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

You’re slaving away to get your memoir in the hands of others. I know you are laboring, toiling, grinding away—because I’ve done it myself. Twice. It’s a lot of work but if you persevere, in the end, you’ll find your effort so worth it! 

One motivation for telling your story is this: 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 (2) 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: It’s easy to read someone else’s writing and spot all the gaps in communication, the confusion, the words and sentences that leave me 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. 

It often comes down to this: The writer doesn’t 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? (Click on What's the point?) 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? 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 (and 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”) 

So, there you have it for today: Think clearly, write clearly.

 

 

“If there is any possible way for readers to misread and misinterpret what you write, they will.”

 I still remember the first time I read the following: 

“I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I’m not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.” (Attributed to Robert McCloskey, State Department spokesman) 

That statement stunned me. It had never occurred to me that human beings could be on such different wavelengths despite making an effort to communicate. In fact, that statement shook me up. I began wondering how many times other people had misinterpreted my words, and how many times I had misunderstood others. 

Here’s something else that upsets me: I’ve heard that eighty percent of what we communicate is misunderstood. Eighty percent! The ripple effects could be staggering. 

And here’s this from Kendall Haven: 

“It has long been a principle of writing that, if there is any possible way for readers to misread and misinterpret what you write, they will.” (Kendall Haven, A Storied Career) 

I had no idea. How about you? 

And, perhaps even more important: What’s a writer to do? 

Well, I gave you a few tips last week. (Click on Will readers find your writing clear and concise?)

Here are a few more: 

Ask yourself if you’ve used technical or foreign terms your readers might not understand. 

Eliminate lingo—Christianese, for example—which can be distasteful for some readers because it’s an insider language; it can make others feel like unwelcome outsiders. 

For other readers, the meaning of the Chritianese jargon might not be clear, even if it’s clear to you and your circle of Christian friends. Avoid phrases like “I’ve been washed in the blood of the Lamb.” Instead, use everyday language to tell your story clearly and precisely. 

Here are more examples of Christianese to avoid: 

• living in darkness
• redeemed from a dark past
• decided to follow the Lord
• cast your burden
• bear fruit that lasts
• climb the mountain
• walk through the valleys
• ruled by the flesh
• washed by the blood of Jesus
• the enemy
• slave to sin
• washed as white as snow
• nothing but the blood of Jesus
• walk of faith
• taking your quiet time
• put a hedge of protection around [a person]

Set your story aside for a few days, then read it aloud, putting yourself in your readers’ shoes. Be alert to what might confuse or cloud. 

Then reword everything that could send an ambiguous or confusing message. Make it easy for your readers to understand. 

Kendall Haven also said this: “The purpose of . . . editing is to make the writing so precise that it cannot be misread or misinterpreted.” (Kendall Haven, A Storied Career) 

And please be convinced of this: Rewording and rewriting and editing are not punishment. Embrace the art and craft of it! (Click on Tell yourself rewriting is not punishment.)

Most of all, have fun!

 

 

 

 

Will readers find your writing clear and concise?

One of your most important goals is communicating effectively with your readers. 

Years ago, when I studied journalism, instructors taught us to aim our writing at eighth-graders—that is, to write in a way eighth-grade students could easily understand.

Recently I saw the same advice so it must still be the best practice. 

What’s true for journalists is true for memoirists: Aim at an eighth-grade audience. 

Ken Follett, Welsh author, says his goal is to make his prose “utterly easy to understand.” He calls it “transparent prose.” 

“I’ve failed dreadfully,” Follet says, “if you have to read a sentence twice to figure out what I meant.” 

You know what Follett means. You have had the unpleasant experience of reading a sentence or a paragraph two or three times before you could figure out the writer’s message. Don’t be that kind of writer! 

Write clearly. Concisely. Transparently. Simply. 

Shane Snow says it this way: “We shouldn’t discount simple writing, but instead embrace it. . . . 

“We should aim to reduce complexity in our writing as much as possible. 

“We won’t lose credibility in doing so,” Shane says. “Our readers will comprehend and retain our ideas more reliably. And we’ll have a higher likelihood of reaching more people.” 

