How to Not Write Bad: The Most Common Writing Problems and the Best Ways to Avoidthem (12 page)

When only one pronoun is involved, absolutely no one has trouble with the principle. No one, that is, would write:

Yet many, many people have problems when there are two or more elements in the noun phrase, especially when one of the elements is a pronoun indicating the speaker or writer.

Some authorities, notably Steven Pinker of Harvard, have argued in favor of the subjective case in this situation, thus provoking the wrath of traditionalists. The argument is that (drawing from the above examples)
my wife and I, you and I,
and
she and I
are better viewed as self-contained units than as a combination of pronouns. And, as units, they can be either object or subject. It’s the same (Pinker would contend) as a title like
The King and I.
And no one would write,
I won two tickets to see
The King and Me.

I have to admit I see the logic in the argument. But it doesn’t matter. Long and at this point unbreakable custom dictates that you must write
my wife and me, you and me,
and
her and me
in these cases.

g. Whomever

This word has only slightly higher grammatical standing than
ain’t,
but it’s used by millions more people. It yields 11.7 million hits on Google and more than 1,000 on Google News, which consists of articles written in the last month or so by professional and semiprofessional writers. The most recent (posted just two hours ago as I write) came from the Web site of New York City’s Fox News affiliate:

Like an overwhelming majority of the examples on Google News (and in my students’ work),
whomever
is incorrect here. You can see why the writer made the mistake—
with
is a preposition, and prepositions are traditionally followed by the objective case. But
whomever started the rumor, etc.
is a unit—a noun phrase, to be exact—so the correct word to kick it off is
whoever.

Whomever
has gotten so popular that people have started to use it even when there’s not a preposition to be found in the immediate area. A subject heading on a gamers’ bulletin board reads: “ATTN: Whomever owns zombieland server.” No excuse for that.

As you proceed on life’s journey, you may be tempted to use
whomever.
Resist the temptation, except in two relatively rare cases.

Looking at the awkwardness of those two sentences, I’m going to amend my rule, as follows:

Never use
whomever.

h. Fragments of My Imagination

Sentence fragments (SFs) are a weird mistake. For one thing, virtually every professional writer uses them. Including me.
Including me,
of course, is a SF. It’s defined as a collection of words that’s
treated
as a sentence (that is, the first letter is capitalized and a
period, question mark, or exclamation point comes at the end) but, because it doesn’t contain both subject and verb, doesn’t have the grammatical standing of a sentence.

Despite their popularity and usefulness, SFs earn some serious wrath in virtually every writing handbook on my shelf. The trouble is the examples these books give. Almost none of them are recognizable as anything that comes across my desk or appears on my computer screen. For example,
The Little, Brown Handbook
gives this as an instance of what not to do:

In twenty years of teaching, I’ve never had something like that handed in to me. There are a dozen or more examples in the chapter, and the only one that rings slightly true is this:

The thing is, I don’t particularly mind the Uncle Marlon SF. Which leads me to a possibly useful generalization. (I hope you noticed that the previous sentence was a SF.) Sentence fragments can be acceptable and effective, in all but the most formal writing, if they come following a deliberate pause for effect. And if they’re used sparingly! (I can’t stop.) Reading aloud is especially important here. If you do, you’ll find that sometimes the pause is for humor (that talkative Marlon), sometimes for drama, sometimes for irony, and sometimes merely for emphasis.

So.

All that being said, an ill-conceived SF can be a really bad mistake. I do occasionally get them handed in to me. For example:

If an SF is pointed out on a piece of your writing by a teacher, supervisor, or writer, I would advise you to eschew fragments for six months, during which time you’ll likely come to a better understanding of what a sentence is and isn’t. At that point, you can start playing around with SFs again. End of advice. And end of
Part II
.

How to Not Write Bad

If you’ve absorbed the previous chapter, you’ve achieved—or are well on your way to achieving—the goal of removing the mistakes and errors from your writing. The next step is getting rid of a collection of qualities that aren’t technically wrong but are eminently undesirable. The best way to sum them up is with a simple chart:

That’s pretty much it. Of course, there are a lot of additional elements associated with writing
well
, or
very well
: brilliant similes and metaphors, masterful deploying of irony and other registers, humor, a personal voice, an ear for and ability to mimic
other
writers’ and speakers’ voices, a command of pacing and structure, the ability to construct long and complex sentences in the manner of Samuel Johnson, a sure and creative hand with metaphor and other figures of speech, a capacious vocabulary and the ability to use it, a sense of audience, an appreciation for subtlety, and so on.

