MOST people use three or four basic sentence constructions—the simple, compound, and complex sentences taught in all composition books.
I came to New York to write.
(simple = one independent clause)
I came to New York to write, but it took decades to find a publisher.
(compound = two independent clauses)
Because I was naïve and optimistic, I came to New York to write.
(complex = one dependent clause and one independent)
I came to New York, which is a font of inspiration for artists of all types, to write.
(also complex = one independent clause and one dependent)
What most people do to give their sentences (their dunning) variety is merely to multiply their subjects, verbs, objects, complements, phrases, even clauses:
Because I was naïve and optimistic, because I wanted to make a dent on literature, and because I needed a change in the direction of my life, I came to New York, which is a font of inspiration for artists of all types, to taste reality, to test limits, to write about both, and to hope for recognition.
Grammatically correct, but…
How do you get from the common to the stunning? Not by diagramming sentences, though that’s a good start toward understanding a sentence’s pieces. And certainly not by viewing sentences as simple, compound, or complex. I tried both, neither leading me to understand how good writers use sentence structures to make their writing sing. It was only when I began trying to identify what was unusual about a sentence—a dramatic flourish, an elegant repetition, a conversational injection—that I began to see the patterns I’ve classified here.
So, to move from the common to the stunning, begin to look for patterns in good writing that you can emulate. The idea is to build an arsenal of patterns that take you beyond the common. Careful composition of each sentence may seem painstaking, but it is fundamental to developing an individual style. In a single sentence you can convey tone, style, and message. But follow the dictum that spare use of the uncommon is superior to frequent use, which can quickly careen into cliché.
Think about length. There’s nothing wrong with the occasional long, decorative sentence (here named the cascade), so long as it is well crafted. But few people today have the patience or the talent to craft a long sentence well—most only stuff their sentences with extraneous detail. What’s long? Anything more than about twenty-five words, or about two lines of typescript. (I once had the pleasure of editing a three-page sentence by Buckminster Fuller.) The test I put to writers is to read a long sentence aloud. If they stumble, if they gasp for air, the sentence is not well crafted, and the stumbles and gasps show them where to make repairs.
It’s important to scrutinize every word, phrase, and clause—to see whether you can cut it to give you a sentence that conveys the same meaning more swiftly. Many of the patterns classified here do just that. The fragment. The deft connection. The stark attachment. The occasional short form. Indeed, much of the editing I do is merely drawing lines through words that clutter a sentence but contribute nothing.
Her novels registered these events most secretly, and her letters registered these events not at all.
Her novels registered these events most secretly, her letters not at all.
For guidance on specific ways to trim the fat from your sentences or to break them into shorter, more digestible bits, see another of my little books, Edit Yourself (Norton, 1996).
Think about where you put each of a sentence’s building blocks—each word, phrase, clause. Add a dash, as I did in the preceding sentence, to set apart a block of words. In the workshops I conduct, I urge people to try to begin separating the movable from the immovable. The subject, verb, and object or complement are usually in a fixed order (usually, because they can sometimes be inverted, to good effect). But the embellishments of prepositional phrases, the complications of that and which clauses, the conditioning by if and when clauses—these, you can move. And you should try them at different places in the sentence to see where they have the best effect. Generally, the earlier a word or phrase appears, the greater the emphasis. Apply this maxim for occasional drama.
Propagandist, moralist, prophet—this is the rising sequence.
A sentence’s last word or phrase can also be emphatic.
At least two-thirds of us are just plain rich compared to all the rest of the human family—rich in food, rich in clothes, rich in entertainment and amusement, rich in leisure, rich.
The point is: don’t give that emphasis away unnecessarily. Choose the word you want to start with—participles often work well.
Americans, having been struck by an annual outbreak of filial sentiment, make more long-distance calls on Mother’s Day than on any other day of the year.
Struck by an annual outbreak of filial sentiment, Americans make more long-distance calls on Mother’s Day than on any other day of the year.
And think about balance, to create the soothing rhythms and compelling cadences that give your sentences pace. Trimming a sentence’s fat helps in this. So does moving a sentence’s parts to their most felicitous places. But the balance that comes from repeated parts, often in parallel constructions, and from recasts, reversals, and cascades is perhaps most elusive. The reason? You’re not simply cutting or moving things. You’re revising them, inventing them. And that takes more thought.
As one wag put it: “Writing? Easiest thing in the world. Just stare at a blank sheet of paper and wait for the drops of blood to form on your forehead.” The hope here is that those drops become mere sweat, and that by asking the occasional question, injecting the occasional short form, making the occasional deft connection, you will become more satisfied with your writing. And so will those reading it.