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!

 

The beauty of long sentences in your memoir

 

Last week I encouraged you to take a break, from time to time, from composing your stories. By looking over your memoir’s sentences, you can give yourself a breather while still making progress toward your finished memoir.  

 

A week ago, 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 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.)

 

This week, think about this:

 

You also want to vary sentence length:

Write both short, simple sentences

and 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)

 

“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 of all the things people of his skin color cannot do—I feel as if I’m stepping out on 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 Writing Life: The point of the long and winding sentence”)

 

Next week we’ll look at long sentences again.

 

Between now and then,

look over your rough drafts

and experiment with writing both short sentences

and long sentences.

 

Then read them aloud

and see how they sound.

Keep in mind what Collette and Johnson said,

“. . . Arrange, rearrange, or prearrange them

to suit particular purposes.”

(Finding Common Ground)

 

“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!)

Your memoir: full of grace and seasoned with salt

 

The Bible tells us to let our words be full of grace, seasoned with salt.

 

What does it mean for memoirists to use words that are seasoned with salt?

 

Salt purifies and preserves. In Bible times, because people didn’t have refrigerators, they used salt to keep their food from spoiling. Salt prevents rotting and waste.

 

Salt also heals. Have you ever had a mouth sore? Even a little tiny one can really hurt! If you sprinkle a few grains of salt on it for even a few seconds, you might be surprised at how quickly that sore will heal.

 

Salt also adds flavor and makes food tasty.

 

And it’s part of a healthy diet.  Salt “balances fluids in the blood and is vital for nerve and muscle function.” 

 

Think about writing your memoir while reading the following:

 

“Salt has little influence when sitting in a salt shaker.

 

“However, it is of great value once it is mixed, in the right proportions, in our food. When it is sprinkled on food—or, better yet, cooked into food—it transforms the food. . . .

 

“Salt then is a perfect metaphor for the people of God: We have the responsibility to transform the environment in which we find ourselves, just as salt transforms food.

 

“We are often few in number, but it is no matter. Just as a few grains of salt can make a big difference in food, so also a few faithful Christians can make a big difference in the world.” (from The Sermon Writer’s Biblical Commentary)

 

Jesus said believers are the salt of the earth (Matthew 5:13). That means you have a ministry to those around you.

 

We are called to speak the truth in love (Ephesians 4:15).

 

“Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bone” (Proverbs 16:24).

 

Writing your memoir is a ministry, not a hobby.

 

“You are a seasoning agent. . . .

You can bring the distinctive flavor of God’s values

to all of life.”

(Theology of Life Project)

 

 

God can use your memoir

to do for your readers what salt does:

Your memoir can purify, preserve,

prevent wasted lives, add welcome flavor to life,

and keep your readers well-nourished and healthy.

 

In what specific ways can you write a memoir

full of grace, seasoned with salt?

 

Hemingway’s encouragement for you

 

“Don’t be discouraged because there’s a lot of technical work to writing. There is, and you can’t get out of it,” said Ernest Hemingway, advising beginning writer Arnold Samuelson, age 19.

 

“It’s your object to convey everything to the reader so that he remembers it not as a story he had read but something that happened to himself.”

 

Read that last part again:

“. . . so that he remembers it not as a story he had read

but something that happened to himself.”

 

You want readers to experience your story alongside you. That’s how you can make a difference in their lives. That’s how God can use your story to inspire, heal, and mentor your readers.

 

Work hard to make write that kind of memoir.

 

Join (or form) a writing group—a good one. Critique each other’s manuscripts.

 

Attend writers’ conferences.

 

Study the best writing books available:

• On Writing Well by William Zinsser
• The Writer’s Portable Mentor by Priscilla Long
• Writing the Memoir by Judith Barrington
• The Memoir and the Memoirist by Thomas Larson
• Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir, edited by William Zinsser
• Writing for Story by Jon Franklin
• Handling the Truth by Beth Kephart
• Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark

 

To make your memoir the very best it can be,

you’ll need to make revisions and edits,

but it will be worth it in the end.

 

Remember Jeff Goins’ words:

“Never, ever, ever underestimate the power your words can have.” 

 

Pray about your writing and rewriting.

Ask God to guide your work

and use your finished memoir to bless others.

 

A writer’s prayer for you

 

“Many beginning writers believe

the writing process requires great confidence

and unfaltering courage.

 

I’ve learned the writer’s journey requires

the ability to admit we’re not brave

or altogether perfect.

 

As Christian writers, we fare well

if we possess the wisdom to ask God

for the strength and discipline needed

to buckle down

and type the words He gives us.”

 

Xochitl Dixon

Lord, thanks for this new year and the fresh opportunities You offer us to write our memoirs.

