Snucking Threw the Poring Reign: Mechanical Errors in Writing (Part Two)
by John Robert Marlow

As mentioned in Part One, writing mechanics are dull, but essential—like checking the oil and brake fluid when you’d rather be cruising down the coast. You can’t do one without keeping an eye on the other. So let’s take a look at another batch of common mechanical errors…

MORE WORD WRONGNESS

It’s been said that the hardest languages to learn are English and Mandarin Chinese. It’s easier when you’ve grown up with one or the other—but even native speakers find some things confuddling. Herewith, another round of confusingly similar and often misused words…

Farther/Further: Though frequently confused, each has its own distinct meaning: farther always refers to physical distance; further never refers to physical distance. So while the goal line on a football field may be farther away than ever after the quarterback is sacked in his own end zone, his goal of being named most valuable player is further away.

Far, on the other hand, can be used in either situation: “How far is the goal line?” or “He’s a far worse player than you can possibly imagine.”

Effect/Affect: An effect is a result of some kind: “He spoke with great effect.” Affect denotes influence: “The audience was greatly affected by his speech.” You can even use both in the same sentence, though this can look a tad silly: “The effects of the nuclear detonation adversely affected the city.

Appraise/Apprise: To appraise something is to estimate its value or quality: “When Tiffany had her wedding ring appraised, she discovered that the diamonds were fake;” “Sergeant McGillicuddy appraised the situation on the battlefield.”

To apprise is to inform or convey information: “Tiffany was apprised of the ring’s true quality;” “Sergeant McGillicuddy apprised his superiors of the situation.” Again, you can use both, but it looks odd: “Sergeant McGillicuddy appraised the diamond, and apprised General Tiffany of its value.”

Adverse/averse: Adverse means unfavorable, hostile or harmful: weather can be adverse, as can circumstances or side effects. People are never adverse.

Averse means unwilling, opposed, or disinclined toward. This word does apply to people, and is always followed by the word to, which is in turn followed by whatever it is the person finds disagreeable: “Baby Finster is averse to Brussels sprouts;” “The new CEO has an extreme aversion to honest labor.”

Ordinance/ordnance: Ordinances are official rules and regulations: “There’s a city ordinance against sleeping in the park.” Ordnance refers to military hardware, and is most often used to mean explosives of some sort: “There’s enough ordnance here to orbit the Washington Monument.” Wars only work with ordnance; replace that with ordinance, and all you’ve got is a city council meeting.

TENSE SITUATIONS

Most novels are written in third person, past tense: “Amos wrestled the alligator in the swamp.” A few are written in first person, past tense: “I wrestled the alligator in the swamp.” Fewer still are first person, present tense: “I wrestle the alligator in the swamp. He bites my arm off.” Screenplays are almost universally written in third person, present tense: “He wrestles the alligator in the swamp. It swallows him whole.”

Second person narration—in which the main character is referred to as “you”—is seldom used in English-language tales.

In all cases, problems arise when the writer slips from one tense into another, as in this example from character dialogue: “What the hell do you think you were doing?”

Here, do is present tense, were is past. So to be consistent, the sentence must read either: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” [present tense], or “What the hell did you think you were doing?” [past tense].

In this example, we switch from present to past tense: “If there is [present] one thing Frankie knew [past] to do, it was [past] how to cover his own ass.” The grammar here is also in trouble, and there seems to be a word misplaced or missing.

What the writer wanted to say was this: “If there was one thing Frankie knew how to do, it was cover his ass.” Grammatically, even this could be improved—but it would likely lose “punch” in the process.

Things can also go the other way—from past to present: “One thing Mark couldn’t [past] stand is [present]…” (Which, of course, needs to read” “One thing Mark couldn’t stand was…”) Another example: “The least the devil could have [past] done was [past] to make sure that the air-conditioning is [present] working.” (This should end with “was working.”)

Occasionally, writers will mix past and future tenses: “Mrs. Branch and Prince Juniper were [past] flying to Spain tomorrow [future] to meet with the owner of a partially-constructed treehouse they were [past] interested in buying.” Or: “The test wasn’t [past] starting [present or—in this case—future] until noon.”

