When writing (anything) non-fiction...

Get to the point. Most people don't have time to meander. They want to know the bottom line benefit from reading your stuff.

I don't want to sound cold; I simply want to help you get your ideas read. I know, I know: In order to make writing personal, we have to put a bit of ourselves in -- which takes up letters and spaces. Sincere, warm words let you through my personal door. Warmth is important, for you to know me.

But short vs. long can make or break your readership.

For anything that's not fiction (that's anything that's not a story, screenplay, or narrative), make your writing concise. Direct. Clear. Twitter and Facebook have helped people learn how to get to the point. (Maximum word count has a way of making you a better writer, and anyone writing a college paper or news/magazine article knows what I'm talking about.)

No maximum word count (no limit on the number of words that you can use) can get you in trouble. We tend to write too much, because we love our words (yes we do, much more than the reader loves them). But by the end of paragraph one, if your reader doesn't get the point, he or she skims, looking for the point -- and when it's not found, closes out the page. Bam. Like a heavy oak door that the reader's hesitant to re-open.

Most everyone writes long. My writing students mess up the less-is-more guideline constantly: students use big words and long sentences that muddy the point, with college papers rambling on and on and on like this sentence. Professionals do it all the time: emails sound like a stiff-collared prude talking to himself at a party where, truth be known, everyone wants to leave. Bloggers are the worst offenders: Blogs drone great ideas, followed by not-so-great ideas, followed by personal stories ... and the reader leaves.Whoosh, click; clop, clop, clop. That's the sound of the laptop closing and the reader walking away.

I'm not the only one touting "concise." Read Strunk and White's The Elements of Style (written in 1918); read George Orwell's six rules from Politics and the English Language (written in 1946); read William Zinsser's On Writing Well (written over 35 years ago and in its 7th edition); read Stephen King's On Writing (written 12 years ago and used in MFA programs.) My friend, Phil Bell, just came up to me here at Starbucks ... and guess what? The first thing that he talked about was how he'd heard recently that blogs "should be around 500 words." Hmm. (His blog just won the national "Best Youth Ministry Blog of 2012.") Seems to be, quite a few writers are talking more about writing less.

I say this with sincerity, warmth, good intentions, and a smile: You want someone to read your stuff? Then change your writing. Get to the point. Less is more.

Simple, short, and strong

Good sentences make good writing. If you want to write a good letter to the editor, a good memo to your boss, or a good academic paper for your professor, master the sentence.

While writing, some of our sentences become overstuffed with powerful words. Too much power actually dulls the reader. Oh, I know -- our intent is to wow the reader. We want to zap electricity into the reader’s brain, impressing her with our expertise. We want to capture the reader’s heart, wooing him into admiration. But in the end, the drench of powerful words simply pushes the reader away. More makes powerful words lose their influence.

One of the best ways to make a point is to “go simple.” Make the sentence with your key point shorter. I know, I know – it seems that we need to do the opposite. We think, “Here comes the most important point; time to lay it on thick….”

It's tough. The urge to write sentences longer and thicker makes our fingertips itch and tremble. Our digits hover over the keyboard, yearning to throw in just one more superlative or descriptor. Don’t cave! Go short, direct, and clean. With different sentence lengths, you create effective contrast. Contrast can And if you want to really make an impact, remember that the short sentence is strongest.

Cheers,
Erin

                                

Glorious Deadlines

Deadlines are like caramelized garlic and onions dripping in olive oil and served with a pinch of oregano. That is, I’ve discovered that, much like a double-decker deli sandwich heaped with the concoction, deadlines leave a wonderful residual quality—lingering, pungent elements sticking with me long after licking the last finger.

What’s so glorious about deadlines? Deadlines are glorious because…

1. Deadlines drive time faster. If Superman is faster than a speeding bullet, time on deadline leaves Superman in the dust. In a meeting last night, I found myself saying to those present, “Where did March go?” Someone responded, “Into the writing and creation of this project.” Well put.

2. Deadlines cause us to cherish free time. That’s because there’s so little of it. Yesterday, I decided to take a few hours and actually sit and read a book instead of write one (what a concept…especially on a Sunday afternoon, eh?). Just for fun, I devoured Patterson and Charbonnet's Sundays at Tiffany’s in one bite (that’s all the time I have for eating such delicacies). Knowing that I wouldn’t have another slice of time for at least a week, it made the experience delicious.

3. Deadlines bring us closer to others. The counter gal at Starbucks and I had a brilliant conversation on Saturday morning. No, really. It was honest, straightforward, even connecting. Makes me wonder how many of those brilliant conversations I miss out on, when not on deadline.

4. Deadlines raise our value of sleep. No argument here: Deprivation causes appreciation.

5. Deadlines drive us to perform or die. Something fantastical happens when we have to do it or lose. We actually produce. And, if there’s any hint of radiance in your work in progress, the gem comes out shining and dazzling…well, at least the core stone is discovered and dug out of the mud. No worries. We can cut and polish it up later.

