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A word about adverbs

A single dandelion against a sparkling green background I use them often, as you may have noticed. Adverbs. They’re those nifty little words that, depending on your perspective, either give precision to your prose or needlessly clutter up the page. Some writers rail against them. (Hello, Stephen King.) Others dispense them with delicious effect. (Oh, hi, Stephen Fry.) In my view, adverbs are elements of language that can, like all others, add style to your writing. The key is knowing how and when to employ them.

You can generally recognise adverbs by the suffix ‘-ly’ that is appended to them, although it is important to note that not all words ending in –ly are adverbs and not all adverbs end in –ly. Their name indicates that their role is to ‘add’ something to a verb, although they can be used to modify other parts of speech too. This includes:

adjectives (such as utterly fascinating, quite delightful)
other adverbs (very cleverly, unreasonably often)
clauses or sentences (Potentially, this is getting a bit technical).

Adverbs modify or specify such things as:

Time (soon, later, afterwards)
Place (nearby, overhead, beneath)
Manner (exquisitely, unwillingly, predictably)
Degree (mildly, intensely, extremely)
Frequency (often, regularly, infrequently)
Probability (likely, possibly, maybe)
Emphasis (very, quite, positively)
Duration (briefly, interminably, always).

There are also a cluster of interrogative adverbs whose purpose is to form questions relating to time (when), place (where), reason (why) and manner (how). Fortunately, you don’t need to remember all of this in order to use adverbs effectively. (See what I did there?)

Arguments against the use of adverbs invoke an apparent ineptness on the part of the writer, who may be depending on them to carry a weight of meaning and emotion that might otherwise be conveyed through sturdier words like verbs and nouns. It is true that excessive use of them can be a lazy way to “tell” readers what is happening and how they should feel about it, rather than “showing” or guiding them to this knowledge. Yet equally, one of the qualities of good writing is that it persuades us.

Through engaging with well chosen words, we become willing to believe in imagined worlds, innovative ideas, dramatic events and exhilarating theories. Words do have power, and writers are entitled to use all the linguistic gifts available to them in order to express their message in the best way they can. I believe this includes adverbs, despite what other experts might say.

Sometimes the touch of specificity given by an adverb is necessary to deliver an exact meaning or image. At other times, the vehemence of a writer’s feelings can be concentrated through a few rigorous adverbs. Then there is the outright glee of scattering them joyfully, exuberantly, willingly and wantonly, for the simple reason that words are fun.

Adverbs can make your writing more lively, provided that you use them wisely.

Not every verb requires modification, and nor does every sentence need an adverbial adornment. To develop your discernment, learn to identify adverbs both in your own writing and in the material you read. Consider the effect they have and try rephrasing various sentences that contain adverbs while still retaining the meaning. You can then decide which version better expresses the idea, image or emotion in question and choose whether to use them or not.

It really comes down to a matter of taste. Adverbs suit the style of some writers but they hang inelegantly in the text of others. There is no need to shun them, and none to include them if you’d rather not. Either way, it’s up to you. Entirely and completely.

Whatever your preference, just remember as with all your words to use them artfully.

Now it’s your turn…

Do you have an affection for or an aversion to adverbs? Would you say they add or detract from the writing you read? Are there any you find particularly appealing? Feel free to share in the comments below.

Sources consulted for this article include The Little Green Grammar Book by Mark Tredinnick (University of New South Wales Press, 2008), A Short Guide to Traditional Grammar (2nd edition) by J.R. Bernard (Oxford University Press, 1993) and Dictionary of Grammar (Redwood Editions, 1998).

The results of unexpectedness: Thoughts on ‘Life While-You-Wait’

Rays of sunlight streaming through trees Sometimes words find us in unexpected ways, falling into our minds like light piercing through the gloom. It happened like that with this poem, which was shared with me by a dear friend. Now I am sharing it with you.

Life While-You-Wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot
just what this play’s all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can’t take back,
stars you’ll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run —
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).

You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.
The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.
And whatever I do
will become forever what I’ve done.

Before these lines arrived in my life, I knew little of the poet and Nobel Laureate Wisława Szymborska. I have since peeked briefly into her world and am keen to explore it more. This poem, ‘Life While-You-Wait’, has been translated from the original Polish by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Barańczak. If you enjoyed it, you may wish to listen to Amanda Palmer reading it on Brainpickings.org.

