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Breaking Down Content: Part I

August 24, 2017

Lots of writers look for a formula in writing, e.g.

a novel should be 80,000 words
each chapter should be 2,000 words
80,000/2,000 = 40 chapters.

And then they’ll try write to that template. The problem is that in any given chapter, you might wrap up what needs to be said in 700 words. What do you do for the next 1,300 words? Some writers will waffle to pad everything out. This isn’t even good in theory. If I was telling you a story and finished it in seven minutes, but then talked at you for another thirteen minutes about the same thing, would you be entertained or bored?

Mathematical breakdowns do not apply in writing. A story – and a book, for that matter – is as long as it needs to be. So is a chapter. And a paragraph. And a sentence.

This doesn’t mean your 90,000-word book should be one long paragraph – although it can, if it justifies it. But that’s the qualification: justification. Every (narrative) selection needs a justification as to why it exists as it does. Many writers don’t contemplate that. They just write where the writing takes them.

Consider this exercise:

The Premise

more

less

How do the pieces compare? What tone do the short sentences communicate compared to the longer sentences? It’s worth thinking about, because it helps you to understand the shape of writing, and the purpose that brevity or length can communicate beyond what the words themselves are saying. It also helps to understand that content should justify its own length, and how it’s delivered.

Once you begin to understand the small building blocks, you can start looking at the big building blocks, e.g. the chapters. Some authors struggle with this. They understand their concept as this big blob. For example, the blob might be any of these:

Fiction: a wife tries to clear herself after she is accused of her husband’s murder
Biography: the story of Joe Blow, who rises from humble beginnings, becomes a councilman and grows to be invaluable to his local community
Nonfiction (Topical): why the German Shepherd is the ideal dog breed for a pet
Nonfiction (Inspirational): How to emerge from an abusive relationship and rebuild your life.

These examples demonstrate content as a concept. They’re whole – that’s the blob. This then leaves you with two questions:

How do I break that concept down?

How does the breakdown deliver the message I want to share? (Note: the message might be the plot of the story, the life of a biography, or the message of a nonfiction fiction.)

The first and most basic thing to understand is that chapters don’t all need to be a relatively equal length. They can be. But they don’t need to be. They can be as short or long as needed, and written in whatever form helps deliver your concept. Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time alternates between traditional narrative and puzzles, which helps define the 15-year-old protagonist as somebody who is different (the blurb suggests he might have Asperger’s or a form of autism, but the author has denied this and just says he’s different).

Writers can gravitate towards compartmentalizing through length as it helps them impose order on their content. But a more efficient way of understanding narrative and structure is compartmentalization through subject, i.e. What will each chapter be about? And, following that question is this one: How does each chapter contribute to my content overall?

You could outline the sum of your content this way. Some authors do. Others prefer to write on-the-fly, but even if it seems as if they’re making it up as they go along, they would be following a similar guide in their heads. Others might outline, but if the content evolves into something else, follow it wherever it takes them. But in each case there should be a purpose. A direction. A plan. This would help segment the content into a logically causal narrative that builds to deliver the content as a whole and, thus, whatever message the author is trying to impart.

Nonfiction would be treated as little different – especially if you were focusing on some sort of biography, e.g. autobiography or memoir, a biography, or a family or community history. You would break it down into what each chapter was trying to do and how it contributed to the overall story. If it was something topical, you’d look at each facet, and how that built the bigger picture.

A useful tool in planning out any form of writing is to bullet point it by topic. But don’t do it chronologically. Try it this way:

Write down where your content begins
Write down where it ends
Write what you think is the middle of your content (this may change later)
Write down a point that comes between the start and the middle
Write down a point that comes between the middle and the end
Continue to break it down, adding ‘middle’ points (between the other points) until you’ve fleshed out your content and covered everything you need to cover
Look at the chronology, and see if anything needs to be shifted, anything is repeated, and if anything is redundant
Note: Don’t repeat yourself. And treat these points as fluid, e.g. you might move them to better satisfy the structure.

This should give you a rough outline, cover what needs to be said, and build the structure of how that content is going to be delivered.

On the next blog, we’ll look at a more detailed chapter breakdown to help outline whatever you’re writing.

What Goes in the Pot …

August 10, 2017

Sitting outside the Busybird Studio are two bits of signage (right) – one is a placard of the business; the second is a chalkboard, which we use to spruik upcoming events.

