The Essence of the Process

If you read only one book about the writing process this year, I hope you'll consider John McPhee's Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process.

It contains eight essays on the writing process that were previously published in The New Yorker, the magazine where McPhee's work has appeared since 1965, and where you may have read some, or all, of these pieces.

If you have read any of these essays before, I recommend reading them again, since I find McPhee's work so rich that it can easily sustain multiple readings, each time offering up some new jewel that the reader may have missed or overlooked. And if you haven't yet read any of them, you are in for a treat.

You'll discover a man's love of the craft of writing, and a devotion to the process of putting words on paper reminiscent of a religious scribe, a man passionate about language and its usage and the delight that it provides for reveling in life's joys and mysteries.

McPhee believes wholeheartedly in revision as the core of the process. "The difference between a common writer and an improviser on a stage (or any performing artist) is that writing can be revised. Actually, the essence of the process is revision. The adulating portrait of the perfect writer who never blots a line comes Express Mail from fairyland."

If you take away just one nugget of truth from this book, let it be this one: The essence of the process is revision.

One of the things that I love about McPhee's approach to writing, and his willingness to teach writing to others (he's taught students at Princeton University, his alma mater, for years), is his understanding that each writer is cut from different cloth and approaches the problem of getting words on paper differently.

He gives us as examples the different ways his two daughters deal with the process.

"Jenny grew up to write novels, and at this point has published three. She keeps everything close-hauled, says nothing and reveals nothing as she goes along."

But keeping things close-hauled isn't the way his younger daughter Martha goes about the process.

"Her sister Martha, two years younger, has written four novels. Martha calls me up nine times a day to tell me that writing is impossible, that she's not cut out to do it, that she'll never finish what she is working on, et cetera, et cetera, and so forth and so on."

Two writers, two different ways of approaching the process.

Actually, three writers. There's McPhee himself who shares his own approach.

"It is toward the end of the second draft, if I'm lucky," writes McPhee, "when the feeling comes over me that I have something I want to show other people, something that seems to be working and is not going to go away. The feeling is more than welcome, but it is hardly euphoria. It's just a new lease on life, a sense that I'm going to survive until the middle of next month."

There's a wealth of information in Draft No. 4 that will provide sustenance for you as a writer for weeks, if not months and years, whether you write fiction or, like McPhee, nonfiction.

And if you love reading The New Yorker, you'll love learning a bit of what goes on behind its cover and pages since McPhee generously shares stories about his working relationships with editors at the magazine who have nurtured and guided him along the way.

If you're curious about the kind of advice McPhee offers, here's a link to his essay, "Draft No. 4," as it appeared in 2013 in The New Yorker: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2013/04/29/draft-no-4 

And here's a link to the book, if you want to take a look: 
https://www.amazon.com/Draft-No-4-Writing-Process/dp/0374142742

And if you're interested in The New York Times' review of the book, click this link:  https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/13/books/review-draft-no-4-john-mcphee.html

What Makes a Sentence Work?

How does a sentence, a string of words, hold a reader’s interest and compel a reader to keep turning the pages?

In the hope of finding an answer, I pulled a book off my shelf at random and opened it (to a random page) and selected a few sentences, just to see what I might be able to learn about the construction of sentences. Here they are:

“Rachel catches a whiff of toothpaste and onions. Izzy is a big, bulky man with wild gray eyebrows. His hands are broad, grayish from cement, and still strong-looking, although it’s been almost twenty years since he has worked as a stonemason.” (from Norma Fox Mazer’s After the Rain, page 38)

What do you notice about these sentences? Would you say they're compelling? Do the sentences work? Do you want to read more of the story after reading them?

Let's take a look at the first sentence: "Rachel catches a whiff of toothpaste and onions."

It doesn’t seem earth-shatteringly important, does it? And yet the unusual combination of aromas—toothpaste and onions—piques the reader’s imagination. The combination is kind of odd, isn’t it? A unique juxtaposition of smells that you don’t smell every day.

What else is unique? Not just the smells, but we have a character—Rachel—who notices this unusual combination of smells. And the act of noticing these smells is framed as “catching a whiff.” Why not simply say “Rachel smelled toothpaste and onions.” What does “catching a whiff” do for the reader? It’s a compelling expression, I suspect, because the act of smelling is described as an active rather than passive act. Rachel doesn’t sit back and let the smells come to her. She catches them. Like catching butterflies. Or lightening bugs.

So, this first sentence paints an interesting portrait, and we read on, curious about what we’ll find next.

