Friday, January 31, 2014

7 Habits of Highly Prolific Writers

(Thought-Random)

Are you eager to write?
People call me prolific.
Yet I don’t spend all day writing.
You don’t have to go “full-time” to be a prolific writer. And in this article you’ll see why.
It comes down to being efficient.
Knowing what to do, when to do it, and how to do it.
I’ll share my habits, and the habits of other prolific writers I know.
Let’s dive right into it.

 

1. Routine

Write daily.
Write often.
Even if you work full-time, you can make time for your writing.
I write in the mornings right now. That’s my creative time. What’s yours?

2. Outline

When you write, start with an outline.
Map out what you’re going to write and what message you want to convey.
This is more true for non-fiction writers than fiction writers. When I wrote this article, I mapped out the 7 habits first, and then I filled in the blanks.
It makes my life much easier.
And it allows me to write the first draft for this article in 10 minutes or less.

3. First Draft

Once your outline is in place, it’s time to write a horrible first draft.
New writers make the mistake of trying to edit while they write. It doesn’t work, so don’t even try.
When you write your first draft, it should be at lightning speed. You should get everything out of your head and onto paper. Let it flow uncensored.
Don’t worry about editing or rewriting. That comes later.

4. Rewrite

After I’ve written my first draft, I rewrite.
But I don’t rewrite right away. I let my article rest for 24 hours first.
I sleep on it.
And with each 24 hour cycle, my article gets better. I come back to it several times with a pair of fresh eyes.
Sometimes I’ll rewrite an article three times over 3-4 days, and each time it improves.

5. Demon Bashing

This is a biggie.
When you write, you will run into your inner demons.
You’ll run into that negative voice. It’ll tell you how:
  • You’re not good enough
  • You have nothing to say
  • You might as well give up
Whenever it pops up, say hi and keep writing. Writing isn’t effortless for prolific writers. But they keep going anyway.
They sit down and write. Even if nothing comes out, they get things done, because they have a structure in place.

6. Confidence

When you first start out, you won’t be very confident when you write.
And that’s fine. It is as it should be.
When you write a lot, you get better, and you gain confidence.
I’ve written millions of words and thousands of articles. I started out horrible, but I’m getting better with each passing day.
There is no quick fix to finding your writing voice, or eliminating fear. It all comes down to sitting down and writing.

7. Read

Prolific writers read - a lot.
They gather inspiration from books. They observe the structure other writers use, and they steal what resonates with them.
For example, I help change makers build a thriving online business, so when I’m reading sales copy and it moves me to buy, I backtrack.
I go inside and look at what it was that moved me. Then I think about how I can use that in my writing and business.

The Wrap Up

If there’s one thing I want you to take away from this article, it’s this: sit down and write.
Being a prolific writer is all about refusing to listen to your own excuses. It’s about eliminating any obstacles that prevent you from writing.
Writing never seems to be easy.
There’s always some way you could procrastinate, but if you want to get your message out there, you have to just sit down and write.
The world needs what you have to share.
So write.

                                              ----------------------------------------

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Is There a Best Time for Writing?

(Thought - Random)


           Sometimes I ask myself:  why ever do I write?  Do I for the pleasure of my pen gliding through my paper or for the musical cadence from my computer keyboard? Is it because I want to tell a story or is it because there is a story to tell? ..... because I want to remember... or rather because I'd want to forget?  I don't know.   No, I'm not sure - that's what it is.  But perhaps I could venture to describe the feeling writing gives me as a beatific or even seraphic rapture. Almost unexplainable for me and kind of beyond my senses.

        But whatever it is that I write about,  most often than not,  depends on the time of day that I do.  People, of course, variegate on a  number of varied aspects and the best moment for writing doesn't escape the list.   Some, for instance, write best at dawn -  2 o'clock in the morning or about 4.... a couple more of minutes  before that magical sunrise.  Some go for the dead of night, starting, say, between the witching hours of 11 and 1.  Some sit down for it at about 4 in the afternoon and go on while the sun sets and on to the night.  Still, others go for that tight span of time before going to a specific commitment like work, a speaking engagement, an interview.   I've also heard of some being able to write only within the embrace of darkness;  some only when close to the sound of running water; and some when music, soft or deafening, is available in the background.  Idiosyncratic? I'd say, yes!  Everybody knows about Edgar Allan Poe as being able to write only when dead drunk!

        So when might  be the best time for  writing?  Well,  if I were to talk about myself,  I'd confess that I do all the above one time or another; that is, except being dead drunk ... although I have in mind to try that some time. I know of  some writers who put themselves on a rigid schedule - something like choosing a particular time of day and sticking to it on a regularity, whether or not they are productive.   I mean, they just have to write something like a page or two, or write a specific number of lines - whether or not they like what they have written at all.   But it turns out that after some time, great poetry, or great fiction is generated out of such scribbling, if it may be called such.

        Now I'm not sure if I could do that.  For me, there are random times as when I sit down  in a coffee shop to enjoy how my coffee satiates both my taste and smell pleasures - and  I decide then and there to jot down exactly what feeds my senses that very moment.   I'd see the color of the grass and the skies from out of the window...notice the  people as they go in and  out,  listen inadvertently to greetings, discussions, arguments.  And these are a handful... enough to make my pen work a while.  Other times,  I sit down at my cellphone's call and as a text message flashes before my eyes,  my mind travels past the shadow of the friend who just texted me to remembrances of thoughts, activities, and feelings he has shared with me -and I have a handful.... enough to make my pen work a while.  What I am saying is that random times can open up my eyes to a waterfall of ideas available right on my hands and at my disposal.

          Of course, the flash of inspiration is one that comes at most unguarded moments - inspiration that I must catch and write about immediately lest I lose it. These are the times when I have the nicest, most appropriate words to work with come effortlessly and most languidly,  Unfortunately, these magic moments  come only when they decide to and not when I'd want them to. Which makes it just one more of the good times for writing. In other words, if you ask me - there would be not just one best time for writing because for me, there are a whole lot of these good times.  Definitely, the 'best time' would be any of those times when my heart and my mind are at their complementing best... very much like I would look into the yin and yang of tai-chi.

                                    -------------------------------------------------------------

The Secret of Crafting Engaging Messages: Words of Influence

(Thought-Random)

Want to capture an audience’s attention?
It’s more a matter of what you don’t do than you think.
As children, when we learn to speak our language, we’re also learning to argue. Nearly everything our parents say to us is a correction, an explanation, or an argument for why we shouldn’t put that in our mouths, or why we should go to bed now and not in half an hour.
It’s no surprise that we begin practicing the fine art of objecting, contradicting and basically giving our well-intentioned parents a damned hard time. We’re no sooner given an argument than we begin picking it apart to hand back our own argument.
At first, kids aren’t so hot at this argument thing. But they watch and learn, and soon, they begin to get crafty. Savvy. Before you know it, they’re two steps ahead of you, winning more arguments than they lose, through some excellent manipulative tactics.
How can you win, as a parent? The same way you win over your audience.
To engage another person – from 3 to 102 in age – you have to stop arguing and start captivating. You have to stop battling to retain authority. You need to regain control of your audience’s attention. You need to weave enchantments in the air before their very eyes – enchantments so magnificent that they’d never look away.
And as with most magic, this is both simpler and more difficult than you might imagine.

