In Praise of My Lawn Mower

Aside from entering the house and depositing my bag of writing gear on a chair, one of the first things I did upon arriving home from work last night was mow the yard. A day and a half had passed without rain, leaving the backyard less squishy, just firm enough to run the reel mower through the thick green grass in the swamp that is the lower half of the property.

I really like the reel mower. (Groan all you like, I do not apologize for the pun.) When I was a kid, an old-fashioned motor-less mower with four or five blades was called a push mower, but now that term is reserved for gas-powered mowers that aren't riding mowers or tractors. Whatever. Reel mower sounds a little silly to me, though it's apt in describing the configuration of the blades.

Anyhoo. So, I hauled the mower out from the cubby under the house, and blitzed through the postage-stamp front yard, cut a swath along one side of the house (the other side of the yard is clay and tends to grow tree seedlings, but little else), and then hacked through the swampy jungle in the back. After all the branches the mower consumed, I might have to sharpen the blades next time. However, I kept to a steady and quick walk, finished mowing the property in an hour, and wasn't nearly as tired as I would have been had I tried to move so quickly with a gas-powered mower.

Reasons I like my reel mower:

1) It's lightweight, and easy to maneuver.

2) No gas.

3) No spark plug, choke, air filter, et cetera.

4) No spitting of rocks or branches at blinding, limb-severing speeds.

5) It's quiet; I can mow at dark-thirty, if I so desire.

6) My old shoulder / neck injury isn't an issue.

7) The mower's easy to store, and to maintain.

8) It starts every time.

9) It makes the neighbors scratch their heads.

10) It's just downright cool!

Opening Salvos - Part 2

Okay. This next candidate for "Renovations by Keanan" will probably elicit negative reactions, but I'm gonna do it anyway.

Reminder: All books in the "Opening Salvos" series of posts are ones that I own. If I own a book, that generally means I like it.

The second entry concerns Hugo-nominated science fiction novel, Old Man's War by John Scalzi (check out his blog here).

(ducking to avoid any missiles hurled at my head)

Mr. Scalzi has written many published books, and my books are still only in manuscript form (or in progress via serial), but my examination of opening pages of published literature is an exercise in improving craft. If it helps another writer, great. If it irritates, well, tough!

The book opens thus:

I did two things on my seventy-fifth birthday. I visited my wife's grave. Then I joined the army.

Visiting Kathy's grave was the less dramatic of the two. She's buried in Harris Creek Cemetery, not more than a mile down the road from where I live and where we raised our family. Getting her into the cemetery was more difficult than perhaps it should have been; neither of us expected needing the burial, so neither of us made the arrangements. It's somewhat mortifying, to use a rather apt word, to have to argue with a cemetery manager about your wife not having made a reservation to be buried. Eventually my son, Charlie, who happens to be mayor, cracked a few heads and got the plot. Being the father of the mayor has its advantages.

So, the grave. Simple and unremarkable, with one of those small markers instead of a big headstone. As a contrast, Kathy lies next to Sandra Cain, whose rather oversized headstone is polished black granite, with Sandy's high school photo and some maudlin quote from Keats about the death of youth and beauty sandblasted into the front. That's Sandy all over. It would have amused Kathy to know Sandra was parked next to her with her big dramatic headstone; all their lives Sandy nurtured an entertainingly passive-aggressive competition with her. Kathy would come to the local bake sale with a pie, Sandy would bring three and simmer, not so subtly, if Kathy's pie sold first. Kathy would attempt to solve the problem by preemptively buying one of Sandy's pies. It's hard to say whether this actually made things better or worse, from Sandy's point of view.

Great opening paragraph, but then the sentences tend toward awkwardness, and the writing suffers from Really-Rather-Much Syndrome, a common writing malady in which unnecessary words abound, words such as really, rather, much, somewhat, and their relatives.

I like details. I like humor, contrasts, and insights into characters, main or secondary. I also like to get to the point.

So, if I had been Master of the Red Pencil, this is what I might have suggested:

I did two things on my seventy-fifth birthday. I visited my wife's grave. Then I joined the army.

