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The politician, the preposition and the donation of blood

Disambiguate means to remove ambiguity from, or to identify the possible interpretations of a phrase or sentence, and to choose the preferred one. It's an essential practice for writers and editors alike.
Here, friends, is the latest in our explorations of interestingly misphrased sentences.

“Residents are being encouraged to roll up their sleeves and donate blood by a local politician.”

Admittedly, there is little that is ambiguous about this. The meaning here is clear, and yet I could not help laughing out loud when I read it. Surely I’m not the only one tempted to replace the word “by” with “of”. Am I?

It is possible the journalist who penned this sentence was having a bit of fun by structuring it this way. Even so, my view remains that it is risky to rattle your reader with any phrase or expression that disrupts the otherwise focused flow of their attention, unless that is your express intention.

Good writing sometimes does this, of course, by presenting us with a particularly striking image or an exquisitely sinuous sequence of words. This is why we appreciate such writing so much.

Most of the time, however, our central intention is to communication information. To do this effectively, it’s often best keep things simple.

There is an easy way to achieve this in our sanguinary sentence above. All that is required is for the prepositional phrase “by a local politician” to be nudged immediately after the word “encouraged”, thus:

“Residents are being encouraged by a local politician to roll up their sleeves and donate blood.”

This keeps the agent of the encouragement (“a local politician”) close to the verb (“encouraged”), while the additional details (“roll up their sleeves and donate blood”) are appended at the end.

It’s true that the meaning of the sentence is evident in either version. However, one approach makes it clear who is being asked to do what by whom, while the other invites (in my mind at least) the image of zealous residents rolling up their sleeves to merrily shed the blood of their local politician.

Not that I’m saying that’s a bad thing, necessarily…

Now it’s your turn…

I’m really not the only one who secretly imagined that sentence read “donate blood of a local politician”, am I? Really?

Paint chip poetry

Paint chips arranged to make the poem "Seriously Evocative Star Gazing / Sky's the Limit / Out There" How did I not discover this until now?

Paint chip poetry. Utterly wonderful!

It seems there are a couple of ways to play this game – and I do invite you to play.

Start by gathering a spectrum of paint chips or colour cards. Then use them to make poems. You can do this by arranging the chips so the paint names make a sort of poetic sense, as I’ve done in the image above. Or you can write tiny poems on the cards that relate in some way to the colour or name or… well, anything at all, really. Another approach invites you to combine these two techniques by incorporating the name of the poem into the lines you write.

It’s fun, right? And useful too.

Making poems in this way can be a prompt for all kinds of writerly creativity. If you’re a novelist, you may find a certain colour evokes one of your characters. Could the poem you write on that chip tell part of that person’s story?

For non-fiction writers, the (let’s face it, sometimes lurid and even ludicrous) paint names may stir images or associations that encourage different ways of thinking about your topic. Or just different ways of thinking, which might also help with your writing.

Indeed, for writers of all kinds, a frolic with paint chip poetry can be a spark to awaken the imagination. You might like to make it part of your writing ritual, sort of like a warm up. Alternatively, you may simply enjoy playing with words and colours. Either way, I encourage you to give it a go.

Now it’s your turn…

Have you ever played with paint chip poetry? Care to share your fabulous creations? What other fun writing prompts can you recommend?

The book you must write and the one you can publish

So, Elizabeth Gilbert has a podcast. And that’s fun because she has a lovely voice and valuable insights to share. Take, for instance, this gem from her first episode.

“There is the book that you must write, and then there is the book that you can publish. And those may be two different books.”

This exact thought has been on my mind lately. It is an issue that often arises among writers, especially those penning memoirs and life stories.

Being brave enough to tell your own tale and communicate your truth is one thing. But what about the other people who may be embroiled in your story? What right do you have to write about them? And, perhaps more pointedly, what are people going to think if you open up and express what you really feel?

The understandable fears of being judged or causing harm to others are enough to convince some writers to stay silent. Yet I believe it is possible to tell difficult stories with integrity and still protect ourselves and others. More than that, I think it is important for us to do so. Not easy, but important.

It’s where writing a conflicted thing. On the one hand, it can be intensely intimate; an act so personal it allows us to glimpse the deepest, most secret and sacred parts of ourselves. But it can also be about as public as you can get. Words can communicate anything to anyone who has the ability to interpret them.

This is why we need to be careful, even respectful, of our writing. We need to appreciate its dual nature and utilise it wisely.

Writing can either reveal or conceal. At its best, it does both at once.

The way I see it, and the way I talk about this with my clients, is that there is the story of what happened and the story you tell about it. There are the words you choose to use, with consideration and precision, and the images and metaphors you decide to place around them. There are structures, perspectives and approaches you can adopt that enable you to narrate your experiences honestly but without exposing anything too perilous or tender.

In short, there are ways to say what you need to convey both truthfully and thoughtfully, and this is what makes the difference between the book you must write and the one you can publish. Of course, the trick lies in navigating your way between the two.

My advice about this is to listen to what Liz Gilbert says and begin by writing the book you need to write. All of it, however rough or raw and sore it may be. Write it for yourself first, with no other reader in mind. Be courageous. Be tenacious. Be unflinching.

After that, give yourself some time. Put your work away and only look it later. Find a mindful reader and perhaps a sympathetic editor. See your story through new eyes.

Then take a deep breath, remind yourself you are a writer and get to work on the book you can publish.

Now it’s your turn…

What differences do you think exist between the book you must write and the one you can publish? What strategies do you use to move from one to the other?

