Bill Roorbach describes scaffolding this way:

"Good stories . . . leap right to their subjects, perhaps not in draft one, or draft six, but at some point, the introductory apparatus is cut, seen for what it is: scaffolding. You put up the elaborate and complicated and even beautiful scaffolding and build the cathedral. When the cathedral is complete, well, you take the scaffolding down." (Writing Life Stories)

So begin writing, knowing that later you might delete some or all of those initial attempts. (And nowadays, deleting and rearranging and rewriting are so much easier than they used to be—back when we used typewriters, sometimes manual typewriters, and later electric. If you've never typed compositions or articles or books on a typewriter, you have no idea how computers have revolutionized writers' lives!)

Readers will like us and our memoirs better 

if we remove the scaffolding.

Why?

Because they don't want us to dillydally around. They want us to get right to the point.

When we do, our stories have punch, focus, and power.

Look over your memoir's opening. Read it aloud.

And answer these questions:

What is my memoir's main point—the story's purpose? Its signficance?

Do my first few paragraphs focus on or aim toward that main point?

Do my readers need to know this information? Or is it scaffolding—did I write it only to find my way into my story?

Dismantle your scaffolding. Let your story stand strong.

Tuesday Tidbit: Does your memoir’s opening grab readers?

You want readers to keep reading, to keep turning the pages of your memoir, right?

That means you need to rewrite and edit to make it the very best it can be!

Start by examining your memoir’s beginning. Ask yourself, Will this catch the attention of my readers and make them want to keep reading?

Experiment with several versions of your opening paragraph. Work on making it strong and vivid and inviting. And have fun doing it!

Come back Thursday and we’ll look at specific ways to craft powerful openings and pull readers in.

Cry, sweat, tremble, bleed

After all our toil and struggle to write our memoirs, how do we get people to read them?

We “Make ‘em cry, make ‘em laugh, make ‘em wait,” in the words of Wilkie Collins.

Speakers and writers follow that advice for obvious reasons: it keeps audiences engaged.

Over the past few weeks we’ve looked at how to ‘make ‘em laugh’

so now how do we make ‘em cry?

If you’ve tried writing your emotion, you know that can be a tough challenge, but in Writing Life Stories, Bill Roorbach suggests we employ method writing, a spin-off of method acting.

Here’s how method acting works: Before the curtain rises, the actor remembers a time in which he experienced the emotion he needs to act out. He spends time reliving that emotion so that when he steps on stage, he’s all wrapped up in that emotion and succeeds in playing his part.

Method writing, then, requires you to step out of the present and into the past. If you’re writing about a tragic event, take time (make time) to remember the event and relive it so you can rediscover the emotions you felt.

Avoid over-the-top hysteria, but be honest in admitting your emotions.

In the midst of reliving that situation and emotion, ask yourself:

• What was at stake? What did I have to lose or gain?
•  What dreams would never come true?
•  At the time, how did I envision that my life would never be the same?
•  Where would I find courage to live another day?
•  What were my fears, my hopes, my prayers?

When you are caught up again in that emotion, get it onto paper or computer screen.

Your “emotion should be so realistic and gripping that the reader can’t help but feel it too.…” (Becca Puglisi; emphasis mine)

To paraphrase Larry Brooks,

make your readers

happy they are not there,

yet grateful

to feel what it was like to be you.

Emotion: That’s how you make a way for readers to join you in your story, to make them care, to make them want to keep reading.

“Our best stories evoke an emotional response,

touch a deep cord,

and motivate action and change.”

 (Peter Guber; emphasis mine)

OK, are you ready? Go make ‘em cry!

Tuesday Tidbit: First lines

Here’s your 15 seconds of inspiration

for this week’s Tuesday Tidbit.

If you’re polishing an opening paragraph

for the contest at Women’s Memoirs,

keep this in mind: Openings require a lot of work.

“Sentences are a little like purses…”

“Sentences are a little like purses: They come in various sizes and can hold a little or a lot.” (Bill Roorbach, Writing Life Stories)

“Just as there are arts of weaving and fly-fishing and dancing, so there are arts of sentence making.

“…Writing is a partnership with the reader.… The way you put your sentences together counts a good deal toward how your reader will understand what you say.  

“You can … arrange, rearrange, or prearrange them to suit particular purposes.

“The writer shapes the sentence to indicate how readers should construe the meaning.… Building a sentence, then, is a way of defining and specifying meaning, of focusing a reader’s attention.…” (Collette and Johnson, Finding Common Ground)

Short Sentences:

“… In artful prose, [sentence] length is controlled and varied. Some stylists write short sentences to strike a note of urgency.” (Joseph F. Williams, Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace)

“… Short sharp sentences increase tension in a scene.” (Lynda R. Young)

Here’s how Kristen Welch writes short sentences to express tension and urgency:  

“She came to us alone, with a baby she didn’t want stirring in her womb.

“Orphaned at a young age, she wandered this earth unloved and unwanted.

“Charity came to us broken, detached, angry.

“Outwardly she pushed others away, isolating herself through pain, distancing her heart from love.

“But we loved her anyway. We set firm boundaries and we loved. We prayed. We fasted. We begged God to draw her close. We shed so many tears over this child having a child.

“We feared for her unborn son. How would this detached girl attach to a baby she never wanted?

“He was born to an angry mother. She didn’t want him.

“And we didn’t know what to do.…”  (Kristen Welch, We Are THAT Family

Consider writing short sentences here and there in your vignettes, but also think about writing sentence fragments—incomplete sentences and thoughts.

Grammatically, sentence fragments are incorrect, but “There are occasions when a sentence fragment can be stylistically effective, exactly what you want and no more. ‘Harrison Ford has said that he would be more than willing to take on another Indiana Jones project. In a New York Minute.’ As long as you are clearly in control of the situation, this is permissible, but [doing so] depends on the circumstances.” (CCC Foundation, emphasis mine) 

Breaking the rules occasionally with sentence fragments can add punch to your writing. Or sizzle. Or grief.

Wednesday we’ll look at long sentences but for now, examine your WIPs (works in progress—your rough drafts) for sentences you can modify. (Remember what dear old William Zinsser said, “Very few sentences come out right the first time, or even the second or third time.”)

Where can you write “quick, breathless utterances” (Williams) to create tension, urgency, drama, or emotion?