Kathy's buried in Harris Creek Cemetery, not more than a mile down the road from where I live and where we raised our family. Neither of us expected needing the burial, so neither of us made the arrangements, but my son, Charlie, happens to be mayor. He cracked a few heads; I got the plot.

So, the grave. It has one of those small markers, but Kathy lies next to Sandra Cain, whose oversized headstone is polished black granite, with Sandy's high school photo and some maudlin quote from Keats about the death of youth and beauty sandblasted into the front. That's Sandy all over. It would have amused Kathy to know Sandra was parked next to her with that big dramatic monument. All their lives, Sandy nurtured an entertaining passive-aggressive competition with her. Kathy would come to the local bake sale with a pie; Sandy would bring three. If Kathy's pie sold first, she'd buy one of Sandy's. It's hard to say whether this actually made things better or worse, from Sandy's point of view.

279 published words - 194 suggested words = 85-word weight loss, and a trimmer, cleaner beginning to an interesting story that is less bloated than these paragraphs might imply, and is more in line with the personality of the main character.

Comments or contentions, anyone?

Opening Salvos, Part One

Recent posts have briefly discussed beginnings and endings, and adverbs, adjectives and gerunds. This post is the first in a series that looks at the opening paragraphs of published books, and presents possible ways they could have been tightened, and thus made stronger or more active. Of course, the suggestions are from one person's perspective -- mine -- but I welcome discussion.

Note: I own copies of the books I will discuss, and enjoyed reading each one. That needs to be said, lest this series seem to smack of anything snarky. I have learned much from this exercise, a study in the craft of writing, and hope others will, too.

First, a version of the Robin Hood legend from the point of view of the Sheriff of Nottingham, In a Dark Wood by Michael Cadnum, begins thus:

The forest was quiet. Everything that was about to happen was far away, through the trees.

Geoffrey stood still, staring straight ahead, although he could see nothing but trembling patches of sunlight on the fallen leaves. A forest was like night. It was a different world, and everything a man was afraid of lived there, afraid of nothing.

The boar spear was a long, heavy weapon, and this particular spear had never been used before. Its head was slender and very sharp, and the cross-piece midway down the shaft was gleaming black. Geoffrey found a new grip on the spear, the iron cold where he had not touched it, and the horns of the beaters, and their cries, filtered through the trees, bright curls of sounds, like shavings on a goldsmith's bench.

Between them and where he stood was the most dangerous kind of beast. It could feel no pain. Its eyes were fire pricks. It weighed more than three men.

And it was coming his way.

Okay, so what's weak about this beginning? It mingles description with action, and it's intriguing -- excellent -- but is also has eleven uses of was and one use of were, passive verbs in an otherwise tense scene. Passive verbs have their place, and can be poetic, as evidenced in the above passage, but they should be used sparingly.

Filtered is a cliched, too-modern word in this usage, and coming is weak. Very could be eliminated, as could this particular spear, if the sentence were reconstructed. Perhaps this is too spare, too direct, compared to the structure above, but it's my take on the same information:

New-forged, the boar spear -- a long, heavy weapon, its head slender and sharp -- had never been used, and the cross-piece gleamed black midway down the shaft.

I would have replaced filtered with echoed or drifted or rang, or something in keeping with "bright curls of sound" or the image of gold.

As for coming, what stronger word(s) might take its place, and thus evoke the image of a wild boar about to have its way with a mere human silly enough to hunt it down: running, charging, snorting, pawing, grunting, leaping, hurtling, et cetera?

Next post: a look at the opening paragraphs of a popular science fiction novel, a finalist for the Hugo. I'll catch sacrilege for that one, but I can take it!

Adverbs and Other Descriptors, Part 2

Go to almost any writers conference, seminar, class, discussion, critique, or retreat, and you'll likely hear someone--either a speaker or a fellow attendee--warn against the use of adverbs, adjectives, or gerunds.

Now, go to the bookstore, pick up almost any book, and what will you find? Adverbs, adjectives, and gerunds.

