Once upon a time, I was a ski bum in Sun Valley, carrying bags for the likes of Paul Newman and Barbra Streisand. Before that, I had never seen snow. My first night in town, if someone had snuck up on me in the Pioneer Saloon and slapped a pair of skis on my feet, I would have had to walk home in them, because I did not know how to pop a binding. A few weeks later, I was still figuring out how to untangle myself after I ate it and landed with my skis uphill. During one of these awkward moments, an upright friend posed an interesting question: How do you know if it’s you or your Kmart skis? I already knew the answer to that one, but let’s ponder the question’s deeper meaning: How do we know we are the best writers we can be, if we don’t have the best writing tools?
When you and I write as much as we do, we need the best reference books on writing, grammar, punctuation, definition, and usage. I recommend the following five because I’ve used them nearly every day for the past 40 years:
Roget’s Thesaurus of Words and Phrases – at gunpoint, the last book I would give up. Published in 1852; I am certain Mark Twain used it to find lightning among the lightning bugs. I have a classic, vintage version from 1941 ($2.95 in a used-book store). I have literally (I mean literally) worn off the book jacket, and the spine has ripped almost to the bottom.
Webster’s New Dictionary of Synonyms – another of my reference books with the cover ripped from the binding. If I find “fabrication” in Roget’s, I often need to distinguish it in Webster’s; do I really mean “fiction,” “figment,” or “fable?” I need to know the nuance.
Merriam-Webster’s Concise Dictionary of English Usage – the ultimate usage referee, so I do not embarrass myself by confusing “optimum” with “optimal,” “different from” with “different than.” It’s witty, too.
The Chicago Manual of Style – when may an author abbreviate a civil or a military title? Every publisher in New York turns to the 1,000-page Manual to answer such questions. Here’s the answer to that one: If you have only the surname, spell out the title: General W but if you have the full name, abbreviate the title: Gen. George Washington. Only the Manual can answer these arcane questions.
The Oxford English Dictionary – Why fool around? Get the biggest and the best. Available in hard copy in a 20-volume set for a mere $850; or a “compact” version (includes a magnifying glass) for only $350.
Beyond those five, yes, keep handy: The Elements of Style (Strunk and White), On Writing Well (William Zinsser), and Plain English for Lawyers (Richard Wydick). Also read Joseph Williams’s classic, Style: Toward Clarity and Grace, and keep The Handbook of Good English by Edward Johnson handy for grammar’s stickier issues. And if you’re looking for the greatest book ever on how to use words to make true stories come alive, try the one that inspired me to give up the idea of practicing law and become a writer: The New Journalism by Tom Wolfe, 1973, an anthology of great magazine pieces and chapters from books as written by the finest practitioners of go-out-and-talk-to-the-people-who-were-there-or-be-there-yourself-when-it’s-happening-and-get-the-facts-all-the-facts-behind-the-curtain-on-the-rocket-in-the-cell-down-the-street-at-the-march-by-the-still-in-that-foxhole-that-farmhouse-that-squad-car-plane-tank-ship-courtroom-boardroom-locker-room-operating-room-and-use-those-facts-to-tell-us-a-compelling-story-with-carefully-crafted-scenes-and-real-dialogue-to-take-the-rest-of-us-to-places-we’ve-never-been-long-to-be-and-often-never-even-knew-existed-to-let-us-know-what-it-was-like-to-have-been-there;
with Wolfe’s long definition of “the new journalism” and an explanation by Wolfe at the beginning of each piece on why it is so important.
As always, I encourage you to buy your books at an independent bookstore. Back on the mountain, I traded in the Kmarts for the K2s, my skiing improved dramatically, and I lived and wrote happily ever after. Amazing what good equipment can do for you. Speaking of good equipment, next week I’ll tell you about the genesis of WordRake, maybe your new best friend. And you won’t have to open anything: Just push a button.