In the second sentence we see how Mazer continues her skilled crafting of sentences. She keeps each sentence short. She uses a minimum number of words to create maximum effect: “Izzy is a big, bulky man with wild gray eyebrows.”

Again, we aren’t given anything earth shattering, per se, in terms of details, are we? But the details are offered in a way that makes for an interesting picture: a big, bulky man and wild gray eyebrows. The repetition of the “b” sounds in big and bulky. The echo of Izzy and the “y” sound in bulky. The echo of the “g” sound in big and in gray.

Six words. But we have a strong picture of Izzy in our minds. It’s a picture that is as clear as if he is standing in front of us. And we are now curious about him. We know he is big. Not just big but bulky. How does his bulkiness change our view of big? And what about his eyebrows? Not just gray but wild gray. As if the man himself has something of this wildness about him. Again, Mazer has intrigued the reader with her descriptions.

And then comes the third sentence, which happens to be much longer than the first two, but Mazer has earned the reader’s trust with the first two sentences. We trust the author’s vision of the world, and we understand that the descriptive words that Mazer has selected not only serve as descriptors but as ways of understanding the story, the characters, and the underlying plot.

So, perhaps, this is one of the keys to understanding how a sentence works: it can operate on multiple levels simultaneously.

Let’s take a look at the third sentence: “His hands are broad, grayish from cement, and still strong-looking, although it’s been almost twenty years since he has worked as a stonemason.”  

Here we are given a more detailed description of Izzy, with the focus on his hands, and the description gives us a deeper understanding of him and of his life, which involved working as a stonemason with cement. His hands are a workman’s hands, and they are still strong, even though Izzy hasn’t worked for almost twenty years.

They are hands that are “broad, grayish” and “strong-looking.” These details build on the earlier details that we were given, adding to the picture in our mind of Izzy with his wild gray eyebrows. And they create a kind of bond between Izzy and the reader, as well as a kind of sympathy for a man who has worked and aged and is now gray and a little wild still.

And we feel a bit of the same feelings that Rachel feels toward him. And the reason we feel these emotions is because of the way that Mazer has crafted these sentences.

What is it about any sentence that compels you to keep reading the story?

Word choice, pacing, emotional weight, sentence length and rhythm of the words… these are only some of the reasons why a sentence might work (or fail to work).

Do you have an author whose work you admire? Why not take a look at a few of his or her sentences and see if you can explain why the sentences work so well.

If you get a chance, share your favorite sentence in the comment section, and remember to include a brief explanation of why you think the sentence works.

Thanks, as always, for stopping by.

A Swimmer's Strokes

The words that we choose—their precision, their arrangement, their sound and sense—determine what our readers see and feel, and, much like the strokes of a swimmer, they move us (and our readers) forward through the water of our stories.

Here are three examples of the way Wendell Berry selects and arranges words in his novel, A World Lost, a complex and compelling story about a young boy whose uncle is murdered and who spends his life trying to comprehend the murder and understand the man who was his uncle and figure out exactly why he was shot.

First, let's look at the way Berry describes the boy's uncle (through the eyes of the narrator as a young boy):

At times he seemed to be all energy, intolerant of restraint, unpredictable. His presence, for so small a boy as I was, was like that of some large male animal who might behave as expected one moment and the next do something completely unforeseen and astonishing.

 What do you notice in this excerpt? The words “all energy,” “intolerant of restraint,” and “unpredictable” strike the reader immediately, and they are offered as images of a man who appears almost larger than life in the eyes of a young boy (“for so small a boy as I was...”). Uncle Andrew loomed over the narrator in his boyhood in the shape of a “large male animal” whose actions were “completely unforeseen” and “astonishing.” In this paragraph the writer gives us a palpable sense of his uncle’s presence--almost like a huge untamed animal--and, because it’s written from the perspective of a mature man, it hints at the unexpected act on which the entire story turns.

And this, another way of looking at Uncle Andrew: 

When Grandma and I looked through her collection of photographs that had come with letters from various family members, we would come to a picture of several men in army uniforms squatting in a circle, shooting craps. One of them unmistakably was Uncle Andrew, who had sent the picture, and she would always say “Hmh!” and she would laugh. The laugh seemed both to acknowledge her embarrassment and confess her delight. She delighted in him though he had grieved her nearly into the grave.

 In this excerpt, we gain a sense of how another relative, the narrator’s grandmother, feels about Uncle Andrew, deepening our own experience of him and the narrator. As in the earlier excerpt, the scene is revealed through the eyes of the narrator, the events viewed (and shared with the reader) through the screen of the narrator’s own feelings for his uncle.  Is Grandma’s embarrassment and delight at the sight of the picture truly her own emotional response? Or are we offered the emotions of the narrator, which he layers, intentionally or unintentionally, over the scene?

