Tag Archives: writing

Is there no end to this lack of “-ly”s?

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Last week I wrote about how one popular writer gets around the “-ly” problem. Diana Gabaldon is the author of the much acclaimed Outlander series. I think the acclaim is well deserved. These are wonderful time-travel romance books that I am enjoying thoroughly and would recommend to anyone.

But Ms. Gabaldon has developed one stylistic quirk that brings me up short and right out of the story every time I encounter it. Which is, regrettably, often. In what might be a response to the current undeserved disfavor in which adverbs ending in -ly find themselves among self-proclaimed writing gurus, Ms. Gabaldon often simply leaves off the -ly. I’m not sure how she punctuates this particular variation on the language (I’m listening, not reading). Problem solved, right?

Well, gentle reader, here are some real examples from An Echo in the Bone. You decide:

“He turned for the shore, cutting smooth through the water.”

“Roger shrugged helpless.”

“‘What?’ I said startled.”

“‘You can’t leave,’ I whispered urgent.”

“Tears welled in his own eyes then, unexpected.”

“She bit her lip at that and nodded reluctant.”

I offer these examples reluctant, since I love this book wholehearted. But I do wish somebody had edited a few -lys back into it.

Those Pesky –ly Adverbs

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It’s all the rage these days among writer-mavens to advise the disuse, where possible, of –ly adverbs. (Some of us, for the record, disagree.) Substitute instead, these mavens urge, a stronger form of the verb. Use of –ly adverbs weakens your writing, they say, by implying poor verb choice.

I absolutely agree.

Oh. Excuse me. That was a mistake. What I meant to say is that I am in complete concordance. There. Much stronger.

Writers should use the strongest appropriate verb instead of a weaker verb and one of those pesky –ly adjectives. Where possible.

But of course this is not always possible.

In particular, these same writer-mavens also advise never to use speaker dialog tags other than “said” because they get in the way of the dialog itself.

“But my third-grade teacher encouraged me to use verbs other than ‘said’!” I gasp.

I remember—I remember, and this was half a century ago—the class making a list on the blackboard of all the picturesque, strong verbs we might use instead of “said.” And our teacher encouraged us to use them.

Oh. Half a century ago, that explains it. Times change, and so do writing styles. Nowadays, if dialog tags must be used, “said” is the one. It’s the only one where the writing does not insert itself between the reader and the dialog. This is fine. But now we face the conflict of two writer-maven rules: Always use the strongest verb form possible, except always use “said.”

And forget those –ly adverbs, even with “said.” What’s a poor writer to do?

I have been listening to Diana Gabaldon’s An Echo in the Bone, the seventh in her brilliant Outlander series. This generally well-written and thoroughly enjoyable book has almost completely solved the –ly adverb problem. (Which, you may have noticed from the previous sentence, I have not.) You see, it turns out that adjectives are still acceptable. Use them instead of those pesky –ly adverbs. Behold, actual quotes from this book.

“Only until the war is over,” he said, encouraging.

“You never said anything about wanting to write a book,” Ian said, curious.

There must be at least one construction like this on every page. Maybe more. I love this book, but the eradication of –ly adverbs is painful to listen to. Every time the –ly should be there but isn’t, I cringe.

My new writing group

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I have recently joined a new writing critique group, organized at least loosely through the Kentucky Romance Writers of America.

(Aside to everyone who knows me, knows my fiction, knows my home in New England: You are thinking, “Romance?” You are thinking, “Kentucky?” It’s complicated. Don’t ask.)

This crit group was so successfully subscribed that it divided itself into subgroups, and I am in the Fantasy subgroup.

(Aside to everyone who knows me: You are thinking, “Well, aha!” You sit back in satisfaction at knowing *something*, at least, that makes some sense. And I feel the same way. I know something about you, too.)

There are nine of us in this group. So far, maybe half a dozen have submitted pieces to be critiqued, and each of the submittals has received three to six reviews. The reviews are detailed and thoughtful. I can honestly say that the three reviews I received so far on my story have been eye-opening.

And not just the reviews. *We* are eye-opening. We are so different, one from another. We live in all parts of the country (okay, maybe more in Kentucky than elsewhere, but plenty of elsewhere too). Some of us are still in college and some of us have children who have already finished college. Though we all write “fantasy,” our works are in quite different genres. You would be surprised. Some of us have published many books; others are still hoping.

And here’s the thing that blows Dan away. The critiques are given generously, carefully, wholeheartedly. I’d even say lovingly. (Adverbs… one of our topics of discussion… Aren’t writers an interesting bunch? 😉  In a profession where competition is so mind-bogglingly fierce, writers are unselfishly kind and helpful to one another. If any of us makes it, we are all genuinely happy. We want to boost every last one of us over the fence.

We’re in this together.

And here’s the thing that blows me away: We’re also all in our own separate worlds. Jagi frets over Kestrel and shapes him and smooths him and lives with him and loves him and molds him and makes him real. I do the same for Kell, and Linda for Moira. There’s no overlap. Not of time, space, world, or destiny. We create them with such love and such tenderness and such difficulty, and so imperfectly.