For me, the poem offers an interesting mix of warning and reassurance. “Ill-prepared” as the speaker may be, there is an acknowledgement here of living as a privilege. The role to be played, although unknown, is owned, and guessing “on the spot / just what this play’s all about” is what each of us must do in our own ungainly way. We go along, improvising unwillingly and tripping over our own ignorance, much as we do when writing a first draft. The difference is that these “Words and impulses” can not be edited or taken back, and “the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness” become the stuff of which our lives consist.

Fair or not, we can neither rehearse nor repeat a single day. With the set so strong, the props so precise and even the “farthest galaxies” alight, there can be “no question”, as the poet insists, that “this must be the premiere”. Life is indeed what happens while we wait, hoping and holding out for the ‘right’ moment and a sense of readiness that will never come.

We do not get to see the script for Friday ahead of time, but we can choose either to fear or to embrace that fact. If we cannot exchange the role we play, then we must simply act it as best we can. Although doubtless riddled with “happy histrionics” and “hayseed manners”, my own performance is made up of what I have managed to scratch together. Like you, “whatever I do / will become forever what I’ve done.”

These final lines linger in the mind, but whether they are encouraging or devastating, reprimand or reminder, it is up to you to decide.

Now it’s your turn…

What are your thoughts about this poem? Which images or lines reach you most deeply? What poems have you felt compelled to share?

Exploring, experimenting, expressing: The value of journaling for writers

Stack of journals, tied with string I’ll admit I may be a bit biased about this. For almost six years now, since July 2010, I have written every day in my journal. I didn’t necessarily intend for this to happen, and nor do I claim it as some special achievement. It does, however, demonstrate the value I place on journaling. Somewhere along the way, it has become essential to me. I cannot imagine my life without writing about it and I do not know who I would be if I did not write.

The rewards of journaling are plentiful and varied, offering everything from personal development and healing to stress reduction and a scrupulous reckoning of life. For writers in particular, keeping a journal has definite benefits. Many eminent authors, including Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, John Steinbeck, Anaïs Nin and Henry David Thoreau, are well known as dedicated diarists. Despite being originally penned in private, the published versions of their journals afford interesting glimpses into the writing life and the minds behind some great works of literature.

Whether or not we aspire to the heights reached by these authors, journaling can be useful to all of us as writers. Among its gifts are exploration, experimentation and expression.

Exploration

The times we write about may be difficult or delightful. In either case, journaling allows us to explore our experience. Collected and contained in a journal, our perceptions, reflections and questions can be examined more thoughtfully. We can begin to recognise aspects of our personality and become more aware of our preferences, both as people and as writers. Fascinations and frustrations are revealed in the words we pour onto the pages of our journals, sometimes resulting in insights and sometimes not.

Many of us learn who we are through what we write.

This is an important aspect of journaling, yet our explorations can and should extend beyond ourselves. The ability to observe and describe the world around us can be enriched through journal writing. People who write journals may find themselves developing an attitude of curiosity towards circumstances and events, with impressions that are usually fleeting finding form in words. In this way, a journal can be a safe space in which to refine our awareness, deepen our discernment and cultivate our craft.

Experimentation

One of the most significant distinctions between journaling and other forms of writing is that a journal is usually kept confidential. Released from the pressure of writing for an anticipated reader, we are free to frolic, make mistakes, experiment and invent. The words in our journals are for our eyes only. This means we can write whatever truth or fiction we like in whatever form we desire. We can give ourselves the rare grace of writing without judgement or expectation.

What we put in our journal doesn’t have to be ‘good’. There is no need for it to be grammatical or even comprehensible. The act of writing itself and a readiness to engage in the process is what matters, rather than any notion of a finished product.

In your journal, you can try on different styles, test out techniques, set yourself challenges, and delve into discomfort if you wish. No one is watching. Writing purely and playfully for yourself allows you appreciate the writer you are, but it also lets you apprehend the kind of writer you might become. Most likely, that exists somewhere beyond your current vision, but you may discover hints of it through your journaling practice.