Not too long ago, an elderly man wandered in to query us about reprinting an old family history. Once we finished talking about the particulars, he asked about the event being advertised on the chalkboard – at that time it was Novelling. We explained that Novelling broke down the craft of writing a novel into simple, understandable components.

‘What’s there to know?’ the old fella asked. ‘Doesn’t it all just come from here?’ He held both hands up to his temples.

That seems a popular misconception from anybody who doesn’t write: all you have to do is sit down, and translate your imagination onto the page. It’ll all come quickly. Easily. And, naturally, it’ll all make sense.

But why should it?

Outside of the presumption, why should it make any sense? It’s tantamount to suggesting you can bake a chocolate cake simply by guessing what ingredients are required, throwing them into the mix, and then shoving it into oven. What do you think the result would be?

Writing is hard.

Writing something good is harder still.

Just as baking a cake would require a precise measure of ingredients, a strict methodology in how they’re combined, and a design in how it’s baked, writing requires much more than just an imagination. An imagination will give you ideas. That’s it. Staying with our cooking analogy, it would be the equivalent to the thought, I’d like to bake a chocolate cake today. From there, it requires technique, a plan, and diligence. Anything less, and who knows what the result would be?

You could fluke it.

Likelier, you wouldn’t because just as when you approach any endeavor, you need to know and understand how it functions, what’s required, and what’s needed to excel. You wouldn’t expect to walk into a kitchen and be a master chef, or onto a tennis court and expect to be a champion, or into a surgeon’s theatre and expect to know how to operate.

Writing is no different.

You need to understand how structure works, what POVs are, how to plot (and subplot), what VOICE is, how to make characterisations dimensional, what arcs are, how to design and layer your world so that it’s believable, how to avoid pitfalls such as exposition, show versus tell … and this list goes on and on.

Although many might think writing is little more than a hobby, a fun thing to do with bits of your imagination firing away and wanting to tell a story, it – as a craft – deserves respect.

Especially if you want to give it your best shot.

Issues in Writing: Part III

July 27, 2017

So here we are for our last blog on issues we commonly find in writing.

This week, we’re going to look at some common structural issues – these can range from a single word to the way information as a whole is delivered.

It should be noted that some of these might be considered subjective, but see what you think.

Story Openings
Imagine you opened a story this way …

There’s only the emptiness now, a longing that tears at me. Every night is the same. I wish that, come the morning, things could be the way they were. When I wake, there’s that instant of hope, of what was, before realisation hits.
The rain hammers the roof as I try to sleep. I toss; the bed is too big – too empty. On the drawer, the clock radio’s neon numbers glow at me: 1.12am. I sit up and stare at the open doorway.

We want to hook readers from our first sentence, from our first word, so what’s the issue here?

The opening paragraph is disembodied. Do we know where we are? Do we know who’s talking? Obviously, we don’t know these things from the beginning of any story – the narrative eases us into the world where we discover this information. But we should get a sense of grounding. This floating, melodramatic opening offers us nothing but mood. That can be used a narrative device, but here it’s tonally empty.

The story would begin much more logically from the second paragraph.

Causality
Why do things happen in your story?

Detective Gallo paused in the middle of the room. The blood splotched on the carpet was an inkblot open to interpretation. An executive chair – a tailored ergonomic recliner – lay upended, surrounded by paperwork. The mess told its own story: the victim fled for the door, the axe came down on his back; he fell, knocked the chair over, clutched at the desk and dragged everything down with him. On the floor, he bled out, and died gaping at the line of abstract paintings – faces disjointed, aghast – that hung on one wall. Minutes later, the secretary returned from lunch – startled, the killer escaped through the window.
What had the killer been looking for?
Detective Gallo shook his head. He yanked open the door, then stopped as he heard rustling. His eyes narrowed. An envelope had slid out from behind one of the paintings, poking out from behind the bottom left corner.

Causality should drive the events in your stories. That means each effect should have a cause. In this above example, instead of the detective just blindly finding this clue, how about he searches the room (cause) which leads to him finding the clue (the effect)?

Think about how the events in your story are driven. Yes, life – and events in stories – can be subject to chance. But don’t forget what bestselling author Tom Clancy said: ‘The difference between reality and fiction? Fiction has to make sense.’ We can accept that in real life, we might randomly bump into a friend we haven’t seen for ten years, who just happens to give us a bit of life-changing information, like a job has opened up just as we were looking for work. In a story, though? It all seems a bit contrived.

