May 11, 2017 / 5 Comments

It Cuts! It Edits!

            It slices! It dices!  It makes julienne fries!  Plus, just add salt, pop the tray into the oven, and look—perfect hash browns, a great addition to any breakfast!
            Okay, I may have watched too many infomercials lately.  There’s been a channel issue with the television.  Don’t judge me.
            Over the past few months I’ve talked with a few folks about editing.  They’re almost always interesting conversations, but I noticed a while back they tend to skew in random directions. Well, not really random.  The questions cover a large range.
            One thing that catches some folks off guard is that there are different kinds of editing. They think of it as a general term, but it’s more of an umbrella that covers a lot of things.  Like how an oil change, brake work, and a car wash can all fall under “basic maintenance,” even though I’d probably have different people do them—and may even do some of them myself.

            For example, I have a regular editor I work with, Julian, and he helps me edit my story.  We dig through and find weak motivations, unclear dialogue, and the thing that doesn’t really match, tone-wise,for one reason or another.  His edits help improve the story.  When someone panics about “an editor making them change their story,” this is usually what they’re talking about.

            For the record, in almost ten years of doing this writing thing, and personally knowing close to a hundred professional writers with careers spanning most of that time, I’ve only ever heard of this happening once.  One time where the editor insisted on a major change that the author disagreed with.  And, no, it didn’t involve me or my editor.
             I also work with a copyeditor.  This is the person who finds spelling and grammar mistakes, inconsistencies that have slipped past everyone, and in some cases even a bit of fact-checking. The copyeditor help me improve the manuscript.
            And of course, neither of these are like the edits that I do myself before the manuscript goes to my editor.  Or even my beta readers. That’s when I’m trimming words, tightening the story, and trying to smooth out rough spots.
            Today I wanted to babble on (probably too much) about those easy edits.  The type of stuff that we all let slip though while we’re writing (and the experienced folks know to then get rid of in their first round of revisions).  I’ve mentioned some of them before in a broad strokes sort of way, but it struck me that maybe I could even boil this down further.
            So here are some words and phrases I can cut from my manuscript.  Not all the time, but a fair amount of it.  A lot of them lead to other words, too—they’re indicating a larger problem—so once I get rid of these it’ll probably mean a few others on either side go away, too.  Which means I’ll end up with a leaner, stronger story.
            One proviso before we dive in.  When I’m talking about these cuts, I’m talking about prose, not dialogue.  Dialogue gets a pass on a lot of this, because people have lots of odd tics and habits when they talk, and all my characters are people, right? Don’t worry about these suggested cuts too much, except maybe where they overlap with basic dialogue tips.
             This would apply to first person stories, too. They’re effectively dialogue—stories being told in a strong, specific character voice.  Just remember, characters and artful dialogue are fantastic, but it all needs to serve the story.  I don’t want my narration to collapse because of an all-too realistic narrator.
            Okay, so…  Ready?
            Adverbs—  As mentioned above, most of us get caught up in the flow of words, and what usually slips in is adverbs.  We try to pretend they’re important—they spent valuable school-hours on them, after all, and school would never waste our time—but the sad truth is they can almost always be replaced.  I’d guess that three out of five times if I’m using an adverb, I just don’t need it.  The fourth time odds are I’m probably using the wrong verb, and once I find the right one, again, I won’t need the adverb.  If I’m using my vocabulary well, there aren’t many times I need one.
            While I was editing Paradox Bound I cut around 170 adverbs and adverbial phrases in my first editing pass.  That’s almost a solid page of adverbs, gone.  Search your manuscript for LY and see how many you find.
            Adjectives—Some folks use a lot of adjectives to make normal, average things sound interesting.  Coincidentally, these folks tend to have a poor vocabulary.  So when I don’t know multiple words for, say, sword, I’ll just use multiple adjectives instead of blade, claymore, rapier, saber, foil, or falchion.
            Of course, we all go a little overboard now and then  (anyone who says they don’t is lying to you) because we’re convinced this person, this place, this thing needs extra description.  Yet we all know too much description brings things too a grinding halt.
            There’s an odd habit I’ve seen among fantasy writers—not only them, and not all of them by a long shot, but enough to make it worth mentioning.  They use dozens of adjectives per page, if not per sentence.  Often redundant ones like “gleaming chrome sword of pure silver.” 
            I was at a writing conference a few years back where writer/ editor Pat LaBrutto tossed put a pretty solid rule of thumb.  One adverb per page, four adjectives per page.  It’s only a guideline, yeah, but if I’m averaging fifteen to twenty adjectives per page… maybe I should give them all a second look.
            That—People tend to drop that into their writing a lot, and a good three out of four times their writing would be tighter without it.  I used to be a that junkie until someone pointed out how unnecessary it often is. Look at these sentences—it doesn’t add anything to them.