Much like the pirate code in Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl, literary rules are not so much laws as they are guidelines. There is a difference between what authors are told is acceptable versus what's actually published--did you catch that adverb?--so what's a writer to do? Are editors and agents just being paranoid or snobbish about this stuff?

Yes, and no.

We should be careful with what we put on the page, in the sense that we want our work to grab readers, to be fresh/original/inimitable (look! a list of three adjectives!), but words are there to be used, and there is a difference between "walked slowly" and "walked quickly", and sometimes ran, skipped, leaped, jogged, strode, ambled, strolled, meandered, or myriad other descriptors don't convey the actual moment the way we see it in our minds.

A great way to describe reluctance, for instance, is to tell us how a character acted; if he did so "slowly", then we have an obligation to say so.

On the other hand, as an advocate for non-lazy writing, I like to use strong, punchy verbs wherever possible. As a poet, however, I understand the importance of cadence, that sometimes sound and pacing are just as important as the idea itself, and can enhance that idea.

Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky,
Till at my throat a strangling sob
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb
Sent instant tears into my eyes;
O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e'er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!
Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

(excerpt from Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892-1950)

Renascence launched Millay's literary career, but one might argue that it is old fashioned and has no place in this discussion. After all, as the words in bold type can testify, it breaks the modern guideline of No Adverbs, No Adjectives, No Gerunds.

On the other hand, if a writer avoids over-using descriptors, his writing will gain punch. Or, in the words of Mark Twain, "You need not expect to get your book right the first time. Go to work and revamp or rewrite it. God only exhibits his thunder and lightning at intervals, and so they always command attention. These are God's adjectives. You thunder and lightning too much; the reader ceases to get under the bed, by and by." - Letter to Orion Clemens, 3/23/1878

Adverbs and Other Descriptors, Part 1

Below is a re-post of a blog entry originally published July 13, 2007. It returned to mind after a recent conversation with a fellow writer as we discussed revisions of our own work, and our frustrations with newer writers who say they want our help but then act defensive, and refuse to heed the very advice they solicited. Then there are writers, new and experienced, who are so bound by rules that they miss the story. Therefore, I present an almost-defense of reviled words.

I adore adverbs; they are the only qualifications I really much respect. -Henry James

I quit using adjectives and adverbs as if sheer numbers would make a difference. -Terry Brooks

The road to hell is paved with adverbs. -Stephen King

I am dead to adverbs; they cannot excite me. To misplace an adverb is a thing which I am able to do with frozen indifference; it can never give me a pang. ... There are subtleties which I cannot master at all,--they confuse me, they mean absolutely nothing to me,--and this adverb plague is one of them. ... Yes, there are things which we cannot learn, and there is no use in fretting about it. I cannot learn adverbs; and what is more I won't.

-Mark Twain, "Reply to a Boston Girl," Atlantic Monthly, June 1880

Ah, the adverb. Even when it's being reviled, it's still in use. The adverb, like the adjective, is a word used to describe something else; an adverb usually describes a verb, though an adverb can sometimes occupy the place of an adjective, and does not always end in -ly. In this case, "usually" is the adverb, and "describes" is the verb.

We use adverbs, adjectives, and gerunds (-ing words) all the time in our everyday speech. Why, then, are they anathema in modern writing? And should we toss them out altogether?

Sometimes, those adverbs and adjectives are just what we need. Sometimes, we need to seek just the right descriptor in order to make an action or a feature distinct. After all, if a reader does not know how an old cowboy walks to the corral, we present only flat action when we write, "The old cowboy walked to the corral."

However, if we describe how he walks, we make the scene come alive: "Legs as bowed as the twin lines guarding his smile, he hobbled down from the porch and crossed the hard-packed yard with tilting steps, each one placed with care, the outer edges of his soles worn flat from years of walking as if he still gripped the barrel of a horse between his knees."

Yeah, okay, so that sentence isn't exactly crisp, but does it need to be? Can you see this man walking to the corral? Could the same effect be achieved without any description?