Another example: “He’ll find out eventually that she’d duped him.” He’ll (he will) is future, she’d (she had) past. This needs to read either: “He’ll find out eventually that she’s duped him,” or “He’d find out eventually that she duped him.” (And, really, each sentence would read better if it began with “Eventually.”)

Sometimes, a writer will bounce between tenses: “I noticed [past] that incongruously, he is [present] wearing a double-breasted wool suit in the Sahara, which appears [present] to be one of the hottest places on earth. The suit probably explains [present] why he keeps [present] the air conditioning on an icy blast. He turned [past] back to me, and seemed [past] surprised [past] I was [past] still there.”

There are a number of problems here, but what concerns us now is this: the entire passage should be written in past tense.

Some sentences are so badly mangled tense-wise that they’re either impossible to salvage, or not worth the effort: “I’m here only because a judge ordered this visit so that I could assure you someone knew what happened to you, and I could make sure you aren’t being abused.”

In such cases, a total rewrite is called for: “I’m here because a judge ordered this visit. He wants to assure you that the court is aware of your situation. I’ve been instructed to ask if you’re being well-treated.”

Be particularly careful when you use the word had, or any other word ending in ’d, because it’s easier to slip up when one of these is present. “It had been a long time since she was intrigued by a guy,” for instance, should be: “It had been a long time since she’d been intrigued by a guy.”

Often—but not always—the presence of had in a sentence requires the use of an ’d word, or another had. Seldom will the word was appear in the same sentence as had. (“She’d already told him she was a leper, and so she failed to understand his surprise when things started falling off,” would be an exception.)

SINGURALS AND PLINGULARS

It’s surprisingly easy to find yourself on the wrong end of a singular—or plural, for that matter. Singular-plural mix-ups are fairly common, and look like this:

“Anchovies, as I recall, was on your wish list.” And this: “Hers were one of many.” And this: “Samantha liked the architecture in this part of Dubai; lovely modern buildings, each their own signature piece.”

The first two are fairly simple. Because anchovies is plural, the writer must use were (which is also plural) instead of was (which is singular): “Anchovies, as I recall, were on your wish list.” Likewise, one is singular, and were plural—so when referring to one of many, the writer must use was: “Hers was one of many.”

In the first two examples, it’s immediately clear what’s being referred to: anchovies and one. Which makes it a simple matter to choose between was and were.

The third example is a bit more complicated: what are we really talking about here—architecture, or buildings? Neither, as it turns out; the specific word being referenced here is each. Because each is singular, the last part of this sentence should read: “each its own signature piece.”

How do we know that each is the key word here? By asking this question: “What is a signature piece?” Is architecture a signature piece? No, that’s too broad. Modern buildings? No again; how can “modern buildings” be “a signature piece?” What about “each?” Eureka! Each “modern building” is a signature piece. And because each is singular, we must use its (also singular) and not their (plural).

But, really—in this case, at least—we don’t even have to go through all of that. The answer is contained in the question: “What is a signature piece?” A signature piece is singular (signature pieces would be plural)—and so it must be referring to something else that is also singular: each.

Whatever is being most directly referred to determines whether the sentence should employ singular or plural words. Here, the sentence is referring to “architecture” in a general sense, and “modern buildings” in a collective and indirect sense—but “each” is clearly the main focus.

Think of it this way: you’re traipsing through the Alaskan wilderness. Majestic, snow-capped mountains rise in the distance. Sunlight glitters off a nearby river. Gorgeous pine trees dot the landscape.

It’s all quite beautiful, really—but the thing you should be concentrating on is that charging grizzly, and whether he has a buddy. Because if it’s one bear, your biographer will write” “The bear was hungry.” And if it’s two bears, he’ll write “The bears were hungry.”

Sometimes, the problem is a simple typo: “He detested the lack of compassion most detectives had toward the victim[s] and their families.” Occasionally, it’s hard to see how the wrongness was arrived at: “Frank spoke softly to the man, “Your eyes were scooped out like a grape.”” Even then, however, the fix is clear: ““Frank spoke softly to the man. “Your eyes were scooped out like grapes,” he said.”

