Agents Say Prologues Turn Them Off: What say you?

Sean M. Chandler, a guy worth stealing words from

This is a great post from author Sean M. Chandler. I could have just tweeted the link, but I thought it only appropriate to steal his post and incorporate it into one of my own, since his blog is entitled “Words I Stole From Other Countries.”

5 Things Agents Say Turn Them Off in Chapter 1.

I wholeheartedly agree with his take on prologues and agents’ rote dismissal of them. Prologues, like any other aspect of writing, can be abused or done poorly, but the concept exists for a reason: sometimes a prologue is appropriate.

By A Thread: good use of a prologue

My first book had a prologue. It is two pages long and lays out a triggering event in a political thriller. Chapter 1 begins the story two weeks earlier so that they key characters can be introduced in their “natural habitats” prior to the triggering event.

Without this, the agent (and reader) wouldn’t get the immediate “hook” they demand to keep reading. It often makes no sense to start a story in the midst of an action sequence because the agent is too lazy to wait for a climax to build. So authors are forced to pull something out of the story and shove it up front for instant gratification.

Movies and TV shows that begin with a high-speed chase, a shooting, or an explosion are, in-fact, using a prologue to hook the viewer. Then the action immediately returns to a normal pace as we learn who the players are and what their milieu is (job, relationships, flaws, crises, etc.)

The quality of fiction is being degraded by the fact that agents are too busy to read more than a page or two of any work before giving it a thumbs up or down. They want the excitement of a prologue without it actually being called a prologue.

A fun book to read!

My current novel, Senseless Confidential (to be released on August 1), does not use a prologue, but begins with prologue-like action nonetheless. It amazes me that by calling it Chapter 1 I’ve already gotten a much better response than I did with my first book.

Go figure. Thanks, Sean, for pointing this out.

Tell me what you think: do prologues ever work for you? Do you hate them as agents do? Are you indifferent?

Wonder Which Words Work Well?

Write Right: Which Words Work?

Ever have so many words on the tip of your tongue that you think you might gag on them? Yeah, me neither. That’s what a thesaurus is for. Then you do end up with too many choices, because a thesaurus is great at throwing words at you, but it knows nothing about nuance (except: shade, tone, fine distinction, gradation, tinge, hint, degree, touch, and trace).

No, the thesaurus isn’t going to help you at all when it comes to deciding whether your writing fails, falls short, isn’t up to snuff, or fails to make the grade (but it will cheerfully tell you that the antonym is “succeeds”). Luckily, a friend recently gave me a handy little pack of flash cards with which I can learn to “Use the Right Word!” (It comes complete with the exclamation point because, God knows, there just aren’t enough of them on the Internet.)

Unfortunately, I’m not entirely (fully, completely, wholly, totally, utterly, and lock-stock-and-barrel) sure that this “Quiz Deck” can be trusted. After all, it claims to feature “similar words with different meanings” when, in fact, it is actually a set of different words with similar meanings.

For example, one set of compared words is: charlatan, dissembler, fake, impostor, mountebank, and quack. As I said, very different words with similar meanings. So it appears that the folks at Oxford University Press, who produced this gem of a product, could use a dose of their own exactitude. Still, this little list of literary likenesses is good for exercising our writers’ brains. So I’m going to let you share in the fun. The following quiz comes straight from the steed’s stack:

Like: Such as it isn’t

You’re always hunting for a bargain, right? Tell me: would you sign up for the movie-streaming offer described below?

No strings attached. For just 99 cents per year, CINEstream guarantees you instant, unlimited streaming of popular movies like The Hunger Games, The Grey, The Descendants, Star Wars: Episode 1, Wrath of the Titans, Mirror Mirror, and more!

What’s not to like, right? Heck, even if you only wanted to see one of the suggested movies, it would be worth 99 cents.

There’s one tiny problem: CINEstream doesn’t say you can stream even one of the movies listed. What it says is that you can stream movies like the ones listed, not the movies themselves.

Yet we see such nuances blithely ignored by careless writers (and unsuspecting consumers) everywhere: in fiction, non-fiction, advertising, in all types of writing.

The fix for this problem is easy: instead of “like,” use “such as.”

The difference is this: like is an adjective; such (in this usage) is a pronoun.

What the ad copy above says is: These movies are like the movies you’ll be streaming. (Two sets of movies are being compared.)

What you would like it to say is: If you enjoy these movies, you may stream such. (“Such” is a pronoun standing in for the movies just mentioned.)

