source wikipedia, amateur copy editing
As well as promoting disruption, writers themselves can be peculiarly seriously and appallingly disruptive. While looking through an early collection of my short stories I noticed—distressingly, disturbingly, disgustingly—that at least one story had too many of “the.” Too many of something (such as adverbs ending in “ly”) can be a copy hazard for any writer.
This was a stirring professional consideration: Is it worth the trouble to fix these the’s? Carefully, I debated. Three editions: hardcover, softcover, e-book self-published. Each would have to be changed and the new edition published. I could get sidetracked and start looking for “the’s” throughout the collection. I’d end going carefully through, combing for the “the”—extracting wherever found oppressively redundant or replaceable.
The story had been written four decades ago. True, I gave it the cursory reading and editing after three decades (in order to publish), but somehow had missed the distracting overabundance of THE. One hundred and four out of 1400+ words. Do you want a story containing a whooping 10% of the?
I think of our King James Version. According to my softcover concordance, “the” occurs in such abundance I started looking at columns of them and realized it was time to go digital. I find 76,542 matches in the Old Testament, 17,780 in the New. The word “a” appears more often at 22,067 times in the NT. Forty-seven other different minute words are referenced in columns without context, solely by chapter and verse—in my print concordance. I have no idea how many words are in the KJV, but “write” appears 98 times, “writer,” not once. “Word” shows up 1244 times. (And this was before Bill Gates made Word famous, or infamous depending on your view of his software.)
After all these decades, pen in hand, I was disconcerted last week to notice 27 occurrences of nothing in an essay—just completed. I had thought it ready for submission. So discouraging. My confidence was shaken. Essay almost sent! How embarrassing.
Twenty-seven nothings, in a piece of only 1743 words. Then I wondered, how many nothings would be found across my oeuvre of twenty-nine books—nine of which are nonfiction? I do like to see the word oeuvre in regard of my output. How masculine is that?! (I love masculinity for its own sake. Masculine is a great word, but imagine the very thing it stands for! It gives quivers of admiration just thinking about it.)
I will not think about it. —The number of my oeuvre’s nothings, I mean. I will brag about getting 14 weeded out of that total of 27 “nothing” this past week. I shall continue slightly disheartened by the sheer waste of nothings, but just let me mention the fun I had extricating those 14. I did not know there was anything challenging for me in this writing—I won’t say business. My work is scarcely known enough to rate that word. I will call it... an activity.
The book of Acts, the Acts of the Apostles, might better be called the Actions of the Apostles. I don’t actually care that much for the word activity. Not as a word, “activity.” I’d rather see some specification. (Not the word specification.) I would rather see some masculine person, say, digging a ditch. While seeing this, I would not be seeing the alliteration of ditch-digging, either. I’d see masculine activity. Or maybe a set of young farmers in overalls or gingham, laughing, drinking cider, playing at cribbage in lamp-light.
Activity needs more descriptive power. One cannot picture me sitting on a stool at the tall narrow hardwood table laying down scribbles of black ink in a paper journal—sitting so still and concentrated—and call that an activity. Not unless what goes on in the reader’s imagination is an activity. Even that doesn’t count, however. (I think one who is not much of a reader or writer will consider writing an activity.)
No. It must be ditch-digging, or, say, digging up saplings to transplant at the on-looking behest of some bright cheery young woman. In gingham. Or perhaps he is rescuing her from fiends. (This could not be me, as I am now old and wrinkly, and not very cheery.) Imagining the activity of writing is not nearly as imaginative as imagining the masculine. (Too many “imaginative’s—must cull.)
Although I did pretty good on that last paragraph, another word problem I’m still dealing with is the I’s.
Very hard to concentrate on getting the visionary, or even plain mental images, into translation on the page while at the same time remembering to keep out all those I’s. They must be avoided. This avoidance was much easier when one was an acceptable term—preferable. One could use one to ones heart’s content, and no one would be offended by all those I’s. I this and I that, and I don’t know what all. Just I I I I.
Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi!
But this is where fiction comes in. Problem solved. Unless one makes the mistake of writing fiction in first person—no I’s anywhere except in dialogue. If you want to go whole-hog on the I’s—if you’ve been feeling restricted, penned up, need to run wild as from the farmer with his big knife chasing you down for the slaughter, you just make up a character who is full of herself. One can even do this in nonfiction.
Yes. Hush, though. People won’t like to hear of one writing nonfiction while carefully crafting the I. I mean, C’mon. Do I really recall exactly what I was thinking 40 years ago for that memoir I’m now writing? I was a child. Playing in the sand and someone did something terrible and there I are sitting, thinking, I must remember this exactly, make notes, so as to write my nonfiction memoir truly and factually someday—? Yes, 10 years old, was writing, with quotation marks, and italics, note-taking exactly what people said as it came out of their mouths.
Please.
Since it is not labeled with that word in each use, how can I do a word-search on fiction in my nonfiction? —Wait! The “I’s” have to stop!
Therefore, stop categorizing your memoir in nonfiction if you were this kid. What you are writing is fiction, not nonfiction, and it ought to be so categorized. A little fiction leavens, turning nonfiction into total fiction. You may say, But it’s creative nonfiction! Let me observe that the creativity comes through the creative manner of your truth-telling. You tell the truth. Exactly what happened. You give the facts, with suggestiveness, inventive language, quick-witted prose, structural patterning, tonal qualities, craft—not lies.
Fiction is a word I don’t use very much even in fiction. So I don’t have to worry about its overuse like I do with “the” and “I” and “nothing.” —And now—how about and?
(Nonfiction is another word I don’t use very much.) Words should be relatively anxiety-free for either the would-be or seasoned reader/writer. So feel free to use them. —Just be sure they are accurately used.
I might add here: one is rather proud that in the essay mentioned above, from which 14 nothings had to be expunged, only eight “something’s” were found throughout its entire 1743 words.
There may be too much of adverbs in this here 1192 word piece.
However, I refuse to check this essay for the.
P.S. One knows: This “piece” needs copy-cutting. Too long. Perhaps too many “you’s”.
© S. Dorman 2024