Expression

The gem at the heart of journaling is expression. The opportunity to vent or reflect, rejoice or recriminate, describe or define, and to enclose our own vital but otherwise incoherent experiences in words is truly invaluable. By letting out our thoughts and feelings, we can (perhaps) also let them go and clear some space inside. A journal can be a confidante, a mirror, a companion and a guide. Into it we can write our deepest truths and our truest depths, expressing ourselves fully, openly, intimately and creatively.

I believe we all need a place to do this, and that writers especially require a private space to inscribe the words that converge in their minds. This capacity to translate all the chaos and splendour of life into language through journaling makes us, in my view, not only better writers, but better human beings too.

Now it’s your turn…

Do you write a journal? What benefits and challenges have you found in your journaling practice? What have you learned about writing or yourself through journaling?

An act of faith: Why language matters (even when it is inadequate)

Green grass against a grey sky For all its beauty, complexity and nuance, language is at times sadly inadequate. Certain experiences fall beyond words. They render us inarticulate, unstitching us from meaning and annihilating our ability to share the messy reality of our lives.

Depression is one such experience.

In a talk given at last year’s Hay Festival and later broadcast on the BBC, author Matt Haig spoke of the way depression, and its vicious accomplice anxiety, can detach us from the world, and more critically from ourselves. This is what happened to him. At the age of 24, his world splintered and disintegrated as he tumbled into the precarious realms of mental illness.

“At my lowest point, in February 2000,” he says, “I stopped believing in words. Until then, I hadn’t realised that the act of using language is an act of faith, but it is.”

Let’s just think about that for a moment. What does this mean?

Faith, in one definition, may be considered as the belief in things not seen without evidence that they genuinely exist. Depression itself is a thing that is largely unseen, not only because it emanates deep in the secretive domains of our bodies and minds, but also as a result of society’s continued difficulty in adequately acknowledging it. When we are depressed, moreover, we are often conscious of a lack of recognition, either from those around us or through the unsettling experience of becoming strangers to ourselves.

Words, too, are in many ways intangible. Sure, we can see them written on the page and hear when they are spoken, but words are only ever symbolic. They represent the elements of our lives without actually being them. Yet it is through words that we are able to connect, express, explain, delight, beguile, advise, entertain and learn.

Such acts are a profound part of our humanity, but conditions like depression can distance us from their significance.

As Matt Haig says, “You have to believe there is a point of there being words and that they can offer real meaning. Normally, this belief is taken for granted. But when your mind crumbles to dust, everything you thought you knew suddenly becomes something to question.”

Pitched into such doubt, it is ironically words themselves that may offer some salvation. At least, that is how it was for Matt. First through reading and later through writing words, he gradually became more able to manage his illness. In his case, it was fiction that provided a kind of map.

“If you think about what a story is in its most basic form,” he explains, “it is change. A character starts somewhere, either physically or psychologically, and they end up somewhere else. When you are depressed, you feel like you are trapped inside an eternal, unchanging moment.

“Stories convince us that things do change.
They unfix us or allow us to believe we can become unfixed.”

A belief in the possibility change can be problematic for those who are enclosed in the unforgiving grip of mental illness. The reality that was previously known gets shattered so utterly that suspicion is cast on all former certainties, as well as all future prospects. Where in such wreckage can one even begin to discover the courage or means to rebuild?

For some, one aspect of that answer may be words.

Part of their magic is that they allow us to take our minds elsewhere – into different times, other places, new perspectives. They give us an awareness of alternative ways of being, which may be kinder, braver or more steadfast than we can otherwise manage to be.

However faltering or insufficient, words also make external what might otherwise be an entirely internal experience, thus affording us the potential for connection – whether we ourselves are the ones drenched in anguish or stand as those willing to bear witness.

This is not to say that it is easy. Nothing with depression is easy. Nor can words alone provide an entire solution. But for some people, they might help.

In his book Reasons to Stay Alive, Matt Haig writes that: “Words – spoken or written – are what connect us to the world, and so speaking about it to people, and writing about this stuff, helps connect us to each other, and to our true selves.”

Through the small but valiant act of using words and making these vital connections, we may start to assemble reality again. Whether by writing or reading, we are granted the chance to leave behind a certain kind of mind so that we may create another, “similar but better, nearby to the old one but with firmer foundations, and very often a better view.”

Or so I hope.