Psychiatrists don’t have a diagnosis for this in the DSM of Mental Disorders, but somebody ought to be studying why so many of us take so long to get to the point. Even in a sentence. We seem incapable of just saying it. We have to fool around first, holding off our reader. “Paranoid Personality Disorder” made it into the DSM to label those who are suspicious, grudge-bearing, combative, and preoccupied with unsubstantiated “conspiratorial” explanations. Yet “Paranoid Personality Disorder” affects only one perce the new disorder affects about ninety-five times that many.
I propose we call it “Around About Disorder,” because we get
around to our point about three to ten words into the sentence. It afflicts both genders and cuts across all socio-economic classes, from secretaries to CEOs. Borrowing from the DSM, here
to be diagnosed with Around About Disorder, we have to meet only one:
We cannot keep from stating the obvious:
I am writing to let you know that your advertising staff is not proofing the content of your advertisements.
We harbor unwarranted feelings of self-importance and superiority:
But I can assure you that as a company, we will remain very, very involved in the dialogue on both Capitol Hill and in Parliament.
We can’t say it, only that we want to say it:
I want to thank each of you for all you’re doing to help us meet our goals and remain a leader in our businesses.
We try to disguise hostile feelings with officious phrases:
This letter serves as official confirmation that AmEx does not recognize the coverage you claim.
We hesitate to express a thought for fear that someone will turn it against us:
I find that I like this program as a first pass copy editor.
The neighbor’s dog insists we are Jay Leno, and who are we to argue:
That said, techniques of organization can go a long way toward enhancing the effect.
Am I the only one who has noticed that the word “that” lurks in five of these six examples? Is this some sort of conspiracy? Is the NSA now tapping into my thoughts before I even send an email? I don’t know, but until I figure this out, I’m not leaving the compound.
With fall just around the calendar, it’s time to think of falling leaves and chopping wood. And of course strings of negatives. The human brain has to work hard to assimilate negative words, especially those strings of two, three, even
four. Lawyers and legislators tie themselves in nots every day, and even they trip over sentences like this one from a newspaper reporter:
In a terse ruling issued yesterday, the court found that Morgan County Superior Court Judge Roger Donaldson did not err in refusing to keep Initiative 34 off the general election ballot.
Encountering negative words forces us to go through a two-step process to sort them out. First, we have to identify the negative words, which sometimes is difficult. (In the title above, the word hardly is “negative in effect,” so when we negate hardly, we have a double negative.) In a terse ruling issued yesterday, the court found that Morgan County
Superior Court Judge Roger Donaldson did not err in refusing to keep Initiative 34 off the general election ballot.
With negative words identified, we now have to hark back to eighth grade algebra, where we first learned that two negatives make a positive, and toss them out or combine them two at a time. She loves me, she loves me not. In a terse ruling issued yesterday, the court found that Morgan County Superior Court Judge Roger Donaldson was correct in allowing Initiative 34 to stay on the general election ballot.
That’s much clearer. No one has to stop and count. Everyone understands the first time. Sometimes we have to use a negative, but we should avoid three kinds:
A simple negative made clearer and shorter in the affirmative:
This argument has not met with much success.
This argument has met with little success.
A negative followed by the word any:
Mr. Wood did not conduct any tests himself.
Mr. Wood conducted no tests himself.
And the plain old double negative:
The Department is barred from disallowing the exemptions.
The Department must allow the exemptions.
(Note: The WordRake editing software would have made the first two edits for you.)
Let’s give we all digest the positive much easier. Your homework this fall: As you drift off to sleep one night with one window open to draw in that cool, crisp air, think about this statement and how you would write it in the positive:
About whether to build a fire, I could not fail to disagree with you less.
Sweet dreams. Call me in the morning. And Happy Soon-To-Be-Autumn.
Many years ago, a law firm in Chicago asked me to be an expert witness on the difference between that and which. The issue concerned a selling manufacturer’s non-compete clause. That at the beginning of the clause meant zero d a comma followed by which meant millions of dollars for the buyer. But the clause read “which” with no comma.
The difference between that and which might be the most confounding piece of grammar in the English language, but it doesn’t have to be. Here’s what you need to know: Grammarians call the words following that or which a “relative clause.” That relative clause either “restricts” what it modifies, or it “does not restrict” what it modifies. The writer tells us which it is by the word chosen to introduce the clause.