Narrative Evolution
How do we get from one sentence to next?

The rain hammers the roof and echoes through my apartment. The bed is too big, a spaciousness that feels wrong.

In this example, how does the sentence go from talking about the rain to the narrator now explaining that his bed is too big? There’s no evolution. They’re just details shoved in to develop setting and mood.

An organic evolution – one the reader doesn’t question, and trusts to take them from Point A to B to C, etc. – is pivotal in good writing.

The rain hammers the roof and echoes through my apartment. I toss as I try to find sleep. The bed is too big, a spaciousness that feels wrong.

Show, Don’t Tell
As writers, we would’ve all heard this at one time or another – show, don’t tell.

Bob was so angry.

This tells us how Bob is feeling. He’s angry. But how could we show this? What are some of the characteristics of anger? Some simple answers are a reddened face, a bulging vein in the neck, a tightening fist, etc. Through showing, this creates a visual for the reader that’s much more evocative than just telling them something.

Exposition
Another form of telling is exposition – when we give the reader all the details they require so that they can then move forward to understand the story.

Bob let himself in through the front door and slumped into his favourite recliner. He wasn’t sure what to do next. His wife had left him for another man, circumstances with which he was struggling to cope. He’d stopped eating, drank too much, and vacillated between fits of sadness and anger. He didn’t know how to go on.

Here, we’ve talked at the reader to deliver all the details of Bob’s life so that they reader has context to move forward with the story.

But how could we deliver this information without relying on exposition? The narrative tells us Bob’s drinking too much. We could show that by Bob hitting the liquor cabinet as soon as he gets home, or beer bottles piled on the kitchen sink. We could show sadness through tears; anger might be expressed by Bob slamming the refrigerator door. The relationship demise might be shown through torn pictures – it might not expressly suggest she ran off with another man, but a picture with a face gouged out strongly suggests that the break up was acrimonious.

There’s lots of ways to show this information. Yes, sometimes, we’ll need exposition; we’ll need to outright tell the reader what they need to know so they have context to move through the story. But other times, we can show circumstances through clever and descriptive narrative. It mightn’t always surrender every precise detail but, sometimes, casting a hook to keep the reader reading isn’t such a bad thing.

Redundancies

The dry cleaner was situated on the north side of town.

With tautologies, we have two words serving the same purpose. Here, we simply have a word that’s not required – in this case ‘situated’.

This sentence could easily be:

The dry cleaner was on the north side of town.

Condense

Ashamed to stay at school, he quit. He then resigned from trying to get anywhere in life.

There’s nothing wrong with this passage. But think about the way words flow, the way sentences relate, the way they unfold. There’s a nice symmetry here between the quitting and the resignation, and the sentences here could be condensed to show that interrelationship.

Ashamed to stay at school, he quit, then resigned from trying to get anywhere in life.

Things Implied

We don’t need to spell everything out for the reader.

He stopped and opened the boot of his car; I leaned against a telephone pole, watching.

Do we need to be told that the character here is watching what’s happening? We can only know that the other character has stopped and opened the boot of his car because the narrator has narrated it for us, which means they must be watching. It’s implied. So the ‘watching’ could be chopped. You might only include it if there’s a specific reason you want the reader to be aware it’s happening.

Specifics

Pulling the chocolate bar from his pocket, he makes a carnivorous sound and tears open the wrapper.

What is a ‘carnivorous’ sound? Even if we were more direct – e.g. ‘he makes a sound like a dog savouring a bone’ – what exactly does that mean? If I’d never owned a dog, I wouldn’t know. Equally, I don’t know what a ‘carnivorous sound’ is. Think of specifics that describe to the reader what exactly is occurring.

Word Choice

Exhausted, I got up from the floor.

We already looked at substituting adverb/verb combinations with stronger verbs. But this is a rule that applies to any form of writing in general. Look for the right word. It doesn’t have to be a BIG word. It doesn’t have to be fancy. It just needs to be right. In our example, what could fit better here?

Exhausted, I hauled myself up from the floor.

That’s it. Hopefully, you’ve found our three-part series on issues on writing helpful.

It’s amazing what you’ll begin to see in your writing once you learn about issues. Look over some of your old work. Attack it with fresh eyes and a newly informed mind and see how you go.

Happy writing.

And revision.

Issues in Writing: Part II

July 13, 2017

Our last blog looked at some of the common issues we encounter in writing. We’re all culprits at one time or another, and it’s amazing what we begin to see only after we become aware of its existence. Until that occurs, we just merrily write, doing the same things over and over and over.

