Imagine if Dickens began A Tale of Two Cities:
It was the best of times and the worst of times—and sometimes, something else altogether.
Or if Melville opened Moby-Dick:
Call me Ishmael, or, if you like, Ishy.
Or if Ellison extended his iconic first line:
I am an invisible man, except for when it’s sunny, when you are bound to see something of a shadow.
My versions don’t pack the same punch, do they? Yet while drafting a still-developing story, we writers tend to explore all options. There comes a time, though, when it behooves us to weed out roads not taken and focus our characters’ intentions.
This sounds easier than it is.
Address your uncertainty
Hundreds of thousands of decisions will go into the writing of your novel. As you draft (or is it drift?) through its first iteration, you’ll understandably grapple with uncertainty over plot and characterization choices. It’s best to address these questions sooner rather than later. Wishy-washy intention, once on the page, has a way of persisting right through to the late-stage manuscripts I edit. This is no way to win your reader’s confidence.
A common symptom is sentences that start out as if to declare, but equivocate over their course until they become both this-and-that.
Examples might look something like this:
- He wanted to be her confidant, her friend.
- She longed for one last chance to hold her child to her breast, for one last chance to say she loved him.
- “Don’t get all full of yourself. You were only a meal ticket, a soft place to nap.”
- Building this bridge was the village’s last great hope, their way out of their seclusion.
Once begun, this sentence structure has a way of taking over a manuscript, to the point that I suspect these authors are thinking of the pattern as stylistic. To me, as an editor, it comes across as a bad habit. Uncertain prose has a way of drilling holes in the boat meant to convey your story, leaving you with a leaky mess that refuses to go anywhere.
Let’s analyze the example sentences.
- Friend/confidant: Are these two concepts so different that you need them both? As author, this is your chance to choose the word that targets the sentence most accurately. I like “confidant,” which enhances the generic concept of friendship with a promise of holding secrets—but that’s me. Now you choose.
- Last embrace/last I love you: The set-up will have the reader thinking, if this woman had “one last” opportunity, which would she choose? When prisoners on death row are offered the choice of “one last” meal, they don’t get to sample all the entrees. And any mother will tell you that holding a child to her breast is a gesture that already speaks of love.
- Meal ticket/soft place to nap: By implying that the speaker has not felt nurtured in the relationship, either one of these metaphors could serve as a harsh put-down. Here, they fight one another. In which role was the accused character more important to the plot: as a provider of funds, or respite? Figuring that out while drafting will help send your protagonist toward her next plot point. In the published book, it will help your reader understand the story.
- Bridge of hope/bridge of connection: My guess would be that by the time this sentence is earned, its second clause will be self-evident. Adding the reiteration dilutes the message of hope.
Each of these examples would be stronger if a period ended the sentence at the first comma. Bonus: the sentence would end on a power word that carries more punch.
[In the last paragraph I almost wrote, “In my opinion, each of these examples…” but why equivocate? The first thing I learned as a dance critic, forty years ago, was to own my opinion. It’s better to declare your point and entertain argument than to fail to make a point at all.]
Declarations exude energy
Readers respond to the energy within a declaration. It is “I love you” shouted from the roof of a dented pickup truck instead of “I kinda-sorta like you” hinted at in a note marred with erasures. Real life is so chock full of uncertainty that it’s refreshing to read the voice of a character who knows her own mind—even if she changes it later. A truth declared is delivered straight to the gut, where we readers can feel its effect.
Maybe that’s because declarations also emanate from the gut. In his bestselling book, Thinking Fast and Slow, Nobel Memorial Prize laureate Daniel Kahneman explains that what we call “intuition” arises from the same vast warehouse of experience that feeds more deliberate choices. It’s just a lot faster, since it bypasses processes that allow us to talk ourselves out of a decision. So when your character blurts a declaration without applying a filter, she is absolutely revealing herself. That can get us into so much trouble in real life, but it can be great fun to witness when reading, don’t you think?
Of course it’s absolutely possible that it may suit your novel’s premise to have a character who is either comically or tragically indecisive. In this case, even indecision requires focus. Be honest in your assessment: is the “this-and-also-that” nature of your prose limited to only the indecisive character’s point of view, or is it a writing quirk that permeates your exposition and dilutes your characterizations?
So all right already—it’s a quirk. Why not simply allow it?
Because on one hand, anything done habitually lacks the specific intention needed to build a story. And on the other hand, it robs you of a tool that could spotlight a situation in which you hope to show an evolution of thought.