            Phoebe could see that the two of them were meant to be together.        
            He punched her in the same arm that she had been shot in.
            She knew that the Terminator would not stop—ever—until it had killed her.
            Use the Find feature, search for uses of thatin your writing, and see how many of them are necessary.  Odds are you’ll find more than half of them aren’t. I cut 132 that‘s from Paradox Bound—just over half a page. 
            (I’ve gotten better about adding them in to start with…) 
            Useless Modifiers — I’ve called this Somewhat Syndrome a few times in the past.  This is another one I wrestle with a lot, although I like to tell myself I’ve gotten better about it.  It’s when I pepper my writing with somewhat.., sort of…, a bit…, kind of…, and other such modifiers. I’d guess nine times out of ten they’re not doing anything except adding to my word count (not in the good way) and slowing my story (also not in the good way).  Use the Find feature again and see how much tighter and stronger your story is without these. 
            I cut over two hundred of these from that first draft of Paradox Bound.  That’s another full page gone.
            Decided—This word’s almost always filler.  Maybe not conscious filler, but it’s almost always filler that can be cut.  If Wakko decides to do somethingand then he does it, I’m just eating up words again.  We all make hundreds of decisions and choices every day, but readers want to hear about the action, not the decision to take an action.  The action itself implies the decision was made. 
            Listen/ Look—If I start a line of dialogue with look or listenI’d bet that almost 80% of the time it’s either an infodump or it’s stating something plainly apparent.  Which means this dialogue is adding something that could be expressed through actions or subtext or any number of ways.  Or it isn’t adding anything.
            Obvious—If something isn’t obvious, it comes across as arrogant to say it is.  So I shouldn’t use the word obvious, because the character (or writer) in question is going to look like a jerk. Which, granted, might be the point…
            On the flipside, if something is obvious, then I still don’t need the word.  Things that are obvious are… well, obvious, so it’s just wasted words for me to tell the readers about it.
            Seemed/Appeared/ Looked – I’ve talked about these words a few times before.  They show up in phrases like “appeared to be,” “seemed to be,” “looked like,” and so on. The catch is,  seemed to be and its siblings don’t get used alone.  They’re part of a literary construction where the second half of that structure is either an implied or actual contradiction to the appearance.  So when I’m saying “Yakko seemed like the kind of man you didn’t want to mess with,” what I’m really saying is “Yakko seemed like the kind of man you didn’t want to mess with but really he was a pushover who fainted at the sight of blood.”  And what I meant to say all along was just “Yakko was the kind of man you didn’t want to mess with.”
           If I’m not trying to establish a contradiction, using appeared to be and the others isn’t just wasted words– it’s wrong.  So cut them
            As you know—I’ve talked about these three words a few times before.  They’re awful.  Just awful.  I won’t say this is the worst way to get the facts out to my readers—I have full confidence there’s someone out there now working on a worse way—but I’d put this in the 99-out-of-100 category. 
            If I’m saying “as you know” to you, it means you already know what I’m telling you… so why am I saying it?  Why waste words blatantly stating something that you and I both know?  Yeah, maybe you’ve got amnesia, but if you do then you don’t know… so why am I saying “as you know” to you?
            If these three words pop up together more than once in my manuscript, odds are I’m doing something horribly wrong.
            Was– I always search for was, because it tends to point at weak verb structures.  It’s when I’ve got “Phoebe was running” instead of just “Phoebe ran.”  It’s a small tweak, but it’s one that gives my writing punch because it makes all my actions read just a bit faster.
            The Word—This is a tough one, because it’s going to depend on experience and spending time going through my manuscript.  I’ve found that a lot of times I’ll inadvertently reuse a word or simple phrase again and again and again.  It’s not really that odd—in the rush to get that first draft out, there are a lot of places I’m going to pick the first word that comes to mind.  Might be a certain verb, might be a noun, might be an adjective.  In Paradox Bound it was glared.  Lots of people glared in the early drafts of that book.  At each other.  At objects.  Out at the uncaring universe…
            Keep an eye out for your word.
            And there’s eleven things I always search for and slice away.  Editing made simple.  Well, some of the editing. 
            One type of editing.
            And this was so much longer than I’d planned.  So sorry.
            By the way, if you’re in the SoCal area, this Sunday is the Writers Coffeehouse.  We’ll be meeting noon to 3:00 at our usual hangout, Dark Delicacies in Burbank.  Swing by, hang out and join us as we talk (this month) about creating great characters.  Or just lurk.
            Next time… I had a few thoughts about genre and devices and structures you might find kind of interesting.
            Until then, go write.
March 6, 2010 / 4 Comments

We Regret to Announce Some Cuts

Yeah that’s right. I’m late posting this. And we all know the rules–that mean I get cut from the team.