They’re small words—such as they are—that can make a big difference in meaning. Impress your would-be editors and readers by using them correctly!

(By the way, if you enjoy this post, be sure to “like” it, not “such” it!) 

Be sure to watch your “as”

Do you like to use “as” in your writing? Many of us do. It’s a handy little word—just two letters—but it can be tricky as well; easily confounding the meaning of our prose. That Merriam-Webster’s has thirteen definitions for this diminutive word probably has something to do with its slipperiness.

I won’t bore you with all thirteen uses, but let’s take a look at three that frequently trip us up. “As” can mean:

1) in the state or manner (of) or (that)

2) while

3) because

Let’s look at examples of each usage:

1) I pray every night as my mother taught me. (in the manner that she taught me to pray)

2) To save time, I pray every night as I brush my teeth. (I pray and brush simultaneously.)

3) I pray every night, as I believe I should. (I do it because I believe.)

As you can see, “as” has a different meaning in each sentence. But it’s very easy to cause confusion with only slight alterations of these sentences. For instance, if you insert a comma before the “as” in sentence 1, I’m saying that “praying every night” is what my mother taught, rather than the manner in which I pray. Furthermore, if we change the verb to the present tense in the dependent clause of sentence 1 we get:

4) I pray every night as my mother teaches me.

Now, instead of saying that I’m praying in the manner learned from my mother, I’m saying that I’m praying while she is teaching me.

And if you remove the comma in sentence 3, you’ve changed the meaning from “I pray because I should” to “I pray in the manner I should.”

This may seem like a pedantic lecture about arcane nuances, but in real-life writing it causes many editors and readers to stumble over a book or manuscript. There is almost always a preferable workaround to the use of “as.” If there’s any chance for confusion, use one.

There’s one more problem that frequently results from the use of “as”; it’s when writers use it in place of when. This is not one of its meanings, however. In such instances, it actually means “while.” For example:

As he lit the fire, smoke filled the room.

This sentence says that during the instant the flame was set to the fuel, smoke suddenly filled the room.

As she dialed the number, she heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

Perhaps it was a recording informing her that she was misdialing; the party she called couldn’t have answered until she completed dialing.

In each of the instances above, “as” should be replaced with “when.” If you read my earlier post, What the hell is aspect, and why should you care?, you should recognize that “as” puts the sentence in the imperfective aspect; “when” puts it in the perfective. The former is an ongoing action; the latter is completed. The sentences above mean to say that after the first action was completed, the second resulted.

Remember, although English has lots of synonyms to play with, you can’t just substitute words arbitrarily to achieve variety; don’t say “as” when you mean “when.” Your readers and editors will thank you!

(Note: A future post will discuss the pitfalls of distinguishing “as” from “like.”)

Ambiguity: Hunt it down and kill it

We’ve all seen reviews that extol an author’s writing as “crisp” or “clean”; perhaps the reviewer says “she nails it” or that his prose simply “kills.”

What, exactly, does that mean, apart from the fact that the reviewer liked what he read? Do crisp words crackle in your mouth when you read them aloud? Is clean writing free from dirty words? Just what gets put to death when a writer “kills” it?

To answer the last of these questions first: Ambiguity is what dies in killer prose. Because if it doesn’t, it will strangle the life out of the story. Nothing will cause an editor to toss your manuscript faster than ambiguous, wishy-washy writing.

It was late on a rather chilly night as the young man—with a somewhat dejected look—emerged from the greenish Honda parked in the convenience-store  lot in a shady part of town. He had the gun in his pocket.

This prose kills, all right—it kills the reader’s interest, not to mention the editor’s. Can you spot the deadly ambiguities? Here’s a laundry list of kinda-sorta problems:

* How late is it? After the evening news? After the bars closed? After the author’s bedtime?

* Is it cold or isn’t it? (rather chilly)

* How young is a “young man?” Is he a teenager, a twenty-something, prepubescent? Or is he simply younger than the author?

* Is he or isn’t he dejected? Or is that just how he (somewhat) looks?

* Is the Honda green or isn’t it? What color should the reader be picturing in her mind’s eye?

* Of all the models Honda makes, which one is it? A sporty CR-Z? A youthful Fit? An Odyssey family wagon? In America, what a person drives is a virtual extension of his personality.

* How old is the car? What condition is it in? Such details will tell us about the character’s financial status.

* “Convenience” store is conveniently vague: I can picture any of a number of 7-11′s, Plaid Pantry’s, or Stop’n'Go’s I’ve been to, but this line doesn’t place me at any one of them.