This isn’t an intended slight. We all do it. And while taste is subjective, what constitutes good prose is generally uniform.

So, this week, we’re going to continue looking at more common issues.

Labels
Labels are similar to clichés – easy ways to convey expression.

A nuclear explosion wiped out my entire family. It was tragic.

Tragic? That’s the best we can do? Well, I’m sure it was tragic. But what does that mean? Look for expression that’s evocative. Just labelling something with an easy description means little to anybody.

Tautologies
A tautology is saying the same thing twice in different words, or using a modifier that is already stated through implication.

The evening sunset tinged the sky a gorgeous crimson hue.
I’m personally giving you this assurance.
A quick glance over my shoulder revealed he was right behind me.

The evening sunset? As opposed to what? The morning sunset? A sunset can only occur in the evening, so it’s redundant to tell us that. When you give an assurance, it’s implied that it’s ‘personally’ from you. A ‘glance’, by nature, is a quick look.

Suddenly / Sudden
People love to use ‘suddenly’ and ‘sudden’. It communicates impact and drama.

Suddenly, the door crashed open.
I woke with a sudden jolt.

The problem with ‘suddenly’ and ‘sudden’ is that they’ve become overused, and sound melodramatic, like something used in Year 7 English, e.g. I was walking down the hall when, suddenly, a ghost appeared!

Sometimes, that an action is ‘sudden’ is spelled out in the text anyway, e.g., when a door ‘crashes’ open, it does so suddenly. Certainly, doors don’t crash open gently or slowly.

In the second example, think of how to phrase it so we communicate the suddenness of what’s happening without using ‘sudden’.

I jolt awake.

If you’re going to use ‘suddenly’, make sure the action totally needs it, and it’s describing something that is sudden.

However
The use of ‘however’ has become an easy transition for authors (and particularly nonfiction authors), as it helps them go from one subject to the next with no logical evolution. But the transition of ‘however’ makes it seem logical.

I am studying writing today. However, debate rages on whether Pluto is a planet or not.

It seems like these things are connected, because ‘however’ is there. But they’re not. We’ve jumped between two disparate points.

Think about how you’re getting from one sentence to the next. If you’re using a ‘however’, you may be using it transitionally as a convenience, rather than through any causal evolution.

As far as fiction goes, the use of ‘however’ is also very formal.

Mixed Metaphors
Metaphors are figures of expression that are applied to communicate a certain image. E.g. His anger was like a raging sea. The problem comes when imagery gets mixed up.

The pendulum has turned.

Pendulums don’t turn. Tides do. Give thought to the metaphors that you do use.

Dangling modifier
A dangling modifier is a phrase that doesn’t modify the subject or action it was intended to modify.

Turning the corner, the building leaped out.
I saw the elephant peeking through the window.

Did the building leap out as it turned the corner? What’s meant here is as somebody turned the corner (e.g. As I turned the corner, or As he turned the corner), he saw the building leap out. Was the narrator peeking through the window and saw an elephant, or did they see an elephant that was peeking through a window?

Squinting Modifier
With a squinting modifier, it’s unclear whether the modifier is intended to modify the phrase that comes becomes before or after it.

People who drink beer regularly have stomach issues.
After I passed the driving test with the help of my instructor I got my license.

In the first example, is it that people who drink beer regularly are the ones who have stomach issues? Or is it that people who drink beer are the ones who regularly have stomach issues? Similarly, with the second example, did the driving instructor help pass the driving test, or did the driving instructor help with the license?

A comma could help separate what’s intended here, or some minor rejigging could provide clarity.

People who regularly drink beer have stomach issues.
After the instructor helped me pass the driving test, I got my license.

Noun / Pronoun Antecedent
The use of a pronoun (he, she, his, her, that, it) will point to the last noun introduced.

Richie found the clam shell on the beach. Later, we went back to the bar and he bought me a beer – that’s when he gave it to me.
Bernice told her mother that she was wrong.

In the first example, what did Richie give the narrator? What he probably intended to give the narrator was the clam shell. But the current phrasing makes it seem as if Richie gave the narrator a beer – the pronoun (it) points at the last relevant noun (beer). With the second example, who’s wrong? Bernice or Bernice’s mother?

Overwriting
The temptation is to believe that the more details we offer about the same thing, the better we draw our world, and the surer that the reader will get it.