Interrupt the Pattern


Magic is predicated on a simple idea: what you expect to happen doesn’t.
A bunch of flowers turns into a bird. A coin disappears into a handkerchief. A woman gets sawed in half to no ill effect. A dropped ball doesn’t fall, but hovers in midair.
Through life, we come to recognize patterns of behavior and expect them to occur. Objects don’t transform into other objects. Objects don’t disappear. People sawed in half tend to remain that way, and are fairly distressed about the process. And gravity is a law.
Now, a small child isn’t amazed by magic tricks. Young kids haven’t been in the world long enough to establish an expectation of what will happen based on the patterns they know about the way things are.
For all a child knows, gravity may not always work. Flowers just might become birds.
Grown-ups have been around long enough to recognize that flowers don’t become birds. That dropped objects fall. And when the opposite happens, they’re amazed.
They’re also captivated.
This is called pattern interrupt: you take a premise that your audience has always held to be true, and you disprove it. To use this technique in writing a sales page or a marketing piece, it would go something like this:
What if I told you that there really were twenty-six hours in the day – if you knew where to find them?
Everyone knows there are twenty-four hours in the day. Always have been, always will be. We frequently complain about the fact. And yet – what if this were true? What if you could get 26 hours from your day?
What if the pattern could be interrupted?
Incorporate that sense of possibility into your writing, and you have your audience’s attention.

Build Rapport – the Right Way


You’ve likely seen every good entertainer do this next trick, from singers to comedians to street performers.
“Anyone here from New York City?”
This question usually gets a round of applause, especially if you happen to be in New York City at the time. Any question that applies to a decent percentage of your audience will do – “Anyone out there have kids?”, “Anyone out there hate Mondays?”, “Anyone here wish they didn’t have to go to work tomorrow?”
The comedian then goes on to tell a little story about hating Mondays, or parenting kids, and whoever hates Mondays and has kids in the audience feels a bond. It’s instant, and it creates rapport in its simplest form.
When writing engaging sales and marketing, you need to get more sophisticated than this – but not much more.
You already know some things about your intended audience. You may know they’re largely middle-aged working women, for example, or stay-at-home parents, or entrepreneurs, or hairdressers.
Use that to build rapport. Tell them what you know about them. What they like, what they don’t like, what they wish they could do, what they wish they didn’t have to do, what they did today, what they’ll do tomorrow, how it feels when they run up against their biggest challenges.
Keep this information at least tangentially related to your service, product or offer, and something interesting starts to happen.
Your audience begins thinking of a question. And that question is: can you help me?
They’ll feel you know them. Understand them. Sympathize with their problems and know how hard it is to be them when it’s hard – and just how great it can be when it’s great.
And of course, since you clearly convey the sympathy and compassion, the question comes all on its own.
Yes, that’s what I’m going through. You understand… I feel it. Can you help me?
The answer is, of course, yes. You can.
Here’s the important part: you didn’t have to convince anyone. You didn’t have to ask, “How can I help you?” Readers did that work for you, simply because you created rapport with people who just want to be understood and sympathized with.
Show your audience that you understand where they’re coming from, and they’ll do half the work of sales for you.

And, Not But


One final trick from the magician’s dossier: never say ‘but’. Always say ‘and’.
Classically, this is an improvisational actor’s formula. It works equally well in pretty much all aspects of life, especially sales and marketing.
Our minds are hardwired for argument, and you don’t need to look farther than a 6-year-old to figure out which of the most argumentative words in the English language are top of the list:
But I don’t want to!”
“Can I have dessert if I eat five peas?”
Why do I have to brush my teeth?”
And, of course, the classic “no”.
Give any piece of your writing a good look. You might be surprised to see how often you use these argumentative words. You probably used them in what you consider a positive way – for example:
“I know you think you don’t have enough time for this, but let me tell you why you need to make time.”
You’ve likely seen that around the internet on all sorts of websites and blogs. And it sounds positive, right? Positive it may be, but it’s still an argument.
When you’re trying to engage a reader, you don’t want to argue. You don’t want to put them on the defensive. You don’t want to make them feel they’re wrong. You just want to draw them in.
And you can do that by switching out argumentative words for engaging ones.

Instead of “but”, use “and”.
The horse flew up into the sky.
If you think “But horses can’t fly!” you’ve created an argument. If you say “And it flew so high that the stars started to worry they would be bowled over,” you’ve created a story. Far more engaging, far less argumentative, and a far better reason for anyone to keep reading.

Instead of “if”, use “when”.
If we go out to eat tomorrow, we’ll go somewhere nice.
This sets up an argument right off the bat. Will we go out to eat? Maybe, maybe not. If we do, then we’ll do this. If not, then that. Two possibilities.
When we go out to eat tomorrow, we’ll go somewhere nice.
This creates a sense of anticipation – and story. Something is about to happen. Oooh, what will it be, I wonder?

Instead of “why”, ask “how”.
There are all sorts of variations of this question bandied around online:
Why wouldn’t you take this deal?
I can give you forty answers to this question, and none of them work out well for you. I’m also arguing with you again, and I don’t want to argue. I want to dream, and I want you dreaming with me.
How would your life be different if you took this deal?
I can give you forty answers to this question, too, and all of them begin with the premise that I’ve already decided to take the deal. All the stories I come up with are enjoyable fantasies, and it’s easy to feel good about them.
Which is the point – helping people feel good.
Use the ideas above, and your audience won’t even realize you’ve pulled off the most difficult feat in marketing: capturing their attention without ever activating their desire to argue with you.
Before they know it, they’ll be throwing money into your hat – and you’ll know you’ve performed your magic well.

                                                 -----------------------------------------


Wednesday, January 29, 2014

25 Ways to Improve Your Writing in 30 Minutes a Day (1st of 5 parts)

(Thought-Random)

The best writers never stop striving for ways to write better. Here, five masters of the craft share their secrets for honing the essentials, one technique at a time.

THE MINDS BEHIND THE METHODS:
SAGE COHEN (sagesaidso.com; pathofpossibility.com) is the author of The Productive Writer: Tips & Tools to Help You Write More, Stress Less & Create Success; Writing the Life Poetic: An Invitation to Read and Write Poetry (both WD Books); and the poetry collection Like the Heart, the World.

DAVID CORBETT (davidcorbett.com) is the author of four critically acclaimed novels, most recently Do They Know I’m Running? His work has been compared to that of Graham Greene, Robert Stone and Dashiell Hammett, among others, and his story “Pretty Little Parasite” was selected for Best American Mystery Stories 2009.