But those are topics for another book. Writing not-bad is quite enough for this one. Before getting to the particulars, I’ll review the general approach to take. First, turn off the radio, the iPod, the television; put your phone on silence and in your pocket; X out of or minimize all screens other than the one you’re writing on. Multitasking = bad writing.

Second, know what you want to say. Any sort of uncertainty, fuzziness, or equivocation in your thoughts multiplies on the page and yields very bad writing. The boys in
Entourage
are always telling each other to “Hug it out”; my mantra for you is “Think it out.” You will often realize that you have to find out some more about your subject before you set words to paper. This is called research. Do it.

Third, be a mindful writer. A good homemaker doesn’t just fling silverware and plates on the table, but arranges them consciously and carefully. A stylish dresser chooses an outfit carefully. Be that kind of writer. Read each sentence aloud—literally, at first. Eventually you will develop an inner ear that will allow you to note the awkwardness, wordiness, word repetition, and vagueness that are the hallmarks of mindless, bad writing. And eventually, you
will streamline the process and “hear” yourself write. And that is pretty cool.

A. Punctuation

1.
QUOTATION MARKS

As a rule, stay away from using quotation marks except to indicate a title (
“Gone with the Wind” was Clark Gable’s greatest role
) or a quotation (
“Take me home,” she said
). Avoid, that is, the use of air quotes and scare quotes.

That is bad writing. My sense is that the quotes are the punctuational equivalent of a phrase like “just kidding” or “I’m just sayin’”—that is, a way to absolve yourself after using a cliché. People: a cliché is a cliché, whether or not it’s in quotes. There is no absolution. (See
III.B.4.
) Some of the time, you’re going to have to do the work of finding a fresh way to say what you mean.

However, if you really believe in the phrase, have the courage of your convictions (not “courage of your convictions”) and use it naked:

2.
EXCLAMATION POINTS, DASHES, SEMICOLONS, COLONS, PARENTHESES, ITALICS, AND RHETORICAL QUESTIONS…

…can all be effective if used correctly and in moderation. Common mistakes and misuses are addressed in
Part II
. The overuse issue is worth taking a couple of minutes with. When I was a magazine editor a few decades ago, I noticed that when some of the writers I worked with underlined or italicized a word for emphasis, sure as shooting, another underlined word or phrase would pop up within a couple of lines. And then another. I have continued to note this in published work, and have come to think of it as comparable to a phenomenon that occurs in concert halls: just as the sound of one person coughing makes other audience members powerless to resist the urge, so one use of italics can be contagious.

Sometimes the issue is less power of suggestion and more personal predilection. Tom Wolfe is enamored of exclamation points, John Irving of semicolons (examine his books and you’ll see what I mean), the
New Yorker
magazine of commas, and Ben Yagoda of parentheses. Emily Dickinson was quite fond of dashes. I don’t know about those other worthies, but quite a lot of my revising
time is spent getting rid of parens (while still keeping enough of them for my writing to
sound
like me). If you’ve got a go-to typographical move, this is the strategy to follow.

A couple of pieces of punctuation are worth special mention. The first is exclamation points! Or, rather, the first is exclamation points. They’ve spread way beyond Tom Wolfe: if you’ve spent any time on e-mail, Facebook, or Twitter these days, you know that they are the punctuational coin of the realm. Sometimes, one isn’t enough, and you need two, three, or even four to show adequate enthusiasm. In fact, when I first got into texting with my twenty-two-year-old daughter, Maria, I was ending sentences with periods, as is my wont. She told me to use either exclamation points or nothing: the periods made it seem that I was being ironic or pointedly unenthusiastic. But what’s good for texting is bad for text. That is, stay away from exclamation points, except, as a matter of fact, when you’re being ironic or playful. Like this! Even then, use them sparingly.
^*

And what of the rhetorical question? It’s definitely overused, often serving as nothing more than artificial throat clearing at the beginning of a paragraph. Instead, it usually works better to just dive right into what you want to say. The RQ can be a useful device, but it has to be deployed skillfully. As my first boss, Myron “Mike” Kolatch, the longtime editor of the
New Leader
magazine, used to say: “When you ask a question, answer it immediately”—the way I
did at the beginning of this paragraph. That’s as opposed to something like: