Writing with Words

Modifiers modify. Hence the name. You probably knew that. Because of the name. Well, you’re right. They add clarity, nuance, color, ramp up or tamp down. and it must be clear exactly what word or idea they are clarifying, adding nuance or color to, ramping up or tamping down. So they must be as close as possible to it. Like the last two toes on your foot. Otherwise, there’s confusion. 

Here’s a little modifier fun. I’ve underlined the modifiers.

Mycella wanted a solo career. Which means: She wanted a career as a soloist, or perhaps Mycella wanted to be released from the band in order to perform by herself.

It was a career solo. Which means: The solo she gave was the best of her career.

Solo had a career. Which means: The sentence is now about Solo who had a career of some sort.

The career was solo. Which may mean: The career is alone. But this doesn’t really work, as we don’t tend to discuss careers as if they are solitary or with people in this way.

Have a career, Solo. It’s not like we offer people careers as if they are canapes on a platter, but now Solo is being urged to get a career. There is no modifier in this sentence.

The solo was so low. The song was low in pitch.

I am a big crafter. What does this mean – that I am a large person? Maybe? That I like doing crafts that are big in scope, like three-story sculptues, or wall-sized quilts? Perhaps, or maybe that I like crafting.

See how fun words are?

I love watching owners chase after their untraineddogs. Curt, sharp calls of the name. Jesse here! Jesse! Come here! – Jesse exuberantly ignoring. I’m not judging. Heck, I’ve done it myself, my embarrassment fueling the anger I feel for Rudy who can be purposefully deaf when he chooses, certainly more so when he was younger – his awareness of me only keen when I’m closing in, reaching for his collar, so that he can bolt away, find the possum under the hedge across the street.

My neighbor dog just came up to my front door, peered in the windows, happy to either come on in, have a visit, or not. Either way. Tail still wags. Owner yelling in the distance. 

Excellent stuff – dogs making fools of us!

What’s wrong with “to be”?

If you’re a native English speaker, you may have never asked yourself this question. Well, today is your lucky day!

The “to be” verb is the one that can be conjugated like:

I am, You are, She is, They are

I am being, You are being, He is being, They are being

I will be, You will be, She will be, They will be

I will have been, You will have been, She will have been, They will have been

I was, You were, He was, They were

I was being, You were being, She was being, They were being

I had been, You had been, He had been, They had been

I have been, You have been, She has been, They have been

I will have been, You will have been, He will have been, They will have been

I would be, You would be, She would be, They would be  

I would have been, You would have been, He would have been, They would have been

These are all reasonable constructions, so what’s the problem? Well, when overused, they can bog down your writing. 

Consider this:

The dog is waiting for a treat, but I am hesitant to give him one, because he has been a naughty dog, and, at the moment, is not obedient enough to deserve one. 

Let’s forget the fact that the dog rooted through the garden, pulled up a tulip bulb and brought it into the house to scatter its dirt all over my clean carpet. In fact, let’s forgive the dog and concentrate on the verb “to be” and its overuse in the first sentence, which was understandable enough, but plodding. 

If we replace all the “to be” verbs with more specific, active ones, look how much more interesting the sentence becomes:

The dog sits, tail wagging, in front of the treat cupboard, but I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him because he tracked dirt into the house (and dropped the rooted-up tulip bulb onto the carpet), so the treat cupboard door will remain closed so that the dog can think about his naughtiness and consider changing his ways. 

So, does this mean that the verb “to be” should be omitted from all writing? Of course not – most rules for writing are never that hard and fast. And sometimes, “to be” is best. 

“I will be at the courthouse by 9.” There aren’t too many ways to write this as simply and effectively. 

But we all get into writing habits (some professors and editors call it “style”), and some habits need to be broken especially an overdependence on the verb “to be.” 

So what should you do? Write whatever you’re writing. Get it on the screen or the page. Finish it. Check it. Polish it. Then scan each sentence for the verb “to be.” And consider whether or not you can replace it with a verb that lifts the idea a little higher, describes the image a little more clearly, states the action a little more dramatically. 

And be.

"Sit back and relax..."  How many times have I been told to do this, especially just as the plane is about to take off? Too many! Is it part of FAA procedure, just like the preflight check and tossing out one piece of luggage, that each pilot, no matter the airline, destination, or time of day, must tell me to sit back before I can relax? For starters, I'm already pressed against the back of the upright seat and impatient to lean back those two inches when they allow me to finally. How much farther can I sit back?

I'm not about to lean forward. And I'm certainly not going to stand; that would bring an anxious flight attendant rushing over to urge me to keep my seat belt fastened. Can't I just sit and relax? Of course, "Just sit there and relax.." isn't quite as gracious, sounding  like an apology or at least a recognition that this is not going to be the most exciting experience I'll ever have (for which, I'm very thankful, by the way). 

Why not get into the existential zeal of the thing: "Just be and be calm..."?  Although, that might tempt the worriers among us to question why we shouldn't be calm - best to keep calmness out of it. "Just slump and relax..." certainly emphasizes the relaxed nature of the entreaty, but perhaps too much. After all, we wouldn't want all the passengers to be wobbly gelatin piles, jiggling over into their neighbor's seats, or heaven forbid, into the aisle where they might get tangled up with the importance of the drink service. I guess it's probably best for everyone's safety that we relax, but surely after hearing it so many times, do we even listen anymore? We could be told to hang loose, unwind, lighten up, settle down - any of these at least start to paint a picture.

And that's what you want to do. Your primary goal in any kind of communication is to get your message into the head of whoever you are talking to. This is particularly crucial in written communication where you do not have the benefit of a lifted right eyebrow, a jaunty set to the head, or a gleeful grin to help the reader interpret the message. Your words need to work harder for you. And the more specific the words are, the more apparent the images that you paint with them become. Don't tell me to sit back and relax; tell me to enjoy the deeply upholstered chair now that the harried gauntlet of the airport security and gate wait are over. Tell me to let my mind wander while the pilot and her team take care of the driving. Tell me to get into a good book or movie, because I'm going to be sequestered in this mini-couch for the next 400 minutes. Tell me to make a new friend beside me (or at least look over and assess the situation). Tell me any of these things and at once, I'm engaged, I'm listening and I'm willing to go on whatever journey that pilot wants to make.

This is what makes wonderful writing: Saying it a different way. Know that if the words come easily to mind, they're probably not the right words. Keep thinking. Keep pushing. And be more specific. 

And I don't want to have a nice day, but I'd appreciate one that makes my baby toes curl!

Just as many of us are chipping away at the parts of ourselves that aren’t helpful, or appealing, and sloughing them off, like a sculptor finding the perfect form in the chunk of rock, when I choose words or choose to keep words, those that aren’t serving must be left on the artist’s studio floor. Let them fall, sweep them up later. Or not, let them rot. Make sure those parts that remain are the best ones and are in the best place to serve the idea. Hone the image. Burnish the person.

It's not easy to do. We are the first lovers of our creations, and we have no more objectivity about whether or not they’re good than we do over our daughter’s performance at the piano recital and how she embarrassed the other student pianists with the virtuosity with which she performed “Middle C is Home.”

Creating readable writing asks you to come up with the words, then throw out some of those words. You have to be both Dr. Jekyll in creating something, and Mr. Hyde in destroying it. And in finding the right balance is where beauty lives. It takes practice, perseverance and patience. Maybe even a little perspective. Did I mention perseverance? 

And every once in a while, it pays off. You are rewarded with a particularly catchy turn of phrase, an especially deft description. And it’s thrilling, delightful. 

Enjoy it. Because it may not last.