JACK HEFFRON
is author of The Writer’s Idea Book and The Writer’s Idea Workshop, and has served as editorial director for Writer’s Digest Books, Emmis Books and Clerisy Press. He is also a freelance writer and writing instructor.

DAVID MORRELL (davidmorrell.net) is the critically acclaimed author of First Blood, The Brotherhood of the Rose and many other bestselling novels, with 18 million copies of his work in print. A popular writing instructor and speaker, he is also author of The Successful Novelist and co-founder of International Thriller Writers.
ART SPIKOL
is an editorial consultant, writer and designer, and a National Magazine Award recipient, as well as a longtime contributing editor with WD.
1. Flow

A piece of writing is a living thing. Our goal should be to serve it and do what it wants, to be its instrument. The flow of words from our mind to the page is impeded in two main ways—if we try to make the story do something that it doesn’t want to do, or if something in us isn’t ready to face the full implications of the work’s theme and emotions.

Avoiding those blocks requires developing a relationship with the piece we’re working on, as if it were a person. At the start of each writing session, especially if you’re having trouble moving forward, literally ask your work-in-progress, “What do you want to do? Where do you want me to go with you? Why are you stalling?” This is a psychological trick that almost always creates an imagined response, along the lines of, “This scene is boring. Why are you making me do it?” Or, “This section is full of gimmicks. Why aren’t you being true to the subject?” The device takes only one minute, not 30, and over the years, it’s saved me from writing a lot of passages that would have been either unnecessary or else dishonest.
—David Morrell


2. Precision

In the study of traditional Chinese painting, the term hua long dian jing speaks to the need for precision. It translates roughly to mean, “Dot the dragon’s eye, and it comes to life.” In other words, your subject remains inert until you add the precise detail that brings it, in the reader’s mind, to life. Often when we finish a draft, we feel the piece somehow isn’t working. Our writing group says they found it dull in places, or just “didn’t get it.” The culprit is often a lack of precision—the key, specific details that bring the world of the piece alive.
Develop the habit of dedicating time to reviewing your work with precision in mind. How would that scene change if you add a sweet tang of honeysuckle to the breeze? How might this character change if you fasten the top button of his shirt? Henry James told us that writers are people “on whom nothing is lost.” The key to successfully creating or conveying worlds for our readers is painstakingly observing those worlds, and then scribbling down the precise details that tell the story.
—Jack Heffron


3. Voice

Your voice is how you write, the way you handle language, your style—if you have one. Do I? I write like I think. I like spontaneity. I push and pull, change speed and rhythm, balance short and long sentences. I compare it to jazz riffs and drumrolls. I’m economical with words, but I won’t interrupt a nice solo.
I never have to think about this. It’s me.

But does it rise to the level of “voice”—and does it even matter? I’ve known excellent writers who don’t have a recognizable voice, but have earned awards and attracted readers through their work. Your voice, ultimately, will be what comes out of you. And you’re entitled to it. But how you use it will also depend upon the audience at which it’s aimed and/or the market to which it’s sold.

The desire to develop a voice of your own may make you wish you could write like some others you’ve read. Feel no guilt; all artists stand on the shoulders of those they admire. Thus, for 30 minutes: Rewrite a page of your writing in the style of someone you admire. Don’t worry about losing yourself in the process—you’ll be doing just the opposite.
—Art Spikol

4. Originality

It is perhaps ironic that the exercise I consider most useful to spur originality is one I borrowed from another writer (William S. Burroughs). Then again, the best advice I ever received on writing in general was Oakley Hall’s two-word bromide: Steal Wisely.
In truth, originality is like voice, an elusive quality that cannot be created; it exists or it doesn’t, all you can do is hone it. But we can also strive to look at our own world and work in a fresh way. If you’re in a rut, change something in your routine. Write in a different place; write longhand; dictate into a recorder; switch point of view; remove every modifier in your text and start over—something.
Or, try this: Print out a page of your writing, cut it into quarters and rearrange them. Retype the text in this quasi-jumbled state. Where before your logical brain laid things out in an orderly fashion, you’ll now see them in jump cuts and inexplicable juxtapositions. Return to your work and revise with the best of these angularities intact, to the point they serve the piece, without reordering them back into comfortable reasonableness. Honor the deeper, inherent logic of your work by allowing its quirks and hard edges to show.
—David Corbett

5. Imagery

A successful image can plug right into your reader’s nervous system at times when explanation falls flat. Consider, “Donna felt weak,” versus, “Donna was unable to bring the spoon to her mouth.” Which one makes you want to know what happens next?
To see how images give your writing a boost, rewrite each of the following statements in a way that shows instead of explains:
  • Her hair was a mess.
  • The garden was ready for picking.
  • I hate broccoli.
  • You always change your mind.
  • The moon is full.
Now, revisit a draft of your writing. Try making vague moments more vivid by replacing explanation with imagery. This won’t always be an appropriate solution—sometimes a simple, unembellished statement will be the most powerful choice. But you won’t know until you try.
—Sage Cohen

Sunday, January 26, 2014

25 Ways To Improve Your Writing in 30 Minutes a Day (2nd of 5 Parts)

(Thought-Random)

By  Brian A. Klems

6. Pace

Much of screenwriter William Goldman’s wonderful Adventures in the Screen Trade can be applied to other types of writing. Goldman advises getting into each scene as late as possible, and out of it as early as possible. Faulty pacing in almost any work can be corrected with this advice.

There’s no need to begin scenes by laboriously explaining how characters arrived there, or to open an article or essay with excessive setup or introduction. If you find you’ve done this, chances are a more interesting way to begin follows just after what you’ve written. Similarly, many writers put an empty paragraph at the end of a scene or section. When revising my novels, I experiment by cutting the first and last paragraph of each scene. Suddenly, a sequence that dragged can become   speedy. Arrive late in a scene and leave early. The reader will fill the gaps.
—Morrell

7. Unity

One method for creating a sense of unity in a piece of writing is the use of selective repetition. A detail or remark or even just a unique word mentioned early in your piece can be echoed later, creating a sense of wholeness through the reader’s recognition of the previous mention. That recognition also imbues the repeated element with a resonance, not unlike a coda in a musical composition. The reader enjoys a satisfying sense of progression, of having moved from one literary moment to another.
Reread a piece you’re working on with an eye toward finding that element you could repeat in a subtle way, and then look for a place later in the piece where you could drop it in. If you’re unsure which one would be most affective, experiment by trying several. Ask yourself: If you had to cut all the details or images and retain only one, which one would you keep? That’s the one you want.
—Heffron

8. Sentence Structure

Well. I don’t know that any writer in the 21st century worries about subjects and predicates. Or believes that one shouldn’t begin a sentence with and or but or or. Or thinks contractions are slang. So I don’t have much to say on this matter.
But this is important
.
Generally, I don’t like rules for writers. The First Amendment doesn’t, either. But the English language is democracy in action. It responds to its users. If it didn’t, we’d still be saying “prithee” and calling taxis “hacks.” Hence, my 30-minute recommendation is to sit down and write whatever moves you, following only one rule:
Don’t bore anybody.
—Spikol