Also, Bennett, you’re cut. Adamson, you’re cut, too. Belicynski, cut. Harper, cut. Brannon, Moody, Richmond, Young, McLeod–you’re all cut.

Brown, you’re still good.

Wait–J. Brown? No, you’re cut.

Everyone who’s left, let’s talk about this week’s topic.

One of the most common complaints I hear from people (in person and in various places online) is that it’s impossible to cut anything from their work. There’s just no way to make their novel less that 600,000 words. It’s a miracle they’ve squeezed the screenplay down to 190 pages. The manuscript cannot be any shorter. All too often, they’re saying this after the first draft. Heck, some people talk about their manuscript getting longer as they do successive drafts.

Y’see, Timmy, writers have to make cuts. They have to make their manuscript leaner, meaner, and cleaner. Readers prefer it that way. Editors prefer it that way.

So, a few painless ways you can make a few cuts and maybe trim a few hundred words from your writing…

Adverbs When it comes down to it, adverbs are the Shemps of the writing world. We try to pretend they’re important, but they can always be replaced. As most of us get caught up in the flow of words, the impetus of a scene, and the thing that slides by most often is the all-but-useless adverb. For example…

–She excitedly tore open the present and happily said “This is the best Christmas ever!”

–They shouted loudly at the team.

–“Maybe I saw something, maybe I didn’t,” said Wakko coyly.

Do any of these adverbs add anything to these sentences? Three out of five times if you’re using an adverb, you just don’t need it. The fourth time odds are you’re using the wrong verb, and once you find the right one, again, you won’t need the adverb. And that fifth time… well, maybe it’s only one in six. If you’re using your vocabulary well, there aren’t many times you need an adverb.

Writer/ Editor Pat LoBrutto once tossed put a great rule of thumb I’ve mentioned a few times. One adverb per page, four adjectives per page. It’s only a guideline, granted, but if you’re averaging six or seven adverbs per paragraph maybe you should give them all a second look.

Hey, speaking of adjectives…

Adjectives—People often create compound adjectives from hell to describe things that tend to be pretty mundane when you think about it.

–She had ocean-like dark blue eyes.

–His armor was made of polished, meticulously-engraved, glossy-black ceramite.

–The tall, majestic, awe-inspiring cliffs of weatherworn, charcoal-gray stone loomed over them.

There’s an odd habit I’ve seen among fledgling fantasy writers to use dozens of adjectives per page, if not per sentence–often redundant ones like “obsidian black hair.” It’s part of that purple prose I mentioned above. It’s not exclusive to that genre, but frequent enough I felt it’s worth mentioning.

Of course, we all go a little overboard now and then (anyone who says they don’t is lying to you) because we’re convinced this person, this place, this thing needs more description. Yet we all know too much description brings things too a grinding halt.

That—This is a word people tend to drop into their writing a lot, and a good four out of five times their writing would be tighter without it. I used to be a that junkie until someone pointed out how unnecessary it often is.

–He ran off in the same direction that Wakko had.

–She believed that once the button was pressed, the world would be saved.

–Yakko knew once Dot saw the puppy that she would want to take it home.

On a recent manuscript I was working on, I cut over 1000 that‘s–almost a solid four pages. Use the Find feature in Word (it’s up there under Edit), search for uses of that in your writing, and see how many of them are necessary. Odds are you’ll find at least half of them aren’t.

“As you know…” –This is probably the clumsiest way to do exposition there is. Really. Think about it. Just by saying “as you know,” I’m stating that you–the person I’m speaking to–already know the facts I’m about to share. So why am I repeating them? As a writer, why would I have two characters engage in such a useless bit of dialogue?

When a writer puts in “as you know” or one of its half-breed cousins, it’s a weak attempt to put out some exposition through dialogue. If you’re using it, almost across the board there’s either (A) a better way to get the information to the reader or (B) no need for this information because it is already covered somewhere.

If you’ve got a really solid manuscript–I mean rock-solid– you might be able to get away with doing this once. Just once. As long as you don’t do it your first ten pages.

