#i used way too many parentheses in this answer my sentences make no sense

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

"when she says why don’t you hate me, she’s asking can you love me."

So how do you feel now knowing you made me teary? Your writing is nothing short of brilliant and amazing and beautiful! I love your characterizations and plots. THANK YOU FOR BEING SO TALENTED!

I personally always thought Sylvie's "maybe love is hate" shows how inexperienced she is when it comes to the intimate and romantic relationships. She had never had love to reciprocate from anyone (before Loki and probably after her family was murdered), all she knows is hostility from others, yet she manages to be sympathetic even towards the tva agents like Hunter B-15. I just love her complexity. That line sounded like something you'd say about something you have only known from reading the books or observing. It seemed like a sincere nativity in her part.

oh my goodness this is such a wonderful ask to get aaaaaaaaaa!!!!!

that line is one that I am VERY proud of and I think it kinda forms the crux of the fic (for the bad decisions that we made, in case anyone else was wondering). that's what it comes down to: she feels like he should hate her, and in some ways she hates herself (bc as much as she could never have backed out of her ultimate goal, even for Loki, she really didn't want to hurt him, sending him away was an attempt to keep him safe but I think it probably hurt him worse than any blade could and Sylvie is smart enough to know that... They're not the same, but in some ways they are, and she's hurting so badly then how much must Loki be hurting too), but at the same time she's desperate for love.

(that same desperation is why she pruned herself in ep5)

and thank you so much! the compliments of my writing style make me so happy, I sometimes feel like my style isn't exactly what I wish it could be but I think overall I'm pretty happy with it?? but the affirmation is really really nice :) and I'm glad you like my characterizations!!! that means so much to hear, I have so much fun writing these characters and digging into what makes them tick, their motivations and feelings and everything else. (i can't take much credit for talent haha, that's largely a God thing tbh... but THANK YOU!!!! it means so much that you consider me talented haha!).

ohh you know, I hadn't really thought of it like that?? but you're right, Sylvie's never had anyone to love or be loved by. she's posturing a little bit, trying to banter and one-up Loki, but "maybe love is hate" is a really interesting reflection of the way she sees things?? I can't really explain it but you know how people talk about how love and hate aren't opposites? "The opposite of love's not hate, it's indifference" and all that — you don't feel that kind of anger toward someone unless you care about them on some level, which is exactly how it happens in ep6.

also I do think it's interesting how quickly Sylvie softens toward anyone who isn't hostile to her, both with Loki and to some degree with B-15 and even Mobius... I think that speaks to her loneliness honestly. it's kinda funny how Loki was all uncertain and "this is new for me" at the end of ep4, but even he probably understands relationships (in general) better than Sylvie. she has no clue how to go about any of this, how to navigate these feelings and events, and I think it scares her.

I know I'm probably totally missing your point shdjfbjdjdhs but I... can't really add anything to what you said??? anyway I have to say again that this is SUCH a nice ask to get!!! thank you so much for taking the time to leave a really nice message!!

[shes-an-oddbird]

Time or Quake

Daniel tries to determine what are normal behaviors of this time versus what are Daisy's own unique odd habits. 

Dousy Week - Day 6 Prompts - Time & Quake

Daniel Sousa was in fact fazed by everything but to be fair he thought he was handling the transition to the 21st century as well as could be expected. Better even to some extent. It helps greatly that Daisy is more than happy to teach him all about it, especially if it involved laughing at him along the way. At some point, after he begins to recognize habits and behaviors that are considered normal for the time, he starts to notice odd things about Daisy herself. He doesn’t worry over most of them but sometimes he finds himself unable to not ask if it’s a time-thing or a Daisy-thing.

He has to have a cell phone and he has to know how to use it. This Daisy insists upon. In case of an emergency she wants to be able to reach him and wants him to be able to reach her or another member of the team. It will also help him blend in. Teaching him to use it actually hadn’t been that difficult. He likes to think that he picked up on the tech quickly enough. It was the smaller irrelevant things that confused him.

“Apps?”

“They’re mostly time wasters.”

Not his favorite. He didn’t care much for wasting his own time.

Books though? A library’s worth in his phone? Fantastic. He’ll admit he still likes the feel of old paperback books best, but the convenience was unbeatable.