9. Word Choice

The poet Frank O’Hara is rumored to have given this advice: “If you think in pictures, write. If you think in words, paint.”
This turns out to provide some guidance on word choice. If you’re stuck on a word, sketch what it is you’re trying to describe. It doesn’t matter how good you are at drawing. What matters is the employment of a different skill set, a portion of the brain distinct from the one that has been searching for the mot juste.
Or consider a soundtrack for the scene. Let the scene play out in time along with the music, or read it aloud with the music as background. When you employ a different depictive medium than mere words, different associative threads (or synaptic connections) can be brought to bear on the task.
—Corbett

10. Rhythm 

is the subliminal soundtrack in writing. To explore options for moving a reader along, choose a dramatic passage from a published piece you admire. How do you feel when you read it? (Notice your breathing, heart rate, posture and emotions.) How did the writer provoke this response? How do word pairings and sentence and paragraph structures contribute to its momentum? How do these rhythmic choices serve the piece’s meaning?
Now, write a passage that echoes the patterns you’ve discovered. If the first sentence is three short words, yours should be, too. Where a descriptive image blossoms for a paragraph, let yours do the same. Communicate emotion through your rhythm. You might let rage stutter through the syncopation of words and halting punctuation, or stream through run-on sentences. Notice how these choices support or squelch the surrounding narrative. Just as a musician practices scales until they become second nature, your attention to the mechanics of rhythm will help you improvise over time.
—Cohen

25 Ways to Improve Your Writing in 30 Minutes a Day (3rd of 5 Parts)

(Thought-Random)

By - Brian A. Klems

11. Inspiration
In my writing classes, I devote a session to daydreams, which are spontaneous messages from our subconscious. After one of my presentations, a puzzled member of the audience raised his hand and asked what a daydream was. Others were surprised, but I wasn’t. Not everyone has a daydream-friendly mind. In fact, some people have been taught to repress daydreams as mere distractions.

As writers, however, we should not only welcome daydreams, but train ourselves to be aware of them. In fact, the cores of most of my novels have come from daydreams. Daydreams are our primal storyteller at work, sending us scenes and topics that our imagination or subconscious wants us to investigate. Each day, we should devote time (I usually do this before sleeping) to reviewing our daydreams and determining which of them insists on being turned into a story. Don’t push away those daydreams that make you uncomfortable: The more shocking the daydream, the more truthful about us it is. Embrace that truth.
—Morrell

12. Balance

Creating a sense of balance in your piece is similar to creating unity (see the opposite page), but the repeated element is even more obviously connected to its earlier use. A classic example: In The Great Gatsby, as F. Scott Fitzgerald introduces us to the Buchanans in early summer, he emphasizes the breeze blowing through the room, billowing the curtains and the women’s dresses. Later, the same characters seated in the same place are shown in the heat of summer as weighted down, dispirited, languid. The connection between these descriptions creates balance and gives the reader a keen (if not necessarily conscious) sense of progression. It also implies that the characters are no longer free and airy, but encumbered by the circumstances that have arisen.
Set aside 30 minutes to reread your work, looking for a description, scene or metaphor that you can repeat later with some aspect changed to serve as a counterweight to the first usage.
—Heffron

13. Clarity

You have to lead your audience through a tapestry of facts, ideas and events. No matter what you’re trying to get across, you have to get it across, so keep it simple—unless complexity improves it.
In 30 minutes, examine your work for the following:
  • A Stake in the Action: Readers need one. Drop the first shoe early to get them listening for the second, and give them something to care about.
  • Logic: It’s the most important element of clarity. If you’ve written something that doesn’t quite connect, try saying, out loud, “What I’m really trying to say is …” and then finish the thought. Sounds crazy, but it usually works.
  • Bumps in the Road: Check your work for brilliant phrases that you’d love to use somewhere, anywhere—but that interrupt the momentum. I used to cut and paste my elegant gems into a “futures” file; it rightfully became a cemetery.
  • Verbosity: Avoid longish, meandering quotations by paraphrasing. Save the quotation marks for particularly revealing or quotable statements.
  • Jargon: Save it for cocktail parties—unless it’s the everyday language of your audience.
—Spikol

14. Effective Details

The key to effective description is to realize the importance of contradictions. The telling detail is almost always one that at first glance doesn’t seem to fit, but by its being there creates the unique whole that the object or action or person represents.
Go to a good people-watching spot or a place you want to describe. What’s the thing that doesn’t quite belong? Pair one or two more typical attributes of the thing/person/scene with this anomaly, and judge the impression. If it differs from what you meant to describe, figure out what’s missing. Add as few details as possible.

A related point: Often, we read a description and think, If this is there, then that has to be there as well. Many writers then think that both details must be included, but usually the opposite is true. Provide the stronger, more typical of the two, and the other is implied; the reader’s mind supplies it automatically.
—Corbett

15. Creativity

Creativity is the secret sauce of the writing life. Its ingredients are different for everyone, and may change over time, which can make it difficult to keep the cupboards stocked. When you get stuck, take 30 minutes and try one of these:
  • Switch genres. Write a poem before diving into a narrative piece.
  • Review incomplete writing for a scrap of idea or language; let it lead you in.
  • Burn kindling. Keep a file of art, poems, quotes, pressed flowers—whatever ignites your imagination. Sift through it when you need a spark.
  • Grow your own list of triggers. Repeat what works until it doesn’t; then try something new.
—Cohen

Saturday, January 25, 2014

25 Ways To Improve Your Writing in 30 Minutes a Day (4th of 5 Parts)

(Thought-Random)

By - Brian A. Klems

16. Simplicity

The great film director Billy Wilder was once asked if he liked subtlety in a story. He answered along the lines of, “Yes. Subtlety is good—as long as it’s obvious.” The same can be said about complexity and simplicity. Some stories are so complex that it’s frustratingly impossible to understand them. But others (like Wuthering Heights or Bleak House) are complex in a way that we don’t find difficult to understand, and actually find enjoyable because of the complexity. Conversely, Hemingway’s famous simple style is in fact very complex.

What really matters is whether or not something is clear. Each day, as you revise the pages from your prior writing session, take a few minutes to ask yourself, “Is this clear? Will the reader understand it?” If you’re not sure, revise until the answer is yes. Don’t be afraid to deal with a complex topic in a complex way, but always keep in mind that clarity will make you the reader’s friend.
—Morrell

17. Avoiding Clichés

Everyone “gets” clichés. That’s why they show up virtually everywhere. Clichés may be thought of as overused and predictable, but few people complain about movie car chases. For every person who doesn’t want “same old,” hundreds continue to enjoy stereotypical hard-boiled dicks helping dames in distress. Depending on your audience, a well-placed cliché can be more effective than an explanation.

