Writing Note--Scaffolding
In the recent final rewrite of a project, I was particularly dismayed to see that among my 456,948 bad writing habits I still haven't been able to get rid of, there was still far too much of what matociquala calls scaffolding, which I think the perfect image--the unsightly wickerwork of tubes or wooden supports put up when one is repainting or refinishing a building. I've usually thought of it as interlarding. Like those veins of fat you see in slabs of meat. They don't add anything but weight.
Note: I am emphatically not against long sentences. I love long sentences that convey vividly both story and image. But that means every word needs to build on the last, each phrase must pique and surprise. As soon as a good strong noun (or even an adequate one) is folowed by a train of modifiers either in adjective or prepositional phrase, a strong verb with lots of adverbial phrases or words telling us what we already know, the eye starts skipping, the story jerks to a stop just for a second or two, then lurches forward. Enough of those in a graph and it seems the story is slow and meandering, even if there is nothing wrong with the grammar or punctuation. The pace is perceptibly slowed, and though there might be dramatic emotions on that page, or exciting events, somehow it all seems kinda slow and even a bit dull. I get the feeling I've pushing through an undergrowth of weeds to find the story path.
Here are a couple examples of what I consider to be good long sentences, grabbed at random off the shelves. I skipped the convoluted writers like Proust and Joyce--just looked for writers who appeal to a wide range of readers.
Two sentences from the opening pages (page 3) of Mary Stewart's Moonspinners:
She's talking about Crete's White Mountains.
Here and there along the coast, where some mountain stream, running down to the sea, has cut a fresh-water inlet in the ramparts of the cliff, are villages, little handfuls of houses each clinging to its crescent of shingle and its runnel of fresh water, backed by the wild mountains where the sheep and goats scratch a precarious living. Some of these villages are approached only by steep tracks through the maze of foothills, or by caique from the sea.
It seems to me, anyway, that there are no obvious clusters of phrasings explaining what was already clear--each word adds to the picture.
And here is Rudyard Kipling, again two sentences, about swimming at the beach:
It was half-flood--dead smooth, except for the triple line of combers, a mile from wing to wing, that broke evenly with a sound of ripping canvas, while their sleek rear-guards formed up behind. One swam forth, trying to copy the roll, rise, and dig-out of the Reverend John's side-stroke, and maneuvered to meet them so that they should crack on one's head, when for an instant one glanced down arched perspectives of beryl, before all broke in fizzy, electric diamonds, and the pulse of the main surge slung one towards the beach.
combers wing to wing--sound of ripping canvas--beryl--electric diamonds--the surge after the crash all done in one syllable words--gosh I think that's lovely.
To contrast, here are a couple of sentences that I think full of scaffolding. (I'm breaking them up to put in what I think would be judicious cuts.)
Ann turned and proceeded to walk across the room, but before she lifted the latch to the door she glanced back over her shoulder at Victor, and as she paused on the threshold of the room, she quoted a famous line from Byron, and then left the house.
There are no electric diamonds there, just bland action; the point is the line from Byron, which isn't much of a point, but it seems to me that it's buried in all that unnecessary phrasing. Here's how I'd trim it:
Ann crossed the room, paused before lifting the latch; glancing back at Victor, she quoted a line from Byron then left.
If we're firmly in Ann's POV, we don't need reminders:
Ann saw Victor get up from his chair, and she felt her heartbeat quicken in anticipation.
Shortened to:
Victor rose; Ann's heartbeat quickened [in anticipation].
If we've already seen Victor sit in a chair, we don't need a reminder that he's in a chair. The phrase "in anticipation" makes Ann's emotion specific, but I'd cut it and let the following action make it clear, in part to keep the moment as quick as her heartbeat, and in part so there isn't the unconscious echo of Ann and an in 'anticipation'.
Note: I am emphatically not against long sentences. I love long sentences that convey vividly both story and image. But that means every word needs to build on the last, each phrase must pique and surprise. As soon as a good strong noun (or even an adequate one) is folowed by a train of modifiers either in adjective or prepositional phrase, a strong verb with lots of adverbial phrases or words telling us what we already know, the eye starts skipping, the story jerks to a stop just for a second or two, then lurches forward. Enough of those in a graph and it seems the story is slow and meandering, even if there is nothing wrong with the grammar or punctuation. The pace is perceptibly slowed, and though there might be dramatic emotions on that page, or exciting events, somehow it all seems kinda slow and even a bit dull. I get the feeling I've pushing through an undergrowth of weeds to find the story path.
Here are a couple examples of what I consider to be good long sentences, grabbed at random off the shelves. I skipped the convoluted writers like Proust and Joyce--just looked for writers who appeal to a wide range of readers.
Two sentences from the opening pages (page 3) of Mary Stewart's Moonspinners:
She's talking about Crete's White Mountains.
Here and there along the coast, where some mountain stream, running down to the sea, has cut a fresh-water inlet in the ramparts of the cliff, are villages, little handfuls of houses each clinging to its crescent of shingle and its runnel of fresh water, backed by the wild mountains where the sheep and goats scratch a precarious living. Some of these villages are approached only by steep tracks through the maze of foothills, or by caique from the sea.
It seems to me, anyway, that there are no obvious clusters of phrasings explaining what was already clear--each word adds to the picture.
And here is Rudyard Kipling, again two sentences, about swimming at the beach:
It was half-flood--dead smooth, except for the triple line of combers, a mile from wing to wing, that broke evenly with a sound of ripping canvas, while their sleek rear-guards formed up behind. One swam forth, trying to copy the roll, rise, and dig-out of the Reverend John's side-stroke, and maneuvered to meet them so that they should crack on one's head, when for an instant one glanced down arched perspectives of beryl, before all broke in fizzy, electric diamonds, and the pulse of the main surge slung one towards the beach.
combers wing to wing--sound of ripping canvas--beryl--electric diamonds--the surge after the crash all done in one syllable words--gosh I think that's lovely.
To contrast, here are a couple of sentences that I think full of scaffolding. (I'm breaking them up to put in what I think would be judicious cuts.)
Ann turned and proceeded to walk across the room, but before she lifted the latch to the door she glanced back over her shoulder at Victor, and as she paused on the threshold of the room, she quoted a famous line from Byron, and then left the house.
There are no electric diamonds there, just bland action; the point is the line from Byron, which isn't much of a point, but it seems to me that it's buried in all that unnecessary phrasing. Here's how I'd trim it:
Ann crossed the room, paused before lifting the latch; glancing back at Victor, she quoted a line from Byron then left.
If we're firmly in Ann's POV, we don't need reminders:
Ann saw Victor get up from his chair, and she felt her heartbeat quicken in anticipation.
Shortened to:
Victor rose; Ann's heartbeat quickened [in anticipation].
If we've already seen Victor sit in a chair, we don't need a reminder that he's in a chair. The phrase "in anticipation" makes Ann's emotion specific, but I'd cut it and let the following action make it clear, in part to keep the moment as quick as her heartbeat, and in part so there isn't the unconscious echo of Ann and an in 'anticipation'.