What’s interesting here, too, is how, by inserting Grandma’s response to the picture, using a single syllable (“Hmh!”), the reader can make his or her own assessment of Grandma’s response. Notice how Berry lays out the words: “The laugh seemed both to acknowledge her embarrassment and confess her delight.” It seemed to embarrass and delight her. But that delight had to be moderated in the narrator’s mind: “She delighted in him though he had grieved her nearly into the grave.” In this way, Berry shows us how delight was part of what one felt knowing Uncle Andrew, but always with an underlying sense of grief. 

And this look back at Uncle Andrew from the perspective of the narrator as an adult: 

He was on my mind forever too, as I now see. But I was a child; for me, every day was new. I lived beyond my loss even as I suffered it, and without any particular sympathy for myself. And what I have grown into is not sympathy for myself as I was but sympathy for Grandma and Grandpa as they were. I see how time had brought them, once, their years of strength and hope, energy to look forward and build and dream, as we must; and I see how Uncle Andrew took all they had vested in him, their precious one life and time given over in helpless love and hope into the one life and time that he possessed, and how he carried it away on the high flood of his recklessness, his willingness to do whatever he thought of doing.

Here, again, we can feel Uncle Andrew’s presence as a palpable thing in the narrator’s life. But we feel something new, too, a sympathy not for himself and what he had lost but for his grandparents… and how, from the narrator’s perspective, it seems that Uncle Andrew took from them their love and hope and “carried it away on the high flood of his recklessness…” as if Uncle Andrew was a force of nature, as wild and unruly and life-threatening as a flood. It’s the metaphor that gives this passage its power, the choice of image and words. Its through the narrator’s words that we come to feel a sympathy for Grandma and Grandpa, too, understanding (through the narrator’s eyes) how Uncle Andrew’s recklessness was something uncontrollable, stemming from a “willingness to do whatever he thought of doing.” And doing it without thinking of the consequences for himself or for those who might love him.

How do you feel after reading these passages? Why do you feel that way? Can you identify the words that cause these emotions to rise to the surface? Can you notice how the writer puts together a sentence, chooses a word, suggests an image which brings you deeper into the story and helps you experience the world of the story as if you are standing inside it, right beside the narrator, hanging on his every word?

For more on crafting sentences, visit:

http://www.newstatesman.com/books/2011/02/write-sentence-comes

http://www.writingforward.com/writing-tips/writing-tips-for-crafting-compelling-sentences

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/03/17/my-lifes-sentences/

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/05/28/sentences-crisp-sassy-stirring/

http://tabwriter.blogspot.com/2010/11/crafting-powerful-sentences.html

Skipping Stones

Have you ever tried skipping stones across a pond or lake?

For a few seconds the stone seems to come alive, suspended above the water in a series of invisible arcs, leaving only the memory of flight in the viewer's eye.

It takes practice to skip stones across the water in such a way that the stone barely touches the surface instead of plunking like a lead ball on the first throw.

First, you have to search the shoreline for just the right rock or pebble--not too large, not too small. What works best, I've found, is a relatively flat stone with rounded rather than sharp edges so it won't slice into the water.

Then, you have to throw the rock hard at just the right angle, using a side-arm motion combined with a delicate flick of the wrist, so the stone sustains enough momentum to skim the surface and skip across the water in a series of gravity-defying steps ... one, two, three ... sometimes four, five or ... six... depending on the thrower's skill.

Writing requires the same kind of practice and artistry. If you set the words down at just the right angle, they will pull a reader's eye across the surface of the page much like a well-tossed stone draws the eye skipping from one splash to the next in its flight across the water.

Very few writers can skip stones better than Robert B. Parker, the author of the Spenser mystery novels, who has just written his first novel for children, Edenville Owls.

If you've read any of the Spenser novels, you've already met Bobby Murphy, the main character and narrator of the Edenville Owls, because he resembles a younger version of Parker's successful adult protagonist, Spenser, a valiant sleuth who lives by a chivalrous code of ethics as he pursues criminals in the fight of good versus evil.

Bobby is already grappling with this code of ethics as he tries to figure out a way to protect his eighth grade teacher, Miss Delaney, from a man who appears one day outside his school and begins physically abusing her.

Bright and brave, Bobby enlists the help of his basketball teammates, the Edenville Owls of the title, as well as a girl--Joanie--who gives Bobby the courage and confidence (much as Guinivere inspired Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table) to do what he thinks is right to help Miss Delaney.