Nevertheless, we need folks like you to buck the trend. So here are some ways to spend a half-hour:
  1. Create a cliché-free protagonist: you. Choose a career you once contemplated. Change your age, gender, race. Investigate something that intrigues you. Invent a situation that boosts your heart rate. Send your character to a place you’d like to visit. Now write.
  2. Remove from a work unnecessary parts of speech—such as replacements for the perfectly acceptable said, and words like angrily to reveal how someone slams a door. Say no more than readers need to know; let their imaginations work.
  3. I’ve intentionally loaded my five contributions to this article with more than my usual share of clichés. Circle them. Do it now. The early bird gets the worm.
—Spikol

18. Communication

Good writing connects with readers. For each piece you write, ask yourself:
  1. Who is my audience? Imagine the people you’d most like to reach.
  2. What do I want the experience and result of this piece to be? What do I want readers to know or believe? How do I want them to feel? What do I want them to do when they’re finished reading?
  3. How will I measure my ability to deliver on these goals? Workshop it in a writing group? Post it on my blog? Submit it to a publication?
Pay attention to feedback. You’ll start to see the types of people and publications that are attracted to what you write, how you’re meeting their needs (or not), and opportunities for becoming more effective.
—Cohen

19. Tension

Tension results from two factors: resistance and ambiguity. In nearly every piece of narrative writing, fiction or otherwise, someone is trying to achieve something. Tension results from external or internal opposition to achievement of the goal (resistance), or uncertainty as to the narrator or character’s understanding of the situation in which she finds herself (ambiguity), specifically its perils (psychological, emotional, physical).

Tension is essential because it keeps readers reading. Thus, in every scene you write, strive to heighten tension by doing one of two things: Enhancing the forces impeding achievement of the goal, or confusing/complicating the narrator or character’s understanding of the situation.

At the end of every writing session, take time to find and stress those elements within the narrative that serve these purposes. Trim away elements that do not, unless they add necessary color.
—Corbett

20. Evoking Emotion

Hemingway spoke of a story’s “sequence of motion and fact.” James M. Cain discussed “the algebra of storytelling: a + b + c + d = x.” What they meant was a sequence of incidents in a story that, if arranged correctly and dramatized vividly, will create a stimulus that compels the reader to feel the emotion the author is trying to create. Talking about emotions won’t compel a reader to feel them. “He felt sad” won’t make a reader feel sad. Instead, the reader must be made to feel the situations in the story, to experience what the characters experience; as a result, just as a sequence creates emotion in the characters, it will do the same in the reader. This is a case of stimulus-response.

Writers can achieve this effect if they take the sense of sight for granted and emphasize the other senses, thus crafting multidimensional descriptions and scenes. Details of sight alone almost always create a flat effect, so when revising, take a few minutes to make sure that each scene has at least one other sense detail. In this way, the reader becomes immersed in the story, feeling it rather than being told about it.
—Morrell

Friday, January 24, 2014

25 Ways To Improve Your Writing in 30 Minutes a Day (5th of 5 Parts)

(Thought-Random)

By - Brian A. Klems

21. Figurative Language

Figurative language can enrich our writing, adding nuance and depth, like the addition of a harmony line to a melody. The right metaphor can enlarge our subject and offer our readers new ways of perceiving it. The risk involved, like adding a heavy sauce to your delicately flavored meal, is that the language can distract the reader and obscure your meaning rather than developing it. Figurative language calls attention to itself, can easily descend to cliché, and asks for the reader’s complicity, all of which could break your reader’s focus.

My advice, therefore, is to use figurative language sparingly, strive to make it fresh, and understand the implications of the comparisons you’re making (directly or indirectly). Make sure it’s serving the piece. In creating an effective metaphor, trust your subconscious, which makes connections our conscious minds cannot readily make. Don’t reach for the quick, easy one. Instead, take the time to plumb the depths of your imagination. Risk a reach toward an unlikely comparison rather than a safe one. You might be surprised at one you find, and your reader will be delighted.
—Heffron

22. Objectivity

The perils of subjectivity arise largely from overidentifying with a subject, narrator or character in a narrative, and making it (or him or her) the vehicle for a thematic point in which the author himself is overly invested. The antidote is at least as old as the New Testament, specifically Matthew 5:43–48, where Christ instructs his followers to love their enemies. If what I have to say seems old hat, therefore, I’ll be neither disappointed nor surprised.

If you find yourself over identifying with a topic or character, try to identify within the sympathetic subject, narrator or even oneself a trait or belief or habit that is repellent or inexcusable or just plain odd. In doing so, you’ll enhance the psychological or moral distance between yourself and the object of familiarity or allegiance.

Another possible strategy is to rewrite the scene or section from the point of view of someone other than the object of sympathy. This forced disconnect can achieve a similar effect.
—Corbett

23. Revision

There are two good reasons for revising what you’ve written: Either you want to change something, or your editor, agent or client does. If the revision is your idea, that’s good. It means you know what you want, or what you suspect won’t fly. If the revision is by request, remember: The customer may not always be right, but she has the money and the medium—as well as the experience of buying for it. (You can fight for what you believe, of course, but choose your battles carefully. Races are won or lost in the final minutes.)

I knew a writer who would write a first draft and submit it without even reading it over. Others, myself included, substitute and trim and pinch and juggle until the work pours like melted butter.
With that in mind, here’s your 30-minute assignment:

Reduce by a third the word count of one of your recent efforts without losing its essence. (I did this myself, in fact, with my contributions to this article.) Note: Don’t constantly reread what you’ve written; if you memorize it, self-editing will be tougher. Put it away for a few days. Then read it fresh.
—Spikol

24. Language

Think of your writing as a windshield. Ill-suited words can streak and cloud your reader’s view, and just-right language can be as clarifying as a high-powered carwash. Once you have a solid draft, it’s time to consider:
  • Could a different word bring even more energy or resonance to a poignant moment through sound, subtleties of meaning, or syllabic rhythm?
  • Could the setting be conveyed more vividly? Is the natural world palpable?
  • Is the emotional tone consistently resonant? Are there neutral words or passages that could be more charged?
  • Does the language powerfully enact the action?
As you polish and prune, each piece of writing will teach you something new about what is possible. Let yourself be surprised.
—Cohen

25. Style

Writers sometimes speak of style as if it were an ingredient to be added to their story or poem or memoir. Instead, style is the thing itself. E.B. White said it best, writing, “Style takes its final shape more from attitudes of mind than from principles of composition, for, as an elderly practitioner once remarked, ‘Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar.’” The key, then, to developing one’s style is to write, as White states, “in a way that comes naturally.”
Sound easy? It’s not. In fact, finding the “way that comes naturally” can take a lifetime, and the way can change with each piece you begin. One key to beginning that journey is to think about style not so much as a matter of addition, but subtraction—casting off feelings of awkwardness and self-consciousness, affectation and pretension. Focus on presenting your piece clearly, in a way that connects with readers. For practice, imagine a single reader sitting across a table from you. Spend a half-hour relating your piece to that reader, as clearly and honestly as possible. Spend another half-hour striving to make the piece more clear, more honest, more affecting. Then spend another half-hour making the piece more clear, more …
—Heffron 

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

How Many Spaces After the Period?




by Brian A. Klems 
Q: My writing course instructor insists that I should go back through my novel manuscript and use only one space after periods instead of two spaces. I was taught that it was always a double space after period. Is she wrong or am I just a dinosaur?—Anonymous

The “two spaces after period” rule was instituted during the days of typewriters. Typewriters had only one font, so all the letters were monospaced, or took up the same amount of space. That means that the skinny “l” and wider “w” occupied the same amount of space on paper. To make reading easier, the two-space rule was born to give the eyes a break between sentences.