The boy felt for the lock in the darkness, and took a deep breath as a gale screamed portents of doom about the small cabin in the woods. Unlocking the door, the boy stepped out onto the doorstep and closed the door behind him. Although he braced for it, the torrential winds tore through him and nearly carried him from his feet. He was shaken and shivered, soaked through by the rains, the scathing winds icing his exposed cheeks and forehead. He gasped for breath, hugged his arms to himself, and searched the darkness ahead.

Okay. We get it – there’s a storm, it’s cold, and it’s wet.

Writing doesn’t work on the same principles as infomercials, repeating the same stuff over and over to hammer it into the heads of the audience. In writing, this just dilutes what you’re trying to say. Trust your reader. Use unique details. If you’ve done it right, your narrative will be incisive, rather than a pillow trying to pound in the same message.

Obviously, there’s many ways we could rewrite this example, but one alternative might be:

Taking a deep breath, the boy opened the door and stepped from the small cabin. The rain battered the shivering gums, while the winds shrieked through their branches. The boy hugged his arms to himself and searched the darkness ahead.

Attributors
Attributors show the way dialogue is being said, e.g. the ‘said’, ‘asked’, etc.

‘I really don’t think you know what you’re talking about,’ he elucidated.
‘How dare you suggest that!’ he accused.
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Mary said, loudly.
‘No, you’re wrong!’ Bob exclaimed.
‘Why don’t you—’
‘Oh, go take a flying leap,’ Bob interrupted.

Good dialogue doesn’t need fancy attributors and/or modifiers. If it’s written well, the reader will infer the tone.

There’s a school of thought that you should only ever use ‘said’ and ‘asked’. As an editor, I think it’s okay to go a little bit further afield. But don’t get too fancy, e.g. he elucidated. That’s just going to stand out to the reader and jolt them from your narrative.

Don’t be redundant, either. In this example, the very act of Bob speaking in the final line shows us he’s interrupting Mary – we don’t need to be told he’s interrupting. Same with the ‘exclaimed’. The dialogue ends with an exclamation mark! Do we need to be told Bob exclaimed on top of that?

Lastly, try to stay away from modifying the attributor also, e.g. Mary said, loudly. Again, if you’re needing to spell out everything to that extent in the attribution, your dialogue’s not strong enough. Read it aloud. Act it. Is it communicating what you want your characters to say and feel?

Okay, that’s it for this week. In our next blog, we’ll conclude looking at common issues in writing.

Issues in Writing: Part I

June 29, 2017

The appreciation of any art form is subjective. We all have different tastes. And that’s fine. If we all had the same tastes, the world would be boring, and art would become predictable as a medium. So diversity of opinion is a good thing.

But, when it comes to writing, there’s some things that aren’t subjective – issues of expression and grammar that are just wrong. These contribute to poor expression, lack of clarity, and weak phrasing. Addressing these as an author can help you tell the story you want to tell powerfully and engagingly.

So, over the coming weeks, we’re going to list a number of things that we see in writing when we assess and/or edit. We’ll do this in layman’s terms (for our benefit, as much as anyone’s), using before and after examples to demonstrate.

Here goes …

General Expression
Writers have a proclivity to introduce a subject in one sentence, and then expand on it in the next.

He charged through the door. The door was gold.
He charged through the door, which was gold.

Neither of these are wrong, and you might systematically build details this way for effect. But, sometimes, it’s just because you’re feeling your way through your narrative, and this can result in details coming begrudgingly. Thus, you articulate them begrudgingly. This example could be simplified to:

He charged through the gold door.

Passive vs Active
In a passive sentence, the action happens to the subject. In an active sentence, the subject performs the action. Active writing is concise and direct. Here are two examples of passive writing:

The swimmer was eaten by the crocodile.
Your manuscript has been destroyed.

And written actively:

The crocodile ate the swimmer.
I have destroyed your manuscript.

You may use passive writing for effect. Every awards show does this: ‘And the winner is …’ They do it this way to delay the announcement as long as possible, which builds the drama.

You can often identify a passive sentence by the use of ‘by’.

Is your verb strong enough?
It’s strange that in primary school and high school, we’re taught to use adverbs, but in writing, adverbs are a sign that your verb isn’t strong enough.

She spun quickly away from him.
I ran fast down the street towards my house, scooped up the bat, and hit the burglar hard over the head.

