Tag Archives: The Prose Test Kitchen

Prose Test Kitchen: Fragments

Prose Test Kitchen: a giant metaphorical kitchen in which we experiment with all sorts of ingredients that can help make our prose taste better, like alliteration and exciting verbs. Um… okay, you get the extended metaphor; anyway today’s ingredient-of-consideration is…

The American Heritage Dictionary, 4th edition, defines a fragment as:

  1. A small part broken off or detatched
  2. An incomplete or isolated portion; a bit

A literary fragment is basically the same thing, only…literary:

  1. A dependent phrase or clause broken off or detached from the main clause
  2. An incomplete or isolated sentence

When used correctly, literary fragments can add style and flair to your prose. I mean, who wants to read complete sentence after complete sentence after complete sentence? Gets kind of boring. But too many fragments can make your reader’s eyes go buggy. So how to make these things shine? Here are a few guidelines.

Fragments can:

  • Vary the rhythm of your prose. This goes back to the complete sentence after complete sentence thing. A paragraph constructed of sentences that are 30 words long sounds dull. Repetitive. But a paragraph with a one-word sentence, then a 50-word sentence, then a fragment? That’s interesting. But the real point of varying rhythm with fragments is to…
  • Add emphasis. If you’re reading along, lulled by strings of lyrical, complete sentences, and then your eyes land on a fragment, you’re going to sit up. Take notice. Use fragments to call your readers’ attention to important plot points, character revelations, etc.
  • Speed up your action-packed scenes. If your character is running from the bad guys, out of breath and frightened, she’s not going to rely on complete sentences. She’s going to see things in fragments. And when she describes her predicament with short, spiky sentences, your reader’s going to feel frightened and tense and out of breath, too.

These rocks are fragments, too.

So we’ve established that fragments can be useful and stylish. However, the college student in me wants to add a caveat. The OWL at Purdue explains:

You may have noticed that newspaper and magazine journalists often use a dependent clause as a separate sentence when it follows clearly from the preceding main clause […]. This is a conventional journalistic practice, often used for emphasis. For academic writing and other more formal writing situations, however, you should avoid such journalistic fragment sentences.

Take this warning seriously. When I ignore it every now and then, the effects can be rollercoaster-y. Some professors don’t mind at all, but others put big red circles around these sentences and helpfully mark them: FRAGMENT. And I think, I know, you silly, that was the point. It was literary.

So here’s the thing. Fragments can add lots of flavor to your writing, but don’t overdo them. And don’t use them in your papers.

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(Prose Test Kitchen) Wordle This.

In contrast to yesterday’s post, do you ever feel like you’re saying the same thing over and over again? Revisions are zipping right along but I’m discovering that I suffer from a disease.

It is called same-word-stuckness.

THE INBETWEEN is 81,655 words exactly. That’s a lot of words. But how many of those words are the same word used way too many times?

Like names. Probably 5,000 of those words are names. Too low? Maybe. Maybe 10,000. Get this: MS Word has this super-cool feature (possibly my favorite, which goes to show how lame MS Word really is) called AutoSummarize. It’s under the “tools” menu if you’re interested. Anyway, it summarizes your document according to its main theme. Apparently THE INBETWEEN’s main theme is:

Noah. Noah. Esmund.”

“Esmund.” “Noah —”

“Esmund. “Esmund!”

“Noah —”

“Noah.”

“Esmund —”

Shall we pause for a moment of silence? Stop laughing. Noah and Esmund are very important characters —

Then there are those other words. Take a look at mine:

Wordle

(Generated by possibly the coolest thing on the web: http://www.wordle.net)

Apparently Noah and Esmund have pretty equal screen-time judging by the size of their font, but they’ve been upstaged by none other than LIKE. Don’t worry, I don’t use it like teenagers do because that would be like really tedious to read. LIKE is a comparison word, remember, which means TI is peppered with all sorts of cool similes. Right.