With the dawn of computers, word processing programs not only began offering an absurd number of fonts, but each font was programmed to space characters proportionally (“l” takes up about a third of the space “w” does). In turn, most computer fonts will automatically give you enough room between sentences with one space. So, as a rule of thumb, use just one space when typing up your manuscript on a computer.

There are a couple of exceptions—the fonts Courier and Monaco are still monospaced—but it’s better to stick with one space and switch fonts to Times New Roman or Arial rather than use two spaces.

                                                                   ************

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Fruitless First Draft Struggles

(Thought-Random)

By Dan J.Fiore
Winner of the 82nd Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition

*   *   *   *   *

First drafts. They’re tough, right? I mean, first drafts of anything. Even the first draft of this blog post. Typing out those first two words alone: exhausting. So let’s try to make things a little easier on ourselves…

I probably don’t need to tell you that finishing a story is a constant struggle from ideation to publication (or sometimes—okay, most of the time—to rejection). It’s a journey walked in bare feet uphill with no street signs as strangers scream conflicting directions at you from the sidewalks.
I’ll start by stating one thing that applies to everything I talk about below: your first draft is all about story. It’s about discovering the details, characters, scenes and arc of your narrative. Everything else can wait until the second draft.

And, to be honest, the following bits and pieces of the process—these struggles and worries that are just you wasting time—they’re things that I’m still fighting with too. In a way, this blog post is as much a letter to myself, saying, “Stop wasting valuable time with all these silly things,” as it is a list of lessons that I’ve learned the hard way and yet still run into time and again.
So let’s do this together. Let’s promise each other we won’t waste any more time fretting over the following fruitless aspects of our first drafts.

VOICE

Voice is supposed to be natural. It’s the way you—you—write, plain and simple. By all means, tell the story from a set point of view, but let it come naturally. If it feels forced when you write it, it’ll feel forced when people read it.

Plus, your voice, whatever it ends up being, is as much about how you edit as how you write. One big problem with setting out with a certain voice in mind from the start is, you’ll want to edit as you go along, trying to stay within the stylistic restraints of that voice. But all you’re doing is wasting time you should be spending getting the story down on paper. There’s always room to perfect style later. Your first draft is about substance first and foremost.

Learning to let go is hard. I know. It wasn’t until I was so exhausted from doing a dozen drafts of just the first few paragraphs of a story (all in different voices, all ripped off from my favorite authors) that I stopped thinking about voice, letting whatever came to my head fall on the page. And not only did I finish an entire draft in less time than it took me to write all of those variations of page one, but it felt authentic when I went back through and read it. Of course, being that it was a first draft, it was absolutely terrible. (I’ll get to this in a moment.) But it was salvageable. It was (and here’s the really important part) editable.

QUALITY

Know what one of the most frustrating things about first drafts are? They’re always terrible. Trust me, I don’t care who you are—your first draft sucks.
Instead of letting this discourage you, flip it around and use it to your advantage. Remind yourself over and over again as you’re writing that you give yourself permission to write terribly. Tell that little voice in your head that keeps saying to you, This is awful, that it’s okay. Name an author, any author. Go ahead. Guess what? His or her first drafts suck, too. Keep reminding yourself of that.
Your first draft isn’t about writing something publishable, it’s about getting the story down on paper. It’s a step in the process, not the process itself.

OUTLINES

Your outline (if you outline at all) is a road map you can glance at if you’re completely lost, not a GPS system barking Lefts and Rights at you. It’s your safety net. Your spotter.
I think that’s enough random metaphors.

The point is, keep your eyes open as you drive, and don’t get scared when you feel like you should take a left when your plan had been to turn right. If a character wants to go in a direction you hadn’t anticipated, by all means go check it out. See where that scary road leads. It might lead to a better story. It might lead to fixing a problem you had earlier (or will run into later) in the story. Or it could be a dead end. But guess what, dead ends are okay. Dead ends make you a better writer. Just go back the way you came and find a new route.

And save what you wrote in a new document. Even though it didn’t lead somewhere in this story, it could be useful later.

STARTING POINTS

There are few things more frightening than a blank page. But starting your story shouldn’t take forever. So take fear out of the equation.

If you are sitting down to write, then that usually means you have some vague idea of the story you want to tell, which also means you probably have at least one scene in your head already. If you’re really stuck on where to start, then just start with the scene you already know, regardless of how well you know it. Sure, it might end up being the climax, or the very last scene, or a quiet character-driven moment, or it might end up getting cut from the story all together. But you know it and it’ll let you explore the world and characters of your story as easily as possible.

After you’re done with that scene, you’ll probably have a much clearer idea of the kind of story you’re trying to tell. So you’ll know where to start, or at the very least you’ll have ideas for more scenes you can jump to. Just don’t jump around forever. Eventually you’ll want to start telling the story the way it plays out. But it’s okay to dive in wherever you want to get you started.

BALANCE

When I say balance, I basically mean weaving back-story, world-building, or character moments in between all the plot elements in your story. Now, you may be a master weaver and have no trouble shifting gears throughout your first draft. If that’s the case, go you.

But, if you’re constantly getting stuck going back and forth from action to information and it keeps getting in the way of writing the story, just forget about it. Maybe jot down a quick note to remind yourself later of what kinds of information you want there. But just continue with the story.
Not only is it easy to come back and fill that stuff in later, but it’ll be more effective to fill in those gaps with important information based on what you know happens down the road. A lot of what you’ll be plugging into those earlier scenes will end up informing later moments in some way.
When in doubt, just continue with the story.

STRUCTURE

I’m a sucker for strange story structures. And more often than not, it’s gotten me into trouble. I’ve spent countless hours trying to write first drafts in the same structure I want my final story to follow, only to come out with more story problems and a little less sanity.
The best thing to do is to take notes in the beginning on how you see the structure working in the end. Then forget about it. Write the first draft as simply as possible—start to finish. Guess what you’ll end up with.

A story that makes sense.

From there, you can take that story, chop it up into as many pieces as you want, and apply it to the structure you envisioned in the beginning.