On that same note, he also still preferred talking to people on the phone versus the short exchanges of text messages. The endless abbreviations, the lack of replies, the incessant beeping from group messages. He didn’t mind so much the ones from Daisy. They usually consisted of checking up on him when they were apart, links to articles she thought he might like and reminders. Specifically, those reminders were for him to remind her to show him some movie or book or tv show. Those were his favorite.

But it was at the end of many of her messages that he first noticed something odd and unique to her texts and one day he finally asks her about it.

“Daisy?”

“Hmm?”

“Why is this at the end of so many of your messages?”

“Why is what?” She leans over his shoulder and he points to the odd little colon and parentheses at the end of her most recent message. He hears her try to stifle a laugh and looks up at her. She’s grinning down at him, her shoulders shaking gently.

“What?”

“Okay, here,” she takes the phone and turns it in his hand so that it sideways. He thinks maybe the screen will rotate like it does when she shows him pictures, but it doesn’t. “Do you see it now?”

He does not.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

She doesn’t answer just continues to smile at him. He looks back at the screen and then back at her until it hits him. “It looks like a smile.”

“There you go.”

“But why?”

“Because I was smiling when I wrote the message and honestly you’re not ready for emojis.”

“Emojis?”

She taps a button on the screen and up pops hundreds of yellow circles with faces on them. Most of them are smiling but some he supposes looks angry or sad or even confused. “You’re right, I’m not ready.”

He mentally marks the symbol down as a time related oddity, even if its already a dated one.

He notices one day while holding her hand that she has her shirt sleeve tugged down over her palm. He writes it off as her hands being cold and doesn’t think much of it until it until it happens again on a warmer day. Out of curiosity he tugs her hand up to look at it and notices her shirt is actually made with a little hole to slide her thumb through.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks. He does this often, stopping dead in his tracks to inspect something that is new or unusual.

“Why, is this like a fashionable thing?” It must be if they make the shirts that way.

“I wouldn’t say that necessarily, I think it’s just comfortable for some people.”

“People with perpetually cold hands?”

“Maybe, among other reasons,” she looks down at the hand he doesn’t have grasped in his own, “I like how familiar it feels, it reminds me of my gauntlets.”

Well that made a lot of sense. Her gauntlets protected her arms so there was a level of safety and comfort in having her palms covered.

So not just a Daisy thing but with a very Daisy specific reason.

Daniel hears a frustrated shout from the other room and its not the first one. For at least the last half hour it sounded like Daisy was arguing with someone but as best he can tell its only a one-sided conversation. When he hears a loud thump he decides he better check on her. He pokes his head into their room just as she mutters another irritated sentence. “Why are you so useless?”

He knocks on the door frame.

“Hmm?” She answers without moving her eyes off the screen.

“Were you just talking to the computer?”

“Yes.”

“Are you on one of those video calls?”

“What?” Daisy finally looks up at him. “Oh no, I was, it was just being uncooperative.”

It? The computer? “So you yelled at it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s an inanimate object.”

“So?” She asks.

He almost doesn’t ask. “Does it understand you?”

The next thing he knows is a pillow is being hurled in his direction. “Don’t tease me, the damn thing is pissing me off, I’m supposed to have this done for Mack by the end of the day.”

He holds his hands up in defense. “I promise that was a genuine question.”

She sighs heavily and falls back against the remaining pillows on the bed. “No, it does not understand me, god help me if it does, I’ve called it some pretty awful things.”

“I heard.”

She sits up and looks at him as though something has just occurred to her. “Wait, have you never yelled at an inanimate object before?”

“Yelled at? Yes, but I’ve never had a whole conversation with one.”

He marks this one down as a normal behavior of the time and dodges another pillow that comes his way.

He thinks her most unusual habit may be the odd places she sits.

She sits on the floor a lot. Which he doesn’t think is all that odd, it’s just not something he’d voluntarily do himself. But sometimes he returns to their tiny, shared apartment and finds her comfortably situated anywhere but in a chair. She sits on the back of the couch, on the counter in the kitchen, on the stepstool she used to reach things.

When they’re on base she sits on desks or on crates and on the rare occasion he finds her in a chair its almost always sideways or backwards or with her legs and feet pulled up underneath her.

“Do you have something against chairs?” He asks when he finds her sitting on a crate instead of doing inventory on the zephyr.

She looks at him funny. “No, why?”

“You just never seem to use them?” He gestures to the boxes beneath her.