Creating an evolution in thought out of the confidant/friend example from #1, above, might look like this:
Ralph had never before heard such an impassioned plea. Twenty minutes after Diane Masterson began speaking, she set aside her spreadsheets, pulled off her reading glasses, and sought eye contact with each member of the Senate committee. “Let me speak to you, human to human,” she said—and it worked. After years of arguing with her from opposite sides of the political divide, Ralph heard what Masterson was saying for the first time. This was not only unexpected, it was downright confusing at first, like a warm spring wind had hit his face while his feet still stood in snow.
But he liked the feeling. In fact, he was shocked to realize that he liked Masterson. Diane—he tried out the name in a whisper. There was more depth to this formidable CEO than he’d realized and he found himself wanting to be her friend. No—her confidant. He wanted access to the many secrets of this woman’s heart.
Instead of listing “friend” and “confidant” and letting them lie, as in the example, this modified passage shows a trajectory in thought that results in a clear emotional turning point.
Paradox holds power of its own
Can’t a feeling be two things at once? Sure. If it suited your plot better, the conclusion to this passage could be paradoxical. The energy of a paradox relies upon oppositional energy, however, not slight shades of meaning.
That could look like this:
Ralph had never before heard such an impassioned plea. Twenty minutes after Diane Masterson began speaking, she set aside her spreadsheets, pulled off her reading glasses, and sought eye contact with each member of the Senate committee. “Let me speak to you, human to human,” she said—and it worked.
Her passion ignited fire within him, even while Ralph remained frozen in the ideology that lent form and meaning to his life’s work.
At that moment, he both loved and hated Diane Masterson.
Whether you’re going for evolution or paradox, neither approach is likely to work if you’ve already inured your reader to shades of thought by presenting things as “both this-and-that.” She won’t recognize that this iteration of your habit was meant to spotlight an important turning point.
Don’t get me wrong: “I kinda-sorta like you,” hinted at in a note marred with erasures, might be a charming inclusion in some stories. Here, I’m referring to habit. Relying upon wishy-washy sentences is like pointing toward story with a broom when only a cross-bow will do. The reader might follow your hand down the broom’s handle just fine, but its bristles all point in slightly different directions. Which should the reader follow?
Spare nouns and verbs, on the other hand, harness energy that creates a clear trajectory your reader can follow. Should every sentence read that way? No. A reader can become inured to any overused technique, including declaration.
Besides, a crossbow isn’t your average, everyday weapon. Wield only when needed to impel a sharpened point so it will stick.
Go to wherever you are in your work-in-progress, page backwards, and share the most recent declarative sentence you wrote. Give us context so we understand its power. If you had to scroll through several pages, did you come across other sentences that might be simplified to better help your reader follow the story?
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About Kathryn Craft
Kathryn Craft (she/her) is the author of two novels from Sourcebooks, The Art of Falling and The Far End of Happy. A freelance developmental editor at Writing-Partner.com since 2006, Kathryn also teaches in Drexel University’s MFA program and runs a year-long, small-group mentorship program, Your Novel Year. Learn more on Kathryn's website.
Wonderful points, Kathryn, especially this: “Relying upon wishy-washy sentences is like pointing toward story with a broom when only a cross-bow will do.”
Is it possible that our ears and sensibilities have been dulled by listening to the strenuous efforts of newscasters to stay neutral?
Hi Anna, interesting thought. Although considering the political polarity of our current era, I’m surprised you’ve found a journalist who is even attempting neutrality! But you have pointed to a place where journalism training does not well serve the novelist. Fiction lovers crave polarity and the conflict it engenders, so let ‘er rip!
Aha! Did you have me in mind, Kathryn? I remember you pointing out that very habit in my writing—saying something twice, because I loved both phrases too much to kill either of them! It’s something I work at, again and again. I suspect that it’s a carryover from speech, which is more forgiving. Thank you for laying this out so cogently!
Haha Barbara I so love to hear that I am still sitting on shoulders and whispering in ears long after an edit is complete! But as much as all of us creatives hope to be unique, this is one way in which you are not. This post was inspired by trends I’ve noted in many a client’s manuscript, so it seemed worth addressing.
Hi Kathryn, like Barbara, I felt you were talking to me. I know I do this. It’s a nervous tic–you think you didn’t make the point strong enough and you are trying again–or elaborating or something. Great reminder and I will watch for this.
Hi Beth, interesting. It is true, though, that anything done habitually loses its power to engage. Consider that comma an invitation to return for a second look so you can hone the point you’ve now decided to make.
