Friday Writing Experiment No. 9: A Word

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Take a word that seems current to you: fox, or chase, or November, or ash, or drink, or because, or whatever, or no, or nail, or index. Choose something new, emerging, fresh. Probably not something you’ve dealt with before.

Then, do some research on that word. Look it up in all six dictionaries you own (you do own six dictionaries, I assume?), look it up in a thesaurus, look it up in dictionaries of foreign languages, in an etymological dictionary, in the glossary of specialist reference works, in an encyclopedia, on Wikipedia. Google it. Take a page of notes (a page, no more – it’s okay, you can write really small if you have to).

That could go on forever, so ration yourself. It can be good to place a time limit on your brainstorming, e.g., fifteen minutes. (You can do more, but a short, sharp hit of looking can be effective for clarifying the thought process and enlivening your instincts.)

Then: without referring to those references again, and only using your page of notes, write a page about that word, or embodying that word, but without using that word. Prose, poetry, what you will. Just don’t use your chosen word, or variations thereof, at all.

Continue at your leisure.

Friday Writing Experiment No. 59: Words Words Words uses generated words in a particular way where this delving into word history might become relevant. And you can also apply this process specifically to your revising: Friday Writing Experiment No. 60: Word Power.

PS Yes, we took a week off last week. Because we can. It’s not the Every Friday Writing Experiment.

That vs Which

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The rose that is in the garden is red.

The rose, which is in the garden, is red.

Do you see the difference?

The rose that is in the garden is red. In the first sentence, the rose that is in the garden is red, as opposed to, say, the rose that is in the vase on the mantelpiece, which could be red too, though that is not specified; the other rose could be white, or yellow, but that’s immaterial, because we’re talking about the rose in the garden. We use that because the fact that that rose is in the garden is crucial to clarifying which rose we are talking about. That garden needs to be bolted to that rose, so we use that, and a that, at that(!), that’s unseparated from the rose by commas. The clause ‘that is in the garden’ is a restrictive clause, i.e., it restricts or specifies meaning, and our understanding of that sentence fundamentally depends on it: we’re talking about the rose in the garden.

The rose, which is in the garden, is red. In the second sentence, the fact that the rose is in the garden is supplementary information – extra description, perhaps, but not essential to our understanding. The core meaning of that sentence is that the rose is red. The fact that it is in the garden is secondary. You could cut it and bring it indoors and we could then say: The rose, which is now in the vase, is red. The fact that it was previously in the garden remains secondary; the fact that it is red is foremost. The clause ‘which is in the garden’ is a nonrestrictive clause, i.e., it does not restrict or specify meaning, and our understanding does not depend on it; we could in fact remove that clause and we’d still understand the basic meaning of that sentence: the rose is red (and it just happens to be in the garden).

Also note that the nonrestrictive which clause is set off by commas; it can be whipped out of the sentence, along with those commas, because it’s not essential.

For years, I was lost. I did not know the difference, could not see the difference, between the relative pronouns that and which. My lack of formal grammar training (back then) and my reliance on gut instinct left me floundering (I had seen many whiches that I was told should be thats – but why, o why?!). My friend Helen at work tried to explain, but I was too stupid (she’d been to Oxford and had a degree in German and Russian; I’d been to Hull and had a degree in American Studies).

Then one day, it just dawned on me. Ding! And now I get it. Not so stupid anymore.

This distinction is something that is not always easily grasped. Like many matters that are so often a matter of instinct, you need to hear it time and again, and in different voices and from different perspectives, before it sinks in. A further useful explanation, I find, is the one given by Bill Bryson in his Dictionary of Troublesome Words.

Of course, that is a word that also serves other functions: demonstrative pronoun (That is mine), demonstrative adjective (That man), subordinate conjunction (I am so happy that I could cry). So you can end up with sentences like ‘I noted that that that he talks about is rubbish’. I have to say that in a perverse way I really quite like that. Oh, that word again.

Does this matter? Grammar descriptivists would say not. Meaning is clear, they’d say. But is it, always?

I’m not really a prescriptivist; I far prefer the notion of usage to the idea of rules. I once had a lecturer whose books were full of whiches where I would now put thats. Never mind, and we all survived (and the lecturer clearly was not stupid; he ended up a professor at Cambridge – sorry, Helen, I know it’s the other place, but). Some writers simply prefer the rhythm of a which (though I can no longer hear that music, I’m afraid), while others propose that UK practice often favours which where the US would insist on that, a point supported by Oxford Dictionaries.

