In Today’s Journal
* Chapter 3: Misplaced Modifiers—At Least They’re Funny
Chapter 3: Misplaced Modifiers—At Least They’re Funny
Wow. I used to really be cynical. These days, I’m more stoic.
Still, I feel a responsibility to pass along what I’ve learned about writing over the past 60-plus years. My target is the fiction writer who is serious about learning the craft, and my hope is that my advice will land on the ears of those who want to hear it.
To that end, I thought an article I posted on my author website several years ago would serve as a good introduction to this chapter:
I was going to write a whole post on the topic of Clarity in Writing, but apparently that isn’t necessary.
The post would have been aimed at those who inadvertently write goofy things that will interrupt readers and then postulate—not apologetically but indifferently and with a dismissive wag of the hand—“Oh, I don’t worry about stuff like that. The reader will know what I mean.”
But as I said above, apparently that post isn’t necessary.
Despite published writings that are replete with inappropriate instances of absolutes (all, never, always, everyone, nobody, and so on), apparently no writers write like that. Ever.
Nor does any writer ever write dangling or misplaced modifiers. If you don’t believe me, just ask them.
And despite published writings that are chock full of characters’ eyes wandering out of heads and doing things on their own (e.g., Her eyes flew across the room and came to rest on a barrel of metal shavings), again, no writer ever put those or similar words on a page.
And the same goes for other body parts: For example, there’s the ever-popular “Her legs raced along the sidewalk” or “His nose smelled something strange” or “Her ears listened closely” or “His finger punched in the phone number” or “His hand crept into his pocket to retrieve his revolver.”
But no writers that I’ve been able to find write like that either. Ever.
Except that based on the hard evidence contained between the covers of some books, some do. Or—I don’t know—maybe the publishers are sneaking that stuff in.
Anyway, if you mention those faux pas to the writers, they grin, wag that hand as if you and they are old buddies, and say something like, “Aw, the reader will know what I mean.”
At their most honest, some writers might say, “Y’know, maybe I do those things.” But then they’ll buy back their quasi-admission of guilt with “But the readers will know I didn’t mean it like that.”
And at that point, most often I smile and say something noncommittal, like “Hey, when you’re right, you’re right.”
Which of course also implies “When you aren’t you aren’t,” but I don’t bother saying that part out loud. It wouldn’t sink in.
Still, the harsh truth lurks in my mind: No, Sparky, the readers don’t know how you meant it. And even if they can figure it out, you’ve still momentarily jerked them out of the story. You’re defeating your own purpose.
Readers read for either or both of two purposes: entertainment and-or information. They have zero responsibility for your writing, and they have zero responsibility to decipher what you put on the page. If you write “never,” they read “never.” They don’t automatically substitute “seldom” or “sometimes” or some other less-inclusive, less blanket-clad word.
If you write a sentence that contains a misplaced modifier, especially during a really tense scene, chances are good the reader will burst out laughing. That’s a great way to break the tension, but it’s a horrible place to break the tension.
If you write “Her legs raced down the road,” the reader is liable to see disembodied legs racing down the road.
And even if you only mean “she gaped” but you actually write “Her eyes shot out of her head and came to rest on a barrel of metal shavings,” the reader will probably wince. Because let’s face it, that had to hurt.
It isn’t the reader’s fault that they take you at your word(s). It’s your fault.
After all, the reader has no choice but to accept what you put on the page, whether it’s in your novel, in your Essay On Some Topic Of Major Importance or on your Facebook page.
I’ve never known a reader who was hungry for a verbal repast to go looking for a soup sandwich. But that’s often what they get.
It is up to the purveyor of the repast to determine whether he or she is going to serve a nutritious, delicately nuanced meal or something that’s half-baked and barely slopped together.
Am I being nitpicky?
Yes. But again, only where my own sensibilities and craft are concerned.
Hey, if you want to continue slopping grey, watery soup over stale bread in a bowl, go ahead. If you want to hit it with a dash of sea salt, proclaim it prime rib, and hand it out to weary, gaunt-eyed travelers who are starving for real sustenance, that’s your business.
That said, I won’t sidle up alongside you in the soup kitchen, grab a ladle and begin flinging greasy dumplings at the wall in the hope they will stick and “be something good.”
So anyway, I was gonna devote a whole post to this notion that writers, not readers, are responsible for the clarity or lack thereof in their writing.
But apparently it’s a personal thing, so I won’t.
I’ll just pass along a wish that your characters’ eyes will remain in their head. Unless, you know, it’s a horror story and the character gets whacked really, really hard with a shovel.
See what I mean? I was really cynical.
Back tomorrow with Part 2: A Brief Interlude, and then on Sunday with Part 3. Talk with you again then.