* Does this part of town have a lot of trees? Or do numerous streetlights cast extra shadows? What makes it shady? The people? The crime rate? The poverty? The lack of Starbucks?

* And finally: shady part of what town?

Readers are a well-traveled lot; many can see Chicago’s railyards or Boston’s Southie, or L.A.’s South Central, if you just give them the chance. If they haven’t been there in person, they’ve probably seen enough TV and movie representations of such places to relieve you of having to describe every nuance. The less you have to tell the reader, the “crisper” and “cleaner” your prose will be.

But crisp, clean prose isn’t just a lack of words; it’s the use of definitive words. Evocative words that “nail” an image to the reader’s mind.

Let’s try the story again:

The humid subfreezing air permeated his clothing the minute the teen—with a quiet look of desperation—stepped out of his mother’s brand-new, fire-engine-red Civic Si Coupe outside the Circle K in North Portland’s industrial district. It was just after midnight. The pistol he’d stolen from his father’s gun safe was cold against his skin, even through the pocket fabric of his baggy jeans.

Now, in 64 words, you’ve painted a picture so complete as to make it possible for the reader to be there in person. It’s cinematic in its detail: it gives you time, place, temperature, mood, wardrobe, and backstory. The original told you merely of a guy and a car in a nondescript parking lot somewhere with a gun.

But you won’t be able to share such detail with your readers until you’ve been to the scene yourself and observed it firsthand. An idea for story or plot thread is insufficient; you need to spend time in the milieu you create. I don’t mean you physically have to travel to Miami or Munich or wherever else your story is set (though it helps greatly); what you have to do is take your mind there for extended periods.

Put the keyboard aside. Go take a long walk, a hot shower, or a luxurious bubble bath. Be there for a while. Look around. What do you see? What do you hear and smell? What details do you notice? Even if you don’t incorporate all of them into your story, your familiarity with them will imbue your work with authenticity and a palpable excitement. Get so intimate with the scene that you write it from memory rather than imagination.

Then, once you’re done with your first draft, go back and replace or excise all ambiguous words, such as:

some

most

many

rather

sort of

kind of

somewhat

a little

a bit

partly

And so on. Engage in hyperbole if you have to. It doesn’t matter if this is based on a true story. Unless you’re giving a court deposition, the reader doesn’t want simple facts; she wants excitement. Never be afraid to embellish the ordinary. The reader expects it of you. That’s why he’s set aside reality and picked up your book. Life is full of ambiguities; give him a plot and characters who cut through the crap and get straight to the point.

Your readers and editors will thank you.

Are your antecedents bass-ackwards?

I recently read the following sentence in a memoir:

Being a national holiday, I decided to go visit my grandfather’s grave.

“Wow. Congratulations,” I wanted to tell the author. “Exactly when were you designated a national holiday?”

What we have here is an antecedent mismatch.

An earlier line in the same memoir declared:

“Growing up in Louisiana, alligators were a part of daily life.”

I was happy to learn where the critters grew up, but I wondered where the author had been raised.

Again, the antecedent is the problem. The author meant to say that he had grown up in Louisiana; instead he said that the alligators had. How did this happen?

The issue here is the present-participle clause (the antecedent) that introduces the sentence. Because such clauses lack a subject, one needs to be implied. The way this is done in Standard English is by following the clause with a comma and immediately naming the subject. So, the first noun the reader encounters after the comma is the one to which the antecedent (preceding) clause applies. Here’s an example:

Having been raised in Louisiana, I was used to alligators; they were part of daily life.

This is the equivalent of saying: I, having been raised in Louisiana, was…

Observing this protocol not only keeps things clear for the reader (and the editors you hope to persuade), it also helps you avoid potentially embarrassing unintended implications!

What the hell is aspect, and why should you care?

Walking across the kitchen, she turned on the light and set down the groceries.

Chances are, you’ve written a sentence like this at some time in your illustrious writing career. A present-participle clause introducing the action, followed by a simple declarative sentence; that’s not uncommon. Nor is it wrong.

But there is something about the sentence above that will make an editor squirm, and might not sit right with your reader either, even if she doesn’t know why. Can you spot the problem? I’ll give you a hint: it has to do with aspect.

As-what, you say?

Verb aspect. You probably didn’t know verbs had aspect, right? Tense, yes, but aspect?

For some reason, they like to teach us these things when we’re of an age at which we have no possible use for such arcane knowledge. Then, years later, when we’re finally ready to write that novel we’ve been kicking around, we can’t find anyone who can explain such things to us.