Finally, two perilous situations that often lead writers astray. The first has to do with people (or other creatures or things) standing beside something—usually a doorway.

“A soldier stood on both sides of the door.” For this sentence to stand as it is, the soldier would have to be in two places at once—the left and right sides of the door. A soldier is singular; both is plural.

“A soldier stood on each side of the door” may be grammatically correct, but—owing to the unintended double meaning—presents the same absurd image in the reader’s mind.

The solution is to abandon the sentence structure entirely, and instead write something like this: “Two soldiers stood by the door.” Most readers will assume that means one soldier per side—but if you want to get specific, say: “Two soldiers flanked the door.”

The other situation often arises in connection with arms. (The kind attached to characters.) A typical example: “He edged out over the roof. His stomach churned. His arms were limp at his side.”

With two arms on one side like that, he might just lose his balance and fall off. When referring to a character’s arms (or anything else there’s more than one of) being at his sides, always double-check to be sure you didn’t say side instead.

TYPOS

We all know the typo. Fingers flying over the keyboard, we hit the wrong key (or several wrong keys). Or we forget to hit the right key (or several right keys). Occasionally, the results are amusing or embarrassing; more often they’re not. And they always make us look sloppy.

Typos are like beetles; there are so many different kinds, it’s hard to keep track. Most, though, fall into a few broad general categories: wrong letters, extra letters, missing letters; wrong words, extra words, missing words.

And then there was the guy who accidentally hit a macro key, and put his lonely-hearts personal ad in the middle of his manuscript.

Mr. Lonely Hearts aside, the trouble with typos is this: we, as authors, know how the words are supposed to read—and so we tend to see what should be on the page, rather than what’s actually there. Our cranial spell-checkers autocorrect spelling errors, fill in missing words, subtract extra ones. But, of course, this only works for us.

The moment someone else reads the thing, every error stands out like a spotlight, illuminating our seeming incompetence. At best, we look lazy; at worst, illiterate. In either case, the result distracts the reader and interferes with his enjoyment of the tale being told.

The solution is simple: first, run a spelling and grammar check. This will catch many errors, but won’t come close to catching them all. (It may also flag things that aren’t errors, or suggest some fixes that shouldn’t be made.)

Next, hand the finished work to someone else to read, and ask them to mark every single error they spot. Needless to say, they should have a firm grasp of the language you’re writing in, and should also be willing to take the considerable time necessary to do this.

Make the appropriate corrections and repeat as needed, with a new reader each time. Then take a fresh look at it yourself; often, a little time away from the story can help you to spot things you missed in a previous read.

Finally, finances permitting, consider sending the finished work to someone who makes his living spotting and correcting writing problems—a professional editor.

CONCLUSION

Again, not exactly pulse-pounding stuff—but stuff you can’t ignore. Because it’s hard for readers to enjoy the ride when there’s a racket under the hood, caused by a dozen untended mechanical problems. You want your story running like a well-tuned Maserati.

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation. If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
all rights reserved

Snucking Threw the Poring Reign: Mechanical Errors in Writing (Part One)
by John Robert Marlow

“Mechanical errors” have to do with the nuts and bolts of writing. If concept is your flashy car, plot the engine, characters the driver and passengers—then story mechanics are the fasteners holding your engine together. They’re not exciting, glitzy, or personable, and no one pays them any mind. Until something goes wrong.

That’s when you hear an annoying clank, somewhere under the hood. Soon, it becomes difficult to hear the passengers or enjoy the scenery. Before too long, that clank-clank-clank is all you can think about. And if someone doesn’t climb under the hood and fix the damned thing, it will eventually stop your engine.

So let’s take a look at some of the more common mechanical errors…

WRONG WORD

There are two ways to use the wrong word. The first is simple inattention; we’re buzzing along, lost in the moment, and inadvertently type a real word that’s quite similar to—but not—what we intended. Common culprits include here/hear, there/their/they’re, your/you’re, through/threw, passed/past, and lightning/lightening. There’s no misunderstanding involved; somewhere between our brain and our fingers, the signal gets scrambled.