I guess a companion slogan to this piece could be, “Equivocate for a reason or don’t equivocate at all!”
For some reason your “equivocate for a reason or don’t equivocate at all!” comment reminds me of advice actress – and writer! – Emma Thompson once received.
She said James Ivory of Merchant and Ivory Productions (A Room with a View, Howard’s End, etc) once advised never to rely on crying to propel a drama because it doesn’t. Basically their lesson was that every life has sadness but if your go-to crutch is to swim in each setback moment of their arc, you will only depress your audience, weaken your character and break the story momentum. So if you must show a breakdown, do it once and choose the moment wisely.
Similarly, equivocation as a launching board to a payoff for both the character and the reader, as you’ve demonstrated, only work if applied sparingly. Too much will definitely spoil the soup.
Thanks so much for this and all your writing lessons, Kathryn. I always gain valuable insights from them.
Thanks for adding to the discussion, John. I think the words “go-to crutch” are so key. I’ve always loved Emma Thompson and will remember this story.
We can blame our human nature for our reader’s inability to maintain interest in our “go-to” habits—even at an emotional peak, as when confronted by someone who cries often due to her deep pain, we’ll adapt. “Oh that’s just how she is,” we’ll think, ignoring her tears.
Once again, Kraft delivers! Thanks, Kathryn, for another example-rich post full of practical advice. You demonstrate how more is almost always less–more modifiers, more efforts to clarify that actually produce the opposite effect.
“Wishy washy intention, once on the page, has a way of persisting….” All too true. I suffer from this, and the only cure is “leaving it alone.” The longer something is set aside, the more likely it is that I’ll later see what was invisible before, slap my forehead and make changes.
“‘In my opinion…’ but why equivocate?” More truth, Kathryn. Hearing or reading this kind of false modesty always sets my teeth on edge. Who else’s opinion would it be, your neighbor’s? The pundit sitting next to you in front of the TV camera? Add “I think,” “I believe,” “I am of the view that,” etc. All such humble-pie expressions make little sense–unless, as you say, they are meant to reflect a character’s makeup.
“Hearing or reading this kind of false modesty always sets my teeth on edge. Who else’s opinion would it be, your neighbor’s?” This made me giggle out loud, Barry!
If we are writing within a character’s POV, having them own their opinion is a first step toward agency. They have the right to think, believe, and then act upon who they are.
As you can see from the other comments, you aren’t alone in your suffering. We all do it! The trick is to recognize it sooner so we can make a decision that will push our stories forward.
YEAH!
–So to speak…
Okay, jokes aside, here’s a thought: this kind of equivocation seems to come from a belief that “more is more,” that using more words and variations on a point automatically makes it stronger. Or it’s redundency (“if that phase didn’t click, the next one might”) or just throat-clearing and feeling our way to the word we want.
It’s a cousin of adding an adverb instead of a stronger verb.
So thank you for pointing this out. If a phrase comes out repetitive or just hedging itself, it could well be a sign that we want it to be better than it is. And that should mean rebuilding it so that its only layers really are making it stronger — or stripping it down to just say it right.
YEAH! (haha). Well put, Ken. I do believe the habitual use of such a technique is a vestige of process, but the process was never thought through to completion—and that’s not helpful to writer or reader.
Thank you for this marvelous metaphor: “Uncertain prose has a way of drilling holes in the boat meant to convey your story, leaving you with a leaky mess that refuses to go anywhere.” It identifies what is so bothersome about this sort of equivocation, for both writer and reader. Vowing now to hunt this down in my own work, and watch for it in editing clients’ work.
A boat is an apt metaphor for story, since its keel is meant to keep it moving in our intended direction—but it can’t do its job if the boat has no impulsion and starts to sink.
Glad I provided food for thought today, Kate!
Here’s another bad habit: getting my consonants mixed up. That’s Kathryn Craft, not Kraft. Sorry.
Haha no problem, Barry! Both my first and last names invite misspellings. I often say, “I’m Kathryn with a K and Craft with a C.” Especially here in southeastern PA, where German Krafts way outnumber English Crafts. But in a comment that begins, “Once again, Kraft delivers”? The double entendre is so obvious that I think your only option is to plead your love for cheese!
Kathryn, I love the power of a declarative sentence. Thank you for making it so clear. It’s a way to show personality too. One who is unsure will be wishy-washy in their speaking as well. There are cultural differences too regarding what is considered polite.