That at the beginning restricts; it means that the writer wants the relative clause to distinguish one thing from a universe of like things. Which at the beginning does not restrict ; it means that the writer addresses only one thing to begin with, so there is the relative clause simply adds information.
The cabin that sleeps eight people is farther up the mountain.
Lots of cabins on that mountain, but only one sleeps eight people, and it’s farther up.
The cabin, which sleeps eight people, is farther up the mountain.
Only one cabin on this mountain, farther up, and, by the way, it sleeps eight people.
The confusion arises when the writer uses which with no comma:
The Pioneer Bank which sits at Fifth and Pine has a free ATM.
We don’t know if the writer is trying to use which restrictively to tell us that out of the universe of Pioneer Banks, this one has a free ATM; or if the writer just forgot the comma and means there’s only one Pioneer Bank, it has a free ATM, and, oh, by the way, it sits at Fifth and Pine. Either could be correct, but the writer needs to let us know.
Here’s the takeaway: Although Hemingway often used which restrictively, we shouldn’t; whenever we want to “restrict” or “distinguish,” we should always use that; if we put which at the beginning of a relative clause, we must precede it with a comma. Otherwise, we confuse our reader.
Sorry to keep you hanging. The case in Chicago settled. Smart lawyers. The thought of trying to explain the difference between
that and which to a jury (or a judge) was so daunting, they decided to give-a-little-take-a-little, and go on to other cases with easier issues: like trying to explain the Rule Against Perpetuities.
Looking for a good laugh, most of us would opt for a comedy club rather than open a book on grammar. But grammar texts can be side-splitting. I admit to slapping my own knee over a ripping good debate on participial prepositions, and the subjunctive mood has often put me in hysterics. But if you made me vote for Funniest Grammatical Error, I would have to say the Misplaced Modifier. That’s why I encourage more professionals to stick in modifying phrases anywhere they please. We all need a good laugh:
The Sportswriter:
Matsui then lined the ball off Martinez’s leg, which rolled into right field.
The Courtroom Reporter:
After soliciting sexual favors from a juror, the judge sanctioned the plaintiff’s lawyer.
You can see how easily this happens when we’re not paying attention:
The Manager:
Taken out of context, you could misinterpret my point.
The Insurance Agent:
As a large insurance company, we agents depend on Allstate to help us secure the financial well-being of our clients.
For those of you who insist on paying attention, and absolutely refuse to give the rest of us a good laugh, we can categorize these modifying phrases for a closer look:
prepositional phrases:
Mando Jacobs was found stabbed more than 20 times by the woman who owned the house.
Stabbed more than 20 times, Mando Jacobs was found by the woman who owned the house.
The woman who owned the house found Mando Jacobs, who was stabbed more than 20 times.
dependent clauses:
He wrote to them about his experience when he found pen and paper.
When he found pen and paper, he wrote to them about his experience.
participial phrases:
Soaring ever higher in a summer afternoon thermal, I saw an eagle.
I saw an eagle soaring ever higher in a summer afternoon thermal.
So much of grammar is common sense: put the modifying phrase next to the thing it modifies. But if you’re willing to sacrifice your reputation to give the rest of us a good laugh, stick it in anywhere. It’s cheaper for us than a comedy club, and there’s no two-drink minimum.
I didn’ writer Donald Barthelme did, describing semicolons. A grammarian piled on: “Good writers are decisive and stay away from semicolons.” But Lynne Truss, who wrote Eats, Shoots & Leaves, called those who would denounce the semicolon “pompous sillies.” I can’t improve on that.
My favorite explanation of semicolons comes from Lewis Thomas, who won the National Book Award in 1974 for The Lives of a Cell: “With a semicolon there you get a pleasant f t it will get clearer.”