Look over your manuscript. Read it aloud, listening for words or sentences or paragraphs that could confuse readers. 

Rewrite them, reducing complexity and confusion. Make your writing easy to understand. Write transparently. Your readers will thank you. 

Come back next week. We’ll look at additional ways to write your memoir with clarity.

Do you hear that? Will your readers hear that?

Some sounds have died out. Have you ever thought of that?

In your memory, some sounds live on—they are a perfectly normal part of your everyday life—yet they could be sounds your kids or grandkids have never heard.

I thought of that recently when I saw a post on Facebook, and that reminded me of something I found a few years ago: 11 Things That Your Kids Have Probably Never Heard.

Sounds like:

• a rotary dial phone
• a manual typewriter
• a cash register
• and that bell that used to ring when we pulled into a gas station

If those memories make you smile, you’ll enjoy Kara Kovalchik’s 11 Things That Your Kids Have Probably Never Heard.

Enjoy that list, but add to it. Make a list of your own unique sounds and include them in your memoir.

Think about the sound of milking a cow—the sound of warm milk squirting into a metal bucket. I suspect most of your readers have no idea what that sounds like.

People acquainted with only gas or electric “fireplaces” might not know about crackling and hissing sounds that real logs make in real fireplaces.

Those who grew up pre-photocopy machines will remember the sound a mimeograph machine makes.

Did you grow up listening to air-raid sirens? I did.

In my recently published memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir, I included sounds of howler monkeys, Honda 90 motorbikes, bulls chomping on hibiscus plants outside my kitchen window, and mosquitoes buzzing my ears at night.

In my other memoir, Grandma’s Letters from Africa, I recall awakening to the Muslims’ pre-dawn call to prayer from a nearby mosque. I remember the rustle of sun-baked grasses and of lying “in your cot at night, listening to the night sounds—the hollow, terrifying roar of the lion, the bark of the zebra, the ghostly laugh of the hyena, and the pad, pad of invisible feet.” (Camera Trails in Africa, Martin Johnson, 1924)

Frederick Buechner writes of sounds from college days: “I hear the clatter of feet on stone steps and wooden steps, the rifle-shot slap of books dropped to the writing arms of seats in lecture halls. . . and [in the dorm] the playing of everybody’s phonograph at once—‘Honeysuckle Rose,’ ‘People Will Say We’re In Love,’ ‘As Time Goes By.’” (The Sacred Journey)

For your readers’ sake, for your memoir’s sake, do the necessary work to make sounds come to life.

Need help remembering? Close your eyes and go back to that time you want to recapture. Or look through old photos, or read books written in that era. Ask friends and relatives to help you remember.

Also, click on Amber Lea Starfire’s blog post. Even though she’s addressing journal-writers, her advice works for memoirists, too. She’ll help you pin down sounds from your past.

Most of all, have fun writing.

 

Combining long, medium, and short sentences in your memoir: Make them "jig, jive, waltz, boogie, strut, and stroll"

 

Recently we've focused on ways to craft your memoir's sentences. Why? Because you want to draw your readers in, you want to entertain them. And especially: You want to keep them reading.

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 as well as Especially for wordsmiths, ink-slingers, and painters of words.) 

Today we’ll look at the importance of varying sentence length—that is, writing short, simple sentences, medium-length sentences, as well as long, complex ones. 

This is how Joseph F. Williams explains it: 

“A clear and concise sentence is a singular achievement, a whole passage of them even more so. But if all your sentences were so concise that they never exceeded 20 words, you’d be like a pianist who could play only a few notes at a time. . . . 

"A competent writer must therefore know both how to write clear short sentences, and how to combine those short sentences into one that is longer and more complex, but just as concise and just as easy to understand.” (Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace; emphasis mine) 

 “Don’t write words, write music,” writes author Gary Provost. “Great writing moves you effortlessly through the words; reading becomes as quick as thought. Part of mastering flow, this ‘music’ in writing, means understanding the interplay between short sentences and long sentences.” 

Provost explains the importance of finding such a harmony in his book 100 Ways to Improve Your Writing: 

“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. 

“Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important. 