And a lot of publishers and editors do not worry about that vs which, though I have known copyeditors who’ve got in trouble for changing whiches to thats, so clearly someone worries, and some editors are even stirred to action. The wonderful Grammar Girl tells us that:

In fact, having a client try to overrule my correction of a which to a that was one of the things that pushed me over the edge and made me start the Grammar Girl podcast.

But various usage guides and other authorities tell us not to fuss, either. There are more important things to concern ourselves with. (Like the freedom to end sentences with prepositions.)

However, there can be a clear distinction in the use of that and which, and there is a beauty in the availability of such clarity. Some of us do care, even in the UK.

I recently copyedited a work in translation, and I changed a which to a that. When I checked over the translator’s responses, I saw he’d flagged the margin with an ‘EEK!’. Eek, said I back; was this an eek of horror at my purism, or his oversight?! I double-checked, and at this point he told me of his ‘own insistence on this useful distinction (sadly in abeyance here). It shocks me that so many really fine writers seem unaware of it. It can radically alter meaning.’

Of course late at night, updating my blog, it’s hard to come up with examples. But we know you’re out there! And I’m going to start collecting examples of such instances. (Updated 23 September 2013.)

March 2019 update: Things change, life moves on, and I’m not sure I would be so ardent in changing whiches to thats nowadays! Though I do still prefer this distinction in my own writing, today, if I were editing I’d simply ask writers if they prefer to follow the difference themselves. Have I just grown slack? Or maybe it’s simply that I’ve seen so many whiches in place where they really don’t hurt that I figure it’s best to leave them as they came out.

Round-up, 13 November 2012: Ballot Design, Accents, Trends, Why British Students Can’t Write, Sendak

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Among the many angles in the coverage of last week’s US election, the story that fascinated me the most was ‘Ballot Design With Todd Oldham’ from the New York Times. The experts say maybe millions of votes have been lost over the years because of poor ballot design. And I had no idea that the Florida ballots with the hanging chads were such a MESS (I love their comparison!). Wow, typography is THAT important. I still find it horrifying that the world’s superpower’s voting systems are so inconsistent; surely this is too important for such variation to be permitted in things such as voting machines (paper vs electronic), in the ballot design? If this happened in the developing world, the righteous West would be crying outrage. I’m all for decentralisation, but this is chaos. Makeover time!

Talking of typography, enjoy the pleasures of calligraphy in this short film about designer and artist Seb Lester.

I’m experimenting with dictation software (Dragon on my iPad), so I found this story about Midlands accents confounding an expensive phone system at Birmingham City Council quite amusing.

From the Guardian: is crime fiction the new fashion in young adult fiction?

And from a blog I stumbled across, a good overview of trends in horror fiction.

From the American Reader, one of the more thoughtful pieces of coverage of the Penguin/Random House merger.

Which we are told is necessary to balance out the ever increasing powers of Amazon. Which doesn’t pay much tax either. I have found myself shopping at Amazon less and less this year. Okay, I might have to(?!) do my ebook of short stories there, and I am sure could save on various titles I might instead buy, e.g., at the Open Book in Richmond. But at what price: my soul, for a couple of tight-fisted quid, and crappier royalties to the writers? In you have any doubts, just watch the BBC coverage of the parliamentary grilling of the man from Amazon (he say no).

Just happened to watch The Young Apprentice candidates create cookbooks last week. Fun to see a primetime take on publishing, and I thought the kids did well (among the squabbling – some of the young women were notably obnoxious). The funniest moment for me was when the Waterstone’s buyer got so defensive about a seventeen-year-old saying their customers were middle-class. Out of the mouths of babes. But also: if you want to publish, learn to spell, or at least find someone who can.

Talking of, an oldie I recently came across: Sarah Churchwell asks in the Independent why British students can’t write like Americans. Duh, because they’re not taught how to?! Just saying. Sarah, I share your outrage. A North American correspondent points out that Americans can’t write either. Well, you can’t make it learn, but you can at least take a horse to water.

But what if the wells of academia are dry? Universities are so concerned with learning outcomes and maximising impacts and institutional targets that sometimes you wonder where teaching fits in. In the Guardian Andrew Motion attacks the government’s mercantile attitude to universities, and it’s not before time. It’s not just the government; it’s often the universities themselves too that prize the values of the market over the ideals of learning. Also from the THE is the original article launching the Council for the Defence of British Universities. Good luck to them.

Finally, the Believer interview with Maurice Sendak is super. His cranky comments about the death of publishing and the evil of ebooks were taken out of context all over. Read at the source; any curmudgeonliness must be experienced in the larger space of that rich, intelligent, funny voice.