In other cases, the wrong (usually similar) word is employed because the writer is unclear on the word’s actual meaning. Frequently, the correct term is one not often seen in print, making an error that much more likely. A few common culprits in this category:

Peaked/Piqued: It’s easy to get this one wrong, and many writers do. While the phrase “peaked her interest” may seem correct, it is not; the proper phrase is “piqued her interest.” This is because her interest is not peaking, but being aroused, which is what piqued means. (Just to make things complicated, pique can also mean to arouse anger or resentment, but this usage is rarely seen.)

Pour/Pore: Rain pours down. People pour water, soup, tea and other liquids. One does not pour over a document, unless one has a fondness for runny ink. Instead, one pores over the document. To “pore” is to study intently. (Pore has other meanings as well; fortunately, none of them are relevant here.)

Reign/Rein/Rain: Reign is what a king, queen, or other dominant entity or force does. “The king reigned for fifty years” means the king was, well, king for half a century. A reign ends when the reigning entity is replaced. In the computer industry, IBM reigned supreme—until Microsoft came along. Ideas can also reign.

Reins are straps used to control horses. When you see a carriage driver in a movie, holding a bunch of leather straps in his hands as he drives—those are reins. He who controls the horses “holds the reins.” Pulling on the reins signals a horse to stop; hence the phrase “rein him in.”

Rain falls on your head from the sky. Or falls on your umbrella, if you’ve planned ahead. Most of the confusion occurs between reign and rein. For a prominent example of this, look closely at the Forbes magazine cover in the Iron Man movie—where you’ll see the words “Tony Stark takes reigns at 21.”

Hoard/Horde: Neither of these is oft-seen in print, making for a constant source of confusion when writing off the cuff. You can’t horde gold, nor can you be attacked by a hoard of angry editors. A horde of angry editors is another matter altogether, because a horde is a vast crowd or mob—usually of people, but sometimes of other creatures: A horde of orcs spewed from the cave like a raging river.

A hoard is a great amount of something (typically inanimate) that has been gathered up and kept (and often hidden): a dragon’s hoard of treasure, for instance. Hoard can also mean the act of gathering up a great amount of something: The dragon hoarded trespassers, thus ensuring a steady supply of knight flambé to see him through the winter.

Sneak/Sneaked/Snuck: Snuck is not a word. Examples of proper usage in various tenses: “We’ll sneak into the morgue tonight and say our goodbyes to Ignatius.” “I sneaked into Ignatius’ house this morning, and grabbed his favorite hat.” “Ignatius sneaked into the lion’s cage last night, but he didn’t sneak out.” The past tense of sneak is sneaked. Always.

Some would argue that, by sheer dint of recent widespread usage, snuck has sneaked into the lexicon and is in fact a real word—which is sort of like saying that someone who sneaks into the final semester of medical school is a doctor. Whatever the case, it is appallingly bad form—the grammatical equivalent of saying “He ain’t got none”—and should be avoided, outside of dialogue spoken by characters with appallingly (and intentionally) bad grammar.

SPEAKER ATTRIBUTION

There are two ways to go astray here: too much, and too little. When two characters are conversing, there’s no need to use the speaking character’s name with every line of dialogue. Give the reader credit for being able to follow along for a few sentences. Identifying the speaker every third or fourth time someone speaks is a good rule of thumb.

In situations where more than two characters are speaking, on the other hand, you’ll almost always want to identify the speaker with each spoken line, and also let the reader know which character is being addressed. Without this, it becomes very easy to lose track of who’s saying what. When that happens, the reader backtracks and rereads to clarify—and that’s always bad.

Sometimes you’ll do this with one character saying another’s name to get his attention. (“Go to hell, Bartholomew.”) More often, you’ll drop a clue into narration. (“”Hildegard glared at Ignatius. “Well I guess he’ll see you there,” she said.”)

Timing is another important aspect of speaker attribution. One of the most common mistakes is giving a character a lengthy bit of dialogue, and identifying the speaker at the end of it. (“”Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought blahdeblahblahblah,” said Lincoln.”)