This is *hard work*.

We have to help each other, or we wouldn’t stand a chance.

The Halfling’s Court

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My friend Danielle Ackley-McPhail, whom I have never met, is launching a new book. Strike that “never met” part: We may have said a few words at Balticon a year and a half ago. Or maybe not; in any case, it never got as far as, well, names or anything. We’ve gotten to be friendly through belonging to the same writers’ group and through Danielle’s writer-oriented Yahoo group. I’ve also gotten to be friendly with some of her other friends in these groups, and it feels kind of strange and nifty to have a circle of friends whom I like but have never met.

The new book is called The Halfling’s Court, and it sounds like a good read. I’ve read some of Danielle’s other books, Yesterday’s Dreams and Tomorrow’s Memories, and I enjoyed them very much. Danielle is good with characterization and descriptions and doesn’t draw back (as I do) from blood and gore, either. The Halfling’s Court, like the other two, blends hard modern times and the Land of Fae. Danielle mixes them well and pours a pleasant tale.

The Halfling’s Court will be launched officially at Arisia in Boston in January, but it’s already hit the ground running (er, hit the air flying?), with a listing in amazon.com and reviews starting to come in.

What an exciting time for a writer! I wish her so much success!

Avoidance, Part 2

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About three weeks ago, I wrote a blog post on avoidance, perhaps otherwise known as writers block. The scene I was working on describes what is, perhaps, the climax of the entire tale, in which Our Hero brings himself to perform a difficult act, the very last thing he ever wanted to do. And moves on. I knew what was in the scene. I had gone over it a dozen times in my head. But it seemed like everything in my life, even the time spent actually at my computer, conspired to take precedence over actually writing the scene down.

I have to confess that I’d half hoped that writing that blog post might open whatever gate was closed and allow me to write the darned scene already.

But it didn’t happen quite that way. What actually happened was that I managed to continue to avoid writing the scene for another week. And then one night while lying in bed not quite sleeping, I went through the scene again. A new character showed up this time–not new to the story, but new to the scene. And when this character showed up, the nature of the scene changed. It got more complicated and interesting, and a lot less dismal.

The next day I started writing. I wrote the pivotal moment in the scene.

Over the last two weeks I have also completed half a dozen scenes leading up to that final scene, detailing Our Hero’s struggle to avoid the act he has been cornered into. And I completed the scene itself, tying the pivotal moment into all that leads up to it. And I even wrote the one small scene needed afterwards. In all, I’ve written well over 7,000 words in two weeks, more than a tenth of the entire novel so far—not exactly fast enough for National Novel Writing month, but probably about as much as I’ve ever succeeded in writing in any two-week period. And hey, you know what? It’s pretty good stuff!

So maybe, just maybe, the scene was resisting me all this time because it wasn’t the right scene yet.

Blood Meridian

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I am reading Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy. By “reading” I mean that I am listening to it on CD, a rather odd and, well, bloody companion to my food preparation and meals.

“What’s it about?” you might ask. It doesn’t have much of a story arc, and so it can be easily summarized. There are no spoilers.  Here goes:

A young man and assorted companions travel through a vast, magnificent, desolate, and wonderfully described landscape, in which they encounter a diversity of people and other creatures, mostly dead. Those that are not dead generally either kill or are killed by them, often in gruesome ways described in the same emotionally neutral yet poetic language as the landscape. And then they ride on.

It’s the weirdest thing, but I wish I could write like this.

Avoidance

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There is no work avoidance like that of a writer faced with writing a scene that compels her.

This scene has chased me for two weeks now. It’s there in my mind when I wake up in the morning. I play it and embellish it and feel my way into it when I’m working around the house or eating my meals. When I’m talking with someone, the scene steals away part of my attention. It follows me to bed at night. It shapes my dreams.

It’s a brutal, compelling, climactic scene. I love it. The emotions in it are raw. Here the protagonist finally faces the last thing he ever wanted to face, and he grows beyond his limitations. I know what the scene must do and how it must do it.

I could, I tell myself, sit down and write at least a first draft of this scene in a couple of hours.

Except that, apparently, I can’t.

In the last couple of weeks or so, I have cleaned and weeded the garden. I’ve hosted six house guests and done at least that many loads of laundry after the guests left. Heck, I even ironed some shirts! I’ve been to the Farmer’s Market, the supermarket, the Whole Foods market, the liquor-store-cum-gourmet market, and the produce market. And it’s not like I haven’t had time at my computer. On the contrary: I’ve sat at my computer for hours. I’ve edited another book I’m working on until it’s ever so much better than it was last month. I have proofread an entire book as a consultant. I’ve written a couple of blog posts, maintained an active presence on facebook, and kept up with all my email. I’ve taken, edited, organized, and posted numerous photographs. I’ve found and ordered cabinet parts, refrigerator parts, and books online. Let’s face it; I’ve done just about everything… except… write that one scene.

Really, I must sit down and do this.

Maybe right now.