Leave out all the adverbs, adjectives, and gerunds, and what do you have? "He hobbled from the porch and crossed the yard." That may be all you want, all you need to say. If so, more power to ya. After all, sometimes brief action is the only transition required; and, if you've shown the reader once how this character walked, having him hobble may be the only thing necessary to move the story along.

In English we must use adjectives to distinguish the different kinds of love for which the ancients had distinct names. -Mortimer Adler.

- to be continued -

Serial, Please. Hold the Milk.

Wednesday night, after a month or more of wrestling 5,000 words into a decent story (and then scrapping half those words in order to write a new version of them), I turned in Episode 8 -- "Endgame, Part 1" -- of Thieves' Honor, my science fiction serial for Ray Gun Revival.

"Endgame" is nothing original, as far as titles go, but titles are not my strongest skill. Sometimes, ya gotta go with what works, not necessarily what's flashy.

This experience -- writing a serial -- has given me a renewed appreciation for the old-fashioned "hacks" who churned out story after story, and on a deadline. Check out the magazine, though, for the entertaining stories by non-hacks. Good stuff.

Hats off to Johne Cook, an Overlord at RGR, for the pointing readers to Disney: Animated Spoof of '50s Pulp Science Fiction, a YouTube humorous gem of a jab at a beloved genre. Had me laughing all the way through, which is an all-too-brief three minutes and a half.

A Look at a Working Writer's Process! over at Alexander Field's blog, The Mystery & the Magic, features a video clip of Jeffrey Archer discussing how he schedules his writing days (and they ARE scheduled). I left this comment in response:

I don't know if I could be so regimented, because I write when I can, and I've sat/stood/paced for hours, willing the words to come, and they don't. I've written just plain awful pages, waiting for words to come, and they don't. Then, sometimes, in the middle of some other activity (work, for instance!), I'll have to stop and scribble down all the ideas pouring from my brain to my pen.

I do agree with Archer, though, in how hard this writing gig can be. A teenage Club kid who's moved across state has been e-mailing me this past week, and telling me about his latest writing endeavor. This one he likes, he said, because it's coming so easy. I had to tell him that, if he wants to be a writer, he's going to have to expect and be prepared for the dry spells, when every word is agony. How's that for encouraging a newbie?

But he has talent, and I told him I'd like to read his work when it's finished. When I was in elementary and junior high, if it weren't for the teacher and the older writers who praised what was good and pointed out what was bad, I don't know if I'd be writing today. God bless 'em.

As a young writer -- youthful in age as well as experience -- I did not take criticism well. If there were flaws pointed out, well, that meant the story had to be scrapped. Flaws also meant I was fooling myself, and that I could not possibly ever be a writer. I was doomed. Doomed!

That's hormones and angst for you, as well as a more-than-generous dose of teenage insecurity.

To tell the truth, in the writing life, the insecurity never quite leaves. Oh, there are times we can swagger and talk big, and believe we're God's best gift to literature, but then there are the dark wells of doubt that seem to tunnel forever into our souls, and-- You get the picture.

Maybe the cure for the writer's curse of the braggadocio-then-despair rollercoaster is the work itself, the act of putting words on paper.

Alrighty then. (sitting at keyboard, flexing fingers, stretching arms) Serial, please. Hold the milk.

Daily Fix

This must be how an addict feels: Anxious, edgy, the world just off-kilter enough to make him feel like an outsider, and then, when he finally gets the fix, ahhhhh.

Anxiety? What anxiety? Dude, it's all bliss and haze in here.

No, I'm not on hallucinogens, not drunk, not smoking something. I edited a paragraph.

Yep, you read me right. Edited. A paragraph.

I deleted a phrase. Ooh, that's good stuff. I rearranged a sentence. Getting better. I tossed out a word, inserted a dependent clause, and replaced a weak image with a strong visual. Wow. Psychedelic, man.

All the collected tension of a busy afternoon and evening just drifted away like curls of smoke.

Hello. My name is Keanan Brand. I'm a verbaholic.