The problem here is that the reader is unable to place the line(s) into context and character voice until the entire passage has been spoken. This, in turn, cuts them loose from the story, leaving them to wonder “Who’s saying this?” when they should be carried along in the moment.

The solution is simple: move the attribution forward. (“Four score and seven years ago,” said Lincoln, “our fathers blahdeblahblahblah.”) Problem solved.

FLIPPERS

“Flippers” are sentences that are (more or less) written backward. Because portions of the sentence are presented in a less-than-ideal sequence, they have to be “flipped” in order to read well. Most sentences can be put together in more than one way. There may even be several grammatically correct options. But there is only one best way to say what needs to be said.

With occasional exceptions, sentences should be constructed like this: who-what-how. Character first, followed by what they’re doing, followed (if at all; most of the time this isn’t needed) by the way in which they’re doing it. “John opened the door slowly,” not “Slowly, John opened the door.” The first reads smoothly; the second forces the reader to break rhythm, so to speak—which is why I didn’t just say “Smoothly, the first reads.”

Put another way: if someone asked you how you went to the lottery office to cash in your million-dollar ticket, would you say, “Quickly, I went?” (If so, you really need to be reading this.) Of course not. Why? Because it’s backward. Instead, you’d say “I went quickly.”

Let’s look at all three possibilities” “Quickly, I went to the lottery office” (how-who-what) is an awkward mess with a built-in pause, and is difficult to read. “I went quickly to the lottery office” (who-how-what) is better, but unnecessarily awkward. “I went to the lottery office quickly” (who-what-how) is smooth, easy to read, and has the kind of structure we’ve all been conditioned to expect. The first two sentences are flippers; the third is what you’re looking for.

If you want to drive your reader (or editor) bonko in the shortest possible amount of time, write like this: “Slowly, he got out of bed. Leisurely, he dressed for work. Jauntily, he walked to the car. Casually, he started the engine. Happily, he smiled.” (This is also a great way to increase the price of a line edit or polish, because it ensures that every sentence will have to be restructured.)

There are exceptions to this, and it is perfectly possible to write a smooth-flowing how-who-what sentence that doesn’t need to be flipped—but even seasoned pros use this technique sparingly, because a string of them gets really annoying, really fast. Unpublished writers, on the other hand, are frequent flippers.

APOSTROPHE NOW

Apostrophes are often misused. It’s hard to tell whether this results from inattention or misunderstanding, but here’s the rule: with few exceptions, apostrophes signify contractions and possessives—and nothing else.

Contractions are shortened words: that’s for that is, wouldn’t for would not, could’ve for could have, you’re for you are, that sort of thing. By far the most troublesome word in this category is it’s, a shortening of it is. The confusion likely stems from the fact that, unlike other contractions, it’s looks like a possessive.

Possessives are words that signify possession. Some of these—his, her, their—sport no apostrophe. Others do: John’s, Marie’s, Smith’s, Jones’, building’s, truck’s (“The fire truck’s front end was buried in the building’s north side, where John Jones’ office used to be”).

Its is a possessive with no apostrophe: “The fire truck was on its side.” “The fire truck was on it’s side” makes no sense; what this actually says (because it’s is a contraction) is that the fire truck was on it is side. It’s and its are so commonly misused that it’s worth the effort to do a search on your finished work, and eyeball every instance of each word.

Further confusion arises when the word being designated as possessive already ends with an s. Is it Jones’ or Jones’s, fortress’ or fortress’s? A simple apostrophe after the s is better form, and makes for an easier read. (Technically, you can do the same with words ending in z, but that tends to look silly without a concluding s.)

Exceptions are debatable, and typically relate to things that aren’t really words: 1940′s—which can also be written as 1940s. The latter avoids the appearance of being a possessive.

“There were two hundred Jones’s in the phone book” doesn’t look good (but does look like a possessive, which it’s not)—but then neither does “Joneses.” In this case, consider using Miller instead of Jones, and the problem goes away. Or, if you’re stuck on Jones, rearrange the sentence: “There were two hundred listings in the phone book under Jones.”