One more time: Your first draft is all about story.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Which vs. That

 (Thought Random)
 
From: - Brian Klems' The Writer's Dig
Q: I’ve been writing for a long time and always assumed which and that were interchangeable, but I’ve recently been told that isn’t the case. How do I make sure I’m using the right word? —Anonymous
The battle over whether to use which or that is one many people struggle to get right. It’s a popular grammar question and most folks want a quick rule of thumb so they can get it right.
Here it is:
If the sentence doesn’t need the clause that the word in question is connecting, use which. If it does, use that. (Pretty easy to remember, isn’t it?) Let me explain with a couple of examples.
Our office, which has two lunchrooms, is located in Cincinnati.
Our office that has two lunchrooms is located in Cincinnati.
These sentences are not the same. The first sentence tells us that you have just one office, and it’s located in Cincinnati. The clause which has two lunchrooms gives us additional information, but it doesn’t change the meaning of the sentence. Remove the clause and the location of our one office would still be clear: Our office is located in Cincinnati.
The second sentence suggests that we have multiple offices, but the office with two lunchrooms is located in Cincinnati. The phrase that has two lunchrooms is known as a restrictive clause because another part of the sentence (our office) depends on it. You can’t remove that clause without changing the meaning of the sentence.
Let’s look at another example:
The time machine, which looked like a telephone booth, concerned Bill and Ted.
The time machine that looked like a telephone booth concerned Bill and Ted.
In the first sentence (thanks to the use of which), the time machine concerned Bill and Ted. It also happened to look like a telephone booth. In the second sentence (which uses the restrictive clause), Bill and Ted are concerned with the time machine that looks like a telephone booth. They aren’t concerned with the one that looks like a garden shed or the one that looks like a DeLorean (Marty McFly may have reservations about that one).
Now that you’ve learned the rule, let’s put it to a test:
1. The iPad (which/that) connects to the iCloud was created by Apple.
2. The issue of Writer’s Digest (which/that) has Brian A. Klems’ picture on the cover is my favorite.
The correct answers are:
1. The iPad, which connects to the iCloud, was created by Apple. (All iPads connect to the iCloud, so it’s unnecessary information.)
2. The issue of Writer’s Digest that has Brian A. Klems picture on the cover is my favorite. (Your favorite issue of Writer’s Digest isn’t just any issue, it’s the one with me on the cover.)
OK, so I’ve never been on the cover of Writer’s Digest, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s necessary for you to understand the context of your clauses, a key covered in most grammar books. If the information is essential, use that. If it’s just additional information that’s useful but unnecessary, use which.
And if you’d like to see me on the cover, contact WD editor Jessica Strawser at writersdigest@fwmedia.com. There are only so many times I can beg her to do it. (Insert smiley face here.)

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Writing Rules - Advice from The Times on Writing Well

(Thought-Random)

Teaching ideas based on New York Times content.
The Times has recently published a few features that we consider gifts to English teachers everywhere, including a summer “How To” section of the Sunday Book Review, and a new series, called “Draft,” on the art of writing, which features essays by grammarians, historians, linguists, journalists, novelists and others.
Below, we collect some “rules” we’ve derived from these features and from other pieces on the Times site, along with links and related activities we hope writers at any stage will find fun or useful — or both.
Before you go, please note Rule 10, in which we ask for your writing advice.



Rule 1: Listen to the Voice Inside Your Head

In a post for Draft, Verilyn Klinkenborg notes that he is often asked what his “writing process” is. “My answer is simple: I think patiently, trying out sentences in my head,” he writes.
He advises student writers to do the same, in contrast to school-writing, in which students are “asked repeatedly to write papers that are inherently insincere exercises in rearranging things they’ve read or been told.” (Or, we have to add, are school exercises masquerading as sincere personal essays, such as the one spoofed in this Onion classic.)
Mr. Klinkenborg advises, “Before you learn to write well, to trust yourself as a writer, you will have to learn to be patient in the presence of your own thoughts.”
You almost surely have a voice inside your head. At present, it’s an untrained voice. It natters along quite happily, constructing delayed ripostes and hypothetical conversations. Why not give it something useful to do? Memorize some poetry or prose, nothing too arcane. A rhythmic kind of writing works best, something that sounds almost spoken. Then play those passages over and over again in your memory.
Try Mr. Klinkenborg’s suggestions and see what happens. And if you’d like to record the voice in your head, or some of the sentences you begin to experiment with, try keeping a journal. The Personal Tech section of The Times reports this week that you can now do that via phone apps, without the “inconvenience of paper.”

Rule 2: Learn From the Masters

A classic Times series, “Writers on Writing,” asked contemporary writers from André Aciman to Hilma Wolitzer to talk about their work.
Glean insight from authors like Jamaica Kinkaid on why she writes; Allegra Goodman on calming the inner critic; and Carl Hiaasen on scrounging for material in newspaper headlines.
What are your favorite bits of advice? Copy them out for future inspiration.

Rule 3: Read Like Writers

To learn “How to Write Great,” immerse yourself in great literature, which, according to writer Roger Rosenblatt, can be anything from “Harold and the Purple Crayon” (“the lessons of the ‘Odyssey,’ minus the sex”) to “The Great Gatsby” (“Jay Gatsby, who stood straight and sober in the drunken Twenties, and who, nutty as his yearnings may have been, really was great”).
What books do you admire most? Why? As Mr. Rosenblatt does in this essay, you might try writing a paragraph describing what you find important and enduring about a book or author, whether your choice is an official classic on everyone’s list or an overlooked gem you think others should read.

Rule 4: Review the Rules

In his hilarious “How To Write,” Colson Whitehead plays with shopworn advice that will be familiar to many student-writers. For instance:
Rule No. 1: Show and Tell. Most people say, “Show, don’t tell,” but I stand by Show and Tell, because when writers put their work out into the world, they’re like kids bringing their broken unicorns and chewed-up teddy bears into class in the sad hope that someone else will love them as much as they do. “And what do you have for us today, Marcy?” “A penetrating psychological study of a young med student who receives disturbing news from a former lover.” “How marvelous! Timmy, what are you holding there?” “It’s a Calvinoesque romp through an unnamed metropolis much like New York, narrated by an armadillo.” “Such imagination!” Show and Tell, followed by a good nap.
Before you read the rest of Mr. Whitehead’s rules, you might brainstorm, alone or in a group, your own “Rules for Writing” — derived from what you’ve learned in school, from “real” writers, from your own experience, or from anywhere else. When you’re finished, consider:
  • Is there a difference between the rules you’ve learned in school and those you’ve learned about writing on your own?
  • Which rules seem most sound to you?
  • Do we need rules for writing?
Then, read the rest of Mr. Whitehead’s essay, and compare the two lists. What did you learn about writing from his piece that you didn’t know before?
Or, use his list as a model, and create a list of rules that spoof the advice on, or the clichés about, a topic you know well.