Parker is a master of plotting even if, at times, the characters appear to find their way through the thicket of tangled plot-lines with the not-so-hidden hand of the author. (Some reviewers complain that Parker's writing has the feel of a first draft, and while that may be true, he succeeds in getting most of the words right the first time.)

Much like Raymond Chandler, one of Parker's own literary heroes, and Hemingway, whose style is reflected in Parker's own spare prose, Parker crafts sentences that can take your breath away with their elegant conciseness. Again and again, he manages to weave an invisible hook within his sentences, deftly pulling the reader deeper into the story.

Here, for example, is how Parker writes about Bobby after the young boy discovers that staking out a house isn't the easiest thing in the world to do:

Standing alone in the dark on the empty street, I felt like a fool. My eyes teared a little. What a jerk, I thought. You thought it would be like the movies. Stake out the house and in two minutes the bad guys show up and the action starts. The movies didn't show you the hero standing around in the cold hour after hour, needing to take a leak, wishing he had something to eat. Getting nowhere. Seeing nothing. Doing no good. And what about friendship? All those war movies where guys were heroically dying for each other. A little boredom. A little cold weather and the Owls flew away in the night. The hell with them. But I couldn't say the hell with them. We had a game tomorrow. I looked at the blank ungrateful front of the two-family house where Miss Delaney lived. There were things you can't do anything about. The thought scared me. It made me feel kind of helpless. But there it was. I turned and headed home.

Parker's especially gifted at revealing the feelings of an adolescent boy first encountering the stirrings of love, as in this scene:

Nick was the first one of us to have a regular date, and the first one of us to ever be invited to the Boat Club. The rest of us sort of followed Nick and Joanie at a distance, and hung around outside. I don't know quite why. Wanted to see what was up, I guess.

The thing was, I felt funny about it. I felt funny about her asking Nick and funny about feeling funny about it. I didn't exactly wish she hadn't asked him. And I didn't exactly wish she had asked me. I guess I wished she hadn't asked anyone and had, instead, come down and sat on the deserted bandstand with me.

He's also amazingly adept at crafting scenes with dialogue to move the plot forward:

I was with Joanie in the bowling alley, sitting in the back row of benches, having a Coke, watching them bowl.
"I went to see Miss Delaney," she said.
"You did?"
"After school," Joanie said. "The day after we found out about that guy Richard Kraus."
"You didn't say anything did you?"
"Nothing bad," she said. "I told her I was starting to think about college."
"College?" I said. "We're in the eighth grade."
Joanie ignored me.
"And she said that was wise, it was never too early."
"Okay," I said.
"So I told her I was wondering where she went," Joanie said.
"Miss Delaney?"
"Yes, and she told me Colby College."
"Where's that?" I said.
"In Maine someplace," Joanie said.
"Who wants to go to college in Maine?" I said.
"And I said did she have a yearbook or something I could look at, and she gave me hers. She brought it in the next day."
"Her college yearbook?" I said.
Joanie reached into her book bag and pulled the yearbook out...

As a result of obtaining the yearbook, Bobby and Joanie can examine not only Miss Delaney's college picture but the pictures of other members of the class in the hope of identifying the man who is abusing her. It's with this kind of sleight of hand that Parker advances the plot.

And then there is the seemingly effortless way that Parker skips details across the page. With just a flick of his wrist, he paints a scene. The words have a kind of zing, an energy that pulls the reader along, as here:

He had been behind the wharf office shed, and now he was in full view in the moonlight walking up toward the bandstand. Tupper was holding his big knife low in front of him, moving it back and forth toward us. When he heard Nick, he pivoted in that direction and waved the knife at him.

Or here:

I wasn't as scared anymore. My heart was still beating very hard. But I didn't feel so sick to my stomach now. In the moonlight everything looked pale. But I thought that Tupper looked paler than the rest of us. And even though it was kind of chilly, there was sweat on his face. He backed up onto the bandstand again.

So, if you want to study how a writer constructs a sentence, take a look at Parker's newest effort.

He's the kind of writer who is always luring readers deeper into the story with words that skim across the page like well-thrown stones skipping across the water.

For more information about Robert B. Parker and his work, visit his blog at:
http://robertbparker.typepad.com/

Or his website, which contains this interview: http://www.robertbparker.net/interview.htm

Or this interview in Booklist Online: http://www.booklistonline.com/default.aspx?page=show_product&pid=1986705

Plus, here's what other bloggers are saying about Edenville Owls:
http://melodom.blogspot.com/2007/04/new-robert-b.html
http://www.mysteryinkonline.com/2007/05/tribute_to_robe.html