CONCLUSION

Mechanical errors can pile up quickly, and often escape automated spell-checks. Fortunately, they are among the easiest problems to fix—once you know what to look for. So grab your toolbox and climb under the hood.

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation. If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
all rights reserved

Repeat Offenders: Why Repetition is Bad Bad Bad
by John Robert Marlow

PETE & REPETE

There’s an old joke that goes like this:

“Pete and Repete sat on a fence. Pete fell off. Who was left?”

“Repete”

“Pete and Repete sat on a fence. Pete fell off. Who was left…?”

The joke continues until the guy answering the question wises up. Too many budding authors never do. I see this again and again and again. And again. The basic issue comes down to this: writers are expected—by agents, managers, editors, readers; everyone who matters, really—to have large vocabularies. Repetition indicates that the writer in question either: a) doesn’t know any better, or; b) can’t be bothered getting it right. The first screams “amateur;” the second, “lazy.” Neither is a word you want applied to you. Repetition can be deadly in any one of several, all-too-common forms:

REPEATING WORDS

As a general rule, avoid using the same word (or similar words) multiple times in quick succession, as this makes for a poor read. Word repetition creeps up on the best of writers, who often don’t notice while lost in the throes of creative passion. Professional writers do, however, notice on their next pass—and correct the problem before anyone else sees the manuscript. Amateurs don’t notice, or correct.

Often, a word will repeat twice in the same sentence, or in adjacent sentences. Occasionally—as with the sentence you just read—this is okay. But writers who are unaware of repetition tend to do it a lot, and most instances are not okay.

A few simple examples: “She was whisked off in an unmarked car, which took her to the airport. Twenty minutes later, they were off to Belize.” “He pulled his gun, stuck Harry’s gun in his belt, and crept down the hall.” “Joan cried and ran to him and threw her arms around him.” In each of these sentences, one word repeats too often—off, gun, and and—and must be changed, even if that means restructuring the sentence. (Notice my artful use of the word and, three times in a row.)

A slightly more complex example: “Joan’s father thanked the police department and the public on his and his family’s behalf.” Here, his is the more obvious problem, but and is also a repeat—if lesser—offender. A simpler phrasing would be: “Joan’s father thanked the police and the public on the family’s behalf.” Because Joan’s father is a member of the family, the same meaning is conveyed.

This sentence has three repeaters: “Tears welled up in Bixby’s eyes and he averted his eyes to avoid O’Shea’s sympathetic gaze. O’Shea gazed out the window.”

Other instances are (or should be) more obvious: “The trail of blood suddenly stopped in a pool of blood at the edge of the road.” A quick fix: “The blood-trail stopped at the roadside, where it formed a small pool.” Another example: “Joan called Madge and said she was back and safe and sorry she’d missed their appointment.” (Note the non-artful employment of the word and in this sentence.)

As an editor, it’s common to see the same word used two or three times in quick succession. Every now and then, I’ll see one word used five, six, even seven times in the space of three, perhaps four sentences. More often than not, that word is he, him, his, she, her, or hers. Keep a sharp eye on him, her, and the rest of the gang.

REPEATING NAMES

Names are among the most common repeat offenders. Frequently, this occurs when a character’s name is used in dialogue, and then in narration—or vice versa. For example: ““Linda, wake up.” Linda heard the voice, as if in a dream.”

Occasionally, it happens when the writer is trying to sort out the choreography of a scene—as in the following sequence (the Sailors and the Skippers are rival gangs):

“Then one of the Sailors pointed toward Brother Sam. Two Skippers walked toward Brother Sam, the other one joined several other Sailors, who immediately circled him. Uncle Nathan and Peter quickly flanked Brother Sam.

Nick and Gordon were making their way to Brother Sam from the other side of the room, as the two Skippers reached Brother Sam and said something. Brother Sam waved off Nick and Gordon. Everyone, including several Skippers at the dance, breathed a sigh of relief.

Brother Sam said something to Peter and Uncle Nathan. They nodded. Then Brother Sam quickly followed the two Skippers out of the auditorium.”