As an editor, I find aspect mismatch to be a common stumbling block for writers, and one that separates the amateurs from the more experienced. So, what is it?

Look at the opening sentence again. It seems to be a concise description of three consecutive activities. You probably think it tells you that the character 1) walked across the room, 2) flipped the light switch, and 3) set down the groceries. But look closer at the first clause. It’s in the imperfective aspect.

The imperfective aspect describes an ongoing, incomplete, or habitual action; whereas its counterpart, the perfective aspect, describes a one-time or complete action. The second two activities in the sentence above are in the perfective: she turned on the light—completed—and set down the groceries—completed.

But what the sentence tells you is that she did these two things “walking across the kitchen.” It does not say she did this after walking across the room, but while she was doing so. That would look a little odd, if indeed it were possible. The character would need a remote to control the light, for starters; she wouldn’t be able to reach the switch while “walking across the kitchen.” And she would need to pause during that journey to set down groceries along the way.

The fix is easy: She walked across the kitchen, turned on the light, and set down the groceries. (Notice the use of the second—Oxford, or serial—comma. Editors today prefer them.)

It is, of course, entirely appropriate to use a verb in the imperfective when a background activity coincides with the character’s other activities. Here are a few examples:

Scanning the horizon for enemy activity, he spotted movement at a hundred yards. (The spotting occurred while he was scanning.)

Not caring what the other party-goers thought of him, he pelted her with obscenities.  (His lack of caring was either a chronic condition or was in effect throughout the episode in question. It did not suddenly occur.)

She declined the offer of a Cosmo, having received her ten-year chip just last week. (While she only received the chip once, and the action was completed, this sentence is describing her ongoing condition of having received it.)

So, you see, it’s not so hard to learn aspect. Paying close attention to the duration of your characters’ actions is all it takes. Trust me, getting aspect right consistently will impress editors and result in a smoother, more enjoyable experience for your readers.

Mama’s little baby loves shortening

In our Twitter- and texting-mad modern world, it seems we’re all into shortening… our words, that is. We have neither space (Twitter) nor time (texting) to spell anything out. R U w/me so far?

Fortunately, those of us who still write for pay, realize that complete words still have value in other literary and journalistic venues. But how many of us really know the rules about shortening words? Do you know when and how to do it so that it gets past your copyeditor? Can you explain the difference among (ahem, not between…) abbreviations, contractions, acronyms, initialisms, and mnemonics?

Let me don my editor’s hat for a moment and lay out a few of the basics.

Abbreviations: These are words that have had some letters removed, usually from the end, but also from the middle—usually in multiple places. The defining characteristic in American English is a period at the end, such as Mr., Mrs., Ave., Inc., and so on. (In British usage the period—or “full stop”—is omitted from forms of address.)

Contractions: These are words (or phrases) that have had one or more letters removed from the middle and use an apostrophe to indicate the ellipsis. Negated verbs (don’t, can’t, won’t) and interrogatory phrases (what’s, who’s, where’s) are the most common, along with conjugations of the verb “to be” (I’m, you’re, it’s) and the verb “to have” (I’ve, she’s, they’ve).

Acronyms: These are the collections of letters that the government—particularly the military—is famous for. They are formed by using only the first (except in rare cases) letters of the words of a name or phrase to form a new word. Examples include DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency), CERT (Community Emergency Response Team), FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency), and SWAT (Special Weapons and Tactics). When these terms refer to proper names, such as the agencies and programs just listed, the letters remain capitalized.

However, when the terms represent the shortening of a phrase, they usually lose their capitalization once they’ve become part of the common lexicon. Compare: radar (radio detecting and ranging), sonar (sound navigation and ranging), and lidar (light detection and ranging). The last of these is sometimes still capitalized because the technology is newer and much less familiar to readers than the other two; however, most editors prefer to treat all similar terms in the same way. Because these examples no longer use capitalization, they are no longer considered true acronyms.

Initialisms: These rarely mentioned terms are often mistaken for acronyms because they are formed in the same manner. What differentiates them is that acronyms are pronounceable as words, whereas initialisms are not. Common initialisms are often the names of companies: IBM, GE, MJB, and so on. When reading these, no one attempts to say “ibbem,”gee,” or “mijib.” Government departments are also a source of many initialisms: DOJ, USDA, DHS, USAF, and so on. (Note that HUD and ICE, however, are acronyms.) The Internet has produced a lot more initialisms: LOL, WTF, BTW; but these have generally not been accepted yet into the literary lexicon.