“I didn’t even realize.” She replied honestly. “Maybe its a subconscious rebellion, the nuns tried to instill us with good posture or maybe just habit, I didn’t exactly have proper seating in my van.” She pauses. “Is it weird? Now that you bring it up, I feel kind of like a child.”

“I don’t know if it’s weird,” he laughs and steps up to her, wrapping his arms around her waist as she drapes hers over his shoulders, “you’re the one who’s supposed to be teaching me what’s normal.”

She considers this. “Unclear.” She tells him.

Unclear.

There is one thing that he knows is distinctly Daisy even from the very first time it happens.

She’s been gone for nearly two weeks. Sent with Elena’s team on a mission involving a whole family of inhumans who were being threatened. Definitely their area of expertise. He spent a much quieter week at the academy, assisting Coulson as he prepared to take on a semester of SHIELD history classes. The pair had joined May for lunch when the text messages started coming in.

We’ve landed!!!!

Are you still at the academy?? I’ll meet you there

Where are you both the classrooms are empty

He considers calling her but she’s taken to answering the phone in mocking tones when he does that instead of just writing back to her. Stopped for lunch, we’re on our way back to May’s classroom

:) :) :)

He rolls his eyes and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. They’re only just around the corner from the classroom. May has a lecture in a few minutes and the halls are filled with cadets moving around in a rush to get to where they need to be.

“Finally!” Daisy jumps up from her spot of the floor and starts to sprint towards them, dodging the students who didn’t get out of the way fast enough. She slams into him and they stumble backwards a couple of steps.

“Hey I missed y – “

She cuts him off, dragging his lips down to meet hers. He knows she’s had a long couple of weeks so he tries to pour as much love and comfort into the kiss as possible, pulling her as close to him as he can.

A shudder runs through them and they break apart. Daisy looks up at him wide eyed and cheeks reddening. People have stopped and are staring at them startled and he realizes that it wasn’t a shudder than separated them but a quake.

“I’m sorry, I just really missed you too.”

A Daisy thing. Definitely a Daisy thing.

[itsclydebitches]

Re the BTD recap: "the prose is still incredibly messy in places" "To be frank, it’s not that I think this is all particularly good… just not particularly bad either." If it's not too much trouble, can I get some concrete examples for why? I feel like I often don't notice this sort of thing, so I want to know what I'm missing. Might help me to be a better writer.

Challenging request, anon! :D I feel like I need a few disclaimers here: 

The book is serviceable. It’s just not going to be winning any awards. Talking about how the prose and dialogue can be better isn’t meant to translate to, “This is the worst thing ever written.” Because it’s not. 

This is very much a pot calling the kettle black situation. Anyone here has the capability of hopping onto AO3, finding a horribly written passage of my own, and shaking it in my virtual face. So this is likewise not intended to be me standing atop a pedestal going, “Anyone - myself included - could do better.” I often can’t do better because writing is hard. 

I’m not a creative writing instructor, thus it’s often difficult for me to articulate why I think a piece of literature doesn’t read well. If you’ve ever, say, come out of a movie with a strong sense of it not being “good” but can’t easily explain why it failed? It’s similar to that. By consuming lots of media we get a sense of “quality” over “badly written” that then informs our reactions to new texts, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to boil that response down to, “See here on page 3? They shouldn’t have done this. Fix that and it’s ‘good’ now.” 

Nevertheless, let’s try. I’ll take a passage from the prologue where Sun is facing off against these “goons” 

Two glowing clones of Sun flared into existence, one facing Pink and the second squaring off against Green. That left Brown—whom he figured was both the leader of the group and the most dangerous. Why? Because he was hiding the most.

Brown slashed a hand toward Sun. “Take him.”

“Which one?” Green asked.

“The real one,” Pink said. “These are just flashy illusions.”

Sun directed one of his clones to punch Pink in the face.

She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.

“That’s no illusion!” Green reached for clone Two.

Sun’s clones were physical manifestations of his Aura, every bit as capable of inflicting damage as he was. But it could be difficult to control them, especially while he was fighting. They were better suited to giving him the element of surprise, extra pairs of hands, or emergency backup when he needed it.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t sustain them long, and they couldn’t take much damage, as they drew Aura from Sun himself. If he kept them going too long, or tried to create too many clones, it usually weakened the Aura shield protecting him. But he’d improved a lot with training, and his Semblance was a lot stronger than it used to be.

Sun whipped out his gunchucks, Ruyi Bang and Jingu Bang, spinning them as he and Brown circled each other slowly. At the same time, Sun was fighting Pink and Green through his clones. Pink was some kind of boxer, dancing around and jabbing with her fists, which One was managing to block. Meanwhile, Green was trying to grab Two and wrestle him to the ground.

Brown had some kind of martial arts training similar to Sun’s—but he wasn’t nearly as good. Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it. Sun flicked his right gunchuck to loop it around Brown’s ankle and pulled him out of his stance, hitting him with the closed gunchuck in his left hand. The man took the full blow, but it didn’t even faze him.

Now let’s break down some of the reasons why this passage doesn’t work for me. I’ll work chronologically. 

As mentioned in the recap, it’s rather awkward for a PoV character to ask and answer their own questions. Especially when they’re not presented as literal thoughts. The “Why? Because...” takes me right out of the story. It suddenly sounds like I’m attending a lecture or reading an article. Sun believes X. Why does he believe this? Because of Y evidence. 

The dialogue is clunky. This problem is admittedly more obvious at other points, but there are a lot of moments where it doesn’t feel like this is a natural thing someone would think or say. Which again, is really hard to write. How people speak is quite different from how we think they speak and finding a balance between that (eliminating most pauses like “um” or “like” that would be too frustrating to read, giving characters more flowery language to serve the story’s goals even if it’s not realistic, etc.) is hard to nail. Here, Sun is often thinking things that don’t sound l like an actual thought in a panicked teen’s head.

Oh crap, Sun thought. I’m losing. How am I actually losing?

It just sounds like exposition. The reader needs to know that Sun is losing! So Sun will tell them that. 

The villains, so far, are a bit too cartoony for me. 

“You got lucky, monkeyboy,” Green said as he walked off, his companions following him through the cloud of foul vapor. “This time.”

Which is admittedly a matter of taste and does have some justification given RWBY’s early writing (think Roman). Still, it’s hard to take lines like this seriously, especially when we just had the group making fun of Velvet for cheesy quips. But the villain’s quips are supposed to read as daunting? 

Connected to Sun’s thought above, there is a lot of telling rather than showing throughout. For example: “She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.” There are ways of showing the reader that Pink is annoyed (indeed, just leaving it at “She blinked” would have gotten the point across) rather than resorting to, “She looked ___”. Another good example would be “ Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it.” You don’t need to reassure the reader that there was “a lot of power behind it.” The action itself - feeling a breeze, his boot passing close to his nose - conveys that on its own. 

To be clear, telling isn’t something you can’t ever do (break those writing rules!!) especially when sometimes you just want to be clear/convey something succinctly, but it is something to keep in mind. It’s another balancing act. Too much telling and the reader feels like they’re just being told a list of things to believe. Too much showing and it feels like the writer is trying too hard to make everything detailed, exciting, etc. Still, a good writer is going to be able to convey everything (Sun losing a fight, annoyance, a powerful kick) without feeling the need to remind the reader of things every few lines, “This is what’s happening. Don’t get confused!” 

After the fight starts we immediately get a two paragraph info-dump about Sun’s semblance. How it works, what his limitations are, and what that means for this fight. Again, show that! We’ve just started an action sequence. The fight is underway. The reader doesn’t want to get pulled out of the action for another lecture. Rather than hitting pause on the fun stuff to explain things, create scenarios where these details become relevant and can be shown to the reader. Right now we don’t care what Sun’s limitations are unless those limitations become important.  

We get another announcement in the form of “[Brown] wasn’t nearly as good [as Sun]” instead of (again) showing us that. Indeed, as I mention in the recap all the action that comes next contradicts this. So where did this assertion come from? If Sun knows that Brown uses a martial arts style similar to his then theoretically they’ve been fighting for at least a few seconds... but the reader doesn’t get to see that. Meyers was too busy telling us about Sun’s semblance. 

Finally, there are pockets of Meyer’s writing that are all roughly the same. Meaning, sentences have little variety to them. This isn’t a consistent problem (and it’s certainly not the worst example I’ve seen of this) but on the whole he could use a more engaging flow to his work, both in terms of sentence length and balance among actions, dialogue, descriptions, and thoughts. Otherwise you get prose that reads, “This happened. Then this happened. This happened next. See the length? It’s all the same. Very little changes. And the reader gets bored.” Again, not a consistent problem, but one he should keep working on. 

There are a number of other, smaller issues that are beginning to pop up. Such as the in parentheses pronunciation of the teams’ names, or the overuse of “he sent” whenever Fox communicates telepathically. In contrast, there are things about the writing that I’ve enjoyed. There are moments of dialogue - such as Fox’s joke in Chapter One, or how Sun’s instructions to “find Shade” literally refer to the school but also remind the reader that shade, in such a hot environment, is crucial - that I think are worth pointing to and going, “Yeah. That was a nice touch.” Overall though? It’s that, “I just came out of a bad movie” feeling. There’s too much clunkiness throughout. The writing often lacks variety or feels absurd. I’m taken out of the story more often than I fall into it. Is it the worst thing I’ve ever read? Far from it, but fans aren’t wrong when they say things like, “I’ve read better fic than this professional story.” 

[sassenach4life]

Daily Lines ~ Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (Book 9)

#DailyLines #GoTELLTheBEESThatIAmGONE #Noitisntdoneyet #SOON#workmanship #example

A couple of days ago, I was reading a discussion about manuscript size in the LitForum, and a writer working on his first novel asked—“If you think your manuscript might be too long-- how you decide which words to cut?”

He got a lot of useful answers and comments, and I answered him, too—but since my answer involved a snippet from BEES, I thought y’all might be interested in the technique, as well as the snip itself. (If you don’t care about writing techniques, but do want to read the excerpt, just scroll down to “FINISHE(ISH) VERSION.”

[Answer to the Question: “How do you decide which words to cut?”]

You cut the ones you don't need. The very last thing I do to a manuscript before sending it to the assorted editors (in US, UK and Germany) is what I call "slash-and-burn": I go through it one word at a time, chanting (silently) "Do I need this word? Do I need this sentence? Do I need this paragraph? Do I need this scene?" And if the answer is no, I pull it out (mind you, I don't throw them _away_ (I value my work, whether I use it or not <g>); I just park them in a file called the Assembly Buffer and save it, so I can pull things back in if I change my mind or realize that I _do_ need X because it's attached to a later Y that won't make sense if X isn't somewhere, even if not where I originally put it).

Mind you, I do this _in medias res_, too; I don't save it all for the final days. <g>

Here's a brief passage, then its assembly buffer, and then the final (for now...) version:

[Excerpt - non-spoilerish, but it _is_ from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright 2019 Diana Gabaldon]

ORIGINAL VERSION

Over the next few weeks, the —you couldn’t call them “warring,” nor even, really, “opposing”—but certainly “differing” approaches to God on offer at the Meeting House had collected their own adherents. Many people still attended more than one service--whether from an eclectic approach to ritual, a strong but undecided interest, a desire for society, if not instruction—or simply because it was more interesting to go to church than it was to sit at home piously reading the Bible out loud to their families.

Still, each service had its own core of worshippers, who came every Sunday, plus a varying number of floaters and droppers-in, and when the weather was fine, many people remained for the day, picnicking under the poplars and [elms?], comparing notes on the Methodist service versus the Presbyterian one--and as the congregations were largely Highland Scots possessed of strong personal opinions, arguing about everything from the message of the sermon to the state of the minister’s shoes.

…[omitted text (because it has a spoiler in it)]

After each of the morning services, I would take up a station under a particular huge horse-chestnut tree and run a casual clinic for an hour or so, dressing minor injuries, looking down throats, and offering advice (along with a surreptitious (because it was Sunday, after all) bottle of “tonic”—this being a decoction of raw but well-watered whisky and sugar, with assorted herbal substances added for the treatment of vitamin deficiency, alleviation of toothache or indigestion, or (in cases where I suspected its need) a slug of turpentine to kill hookworms.

Meanwhile, Jamie—often with Ian at his elbow—would wander from one group of men to another, greeting everyone, chatting and listening. Always listening.

“Ye canna keep politics secret, Sassenach,” he’d told me. “Even if they wanted to—and they mostly don’t want to—they canna hold their tongues or disguise what they think.”

“What they think in terms of political principle, or what they think of their neighbors’ political principles?” I asked, having caught the echoes of these discussions from the women who formed the major part of my pastoral Sunday surgery.

He laughed, but not with a lot of humor in it.

“If they tell ye what their neighbor thinks, Sassenach, it doesna take much mind-reading to ken what _they_ think.”

“Do you think they know what _you’re_ thinking?” I asked, curious. He shrugged.

“If they don’t, they soon will.”

ASSEMBLY BUFFER (with explanation of changes—or not)

[I took these out because they weren’t necessary, and removing them improved the flow and clarity of the sentences.]

—you couldn’t call them “warring,” nor even, really, “opposing”—but certainly “differing”

--strong but

--[poplars and [elms?],] - Hmm. Do I want specifically-named trees, or should it just be “picnicking under the trees” for brevity? (Also, would you find elms in the North Carolina mountains in the 18th century, and would they be growing near poplars?) Normally, I go for specific details because it helps fix the scene visually, but not sure about this one… I mention a particular tree a little later in this passage, so I think this time, I’m going with “trees.” Shorter, and improves the rhythm and euphony of the sentence. This is background for what’s going to happen at the bottom of the page, so no need to embroider more than necessary.

being (plus assorted punctuation). Better clarity—and as this is Claire’s viewpoint and narrative, the sentence fragment is acceptable.

[I considered removing these (below), but didn’t:]

[if not instruction] –

[piously] – ditto, this one. Do I _need_ that word? Yes, because it evokes a particular mental image that “reading the Bible” doesn’t quite cover. It’s also a judgement from Claire’s point of view—that’s how she sees the attitude of the Bible readers—and this is her voice.

[Punctuation and minor corrections.]

, and (the paragraphs here are rather long and dense-looking. I want to break up the sentences and make them more readable) Add missing parenthesis after “hookworms.” Change “decoction” to “concoction” (a decoction is boiled, which would drive off the alcohol from the whisky—and thanks to an alert reader of the original post who brought that to my attention!)

…. [omitted material]

[ After each of the morning services, I would take up a station under a particular huge horse-chestnut tree and run a casual clinic for an hour or so, dressing minor injuries, looking down throats, and offering advice (along with a surreptitious (because it was Sunday, after all) bottle of “tonic”—this being a decoction of raw but well-watered whisky and sugar, with assorted herbal substances added for the treatment of vitamin deficiency, alleviation of toothache or indigestion, or (in cases where I suspected its need) a slug of turpentine to kill hookworms.] -

[Now, at first glance, this paragrah looks ripe for breaking up into shorter sentences and eliminating words, but I’m not going to. It’s a direct rendition of the way Claire thinks—in layers, referencing each other—and (more importantly <g>) give a capsule sense of what her morning surgery under the horse-chestnut tree is actually like: a parade of assorted ailments and her quick handling of them to the best of her ability. This comes well into the book; readers with no patience for parentheses will have abandoned ship long since…]

The end part, I’m not changing anything. I normally fiddle enough with the dialogue and underpainting as I go that it’s pretty much as it should be, and this is clean. Sentences short and clear, but giving what they should in terms of information and attitude.

So—

FINAL(ISH) VERSION:

Over the next few weeks, the different approaches to God on offer at the Meeting House had collected their own adherents. Many people still attended more than one service, whether from an eclectic approach to ritual, an undecided interest, a desire for society, if not instruction—or simply because it was more interesting to go to church than it was to sit at home piously reading the Bible out loud to their families.

Still, each service had its own core of worshippers, who came every Sunday, plus a varying number of floaters and droppers-in. When the weather was fine, many people remained for the day, picnicking under the trees and comparing notes on the Methodist service versus the Presbyterian one. And being largely Highland Scots possessed of strong personal opinions, arguing about everything from the message of the sermon to the state of the minister’s shoes.

After each of the morning services, I would take up a station under a particular huge horse-chestnut tree and run a casual clinic for an hour or so, dressing minor injuries, looking down throats, and offering advice (along with a surreptitious (because it was Sunday, after all) bottle of “tonic”—this being a concoction of raw but well-watered whisky and sugar, with assorted herbal substances added for the treatment of vitamin deficiency, alleviation of toothache or indigestion, or (in cases where I suspected its need) a slug of turpentine to kill hookworms).

Meanwhile, Jamie—often with Ian at his elbow—would wander from one group of men to another, greeting everyone, chatting and listening. Always listening.

“Ye canna keep politics secret, Sassenach,” he’d told me. “Even if they wanted to—and they mostly don’t want to—they canna hold their tongues or disguise what they think.”

“What they think in terms of political principle, or what they think of their neighbors’ political principles?” I asked, having caught the echoes of these discussions from the women who formed the major part of my pastoral Sunday surgery.

He laughed, but not with a lot of humor in it.

“If they tell ye what their neighbor thinks, Sassenach, it doesna take much mind-reading to ken what _they_ think.”

“Do you think they know what _you’re_ thinking?” I asked, curious. He shrugged.

“If they don’t, they soon will.”

[Excerpt from GO TELL THE BEES THAT I AM GONE, Copyright 2019

[hub-pub-bub]

Punctuation, largely invisible and insignificant for normal people, as it should be, is a highly personal matter for writers.  Periods, commas, colons, semi-colons:  in their use or non-use and in their order and placement, can represent elaboration, conjecture, doubt, finality.  And in aggregate, over the course of a text, the rhythms of punctuation advance an author’s worldview and personality as surely as any plot or theme.  Patterns of punctuation usage are the writerly equivalent of an athlete’s go-to moves, or a singer’s peculiar timbre and range—those little dots and squiggles, in a sense, encode your voice.  Anthony Powell’s colon (pardon the inadvertent image) is as signature as Kyrie Irving’s crossover or Rihanna’s throaty cry.

For me, there is no punctuation mark as versatile and appealing as the em dash.  I love the em dash in a way that is difficult to explain, which is, probably, the motivation of this essay.  

And my love for it is emphasized by the fact that many writers never, or rarely, use it—even disdain it.  It is not, so to speak, an essential punctuation mark, the same way commas or periods are essential.  You can get along without it and most people do.  I don’t remember being taught to use it in elementary, middle, or high school English classes; I’m not even sure I was aware of it then, and I have no clear recollection of when or why I began to rely on it, yet it has become an indispensable component of my writing.

It might be useful to include an official definition of the em.  From The Punctuation Guide:  “The em dash is perhaps the most versatile punctuation mark.  Depending on the context, the em dash can take the place of commas, parentheses, or colons—in each case to slightly different effect.”  The “slightly different” part is, to me, the em dash’s appeal summarized.  It is the doppelgänger of the punctuation world, a talented mimic impersonating other punctuation, but not exactly, leaving space to shade meaning.  This space allows different authors to use the em dash in different ways, and so the em dash can be especially revealing of an author’s style, even their character.

The maestro of the em dash—as he was with many things (and apologies here, it is difficult not to annoyingly play, or seem to play, on a punctuation’s usage while writing about it)—was probably Vladimir Nabokov.  The locus of Nabokov’s attention is usually at least half trained on the fictional document he’s producing, so em dashes often serve as a kind of in-text footnote.  But in a more general sense, he simply employs them as part of his exemplary stylistic machinery, using them as counterweights against commas, as parenthetical ballast and rhetorical cog.  In Lolita, Nabokov is engaged in creating a calibrated ironic voice that half-emulates speech while retaining its smooth literary surface, and em dashes enable a more precise pacing of words and thoughts from the sentence to paragraph level.  A representative passage chosen completely at random:

I launched upon an “Histoire abregee de la poesie anglaise” for a prominent publishing firm, and then started to compile that manual of French literature for English-speaking students (with comparisons drawn from English writers) which was to occupy me throughout the forties—and the last volume of which was almost ready for press by the time of my arrest.

I found a job—teaching English to a group of adults in Auteuil.

Notice how the use of em dashes here, not strictly prescribed by any pressing grammatical need (the first could be justly replaced with a comma, the second eliminated), are used to create an internal structure that bridges paragraphs.  The long sentence at the end of the first paragraph closes with a short clause set off by an em dash, and the short sentence at the beginning of the next starts with a shorter clause also enclosed by the em.  The chief effect of this kind of bracketing is, I think, intuitive and rhythmical, adding to Humbert’s pompous purr, but there is a secondary effect of conjoining the ideas of transgression (his arrest) and seeming normalcy (finding a job), a pas de deux central to Lolita’s thematic heart.

A more contemporary user of the em dash is Donald Antrim.  Antrim’s em dash helps to create a faltering narration that expresses the pervasive emotional mood of his work, an almost paralytic anxiety.  Take this first sentence, from the story “Ever Since:”

Ever since his wife had left him—but she wasn’t his wife, was she? he’d only thought of her that way, had begun to think of her that way, since her abrupt departure, the year before, with Richard Bishop—Jonathan had taken up a new side of his personality and become the sort of lurking man who, say, at work or at a party, mainly hovers on the outskirts of other people’s conversations, leaning close but not too close…

The narrator has only just begun to have a thought about Jonathan’s wife before a new thought intrudes, needlessly clarifying who she is to him before we even know who he is.  “Needlessly” in story terms, though the larger narrative need is to exemplify, through halting syntax, Jonathan’s excruciatingly circumspect mental process.  This is, to a degree, Antrim’s own process, and we get doses of it even in more remote, comic narration, such as in the long beginning sentence—Antrim is a great lover of long beginning sentences—of “An Actor Prepares:”

Lee Strasberg, a founder of the Group Theatre and the great teacher of the American Method, famously advised his students never to “use”—for generating tears, etc., in a dramatic scene—personal/historical material less than seven years in the personal/historical past; otherwise, the Emotion Memory (the death of a loved one or some like event in the actor’s life that can, when evoked through recall and substitution, hurl open the floodgates, as they say, right on cue, night after night, even during a long run)—this material, being too close, as it were, might overwhelm the artist and compromise the total control required to act the part or, more to the point, act it well; might, in fact, destabilize the play; if, for instance, at the moment in a scene when it becomes necessary for Nina or Gertrude or Macduff to wipe away tears and get on with life; if, at that moment, it becomes impossible for a wailing performer to pull it together; if, in other words, the performer remains trapped in affect long after the character has moved on to dinner or the battlefield—when this happens, then you can be sure that delirious theatrical mayhem will follow.

Here, Antrim actually violates, as he sometimes does, a basic rule of parenthetical em dash usage, that you can only use one set per sentence.  The violation of this stricture is unsettling and makes it difficult to keep up with meaning.  Which, in a sentence and story about artistic chaos and loss of control, is, of course, the point.

Emily Dickinson is probably the most well-known user of the dash, to such an extent that “em” might justly be taken as short for “Emily.”  She habitually ended lines with em dashes, sometimes to an obvious effect, sometimes not.  Here is her most famous stanza:

Because I could not stop for Death— He kindly stopped for me— The Carriage held but just Ourselves— And Immortality.

What are the dashes doing here?  On the one hand, since they don’t serve any obvious syntactical function, they can be read simply as a stylistic tic.  But they do create a feeling of hesitation that serves the poetry.  Without them, this stanza is a nicely crafted, clever piece of thinking about the inevitability and dignity of death.  With them, we feel Dickinson’s hand hovering over the page, considering her subject.  This lends a poignancy to the poem, a sense of the artist thinking through her subject, considering the terms of her own death.  Her use of the em dash obliquely posits writing as an elaborative act, and in many of her poems the em transforms what would otherwise be somewhat inert, though great, common meter into something alive to itself, process-oriented.

My own favorite use of the em dash is for elaboration, similar to the way many writers use colons.  As a personal rule, I only use colons in a specific context:  that is, if what follows answers the question what?  Em dashes, I find useful for both narrowing and expanding a train of thought that might lose momentum in a new sentence—in this sense, they also stand in for the semicolon, but semicolons are best used (in my fuddled cosmology of punctuation) as dividing walls between two related but independent thoughts of approximate equal value (I wholly reject, by the way, that old bullshit about eliminating semicolons).

In truth, I probably overuse the em, find too much pleasure in asides, in explanation.  But I can’t do it, I cannot write terse little impregnable Tobias Wolffian sentences that stand on their own.  Though I can admire a page of these sentences—the calm presiding rationality, like civilized people queueing to exit the building in a fire drill—I am drawn instinctively to the dithering em, some contingency always butting up, worrying the previous sentence before it’s had a chance to end.  As Noreen Malone put it in a self-deprecating Slate article, “The problem with the dash—as you may have noticed!—is that it discourages truly efficient writing.  It also—and this might be its worst sin—disrupts the flow of a sentence.”

This is true.  But is efficiency the point or purpose of writing?  It seems to me that novels, especially, are almost anti-efficiency devices.  Yes, we want to communicate clearly, but sometimes, just as crucially, we also want to clearly communicate the difficulty of communicating clearly.

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons.

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ADAM O’FALLON PRICE is a writer and teacher living in Carrboro, N.C.  The paperback edition of his first novel, The Grand Tour, is now available on Anchor Books.  His short fiction has appeared in The Paris Review, VICE, The Iowa Review, and many other places.  His podcast, Fan's Notes, is a bi-weekly discussion about books and basketball.  Find him online at adamofallonprice.com and on Twitter at @AdamOPrice.