Useless Modifiers — I’ve also called this Somewhat Syndrome a few times. This is another one I wrestle with a lot, although I like to tell myself I’ve gotten better about it. It’s when you pepper your writing with somewhat.., a bit…, slightly…, and other such modifiers. Nine times out of ten they’re not doing anything except adding to your word count and slowing your story. Use the Find feature again, see how many of them are doing anything, and look how much tighter and stronger your writing is without them.

Appeared to be… –This is one of those phrases some people latch onto and use all the time. Problem is, most of them don’t understand it. It tends to be used as an introduction of sorts, leading the reader into some purple-prose description. This phrase sometimes disguises itself as looked like or seemed to be or some variation thereof.

The thing is appeared to be doesn’t get used alone. It’s part of a literary construction where the second half of that structure is either an implied or actual contradiction to the appearance. So when you’re saying…

–Phoebe appeared to stand six feet tall.

…what you’re really saying is…

–Phoebe appeared to stand six feet tall, but she was actually closer to five foot five without her stiletto heels.

And what you meant to be saying all along was just…

–Phoebe stood six feet tall.

If you aren’t trying to establish a contradiction, using appeared to be and its bastard stepchildren isn’t just wasted words– it’s wrong.

Long Names – If you’ve got a lot of characters with names like MacMortimerstein or Vandervecken, they’re going to take up a lot of space as their names get used again and again. They’re also awkward for the reader to juggle and keep track of. Plus, several of them will die as other characters rush to blurt out “Dear God, Doctor MacMortimerstein, look out for that… ahhhhh, too late!”

Try using simple names like Mort or Van, which are easier for readers to keep track of as well. It’s also human nature to shorten such names when we speak, so it makes for better dialogue, too. True, this will not lessen your word count, but it can shorten your page count, which is the next best thing.

Keep in mind, if there’s a solid reason for your alien cyborg billionaire midget to be called Bannakaffalatta and not Ban, stick with it. But if it’s just a background character you’re using for two chapters or three scenes…

Anyway, there’s seven quick, relatively painless cuts. Try them out and see if you can drop a few hundred words or more.

Next time, we’ll deal with this rampant ignorance, even if I have to explain everything using small words.

Until then, go write.

July 16, 2008

A Few Quick Cuts

A common mistake I see from a lot of people is length. It does matter, but not in the way you’re probably thinking right now (pervert). People produce things that are just too big, be it novels, screenplays, even short stories and short films. This can be especially deadly in genre fiction, where publishers and producers have a lot of expectations—and limitations—about what they want.

For publishers, word count translates to page count which translates to the size and cost of your novel. Size tells them how many copies of it will fit in their limited shelf-space at Borders (and how many other things they can’t put there). Cost tells them how many they can hope to sell, as folks tend not to choose a $9.99 paperback when they’re just looking for something new to read. Series books (like mysteries or epic fantasy) tend to be smaller, too, to encourage readers to buy more of the series.

For film producers, a long script means a long production time, which means keeping cast and crew on payroll longer. It also means more raw expenses. One second of 35mm film costs about two dollars. A longer film means the thousands of prints that go out to theaters will each cost more to make, and it also means theaters don’t have time for more screenings. One huge weakness of Peter Jackson’s King Kong in theaters was while Kong ran once most other films had two shows—they were pulling in ticket money twice as fast.

As always, I’m sure there’s a bunch of folks reading this and saying “Oh, but what about…” Yes, there are always exceptions to these rules. Stephen King’s The Stand or Desperation easily go far beyond what would be expected for genre horror novels. J.K. Rowling wasn’t mincing words on those Harry Potter books either. I think we can all agree, however, that the Man from Maine and the boy sorcerer have shown a certain degree of strength in the marketplace. Publishers are probably not gambling too much by taking on their latest double-sized novel.

When any of us are selling like King, break out that 150,000 word mystery.

Speaking of the King, in his excellent book On Writing he states a simple rule for revisions. If you’ve read this page more than thrice and you don’t own that book, stop now and go to your friendly neighborhood Borders or Barnes & Noble. No, seriously, go right now. The internet will be here when you get back. Heck, take your laptop and mooch free wireless up in the cafe. It’ll make up for the price of the coffee.

Anyway… that rule…

Second Draft = First Draft – 10%

Couldn’t be simpler, right? If you scribble out a 5000 word short story, trim 500 words before you show it to anyone. Your 120 page screenplay could probably get cut down to 108 pages without too much trouble. And that 100,000 word novel? Odds are there are 10,000 words you could lose.

While this sounds ruthless, brutal, and perhaps even a bit arbitrary, there’s solid experience behind it which is worth at least considering for a moment. Since seventh grade you’ve had composition teachers telling you to remove unnecessary words. There’s a reason tight writing lasts and purple prose—no matter how popular it is at the time– gets forgotten.