Seeing what is there: How editing and art exhibitions are surprisingly alike

Two paintings with the same scene of sea and sky in distant and detailed view
At first glance, there might not seem to be much similarity between the practice of editing and the act of viewing an art exhibition, yet to my mind they are alike. Let me explain how.

When I visit an exhibition, my first impression is of the space I am in. I become aware of dimensions, distances, shapes and shades. I identify whether the art is painting, photography, sculpture, drawing or some other interesting form and I reflect on the way the works are displayed. Are they grouped in close clusters or are there generous stretches between each? I give myself time to feel what it is like to be in the exhibition until something specific draws my eye.

I’ll move towards that particular piece, noticing how it looks from across the room and how my sense of it changes as I approach. As before, I will begin by gaining an overall impression, taking in, for instance, the subject and scale. I may glance at the title or any notes appended alongside it, but by now the art has grasped my attention and I’m absorbed in my examination of it.

Smaller details will present themselves to me, like the harmony of colours or one small but striking sliver of the image. I’ll become conscious of how various elements of the composition echo and reflect each other, sometimes providing balance while at other times inciting tension. It all contributes to the effect of the piece.

Leaning in further, I’ll be drawn to explore distinct brushstrokes or textures. My gaze is now engaged and I am fascinated by what I can see in such close proximity. After a while, I’ll step back and regard the work again in its entirety. I may shift my position, choosing to view the art from a new angle. I’ll cross the floor and look it from a distance once more, only this time with an increased appreciation of how each tiny touch by the artist has created the eventual expression. By this time, I’m often smiling.

Surprisingly – or perhaps not – it is the same with editing.

When I’m gifted a new manuscript to work with, I begin by obtaining the same initial impression of scope and shape. I look into the form and content of the writing, as well as its mood and tone. As I read, I let the voice of the piece reach me and I find myself leaning towards it. The deeper I get into the text, the clearer my sense of its structure becomes. I can see how each section works and discern the purpose in every paragraph.

I consider individual sentences and words, noting marks of punctuation and even the spaces between symbols. I appraise the role that all of these play and the contribution they each make.

Throughout this process, as happens in a gallery, my perspective is constantly shifting. It moves from a close focus to take in the bigger picture before gliding back again to centre on a certain detail or to contemplate the overall flow. I am mindful always of the relationships between different elements of the text and how they blend together to generate the desired effect.

Again, by this stage, often I’m smiling. But I am also attentive, sliding into the writing itself, making deft alterations, settling any ruffles, always ensuring the words are accurate as well as artful.

It’s a delicate process, and a deliberate one too. In both cases, I find it delightful.

Whether my view is precise or expansive, and whether I’m absorbed by art or by words, it is all about seeing, appreciating and admiring what is in front of me.

Now it’s your turn…

How do you view art exhibitions? Are there any similarities between how you approach art and how you view other activities in your life?

Simple comma makes an outstanding contribution

Sometimes a simple comma can make all the difference. This is what they do most of the time, of course. It’s sort of their job. When laid in the right place, these modest pieces of punctuation give clarity to your expression. Their absence, meanwhile, can cause ambiguity, as shown in the example below.

“In between wing defence Gabi Simpson and goal attack Tippett were outstanding contributors in helping the home team build a telling 30-20 lead at the main break.”

Yes, this is a sentence about sport, and no, it probably doesn’t mean what you think it does.

As written, the sentence suggests that there were “outstanding contributors” who presumably did amazing things on the netball court between the players Simpson and Tippett. A slight shift in phrasing could help demonstrate this, such as: In between wing defence Gabi Simpson and goal attack Tippett, there were outstanding contributors who helped the home team build a telling 30-20 lead at the main break.

Or to put it another way: Outstanding contributors between wing defence Gabi Simpson and goal attack Tippett helped the home team build a telling 30-20 lead at the main break.

The problem is that this is not the intended meaning.

The sentence that appeared before this one in the original article mentions two other players (goal shooter Romelda Aiken and goal keeper Laura Geitz) whose positions place them at either end of the court. Tippett and Simpson play in positions between Aiken and Geitz and are themselves the “outstanding contributors” who helped the home team build that telling lead.

The simple addition of a comma at the start of the sentence makes this plain, removing any confusion and thus attributing the contribution correctly.

In between, wing defence Gabi Simpson and goal attack Tippett were outstanding contributors in helping the home team build a telling 30-20 lead at the main break.

See the difference?

What’s happening here is that the words “In between” are a prepositional phrase that introduces and modifies the rest of the sentence. It could easily – and meaningfully – be read without the opening phrase, but its inclusion links the sentence with the one that preceded it and helps provide both context and cohesion.

When sentences begin this way, with a few words of introduction, it is often sensible and sometimes essential to place a comma before the main clause. This is always necessary when the phrase is a subordinate clause – as with the phrase “When sentences begin with an introduction in this way” which commences the sentence you read just before this one.

Sometimes, if the introductory phrase is just one or two words long, the comma may be omitted, providing that the meaning remains obvious. Some people also choose to drop the comma when prepositional phrases appear at the start of sentences.

Such tendencies towards using fewer commas reflect a recent trend towards more minimal punctuation. Yet whether it’s fashionable or not, I cheerfully encourage their inclusion, especially when they help achieve better clarity in a text.

In this regard, they do make an outstanding contribution, after all.

Now it’s your turn…

Are you enamoured with commas? Do you use them sparingly or sprinkle them liberally? What contribution do commas make to your writing?

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