All told, that’s two Uncle Nathans, two Peters, two Nick and Gordons, three Sailors, four Skippers, and eight Brother Sams. Instead of clarifying events, such repetition tends to confuse matters.

At other times, an author will simply repeat the character’s name, every time that character is referred to (even if he’s the only guy in the scene)–so instead of mixing things up a bit and saying John, he, him, and his, the writer will say John, John, John, and John’s. For the reader–to say nothing of the editor–that way lay madness.

THE DREADED DOUBLE

The worst repeating-word offender is the “double,” in which the same word appears twice in a row. That makes it screamingly obvious–which, in the eyes of editors and agents, makes the writer that much less attentive for missing it. Often, doubles happen where sentences join, like this:

Bill handed the crocodile to Bob. Bob screamed when it bit his arm off at the shoulder. Shouldering his backpack, Bill bent down and picked Bob’s arm up off the street. The street was slippery, and Bill fell on his ass. His ass was sore where he hit the sidewalk. The sidewalk was slick because it had been raining. Rainwater rushed like a raging river along the street beside Bob and the crocodile. The crocodile bit Bob’s other arm off at the elbow, and fell into the water. The water swept the beast down the street and into the sewer, along with Bob’s arm.

Okay, I made that up—but I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen the double in action, albeit in slightly less absurd scenes.

“Doubles” can also occur in the middle of a sentence: “He told me that that was the only way I’d ever see my children again.” Grammatically correct, but awkward. The same precise meaning is conveyed by the following sentence: “He told me that was the only way I’d ever see my children again.” (Come to think of it, the word “ever” could also be cut from this sentence, though its inclusion arguably makes the moment stronger.) As long as the set-up for this line adequately explains just what “the only way” is, all should be well.

Sometimes a character name will lead you into (or close to) a double. I found the following two sentences in the same manuscript: “She turned to Turner.” And “Turner turned toward the sound of the explosion.” Now, if the guy’s name had been Finnegan—no problemo. Something to think about when you use search-and-replace to change a character name throughout the manuscript.

Overall, the “double” is the easiest type of repetition to spot and correct. Writers who fail to catch these most likely sent the manuscript out the moment they typed “The End,” without bothering to read and “proof” it from start to finish.

Exceptions: Few and far between. “Doubles” are sometimes employed for comedic effect. Occasionally, when used in dialogue, they’ll indicate a character who habitually stutters (Ken in A Fish Called Wanda), or who is now stuttering under extreme stress (most often fear or grief). Very occasionally, a passage will be unclear or read awkwardly if repetition is completely eliminated. Rarely, “doubles” will result from an unavoidable sentence structure—one that cannot be changed without becoming awkward. Be aware, though, that this almost never happens, and should not be used as an excuse to leave a double in place. Always, always try to eliminate doubles.

DISTANT REPLAYS

Repetition can also be a problem when a word repeats pages, even chapters after its last occurrence. The more unusual the word, the less frequently it should occur. No one’s going to notice that you used the word “man” or “woman” two pages ago—but throw in “hermaphrodite” on page 26, and you can be sure that readers who see “hermaphrodite” on page 347 will remember having seen it before. The same is true of repeating phrases.

REPEATING PHRASES

Pretty much the same logic applies here. Sometimes, our own favorite phrases—ones we use in daily conversation—will creep into the writing. Which is fine, so long as they’re appropriate and well-placed. But what often happens is this: we’ll use the same phrase two, three, or more times without realizing that we’re repeating ourselves. Or we’ll think up a cool phrase and put it in, not realizing that we’ve already used it.

To the reader, this looks—at best—like lazy writing. At worst, it comes off like the ramblings of an old-timer who can’t remember what he told you two minutes ago—and so proceeds to tell you the same thing all over again.

Exceptions must have a purpose, and usually appear in dialogue. Perhaps the character repeating himself really is an addled old codger, and you’re illustrating this point by having him repeat himself. Or maybe he’s an ass who repeats instructions because he’s treating a subordinate like an idiot. Or he’s talking to someone who has trouble remembering things. Or (and I hope you’ve noticed that I’ve now begun three consecutive sentences with the same word)—my favorite—a character repeats a phrase he’s used before, tipping off the reader (or another character, or both) that he’s the same guy who used this phrase earlier.