Rule 5: Study Sentences

In “My Life’s Sentences,” Jhumpa Lahiri writes:
In college, I used to underline sentences that struck me, that made me look up from the page. They were not necessarily the same sentences the professors pointed out, which would turn up for further explication on an exam. I noted them for their clarity, their rhythm, their beauty and their enchantment. For surely it is a magical thing for a handful of words, artfully arranged, to stop time. To conjure a place, a person, a situation, in all its specificity and dimensions. To affect us and alter us, as profoundly as real people and things do.
Sentences matter. In fact, Constance Hale notes that sentences can even act as miniature narratives. As Hale does, you might collect your own examples of great sentences that are mini-narratives.
Ms. Hale also explores the “Sentences of the Masters” to demonstrate the different effects of short and long sentences:
Gabriel García Márquez writes unhurried sentences that almost defy parsing. William Faulkner wrote a nearly 1,300-word sentence that ended up in Guinness World Records, but he used the five words “My mother is a fish” as a complete chapter of a book. Joan Didion can stop us short with simple truths, and she can take us on strolls down labyrinthine corridors.
Look for examples of interesting sentence structure and sentence variety in a work you are studying or reading, then write your own “copy-change” versions, in which you borrow another author’s structure and use it to create your own piece.
You might also consider excerpts from children’s book to review sound literary devices and explore the music that sentences make.

Rule 6: Write With Non-Zombie Nouns and Verbs 

Delve into Strunk and White’s fourth style reminder “Write with nouns and verbs” by reading about what Helen Sword calls “Zombie Nouns”:
Nouns formed from other parts of speech are called nominalizations. Academics love them; so do lawyers, bureaucrats and business writers. I call them “zombie nouns” because they cannibalize active verbs, suck the lifeblood from adjectives and substitute abstract entities for human beings.
Fight those nasty zombie nouns with vivacious verbs.
And to consider tricky questions like “Do verbs have to be in the active voice?” and “When is the passive voice useful?” use the rules and examples in this post by Constance Hale.

Rule 7: Punctuate That Thought
In a post on exclamation points, Ben Yagoda writes
Habitual e-mailers, texters and posters convey quite precise nuances through punctuation, which is after all one of the points of punctuation. A friend’s 12-year-old daughter once said that in her view, a single exclamation point is fine, as is three, but never two. My friend asked her where this rule came from and the girl said, “Nowhere. It’s just something you learn.”
Look through e-mails and texts you’ve sent for examples of “precise nuances” you’ve conveyed through punctuation. What “rules,” like the exclamation-point rule cited above, do you think govern the use of punctuation in forms of communication like texts and I.M.’s?
How might an older generation less fluent in these methods get the unwritten rules wrong? (Teachers: sites like When Parents Text might be useful here, but please consider whether they are appropriate for your students first.)
Here are some punctuation marks to consider:
Exclamation points
Use Mr. Yagoda’s post to examine and appreciate the role of the exclamation point in a sentence, then track exclamation points you see in “the wild”— in texts, e-mail, advertising, literature, or anywhere else. How do audience and purpose help determine when and why an exclamation point might be necessary or desirable?
Periods
Mr. Yagoda’s post also alludes to the use of the period in the Obama “Forward.” Slogan and what it suggests. What, exactly, does that period tell readers? What about the period the band Fun. has in its name?
Semicolons
Semicolons mystify many. In Semicolons: A Love Story Ben Dolnick recalls
When I was a teenager, newly fixated on becoming a writer, I came across a piece of advice from Kurt Vonnegut that affected me like an ice cube down the back of my shirt. “Do not use semicolons,” he said. “They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college.”
While Vonnegut’s admonition may be harsh, Mr. Dolnick offers a good primer to using semicolons sparingly and eloquently, helping them understand the comma-period hybrid as writers and readers, which is useful, as one never knows where one might pop up.
Commas
Correct comma placement matters. Just ask Grandma:
Let’s eat, Grandma!
Let’s eat Grandma!
Use the Draft post “Fanfare for the Comma Man” as a jumping off point to examine comma use in a book you are currently reading. Copy sentences which include commas and use them to deduce the rules for proper comma use.
Then, turn to this post to check the accuracy of the comma rules you’ve come up with and check that your writers are following the rules.

Rule 8: Nobody’s Perfect

Yes, Times writers and editors do make mistakes and the in-house feature “After Deadline,” which the public can view, too, takes them to task by highlighting and correcting errors in grammar, usage and style that appear in print.
Use this blog to understand grammatical points, like subject verb agreement. Then, become a better editor of your own work by taking the After Deadline Quiz.
Rule 9: Fail
Learn from your mistakes and failures, a topic Augusten Burroughs tackles in
“How to Write How-To”
:
… to pass along the knowledge of how to succeed, first you must know how to fail. A great deal, if possible. This is essential because it’s far more common (and easier) to make mistakes than to enjoy success. Being aware of potential points of derailment helps to better and more accurately navigate your readers past your own missteps so they can succeed where perhaps you first failed quite miserably.
Value mistakes, and the successes that grow from them, by keeping a portfolio of your work, including revisions and editing exercises. You might even reflect in writing on how your writing has progressed, or create a timeline of your development as a writer to see, laid out chronologically, how you’ve grown from as a writer over time.

Rule 10: Fill in the Blank

What would you add? Why? We invite you to tell us below.



Common Core E.L.A. Anchor Standards, 6-12

Reading

1. Read closely to determine what the text says explicitly and to make logical inferences from it; cite specific textual evidence when writing or speaking to support conclusions drawn from the text.
4. Interpret words and phrases as they are used in a text, including determining technical, connotative and figurative meanings, and analyze how specific word choices shape meaning or tone.
5. Analyze the structure of texts, including how specific sentences, paragraphs and larger parts of the text (for example, a section, chapter, scene or stanza) relate to each other and the whole.
6. Assess how point of view or purpose shapes the content and style of a text.
10. Read and comprehend complex literary and informational texts independently and proficiently.
Writing
4. Produce clear and coherent writing in which the development, organization and style are appropriate to task, purpose and audience.
5. Develop and strengthen writing as needed by planning, revising, editing, rewriting or trying a new approach.
10. Write routinely over extended time frames (time for research, reflection and revision) and shorter time frames (a single sitting or a day or two) for a range of tasks, purposes and audiences.

Speaking and Listening
1. Prepare for and participate effectively in a range of conversations and collaborations with diverse partners, building on others’ ideas and expressing their own clearly and persuasively.
2. Integrate and evaluate information presented in diverse media and formats, including visually, quantitatively and orally.

Language
1. Demonstrate command of the conventions of standard English grammar and usage when writing or speaking.
2. Demonstrate command of the conventions of standard English capitalization, punctuation and spelling when writing.
3. Apply knowledge of language to understand how language functions in different contexts, to make effective choices for meaning or style, and to comprehend more fully when reading or listening.

This post has been revised to reflect the following correction:
Correction: September 24, 2012
An earlier version of this post misstated the name of the author of "Zombie Nouns." She is Helen Sword, not Karen Sword.