Also popular are EYES. I love eyes. So do poets: “The eyes of men converse as much as their tongues, with the advantage that the ocular dialect needs no dictionary” (Ralph Waldo Emerson). TI is full of eye-conversations. Green eyes, silver-blue eyes, brown eyes all blabbing at each other —

Fortunately WANT, TIME, DEAD and KEY are big-ish. Good thing since all of the above are major themes. Also major themes: MOUTHS, HANDS, THROATS, LIPS, HOT. Yes, I categorize TI as urban fantasy, but I called it paranormal romance for a while…

And then — have you noticed how giant BACK is? If you have, forget about it. I’m not so sure what’s going on there. Also random is the appearance of TEETH. Enough said.

Finally, to prove that this is a YA novel written by a young adult herself: OKAY JUST MAYBE SOMETHING can prove that TI is not JUST a random jumble of overused words but LIKE something GOOD.

We shall see.

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The Prose Test Kitchen (2)

dessert

Good stuff coming: stay hungry!

But first, before more of Dillard’s tasty prose: I just won a blog award! You can see it in the sidebar. Ash from firsttimewritersofya.blogspot.com nominated “A Romantic Enters the World” yesterday for the Helpful Blog Award, and I got this super-cool award (drawn by Ash herself) to show off for a while:

helpfulbloggeraward

As part of the contest rules, I will be nominating seven of the blogs I think are most helpful in the next few days. Would it be weird if I nominated Nathan Bransford?

Now.

Analyzing Annie: Alliteration Adds Punch (yes, that last word is supposed to break the pattern. As we will see, too much alliteration sends your readers running)

Remember this passage from yesterday:

“The day is real; the sky clicks securely in place over the mountains, locks round the islands, snaps slap on the bay. Air fits flush on farm roofs; it rises inside the doors of barns and rubs at yellow barn windows. Air clicks up my hand cloven into fingers and wells in my ears’ holes, whole and entire.” (12)

Notice how the use of alliteration adds to the overall rhythm of Dillard’s sentences: “snaps slap”, “fits flush” — everything sounds very clicky and short. And alliteration works hand-in-hand with Dillard’s snazzy verb-choice (snazzy verbs alliterate with the adjectives, etc. — p.s: is alliterate a verb? I think so): both play off each other to make her prose distinct.

The moth passage has epic alliteration:

“One night a moth flew into the candle, was caught, burnt dry, and held. […] A golden female moth, a biggish one with a two-inch wingspan, flapped into the fire, dropped her abdomen into the wet wax, stuck, flamed, frazzled and fried in a second. her moving wings ignited like tissue paper, enlarging the circle of light in the clearing and creating out of the darkness the sudden blue sleeves of my sweater, the green leaves of jewelweed by my side, the ragged red trunk of a pine. At once the light contracted again and the moth’s wings vanished in a fine, foul smoke.

Notice how the alliteration is only there in a flicker-y way: in and out, there and not there. Dillard doesn’t leap overboard with something like “Peter Piper picked a peck of picked peppers”. Sometimes we might not even notice Dillard’s use of alliteration because it just adds flavor. It’s like salt: too much is gross, but a little bit adds texture and flavor. Speak the passage out loud, noticing how all the soft sounds (“flamed, frazzled, fried”, “sudden/sleeves/sweater”) contrast harder sounds (“candle/caught”, “clearing/creating”, “ragged red”), making you speak louder, softer, faster, slower.

So. Recap:

  • Don’t overuse
  • But use! Adds style and flair
  • Vary sounds: you might use harder sounds (cold sounds) to describe winter — whereas spring is soft and flowery. But winter also has soft sounds (ice) and spring also has hard ones (think March: in like a lion). Be creative.

I am personally a big fan of alliteration. It’s something that can bring your prose from plain-old-normal to stylish and distinct.

Try this:

Pick out a morning paper headline — or zip over to www.nytimes.com and choose from about a thousand. Experiment with overboard alliteration that would make your editor laugh — or alliteration that might make your headline stand out a little more.

Mine:

Have fun, be free, fool around…

 

(Dillard, Annie. Holy the Firm. New York: HarperCollins, 2003.)

Tomorrow: Blog Awards and blog carnival!