If ever, like Matt, you stop believing in words, I encourage you to do whatever you must to find your faith in them again. Begin, if necessary, with the words of others. Read books and poems. Listen to speeches and conversations. Then, when you can, scratch words into a journal and voice your truth to whoever will listen. Allow yourself to imagine the possibility of change.

Eventually, maybe, with patience and persistence, you will learn to trust in the wonder of language and in yourself again.

Now it’s your turn…

Do Matt’s words resonate with you? To which writers or texts do you turn in harsh times? How do words help you?

Your fast and friendly guide to different kinds of editing

A bunch of coloured balloons Over the last few months, I have published a number of articles about different kinds of editing and how they may be helpful to you. I am now collating this information into a quick guide so you can get a better sense of what sort of editing your manuscript requires.

While other editors may use alternate names or add further distinctions, I consider editing in three main ways. These are developmental editing, structural editing and copyediting.

Developmental editing

What is it?

This is the kind of editing that takes place before a manuscript is fully formed. There’s an idea out there, hovering with a sense of possibility, but any sense of structure or direction is missing. Sometimes even the precise nature of the topic is yet to fully emerge.

Who needs it?

Writers who have something important to say but need help figuring out exactly what that is and what shape it will take.

How does it work?

This is a shared journey which usually begins when you approach an editor with your idea and ask for help to develop it. Discussions will take place, along with reviews of any writing you have already done. From these exchanges, you will be given options for how you might expand, refine or rework your idea. It’s a dialogic process, and an important part of developmental editing involves supporting you as you refine your concept and write the content.

How long will it take?

Hard to say… It depends on how clear the ideas are in your mind and how readily you respond to your editor’s suggestions. This can be a slow process, but the guidance, insight and assurance you receive at this stage can be invaluable.

How much does it cost?

By its nature, developmental editing is evolutionary. This makes it highly unlikely that a fixed price can be set. The cost will vary according to the depth of work necessary and the time it takes to craft the , but it is almost always worth it.

Structural editing

What is it?

Also known as substantive (or sometimes substantial) editing, this is the miraculous process by which a mostly complete but somewhat jumbled document is transformed into a meaningful manuscript.

Who needs it?

Structural editing is helpful for writers who have a extensive document but have lost their sense of how it all holds together.

How does it work?

Your editor will start by reading through the entire manuscript, taking note of themes, images, recurring ideas, repetition, omissions, shifts in tone, and so on. Based on this reading, you will be offered a range of options around which the manuscript can be arranged. Once the organising principle has been decided, the work of shifting text into place begins.

How long will it take?

The time required for structural editing is determined by the length of your manuscript and the state of its confusion. For longer documents, allow a few weeks to a month.

How much does it cost?

As with developmental editing, it is difficult to predict the amount of work needed to complete a full structural edit. Provision of a total job cost is not likely, but your editor should keep you informed of progress along the way.

Copyediting

What is it?

This is the deliciously finicky bit of the editing adventure which involves checking that the text is clear, consistent, complete and correct. It entails all that fun (to editors, anyway) technical stuff about precisely where that comma belongs and whether or not your sentence actually means what you think it does. This is the last stage of editing before a document is prepared for publication and it is often followed by proofreading.

Who needs it?

When your manuscript is in a healthy state and needs correction rather than major restructuring, you are ready to have it carefully copyedited.

How does it work?

Many editors today copyedit using the track changes feature in Microsoft Word. This allows us to work on your document onscreen and it enables you to see all the corrections and suggestions we make. As the author, it is your responsibility to accept or reject these changes. Editors may also make comments on your document using track changes. These can alert you to issues with the text or raise questions for you to address prior to publishing your masterpiece.

How long will it take?

The time required for copyediting depends on the length of the manuscript and the extent of correction required. Again, allow a couple of weeks for long documents.

How much does it cost?

Copyediting is generally charged per word or by hour. Your editor should be able to give you an upfront estimate for the work. Some will also send you a sample edit so you can see whether the approach taken suits what you are seeking.

And that’s it.

This has been your fast and friendly guide to three kinds of editing. Hopefully you now understand a little more about each, but please do not feel that you need to know exactly what you require when you first contact an editor.

As long as you have a vision for your manuscript and are willing to work towards achieving it, your editor will assist you in whatever way is best.

Now it’s your turn…

Any questions? Please feel free to ask me anything about editing. It is a topic that fascinates me and I’m happy to share what I know.

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