 

Remind us that you’ve given each of us life and therefore you’ve given each of us a story to share with others.

 

Help us believe that writing our stories is not a hobby—it’s a ministry! You’ve told us to always remember what we’ve seen You do and to tell our children and grandchildren (Deuteronomy 4:9).

 

And Jesus said, “Go back to your family and tell them all that God has done for you” (Luke 8:39).

 

Your Word urges us to tell everyone about the amazing things You do, for You are great and most worthy of praise (1 Chronicles 16:24-25).

 

Convince us that we should not look down on small beginnings—and that You, O God, delight to see our work begin (Zechariah 4:10). Lord, give us the courage to begin.

 

Ignite a fire in our hearts to work as disciplined, intentional writers, committed to finishing our memoirs.

 

Take away our fears, Lord, and help us compose our stories with confidence, knowing You will use our efforts to point readers to You and Your love and Your goodness.

 

Motivate us to make time to reflect—to think back and ponder and examine—and to search for Your holy fingerprints, footprints, and heartprints. Enlighten us so we connect the dots and notice connections we overlooked in the past.

 

Enable us to see Your big picture, to recognize what You were doing to bring about Your best for us—often not the easiest, but the best.

 

You have entrusted our stories to us. You want us to tell others so they can see how You fought our battles alongside us, You brought healing and hope—not because of who we are, but because of who You are! Not because we are so great, but because You, God, are so great.

 

You have called us to a sacred task so inspire us, dear Lord. Help us find joy in the process of writing, of retelling our “God-and-Me” stories. Place in us a desire to learn to write well, with clarity and grace, and to persevere through rewriting and polishing and editing and publishing and marketing. Bring good people alongside us to accomplish all that.

 

Help us to embrace fulfillment and purpose and satisfaction in doing what You’ve called us to do.

 

Lord, You can do far more than anything we can request or imagine (Ephesians 3:20) so we humbly ask: Please equip us to write the stories You’ve given us. And once they’re in print, use them to accomplish Your good purposes.

 

Help us remember: All of this is not because we’re so great, but because God, You are so great!

 

Not because of who we are, but because of who You are!

 

May our memoirs and lives bring honor to You, 

our glorious God.

 

Taking a break from writing might be the best thing that could happen to your memoir

 

Did you work on your memoir over the holidays? If not, don’t be too hard on yourself because taking a break can help you make progress!

 

My friend Beth told me she took a two-year break from writing her memoir—but she also said she wanted to get back to writing it.

 

When I was writing my second memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir, two-thirds of the way through I took a break for about six weeks.

 

I didn’t even look at my rough draft, let alone work on it. And it felt good. It was a healthy break, a time for my thoughts to settle and gel. A time for me to catch my breath.

 

But like Beth, I eventually wanted to get back to work.

 

I suspect most of you can identify with Beth and me. How long has it been since you worked on your memoir?

 

It’s good to take a break, to stand back

and give yourself time for your thoughts to come together,

time to catch your breath.

 

But this is important:

Beware of getting stuck in a non-writing rut!

 

Here’s what works for me when trying to get out of that non-writing pothole and I suggest you give it a try:

 

Instead of nagging at yourself

 —or even bribing yourself—

 into sitting down to write,

 simply get out your manuscript.

 

Are you writing your memoir on your computer? If so, sit down, turn it on, and open that document.

 

If your manuscript is hand-written and stuffed in a filing cabinet, go get it.

 

Whatever format your memoir is in, get it out. Read it.

 

Take in what Zadie Smith says:

 

“. . . If money is not a desperate priority,

if you do not need to sell it at once

or be published that very second—

put it in a drawer.

For as long as you can manage.

A year or more is ideal—

but even three months will do.

Step away . . . .

The secret to editing your own work is simple:

you need to become its reader instead of its writer.”

 

That’s it!

(1) Look at your manuscript as if you were a reader

—reading it for the first time—

rather than as the writer.

 

And then, later,

(2) look at your manuscript through the eyes of an editor.

 

Think about it:

You know what you want to communicate

but if you’re too close to your story,

you don’t recognize the gaps

you’ve unintentionally left.

 

In your mind,

you know all the subtle things

and the back story

and where the story is going—

so, in your brain, all the info is there.

 

But the problem is this:

too many of those details are still only in your mind

and not on the paper or computer screen.

 

If you’re too close to your manuscript,

it’s easy to overlook holes and cracks—

those details that will trip up readers

and interrupt the story.

 

If you are too close to your manuscript, you can’t read it as if you’re reading it for the first time.

 

So, if you’ve set aside your writing for a while, take advantage of this opportunity—take a fresh look and fix details that need fixing.

 

Believe me when I say this:

 

Taking a break from writing

might be the best thing

that could happen to your memoir.

 

Hooray!