It’s wonderful that your last name is Craft. My OB was named Stork and my MIL said, the stork really does bring babies :)
Haha another laugh-out-loud comment! If you wrote a Dr. Stork as a novel character you’d probably be criticized for being too on-the-nose!
Great point about cultural differences as concerns expressing one’s opinion, Vijaya, thank you. Even better would be having a family member take your protagonist to task for breaking those conventions.
Kathryn, I couldn’t resist using Dr. Stork in my novel BOUND. It added much levity. I just read a picture book that’s very punny: Little Calabash by Margo Sorenson. And David Lubar’s Punished is an all time favorite.
This is the first time I’ve read an article that made me notice flaws in my own writing.
I’m relatively new to the world of authors and writing. I appreciate this post. I will print it and tuck it away in the binder dedicated to my work in progress.
Thank you for sharing your knowledge.
Hi Winona, I’m not sure if I should say “glad I could help” or apologize, lol. Thanks for stopping by and commenting, though, and glad it gave you food for thought!
A point is sharp. A strong idea is a hammer. Say what you mean. Stand up if you want to be heard.
Or, on the other hand, you may want to waffle, equivocate and second guess out of respect for others, making room for debate, being unsure of things because after all how can we be sure of anything and, hey, long talky sentences are how we speak and think anyway, so maybe naturalism is more convincing on the page?
You get my point. We get yours. Good post, Kathryn, thanks.
And of course your long, windy, unsure sentence—through its intentional, as opposed to habitual use—made it’s point as well! Thanks for a great illustration, Don.
I didn’t see too many people responding to your challenge to cite a declaration in their WIP but here’s mine: “I’ve dedicated my life to the law. It’s the moral compass I embrace the way others do religion.”
In your example, I could have added “or science or even the Golden Rule” but you’re right, it would have diluted the statement.
I’m afraid I’ve been guilty of hedging so thanks for the reminder. You always have something new to teach me.
Thanks for playing Maggie! We can never have too many role models or cautionary tales. This is a great example!
Keep a watchful eye. As long as you hedge for a purpose, and catch yourself when you do so out of habit or indecision, your writing won’t suffer.
Another spot-on post, Kathryn. For me, tentativeness in writing comes from my tentativeness as a writer: “If you, dear editor, don’t like this expression/metaphor/sentence, maybe you’ll like this one better?”
I think you’re right, Christine. Our main allegiance has to be to our characters and their dilemmas, and how best to move the story forward—even if that means a misstep or a backward slide. Thinking what might best please our agent/editor/end reader from the get-go is not the best way to allow a story to arise. Story is just too subjective to try to make decisions based on unknown expectations!
Hi, Kathryn:
My last declarative sentence is in fact in three parts:
It’s then I’m wishing I’d brought my drink along. Sure if it isn’t whiskey I’m wanting. Buckets of it.
The context comes in the sentences preceding these three in the same paragraph, which is the last of the chapter:
Only once the door shuts behind do I see what’s taking place—the two flogged, bound, naked thieves hanging by their heels from the ceiling, their tattoos indecipherable upside down, crisscrossed with welts. The grinning ferret-faced deviant with his whip. The crew of gangsters feigning boredom as they look on.
The chapter actually begins with this scene, circles back in time to what preceded it, then returns to it as the chapter concludes. The narrator, who’s been waiting outside at the bar, is being introduced to a group of gangsters by a man who has rescued him from a dicey situation, and the narrator is wondering how much gratitude is owed. He’s about to find out.
BTW: Your four equivocation examples remind me of something Annie Dillard called the old one-two. It’s when a writer writes something powerful, and then as though to confirm she understands the power of it, or to justify her authority to state it so directly, she then says it again a different way, which (as you’ve noted) only undermines the effect.
Wonderful post. Thanks!
Ha! The old one-two. Great way to describe it!
I love your example because beyond declaration, your diminishing sentence size adds the visual impression of honing your point.
Thanks for stopping by, and for playing, David!
I would love to leave a nice long comment or even an example but right now I have to rush to open my wip and find all of my one twos and then correct/change any that need it.
Or in other words; No time for comments. Time for major editing.
Go Gretchen, go! Don’t yank them willy-nilly, but ask yourself: am I truly reflecting my character’s thought process here, or am I instead using this stylistic quirk in a way that obscures story? If you could target the sentence in a clearer way, do so—to help you and the reader.
Ugh! I do this all the time! I thought it was stylistic, but I see, as you pointed out, that it is being wishy-washy.
I hope you read through the comments, Autumn—you aren’t alone! Best keep the use of a re-targeted statement in reserve for use at just the right moment!