In the first example, the verb is ‘spun’, and the adverb is ‘quickly’. But is there a stronger verb that performs the action of spinning quickly? Think about it.

In the second example, we have a number of verbs and adverbs: ran (verb) fast (adverb); scooped (verb); hit (verb) hard (adverb).

If you look at the breakdown, ‘scooped’ is a great verb. It’s creates a visual of exactly what’s happening. But what about the others? What better verbs would perform the actions we’re describing?

Correcting both examples, we might have:

She twirled away from him.
I bolted down the street towards my house, scooped up the bat, and whacked the burglar over the head.

Obviously, there are other options. But this gives you an idea of finding strong verbs to do the job of a verb/adverb combination.

Meh Verbs
Here, we’re using verbs that don’t correlate with an action to describe what’s happening.

I take a seat.
He shouted at me, which caused me to be upset.
My heart was beating fast.

Take (meh), caused (meh), was (meh)! Is there any power in what’s being said? Reinserting proper verbs restores conciseness of expression:

I sit on the chair.
He shouted at me, which upset me.
My heart beat fast.

Sometimes, you might want the informality of a I take a seat. You might be trying to communicate that casualness. If you’re not, find the right verb for the right job.

Begin / Start
You begin a book. You start a car. Otherwise, ‘begin’ and ‘start’ imply actions that either are never completed, or ongoing:

I begin to tie my shoelace.
I start to wash the dishes.

In neither example has the action been completed. It’s something that was begun … and then what happened?

I begin to tie my shoelace, but feel a twinge in my back.

This shows us that the act was interrupted. Using ‘begin’ is logical.

But what else could happen?

I start to wash the dishes. Bob babbles about his break-up from Mary. ‘She never listened to me,’ he says. ‘Doesn’t matter what I said.’ I put the final plate in the dish rack and turn off the taps. ‘Sorry?’ I say. ‘What were you saying?

Here, the action is ongoing as something else is happening concurrently.

These are the only times you should use ‘begin’ or ‘start’. Otherwise, be direct. Complete the action.

I tie my shoelace.
I drink.

Seem/Seemed
Something is or it isn’t. There’s usually no ‘seemed’ about it.

School seemed to drag even more than usual that day and I kept staring at the clock waiting for the final bell to ring.

Did school drag or didn’t it? If it did, then it didn’t seem to.

School dragged even more than usual that day and I kept staring at the clock waiting for the final bell to ring.

You may use ‘seem’ (or any of the derivatives) if you want to communicate uncertainty, but otherwise think about how absolute whatever you’re saying is.

Nothing modifiers
If you’re going to use a modifier, be definitive. Don’t use anything that has no real qualitative measure.

It’s virtually hopeless.
It is quite hot.
I finally got around to speaking to Jen; she was somewhat peeved it had taken me so long, but it wasn’t my fault. Basically, what had happened was the keyboard on my phone started playing up. The whole phone became practically useless.

How much is ‘virtually’? How hot is it when it’s ‘quite hot’? Words such as ‘somewhat’, ‘basically’, ‘essentially’, etc., give no definitive measure. You might use them in dialogue to convey a conversational tone (e.g in this example practically useless may be accurate), but in prose eliminate them.

Filters
Filters are words we use to connect our characters to their environment or to their inner monologue for the interpretation of the reader.

He saw that she was wearing the blue dress he liked.
I noticed it was beginning to rain.
I realised that she didn’t love me.

We don’t need filters in writing because all the information being delivered is being delivered through the POV of our characters, whether the prose is first, second, or third person.

She was wearing the blue dress he liked.
It was beginning to rain.
She didn’t love me.

You might use filters when you want to draw attention to a character noticing something (e.g. I noticed a drop of blood on her ear), but you can otherwise ditch them.

Expletive Construction
Expletive constructions are combinations such as ‘There was’, ‘There were’, ‘He/she was’, ‘It was’, etc.

There were three boys sitting at the bus stop.
There was a bird singing in the tree.
It is inevitable you’ll understand.

These can be chopped and sentences rejigged to be more direct.

Three boys sat at the bus stop.
A bird sang in the tree.
Inevitably, you’ll understand.

Clichés
Clichés are forms of expression that have become overused and lost all meaning.

The scream echoed through the house and made my blood run cold.

What does it mean when blood runs cold? Obviously, we know what it’s intending to convey, but how effective is it? Think of an evocative way to describe the terror. Look for expressive that is unique.

In our next blog, we’ll continue looking at issues in writing.