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Christmas fears appear ambiguous

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. There is no denying that Christmas is a difficult time for many people. The reasons for this vary, but they are often quietly personal. An article I read a little while back highlighted this issue by sharing the story of a woman whose son died in a car accident during the festive season. It contained these lines:

“Christmas has changed for her family. She fears, possibly forever.”

While the meaning here is sorrowfully obvious, it is also imprecise in its current form. Each of these two sentences is complete and correct in itself. The effect is that while their individual meanings could be seen to relate to one another due to proximity, they are not actually connected.

The statement that “Christmas has changed for her family” expresses one thought, as does the second sentence about the woman’s fear. Read on its own, this latter statement does not give any indication of why the woman is afraid. It only proclaims that she experiences fear and that this feeling might endure, “possibly forever”.

By placing each thought in a separate sentence, the writer has isolated the cause of the fear from its source, which relates to the way that Christmas has changed. In so doing, the meaning of these lines becomes ambiguous. To remedy this situation, we need to associate the fear with its reason more clearly. One way to do this is as follows:

“Christmas has changed for her family, she fears. Possibly forever.”

This version maintains the structure of the original but shifts the full stop so that both “Christmas” and “fears” appear in the one sentence. However, it creates a sentence fragment with the words “Possibly forever”. Lacking both a subject and a verb, this phrase is grammatically incomplete. Nevertheless, it could be used in this way for a deliberate stylistic effect.

A more correct form of expression would see the sentences reframed as:

“She fears that Christmas has changed for her family, possibly forever.”

Now the entirety of the meaning is conveyed in a single, if sad, statement.

In selecting these sentences as an example to disambiguate, I am conscious of the need for a degree of delicacy. Part of me wonders whether it is appropriate to use the story of a family’s bereavement for this purpose, but there is another part of me that reads this tragic tale and wants to ensure it is given its full significance through clear and correct expression.

I have said before that editing, for me, is about showing respect. This respect is given first to the writer but I believe it is due to the subject of the writing too. That is why this is a good example to use.

By rephrasing an otherwise inexact statement, I hope to show how much more meaningful it can be and how effectively it can express its message.

Incidentally, having recently written about embarrassment, I also want to make it plain that I do not cite these examples of ambiguous writing in order to shame or demean anyone. That is why I do not specify where I find these snippets, nor name those who write them. I’m sure we can agree that all of us are at times clumsy in our written expression. Indeed, it is when writing about the things that matter most to us that our words may get especially tangled.

It is never my wish to make anyone feel bad about their writing. Instead, my intention is to show how the subtlest of alterations can make a distinct difference to the way our words and our stories are read.

I hope that is how you see it too.

Now it’s your turn…

How did you read the original sentences used in this example? If you encountered them in an article, would they have bothered or stopped you, or would you have understood their implied meaning? How important is precise expression to you, both when you read and when you write?

Embarrassed? You should be!

Black and white photo of an embarrassed little boy I know I’m not the only one. I know it has happened to you too. It happened to one of my clients just the other day. We have been working together for over a year now on a project which is almost ready to be published. As we were discussing the final stages of the work, she said to me:

“When I look back now at the draft I first sent to you, I am so embarrassed by it.”

I had to laugh, because I’ve been there too and so have you. Sometime or another, we have all read back over something we wrote a week, a month or a few decades ago, and yes, we are embarrassed by it. And so we should be.

That is what I said to my client, the moment I stopped laughing. I told her it was wonderful that she felt embarrassed about her earlier writing, because it shows how much she has developed since then. Over the past year, both her voice and her vision for her book have become clearer, keener, more precise and more refined. Her style has changed and she has become more confident, which is a beautiful thing.

Far from being unwelcome, embarrassment is sometimes a sign of progress.

I remember once hearing the Australian writer Peter Carey give a reading of his work at a literary festival. He began, inauspiciously enough, with an apology for any awkward pauses that might occur during his reading.

“I can’t read my own work in public without wanting to change some bit of it,” he explained.

Know the feeling?

I can’t help thinking that editors are particularly guilty of this proclivity to want to revise everything they have ever written, but my guess is that most writers are susceptible to it. We could choose to read this discomfort as evidence that we are genuinely inept at our craft. Or we could see that our tastes change, our talents evolve and our insight into our written expression alters over time.

That is not to say, however, that there is anything wrong with revisiting some earlier work only to find ourselves pleasantly surprised by a deft turn of phrase, an arresting metaphor or the sincere emotion evoked by our prose. It doesn’t mean we have not advanced beyond that shining moment; only that there are times in our lives when we write with a certain elusive grace, and that we sometimes cannot truly see the beauty in our words until our eyes and minds are older.

Either way, I encourage you, as I did with my client, to embrace your embarrassment but let yourself find delight in your own writing too. You are allowed both to be proud and to progress.

That is, in fact, exactly what you need to do.

Now it’s your turn…

Go on, admit it. You’re among friends here, so go ahead and share the story of some occasion on which you glanced back at a piece of your writing and felt that little bit of a cringe inside. Or, if you prefer, tell the tale of a time when your words filled you with a flush of pleasure. I’d really love to hear it.