6. Deadlines teach us about the value of immersion. “Immersion” means going down in. In our state of deep engagement, we’re baptized and submerged into our magically-developing idea. That idea plunges us into an amalgamation, a union of dreams and reality, a fusion within intense focus that pulls us aside, to the exclusion of all other moments. While in the eclipse behind our project, we engage in transit. Then, emerging from the intense baptism, we emerge—a physical creation in hand, born of internal, spiritual sweat. The intense effort pays, and pays big. Eventually. It will. Really.

7. Deadlines teach us about the value of emersion. Emersion is about rising out of—and is about you and me, rising out of our sea of ideas. In the heavens, emersion is the appearance of a heavenly body after being occluded, like the moon coming out from the shadow of the earth…and in our writing, emersion is the appearance of our work after the eclipse, the darkness, presenting a work finished and complete. It is only through immersion and emersion that authors and creators rise from obscurity or difficulties into success. Deadlines christen us into the whole process.

8. Deadlines drive and empower. And if we don’t take that attitude, sew it onto a flag, attach the flag to the tallest pole that we can find, and let that flag pop and ripple in the wind for all to see, then we’re truly missing out on the potential, the promise, and the empowerment of a deadline.

For fun (and for the tenth time), I watched the movie Alex and Emma last Friday night (a Rob Reiner must-see for writers). Granted, I don’t have two Cubans coming after me for cash, driving me to finish my book or die…but Luke Wilson and Kate Hudson’s characters have a way of bringing out sublime smiles that only writers can relate to.

And it’s those smiles that remind us that deadlines are indeed glorious.

'Till next time,
Erin

PS. Yes, I'm on deadline.

The Music of Writing

I had an epiphany today. It was an epiphany that could help me--and you--to write with magnetic, musical style.

I was meeting with Rachel, one of the teens I coach in our Young Authors' Fiction Writing group. Rachel is writing a fabulous fantasy story that, when published, will be sure to have a dedicated throng of followers. While critiquing the chapter in front of us, I noticed a sharp shift in the voice of that particular section.

"This part sounds a bit different, doesn't it?" I said.

"Oh yeah," said Rachel. "I wrote that part of the chapter some time ago."

I nodded my head. "When you wrote it, you must have been in a different mood. The tone is different. The sentence lengths are different. And even the rhythm and placement of the words are different."

Rachel agreed.

"But mostly," I said, "the style--which is made up of all those things--feels stuck. Let's read this sentence out loud...."

And we did. We spent a few minutes reading the sentences one by one. Then we chose new words, arranged new orders of words, and crafted new sentences.

Now, I must tell you, Rachel is not only a talented young writer, but she's also an accomplished musician: a harp player. Music is something that we have in common; my first career was in music, and I spent many hours in the studio and on stages. So as we put new words into the sentences and read along together, we found ourselves "moving to the music" of the sentences. It was something else. We both felt it: The emphasis--the accents in the syllables--and the pitch, rising and falling, made music. And being musicians, the non-musical parts jumped off the page and screeched at us as clearly notes played out of tune.

If the "musical line" felt awkward, we changed a word--or changed the arrangement of the words in the sentence. The result: a style and tone that flowed.

"Listen to the sound of these words together," I said. "The music of the line is particularly satisfying." It was as if we'd heard a fine musical line.

The epiphany rang loud and true: There's music in our writing.

Have you ever thought about the "music" of your writing? Read your work out loud, and you'll see what I mean.

** Listen to the percussiveness of the p's, t's, k's, and b's. Their sounds, coupled with the syllables, can drive a phrase forward. Use the "music" of percussive words and syllables to build tension into your writing.

** Listen to the soft, smooth line of the l's, m's, and n's. Listen to the vowels /o/ (as in hot) and /e/ (as in red). The sounds, coupled with equal-time syllables, rock us like gentle waves against a rowboat on a hot summer's afternoon. Use the "music" of smooth consonants and vowels, along with steady syllables, with description to set a tone. Make your reader feel the calm before the storm...because every good story has the storm a' commin'.

** Listen to the length of the sentences. Abrupt sentences (and fragments) jolt the reader. Use short sentences, coupled with percussive words, to show anger, fast action, and anxiety.

** Finally, read your sentences out loud--and make the lines drip with drama. Listen to the flow of the sentences. If your tongue stumbles or your breath runs out, then there might be something wrong with "the music" of it all. Re-write with a rise and fall that runs smoothly and pulls your reader in.

What? You say that you're not a musician? You don't have to be a musician to hear the music in your writing--and purposefully create a voice and style that captures your reader's soul. You can be a listener to music...then try to hear the musical line in your writing. And you can read other great writers' works...and hear the musical line in their writing. Both are ways to "tune your ear" to excellence in music--and writing.

Yours 'till next time,
Erin

P.S. The music of writing isn't just for fiction works. Music flows through all writing: non-fiction, articles, commentary, copy writing, and more. Listen for it. It's worth our while to listen well.