Mnemonics: These creatures are rarely talked about outside of sci-fi, industry, and technology (anybody remember the movie Johnny Mnemonic?), but they are all around us nonetheless. These are alpha or alphanumeric combinations that stand in as symbols or codes for something else. The most common of these come to us from the USPS (<– no, that’s an initialism for the postal service, not a mnemonic); they are of course, the state codes used in mailing: CA, OR, DC, TX, and so on.

At first glance, you might think CA or OR were abbreviations. But what’s missing? Right: the period! The capitalization might lead you to believe they were acronyms, or at least initialisms. But the letters “C” and “A” don’t stand for words beginning with those letters. “DC,” of course, could be considered an initialism, but it’s inclusion in a catalogue of over fifty mnemonics used for the same purpose, clearly establishes its mnemonic credentials in this case.

Another set of well-known—if not memorized—mnemonics are those on the Periodic Table of Elements: He for helium; O for oxygen; C for carbon; and so on. These examples might be mistaken for mere abbreviations—after all, the “e” in “He” isn’t capitalized—but consider also: Pb for lead; Au for gold; and Na for sodium. Mnemonics all.

Monikers: These letters, or letters and numbers, are usually brand names and have no underlying meaning or expression. They include (Mazda) RX7, (Jaguar) XKE, and (Windows) XP or ME. (Yes, the Windows nomenclature once stood for something, but how many people can tell you what?)

Symbols: Lastly, there are symbols, or “special characters.” These are the non-alpha, non-numeric characters that can be typed from your keyboard. The most common of these stand for words: & for and; @ for at; and = for equals or is.

So, as a writer, why do you need to know all this? Because the editorial rules for the use of each of these types of shortening differ from one another.

In short, abbreviations should not be used in prose (that is, in running text) with the exceptions of forms of address (Mr., Mrs., Dr., Sgt., for example). Don’t use etc., i.e., e.g., or misc. These are acceptable, however, in accessory text, such as tables, calendars, sidebars, and so on.) Journalists will be governed, of course, by the style guides of the entities they write for; the AP style, for instance, allows state names to be abbreviated (Calif., Ore., Tex.). (Note that these are not the postal mnemonics that supplanted the abbreviations in the 1970s.) To my mind, these are ugly artifacts from an earlier era that should, at the very least, be replaced with the much more familiar mnemonics, which require no period before a comma.

Contractions may be used in prose, but the choice to do so or not will have an impact on the work. In essays and narration, the use of contractions tends to make the writing more informal, which may not be what the writer intends. The converse is true in dialogue. To sound natural, a character’s speech should usually employ contractions unless, of course, the character speaking is intended to sound more formal. Consider: “That behavior will not be tolerated here, Mr. Weasley!” Obviously the speech of a schoolmarm. Versus: “She won’t let us.” No kid would say to another, “She will not let us.”

Acronyms and initialisms may be used in prose; however, in journalism, most style guides require that the full expression be written out on the first use, followed by the acronym in parentheses. In our modern world of abundant, familiar acronyms, I find even this to be problematic, as the acronym is often more familiar than that which it stands for. More people respond, for instance, to IBM than to International Business Machines. For the writer of prose, therefore, it’s advisable to provide a context for the acronym that clearly identifies its meaning. For example, in my work in progress, Senseless, one character mentions “Oregon DHS.” A second character immediately questions the meaning, giving the first character reason to explain, “the Department of Human Services.” This allows natural exposition, without the unwieldy and unnatural use of the full name on the first use.

Mnemonics are a mixed bag. Since state names underlie the commonly understood postal mnemonics, the former should be used in prose, even if you’re describing an address (in running text). Likewise, the names of the elements should be written out, unless the mnemonics themselves have a role in the story. Other uses of mnemonics may be allowed, but only if they are better understood than that for which they stand (such as, AB-normal, from Young Frankenstein, referring to blood type); or, if they play an integral roll in the story (such as 007 for James Bond).

Monikers are unavoidable, if a writer needs to refer to a specific product by name. But their use should be minimized, if possible, because they are distracting and cumbersome.

Like abbreviations, symbols should never be used in running text (except when part of a trademarked name, such as S&P 500), but they are permissible as spacesavers in accessory text, just as abbreviations are.

And there you have it! Keep in mind that style guides differ on their preferences for some of these usages, but these are, by and large, the guidelines that the majority of editors follow when marking up prose.