Round-up, 2 November 2012: Boulder, More Ebooks, Slow Books, and Fair Use

by Andrew | 1 Comment

It was great to be in Boulder this last week. I caught up with many dear folk, including various former students and teachers who’re now just good friends. I also spoke on Bobbie Louise Hawkins and publishing in two different classes at Naropa, drank lots of tea, bought even more, read tarot cards, was driven through a snowstorm (eek!), beheld winter wonderland mountains, heard all about feeding baby squirrels from a chum who’s a volunteer at Greenwood Wildlife Rehabilitation Center, bought books at my spiritual home slash favourite bookshop in the whole wide world, and also acquired a super little brass deer (super heavy too) from an antique (junk) shop in gold town turned casino town Central City. The little brass deer, who’s currently lying on the mantelpiece (lazy slut), has a special name, but I’m saving that for a story. But best of all it was great to be around all those creative friends, and feel that here, thousands of miles away, we’re all still connected.

In other reports:

From Publishing Perspectives, Have We Already Reached ‘Peak E-Book?’ contains some interesting analysis of ebook readerships and consumption. (But I am worried: even in US style, aren’t those closing quotes supposed to go before the question mark?! Must check my Chicago Manual. Okay, I thought so – it should be … Reached ‘Peak E-book’? And myself, I prefer ebook over e-book. Ack.)

While I was at Publishing Perspectives (I love that site), I came across an older article that is well worth a read in this month of NaNoWriMo: Good Books Are Worth The Wait. But do NaNoWriMo anyway – it can really help with discipline and your writing process. But later, be realistic, and think about the value of sloooow.

And finally, from Andrew Shaffer, links and round-up on the protectionist estate of William Faulkner: Faulkner Estate Suing Sony Over Use Of Single Quote. Extraordinary.

Friday Writing Experiment No. 8: NaNoWriYear

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Okay, okay, that was rather a cranky post I made yesterday about the start/onslaught of NaNoWriMo. So in an effort to be nice/compassionate/not bitter, this weekend’s writing experiment is devoted to the idea of writing a novel within a specific span of time.

But here, let’s be a bit more measured. Patient, realistic. Let’s think about a longer span. I’m suggesting a year (which is the duration of the Telegraph’s Novel in a Year – super piece by Louise Doughty at that link). Or maybe, if you want something a bit more concentrated and can spare the time, three months, or six months, or even nine months. But make it one of those spans of time – multiples of three, magic numbers after all – to be started at some finite point in the future, e.g., 1 January 2013. (I’m assuming we all survive the end of the world that was apparently not prophesied by the Mayans for December 2012 – if you are worried about that, though, do NaNoWriMo, and then use the first 22 days of December for revisions. And then PRAY, while the rest of us look forward to Christmas.)

So here goes – a few suggestions:

* This weekend, find a couple of hours to plan some bare bones of your novel. Use those two hours wisely, and with a deadline.

* To start, brainstorm. Write lists, draw mind maps of things your novel will contain.

* Answer this question: What is the purpose of this novel? What is your intention? The answer might be slow in emerging, and this might be something you need to revisit throughout. Allow it to mutate, if need be.

* Then start to shape your narrative content. People, places, scenes. Prioritise, itemise.

* Create a structure out of this content – e.g., a three-act structure. You don’t have to outline in detail, unless you are an effective outliner, but perhaps you can start to divide your story into three acts, and work out what goes into each act. And to get yourself started, maybe just map out some of the chapters or scenes in the first act, to get yourself going. You can also think about writing patchwork-style, with sections from anywhere in the book that will be pulled together later.

* Then create a schedule of action: deadlines for parts or chapters evenly scattered throughout the year. Give yourself a start date, and an end date, and work out how much writing you need to do each week, for example. Maybe also build in some time for research – you might be able to start that sooner, in fact, but also factor in an end time for finishing initial research and then a start date for the actual writing. Research can, if you let it, go on forever. The goal: a complete first draft by the end of three/six/nine/twelve months.

* And then the work will begin (1 January 2014? 1 April 2013?): the processes of revising and self-editing.

Of course, you’re going to need to think about all the other things a novel needs: if you don’t understand what’s meant by three-act structure, or want to know more about creating strong characters, or using voice or point of view, or simply need some prompts and direction, you might need to create a course of self-study (resources are available everywhere – start here, or your local library). Or even take a course. I’ve taught such courses in the past, and its best to note that such short courses are usually not about writing a novel in, e.g., six or eight weeks, but about six or eight weeks of equipping you with the tools to write a novel. And then you go away and write it. A concentrated month can be helpful. But remember too that writing a novel is not a race, and few of us are sprinters.

(Updated 26 October 2013.)