What you get from a manuscript appraisal

An orange origami paper crane It happens every time. Whenever a writer sends me a manuscript, I feel a delightful sense of anticipation. It’s like something potentially wonderful is in front of me and I’m eager to discover what I will make of it. This pleasure, however, is always measured by my need to read the document critically and analytically. I have to see what is working and what is not, to figure out how I can help.

In most cases, the assistance I offer is editing, whether it be at copy, structural or developmental level. But sometimes a different kind of expertise is required. It could be that the text is not yet ready to be edited or that the writer is seeking an opinion or some assurance about the work, rather than wanting any alterations to it.

That’s when a manuscript appraisal can be useful.

A manuscript appraisal differs from editing work in that the focus is on providing an evaluation of the document without making any textual changes to it.

Such appraisals will typically consider the effectiveness (or otherwise) of elements of the manuscript, such as the topic, structure, pacing, plot development, characterisation, narrative voice and writing style. It may also address the plausibility of the story and dialogue, and reflect upon the themes presented.

Some manuscript assessments or appraisals will also include observations about market expectations and prospects for publication, although I am wary of offering such comments myself. The world of publishing can be a fickle thing and I do not want to give advice nor raise hopes that may be washed away in the wake of the next bright and shiny trend.

Both fiction and non-fiction works can benefit from a manuscript appraisal. It is a step before editing that offers guidance for revising, reducing, reframing or expanding a document. That said, there is still significant work involved in appraising a manuscript, beginning with a careful reading of the entire document. This is followed by the preparation of a detailed report which contains practical advice and examples for reworking the draft.

What you get from a manuscript appraisal, therefore, is the advantage of having a discerning reader for your work who is able to give insights into how you may improve it. You get a thoughtfully written report to assist with your revision, and you get the chance to refine your writing before embarking on the next stage of your journey.

If that sounds useful to you, then say hello and let me know. I am, as always, happy to help if I can.

Now it’s your turn…

Have you ever had a manuscript assessed or appraised? How useful was it? What did you learn and what did you change?

The quirks of “while” or “whilst”

"While" or "whilst"? Which do you favour? I confess. It’s true. Like you, I have my word quirks. There are those I use often because I’m fond of them (“nifty”, “tricky”, “expressive”, “poetic”) and many I use rarely because they don’t resonate with my voice.

This is fine when I’m being a writer. I can choose and use whichever words I want. It’s another matter, however, when I am editing.

A document I was recently working on contained numerous instances of the word “whilst”. My immediate inclination was to change all of these to “while” or to make gentle alterations to certain sentences so that neither word was necessary. There was arguably no need and no reason for me to do this, because the term “whilst” is not incorrect.

Used as a conjunction, “whilst” carries exactly the same meaning as “while”.

Even so, the tone of the two words differs.

Most of us would bump into the word “while” more frequently each day than we realise. Yet the simple addition of the “-st” on the end turns it into a term that is more likely to catch our notice. It just sounds that little bit more formal or even old-fashioned.

That’s fine if it is the writer’s intention. In general, however, the word “while” is probably preferable.

It may be that this tendency to use “whilst” is a quirk of my client that I ought to have left unchanged in the text. Yet as an editor, I need to balance the voice of the writer with the purpose of the document and also keep in mind the needs of the reader. My distinct feeling in this case was that the extra attention the word “whilst” attracted was more distracting than deliberate and did not fit with the overall tone of the document.

I made the changes accordingly and explained the reason for these to my client. I did leave one or two occurrences in place, though, partly to respect my client’s choice and also to add a touch of distinction here and there.

I guess you could say I’m quirky that way.

Now it’s your turn…

Which do you favour – “while” or “whilst”? What differences do you see between the two? When would you use one rather than the other?

The doorway into thanks and silence

Time for some more poetry, I think. (Isn’t it always?)

Sometimes it takes no more than a moment. You meet a person, see a painting, hear some music or read certain words. Immediately, there is a feeling of recognition, appreciation and even awe. It is simple and instant. It just feels right.

That’s what I experienced when I first read Mary Oliver’s poem ‘Praying’.

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Isn’t it wonderful? With only a few gentle words, Mary Oliver reminds us that poetry can be found in the humblest of things, such as weeds and stones. We don’t always need magnificence for our inspiration, and nor is it always necessary for our writing to impress or compete. Pleasure is often found in simplicity, and the delight of writing is a gift in itself.

As a poet, however, Mary is clever with her use of the homograph “elaborate”. There are different ways of reading this word, either as an adjective or a verb. Each option offers a slight shift in our understanding of the poem. Are we being advised not to make our patched together words too ornate and complicated? Or is the suggestion instead that they do not have to explain or expound? These two interpretations sit in a friendly tension, lending a more nuanced edge to an otherwise modest message.

The last lines are my favourites, with their evocation of writing being a “doorway” to gratitude and to the “silence in which / another voice may speak.” But whose voice is this? Is it our own inner expression, so often suppressed by other sounds and distractions, or could it be something more mysterious than this?

As yoga teaches us, we breathe and are breathed. Perhaps we can also say that we write and are written.

However it may be, this poem is one to which I return again and again, giving thanks and listening quietly for that other voice in the silence.

I hope that you enjoy it too.

Now it’s your turn…

What does this poem evoke for you? What do you make of its title, ‘Praying’? Where else in your life do you find both thanks and silence for another voice to speak?

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