Many of us use too few semicolons and colons, even em dashes, because we’ we don’t know when to use them. Here’s the simple version: use semicolons colo and em dashes as a parenthetical aside–often with a little bite. The details:
Use semicolons:
between independent clauses: I love M there’s no place I’d rather be.
between items in a series where commas appear among the items: In a single day, you can watch the sun rise from the top of Mt. H snorkel among eels, urchins, and in the evening watch gray whales migrating north.
where related information follows: In the morning, I breakfast in the evening, I grill fish basted with guava and lime.
Use colons:
to set up information: One thing about Maui I love above all others: snorkeling hundreds of yards offshore, lost among the reefs.
to introduce a bit of drama: In the water you are an intr never was I so aware of that than early one morning as I rounded a volcanic outcropping: slowly in circles above her “nursery” swam a hammerhead shark.
Use dashes:
as an aside to speak more dir but try a colo save the em dash for a sharp stop (see Tips for a fuller discussion of of “dashes”): I stopped–paddling and breathing–she was longer than I am–and hoped she was not as nearsighted as most sharks who might mistake me for a flailing Hershey’s Kiss.
A good writer uses colons, semicolons, and em dashes to make a reader read the words the way the writer wants them read. Here are some of the best to show you how:
“Jim had plenty of corn-c so we had a right dow then we crawled out through the hole . . . .” Mark Twain – The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
“I asked Dad why he kept laughing . . . . And Dad said, Because I was
and I prayed Lord, send D or if not, Lord, do this: Send us to Davy.” Leif Enger – Peace Like a River
“. . . . after our meal Jem and I were settling down to a routine evening, when Atticus did something that interested us: he came into the living room carrying a long electrical extension cord.” Harper Lee – To Kill a Mockingbird
“The only way Inman could figure it, the men must have framed the evening in their minds as a type of coon hunt, otherwise they would have long since gone back to town.” Charles Frazier – Cold Mountain
“Diplomacy, he was fond of saying, is t and war–never citing his source–is simply diplomacy continued through other means.” Tim O’Brien – Going after Cacciato
No ticks here. Don’t clutter your writing with colons, semicolons, but don’t be afraid to use them to set up, explain further, or control your reader’s eye.
In a sentence, we often give our readers the first half of a thought, then we stop, stick in a comma—I’ll be right back in just a second—give them the first half of a second thought, and then the second half of that second thought, so that by the time they reach the next comma, separating the second half of the second thought from the second half of the first thought, they have forgotten the first half of the first thought. You with me? Now our readers have to go back and connect the first half of the first thought with the second half of the first thought.
If we have one job as writers of anything, it is to keep our readers moving forward. No matter how convoluted, complicated, and confusing our writing sometimes needs to be, we don’t need to make it even more convoluted, complicated, and confusing by jamming one of our thoughts into the middle of one of our other thoughts. Putting two pieces of information in the same sentence is fine, but we need one to follow the other, so our readers always move forward.
Usually, we mark these parenthetical asides with a pair of commas, which makes them easy to spot. Once we’ve spotted the interruption and pulled it out of the sentence, we have three choices: put make another sentence out of it.
PUT IT AT THE BEGINNING
Most interrupting clauses will serve us better if we place them at the beginning of the sentence to set the stage for what follows:
These organizations had, at Smooth Water’s request, agreed to advise on Project design.
At Smooth Water’s request, these organizations had agreed to advise on Project design.
Sometimes we interrupt our sentences and don’t even put commas around the interruption, making it harder to find, but the solution is the same:
The tanks appear from the EPS report to have been abandoned.
From the EPS report, the tanks appear to have been abandoned.
According to the EPS report, the tanks appear to have been abandoned.
About one in five times we have a parenthetical aside in the middle of a sentence, the aside is unnecessary anyway, so we can remove it:
Since an express agreement is required, whether a contract was formed with any or all part-time supervisors that requires AMP to pay additional compensation for additional hours will depend on the sworn testimony of the relevant witnesses and the credibility of that testimony.
MAKE ANOTHER SENTENCE OUT OF IT
Below we have a double interruption: the suggestion and
deal with each one at a time:
The Department’s suggestion advanced for the first time on appeal that the chase plane function may have been unrelated to the experimental flights ignores the language of the Stipulation.