So, a few easy ways to cut some of the fat from your writing…

Adverbs These are the most common sin (not original at all). As most of us get caught up in the flow of words, the impetus of a scene, and the thing that slides by most often is the all-but-useless adverb. For example…

–She ran quickly.

–He excitedly tore open the package, and happily said “This is the best Christmas ever!”

–They shouted loudly.

“Maybe I saw something, maybe I didn’t,” Slim said coyly.

Of course she ran quickly! Have you ever heard someone shout quietly? Three out of five times if you’re using an adverb, you don’t need it. The fourth time odds are you’re using the wrong verb, and once you find the right one, again, you won’t need the adverb. And that fifth time… well, maybe it’s only one in six. If you’re using your vocabulary well, there aren’t many times you need an adverb. For screenwriters, adverbs are the parentheticals of prose (which means you should be stomping out parentheticals, too).

Adjectives—These are the deadly ones, as people create compound adjectives from hell to describe things that tend to be pretty mundane when you think about it. We all do it now and then, however, because we’re convinced this person, this place, this thing needs more description.

–He had sky-like cloudy dark blue eyes.

–She wore polished glossy black designer boots.

The tall, majestic, awe-inspiring cliffs of weatherworn, charcoal-gray stone loomed over them.

There’s an odd habit I’ve seen among fledgling fantasy writers to use dozens of adjectives per page, if not per sentence. It’s part of that purple prose I mentioned above. Writer/ Editor/ Publisher Pat LoBrutto tossed out a great rule of thumb last time I heard him speak—”One adverb per page, four adjectives per page.” It’s only a rough guideline, of course, but if you’re averaging six or seven adjectives in each paragraph maybe you should give them all a second look…

That—This is a new rule someone introduced me to just a few weeks back, but I’ve already fallen hard for it. That is a word people tend to drop into their writing a lot, and a good four out of five times their writing would be tighter without it.

He believed that once the button was pressed, the world would be saved.

–She ran off in the same direction that John had.

–George knew that once Jane saw the puppy that she would want to take it home.

Just use the Find feature in Word (it’s up there under Edit). Search for uses of that and see how many of them are necessary. Odds are you’ll find at least half of them aren’t.

Appeared to… – This is one of those phrases people see used, latch onto, and use all the time—without understanding it. It tends to be used as an introduction of sorts, leading the reader into some purple-prose description. This phrase sometimes disguises itself as looked like or seemed to be or some variation thereof.

The thing is appeared to… doesn’t get used alone. It’s part of a literary construction where the second half of that structure is either an implied or actual contradiction. So when you’re saying…

–She appeared to stand just shy of six feet tall.

–His eyes seemed to be burning embers in his skull.

What you’re actually saying is…

–She appeared to stand just shy of six feet tall, but she was actually closer to five foot five without her monstrous boots.

–His eyes seemed to be burning embers in his skull, but really they were just catching the light.

And what you mean to be saying is just…

She stood just shy of six feet tall.

–His eyes were burning embers in his skull.

Note that clever metaphor you just used in the second example. Nobody is going to think this poor guy has actual glowing coals in his eye sockets. They’ll understand the visual image, honest.

Long Names – The King himself offhandedly suggests this rule in the above-mentioned On Writing. If you’ve got a lot of characters named Vandervecken, MacMortimerstein, or Bannakaffalatta, they’re going to take up a lot of space as their names get used again and again. Not only that, several of them will die as other characters rush to blurt out “Dear God, Doctor MacMortimerstein, look out for that… ahhhhh, too late!”

Try using simple names like Vander, Mort, or Ban, which are easier for readers to keep track of as well. True, this will not lessen your word count, but it can shorten your page count, which is the next best thing. Of course, if there’s a solid reason for alien cyborg billionaire midget Bannakaffalatta to be called Bannakaffalatta and not Ban, stick with it. But if it’s just a background character you’re using for two chapters or three scenes…

Somewhat Syndrome — This one’s the albatross I bear, and one of my friends points it out to me all the time. Symptoms include littering your writing with somewhat.., a bit…, slightly…, and other such modifiers. Nine times out of ten they’re not doing anything except adding to your word count and slowing your story. Use the Find feature again, see how many of them are necessary, and look how much tighter and stronger your writing is without them.

So, grab your manuscript and snip, slice, and cut a few dozen words. See if you can make those sentences leaner and meaner. Suggest some of your own easy ways to trim if you’ve got them.

Then come back next week and I’ll rip apart your characters.

Categories