 

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The Prose Test Kitchen (1)

I’m interested in startling prose.

Nobody likes prose that tastes like last night’s pizza. Or pizza in general. We’ve had it before. What we haven’t had, what we haven’t had is ginger and pepper and cumin and squash, sausage with apples and cranberries and maple syrup, garlic and roasted tomatoes and caramelized onions and basil and fresh mozzarella cheese. We want spices to singe our tongues. We want prose to explode in our mouths like some spectacular new dish that’s fresher than a farmer’s market.

table

This epic meal in Korea was definitely not pizza. But it definitely ranks among the best meals I've ever had: kimchi, vegetables, noodles, a pancake-thing, and Coke in glass bottles for dessert

How?

I just read Holy the Firm for my rhetoric class. It’s by Annie Dillard. I found myself underlining almost every sentence in the book — inhaling the strange and startling tastes of her writing.

Sample this:

“The day is real; the sky clicks securely in place over the mountains, locks round the islands, snaps slap on the bay. Air fits flush on farm roofs; it rises inside the doors of barns and rubs at yellow barn windows. Air clicks up my hand cloven into fingers and wells in my ears’ holes, whole and entire.” (12)

And this:

“How may tons of sky can I see from the window? It is morning: morning! and the water clobbered with light.” (61)

Then there’s her account of the moth:

“One night a moth flew into the candle, was caught, burnt dry, and held. […] A golden female moth, a biggish one with a two-inch wingspan, flapped into the fire, dropped her abdomen into the wet wax, stuck, flamed, frazzled and fried in a second. her moving wings ignited like tissue paper, enlarging the circle of light in the clearing and creating out of the darkness the sudden blue sleeves of my sweater, the green leaves of jewelweed by my side, the ragged red trunk of a pine. At once the light contracted again and the moth’s wings vanished in a fine, foul smoke. At the same time her six legs clawed, curled, blackened, and ceased, disappearing utterly. And her head jerked in spasms, making a spattering noise; her antennae crisped and burned away and her heaving mouth parts crackled like pistol fire. […] All that was left was the glowing horn shell of her abdomen and thorax, a fraying, partially collapsed gold tube jammed upright in the candle’s round pool.” (17)

Aren’t your taste buds twitching? Mine are. I think Dillard does a few things just perfectly to accomplish this, and the thing that I am trying hardest to work on right now is:

Using unexpected verbs

Personal favorite: “the water clobbered with light”. I can just picture it: sunlight dancing hard and bright on the ocean. And Dillard captures it all in one word.

From the moth passage: Dillard uses an endless string of verbs to describe fire. “Frazzled”, “clawed,” “ceased”, “crisped”, “crackled”.

I feel like I’m writing an English paper on style. But really, what I’m trying to say is, don’t stick to same-old, same-old. I think we so often get lost in the masses of boring verbs that are lying around in the dictionary and forget about all the exciting ones. Or we forget about sticking boring verbs where they might not belong — to make them exciting.

Example from Dillard again: “the cat poured from her arms and ran” (40). I think the verb “pour” is boring. Sunshine pours, lemonade pours, rain pours. But cats? They don’t pour. Until they do — and we want to applaud from the joy of it.

Try using unexpected verbs

I think of this as a lab experiment: make explosions. Mix things together that shouldn’t mix. Fold a piece of paper in half — and keep it folded so you can’t see the other side. First make a list of ten nouns… Then flip over the paper and make a list of ten verbs… Now throw them together. Make sure they wouldn’t normally fit. For example:

rose/stir

boots/shout

pencil/cut

Make ten sentences out of these combinations. Sometimes they might be goofy; that’s okay. I came up with:

The roses stirred perfume into the air

The boots shouted a designer label

The pencil cut squares, shadows, shapes into the sketchbook.

Don’t stick with the usual (sunsets painting color across the sky, rain dumping from the clouds, etc.) Go for bold — go for explosions — go for new tastes.

(Dillard, Annie. Holy the Firm. New York: HarperCollins, 2003.)

Tomorrow: Prose Text Kitchen (2) pulls apart Dillard a little more

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