First, let’s make it two sentences:
The Department suggests for the first time on appeal that the chase plane function may have been unrelated to the experimental flights. But this ignores the language of the Stipulation.
Then let’s put the remaining interruption at the beginning:
For the first time on appeal,the Department suggests that the chase plane function may have been unrelated to the experimental flights. But this ignores the language of the Stipulation.
Now we have one point following another, following another. And happy readers.
Upper Paleolithic grammarians did not ponder punctuation to spread angst and frustration among the populace. It just seems that way. They knew that punctuation allows language to make sense. No punctuation, no sense. Or worse, a different sense.
Take Ernest, a guy with an unhealthy obsession for a woman named Gloria. He burns to tell Gloria exactly how he feels, so he knocks out a stream-of-consciousness letter, no time for punctuation:
dear gloria i want a woman who knows what love is all about you are generous and kind people not like you admit to being cold and heartless you have ruined me for other women i yearn for you i have no feelings at all if we are apart i can be forever happy will you let me be yours ernest
To make a little more sense of this, Ernest capitalizes and sets off the salutation and closing:
Dear Gloria,
I want a woman who knows what love is all about you are generous and kind people not like you admit to being cold and heartless you have ruined me for other women I yearn for you I have no feelings at all if we are apart I can be forever happy will you let me be yours
That helps. Now he adds periods, a colon, and a question mark to create sentences:
Dear Gloria,
I want a woman who knows what love is all about. You are generous and kind. People not like you admit to being cold and heartless. You have ruined me for other women. I yearn for you. I have no feelings at all if we are apart. I can be forever happy: Will you let me be yours?
Ernest likes the words, but he does not like the sentiment, not what he meant to say, not the pouring out of what is truly in his heart. So he removes the punctuation and tries again:
Dear Gloria,
I want a woman who knows what love is. All about you are generous and kind people. Not like you. Admit to being cold and heartless. Y for other women I for you, I have no feelings at all. If we are apart, I can be forever happy. Will you let me be?
Finally, he’s got it right, the burning in his heart scorching the paper. Already jaunty, feeling like a new man, he signs with a flourish, “Ernie.” Much better.
Same words. Different punctuation. Different message. Adios, Gloria.
You’ve heard the story. About the freshman from Boise? Lost on the Harvard campus? No? Well, he’s standing in the quad, confused. Can’t find the library. So he sees this upperclassman, walks over, says, “Excuse me. Where’s the library at?” Upperclassman pats him on the head, says, “At Hahvahd we never end a sentence with a preposition.” Freshman from Boise tries again. “So, where’s the library at, asshole?” (I’m quoting.)
That’s one way to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition. Another would be to drop the at:
So, where’s the library?
And still another would be to tuck a preposition back inside the sentence:
Which part of campus would I find the library in?
In which part of campus would I find the library?
The grammar rule about not ending a sentence with a preposition is not only the oldest, but also the most frequently cited by grammarians as an example of how they really are a care-free, fun-loving bunch. “Sure, it’s okay to end a sentence with a preposition,” they say. “Let’s loosen up a little, let our hair down, have a little fun. It’s an old Latin rule anyway, and never was meant to apply to English.”
Forget grammar. In their quest to show us their fun side, what the yay-sayers overlook is that when we end a sentence with a preposition, the sentence feels unfinished. That’s more important than worrying or not worrying about violating or not violating some existing or non-existent grammar rule. Here’s why: Prepositions begin prepositional phrases, so we expect to see an article, a noun, maybe an adjective following. But when that preposition is the last word in the sentence, we feel like we’ve fallen off a cliff. Something’s missing. I would always try to delete that preposition or move it into the sentence.
There are exceptions, but they are rare. The real problem arises when we encounter what grammarians call “prepositional verbs,” verbs that require a preposition to complete their meaning: move over, take in, fly up, work on, find out. To end a sentence with one of these is not so bad, because the preposition merely refines the verb. I wish I had done that recently.
I was talking to a friend about an old entertainer in Las Vegas. I couldn’t remember the entertainer’s name. The next day I saw the friend again, and I said:
“Wayne Newton is the name up with which I could not come.”