This last technique was employed to good effect in the 2003 film The Italian Job—with a twist: here (spoiler coming), Stella’s conning Steve, who doesn’t know her but did know (and murdered) her father. Without even thinking about it, Stella uses a turn of phrase often employed by her father. Steve picks up on this, immediately realizing that she’s somehow connected to the man he murdered—and that Stella means him no good.

Phrases can be repeated for comedic, ironic, or dramatic effect. The film A Perfect Murder makes wonderful use of the ironic turnaround: lines like “What if there were no tomorrow?” and “That’s not happiness to see me” are each voiced by Steven and Emily (to each other, at different times) in emotionally charged scenes dripping with tension. The movie 300 has a magnificent turnaround line (three, actually) involving Queen Gorgo and Theron.

In Strange Days, Mace calls Lenny paranoid for thinking he’s being followed. Later, when their car is burning rubber to escape a hail of machine gun fire, Lenny says: “Oh no we’re not being followed, Lenny. Don’t be so paranoid, Lenny.”

Each of these exceptions has one thing in common: in every case, the repetition is intentional.

PARROTED DIALOGUE: THE “WILLIAM SHATNER MOMENT”

Dialogue is “parroted” when one character says something, and another immediately and unnecessarily repeats all or part of what was just said. The effect is, at best, comedic. Which is fine if: a) you’re writing comedy, and; b) the repetition is both intentional and funny. Probably ninety nine percent of the time, that’s not the case.

When Star Trek’s Captain Kirk (played by William Shatner) did this in the television series, it was intended to be dramatic. Today, it seems unintentionally comedic—a sort of so-bad-it’s-funny moment. Still, we groan rather than laugh.

Too many writers insert this kind of thing into their work without a second thought. Unfortunately, the technique is so overused it’s become a joke—literally: in the film The Long Kiss Goodnight, we see the following exchange:

Henessey: We found a note that’s in her handwriting.
Nathan: She saw a note?
Henessey: Who are you, William Shatner?

Here, it’s funny—and intended to be so. More often—almost always, in fact—it marks the writer as a novice, and swiftly becomes annoying.

Exception: When done—and done well—for comedic effect.

HE SAID, SHE SAID

One of the most common repeat offenders is the “He Said, She Said Syndrome,” in which every (or nearly every) line of dialogue is followed by “he said,” “she said,” or “[character name] said.” I once counted 34 of these in a row. Take it from an editor: few things get old faster than this.

Which does not mean that you should start substituting words like chortled, snorted, barked, and spat for said—but that’s a topic for another day.

INTENTIONAL REPETITION

Intentional repetition—whether of words, phrases, or whole passages—rarely works. I recall one writer who repeated entire paragraphs and conversations, with two different characters, in different places. His intention was to demonstrate an uncanny similarity in the lives of two strangers destined to meet. The effect was a distracting read during which I wondered why he’d take up so much space (in the first of an unpublished trilogy of phone book-sized manuscripts) with such obvious repetition–while at the same time marveling at what an unbelievable coincidence it was that the same exact events and conversations were taking place in the lives of two perfect strangers.

Any time you’re thinking of repeating something intentionally, ask yourself why. Then ask yourself whether the repetition has the intended effect. Then show it to someone else and ask them (without explaining your intended effect beforehand), because you’re biased.

For exceptions, see those listed under Repeating Phrases, above.

CONCLUSION

Repetition is, well, repetitive. As an author, you’re expected to have a lot to say. You’re also expected to have an unusually large vocabulary with which to say it. Repetition flies in the face of both expectations. It’s like having two noses, when you should have only one: it makes you look bad bad bad.

So give your writing a facelift, and dump those doubles—along with your other repeats.

Author John Robert Marlow is available for professional editing, development, and consultation. If you’d like help taking your work to the next level, contact John here.

JRM

copyright © by John Robert Marlow
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