“So write with a combination of short, medium, and long sentences. Create a sound that pleases the reader’s ear. Don’t just write words. Write music.” (100 Ways to Improve Your Writing, Gary Provost; emphasis mine)

Monica Sharman says this about Provost's sentences, above: "See what he did there? . . . By simply varying sentence length, he gave it life. Hear the pulse? Don't flatline your writing. Give it a heartbeat, a rhythm, a singing pulse. Make the sentences undulate, like verdant rolling hills or sea-blue waves or a dancer's movements. Then watch your story dance—or hear it sing." 

Over at Enchanting Marketing's blog, Henneke asks: “Do you know whether your writing jigs or jives? Waltzes or boogies? Struts or strolls? 

“. . . Writing can stutter and stumble. Writing can flow so softly, it almost sends you to sleep. Writing can hop and skip, putting a smile on your face. 

“Rhythm is one of the most underrated aspects of writing. . . . 

“Rhythm creates a mood. Rhythm can make you rush ahead, or slow you down to quietly enjoy reading. . . . 

“In writing, rhythm is defined by punctuation and the stress patterns of words in a sentence. Long sentences sound smoother, while short sentences make your content snappier. . . .” Don’t miss Henneke’s article, Rhythm in Writing: How to Make Your Words Swing and Swirl.  

Your job, then, is to look over your memoir's rough draft 

and analyze the way you structure and combine sentences. 

String words together with rhythm, with texture. 

Make 'em sing. 

Read your rough draft aloud 

and listen for smoothness and cadence and melody—

or thuds. Or clunks. Or choppiness.

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!

 

The beauty of long sentences in your memoir

 

Last week we began looking at your memoir’s sentences: The way you write them can enhance your readers’ (a) enjoyment and (b) their understanding of your memoir’s message.

Specifically, we considered writing short sentences and sentence fragments for impact and punch. (Click on “Sentences are a little like purses” if you missed it.)

While those can be effective, you’ll want to vary your sentence lengths—combine short with long sentences—throughout your piece.  

Here Gregory Ciotti comments on both short and long sentences: “The stamina of a long sentence can build a tense, winding climb to the climax; like a roller coaster slowly ascending to the summit. In contrast, the economical short sentence is best suited to drive home a revelation.

“In every instance, a short sentence brings momentum to a halt; the interruption must be used to make a statement with teeth. Repetition weakens impact, so you’ll only have a handful of opportunities in each piece. Make them count.” (Gregory Ciotti; emphasis mine)

“There’ll always be a place for the short sentence,” Pico Iyer says, praising “compressed wisdom” and “elegant conciseness,” but he also says, “The long sentence opens up the very doors that a short sentence simply slams shut.”

Iyer describes a well-crafted long sentence as “ . . . the collection of clauses . . . many-chambered and lavish and abundant in tones and suggestions. . . .”

“I cherish [famous writer] Thomas Pynchon’s prose . . . not just because it’s beautiful, but because his long, impeccable sentences take me, with each clause, further from the normal and predictable, and deeper into dimensions I hadn’t dared contemplate. . . . 

“The promise of the long sentence is that it will take you beyond the known, far from shore, into depths and mysteries you can’t get your mind, or most of your words, around. . . .

“When I feel the building tension as Martin Luther King’s ‘Letter from Birmingham Jail’ swells with clause after biblical clause . . . I feel as if I’m stepping out of the crowded, overlighted fluorescent culture of my local convenience store and being taken up to a very high place from which I can see across time and space, in myself and in the world.” (Pico Iyer, “The WritingLife: The point of the long and winding sentence,” Special to the Los Angeles Times; emphasis mine)

Next week, we’ll look at long sentences again. Between now and then, look over your rough drafts and experiment with writing both short and long sentences. (Click here to review our recent post about writing short sentences.)

Set your writing aside for a few days and then read it aloud.

Be alert to how your sentences sound.

How do the strings of words feel to your lips and in your mouth? And in your ears and your brain? Your heart?

Reading aloud will help you discern when a sentence is clunky and awkward.

Rework those sentences so your readers will get your point, your meaning, your significance.