I wasn’t doing my best imitation of C I actually said that before I could stop myself. No one should ever speak or write that sentence. Leave the preposition, or prepositions, alone:
“Wayne Newton is the name I could not come up with.”
Otherwise, you will embarrass yourself. An even better solution, especially when we’re writing and have more time to think, is to replace the “prepositional verb” with another verb that doesn’t carry all that prepositional baggage.
Move over becomes
take in could be
gather, going on might be happening. A little rearranging of the sentence is not a bad idea, either:
By far the best:
I love to grill, but I hate to get those little burnt, corkscrew hairs on my wrists.
Not so bad:
I love to grill, but I hate those little burnt, corkscrew wrist hairs I end
Absolutely, the worst:
I love to grill, but I hate those little burnt, corkscrew wrist hairs
up with which I end.
The freshman from Boise? His lawyer claims he was grievously harmed by the condescending nature of the upperclassman’s pat on his head and suffered great mental anguish, requiring expensive pharmaceuticals. I read the deposition of the upperclassman, who denies having ever spoken to a freshman.
, just as the popcorn finished popping, we sat staring into the abyss. Having gone wild with its new-found freedom, the Right Brain had spewed so much incomprehensible garbage onto the page, it had confused itself.
As we return now to the creative process, the Right Brain is begging the Left Brain to fix this mess, because the Left Brain knows how to do two things the Right Brain cannot do: group related items and arrange those groups in logical order.
Still miffed at being locked out of the process, but relieved to be invited back in, the Left Brain feels compelled to Organize
what the Right Brain has randomly thrown down . In a frenzy, it first labels related items “As” and “Bs” and “Cs.” Quickly, it senses the flow of the story. “This comes before this, which comes before that. But before I talk about this thing, I have to establish this other thing.” Feverishly, it then rearranges the “As” and “Bs” and “Cs.” In two minutes, a rough outline emerges. Add that to the four minutes you allowed the Right Brain to wander all over the place, and you’re now six minutes into the process. Already the plot points are becoming clearer.
Referring to your rough outline, now Write for 15 minutes, expounding upon each point, still working from memory, still not stopping to think or pausing to refine. Last RULE: You must go all the way to the end. Although some hastily sketched thoughts naturally develop faster than others, give each a shot. And don’t worry about spelling, punctuation, grammar, or making sense. Taking many light passes is far preferable to wrestling one paragraph to perfection.
At the end of about 21 minutes, that first, gonzo draft has now morphed into a page or two or three of okay stuff, something you can work with, failing and fixing, failing and fixing, as you move forward. Now set it aside to answer emails or race to a meeting. When you sit down with it again for 20 or 30 minutes, you will dumbfound yourself at the brilliance of your third draft. If you have more time, if you don’t, it’s not too bad already. When I write these Tips, I usually knock out eight to ten drafts.
Final Suggestion: Do not consciously edit until you think you have a close-to-ready draft. Then have someone you trust proofread your work. Or use our
to give you the confidence that what you have written is as clear and concise as you can make it. (It won’t slow you down – WordRake edits 10 pages in 30 seconds.)
The 21-Minute Method is a simple way to help you shoe horn a few moments into a hectic day to do something important. It helps us reach that balance between speed and quality. And because you’re dying to know, Yes, the Right Brain and the Left Brain lived happily ever after.
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About Gary Kinder
Gary Kinder has taught over 1,000 writing programs for the American Bar Association, the Social Security Administration, PG&E, Kraft, Microsoft, and law firms like Jones Day, Sidley, and WilmerHale. His critically-acclaimed Ship of Gold in the Deep Blue Sea hit #7 on the New York Times Bestsellers List.
In 2012, Gary and his team of engineers created WordRake editing software to provide writers a full-time, to save and to give them the confidence their writing is as clear and concise as they can make it. The U.S. Patent & Trademark Office has awarded six patents to WordRake's unique technology, and Harvard Law School has recognized WordRake as "Disruptive Innovation."