Five Easy Ways I Polish My Writing

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Writing is one of the most complicated endeavors around. Traditional rules abound without much logical reasoning. Other writers scatter tips and admonishments like monkeys tossing peanuts. Grammarly and QuillBot are more prolific with a red pen than the meanest of high school English teachers.

Don’t expect me, having served half a century in the writing industry, to sit mute while I have such strong opinions. So here are five of my pet peeves. I will click away from a story faster than green grass goes through a goose when it’s riddled with these.

Making every sentence a paragraph, double-spaced

Writers who do this tell me it’s because they see “lots of good writers do it” (especially on Medium). I doubt that.

The rule of thumb revolves around white space being easier on the eye. Ok, great wine is a wonderful thing, but too much of it and you’ll puke. Read this group of sentences:

I was always interested in writing because I love words and have a talent for using them.

When I was ten, my English teacher gave me an A on every paper I wrote since she had to read so much garbage most days and my stories were at least cohesive.

Later, I spent a couple of years writing for a local newspaper.

I got paid to write, which seemed a terrific windfall.

White space abounds, but the rhythm is stilted. Rest assured, you are better off writing for the reader than to impress other writers. In this example, the reader gets bits of ideas with no cohesive pacing to draw the mind through what you are saying. We don’t read word-by-word. We read groups of words. This blown-out spacing tires the reader, makes them scroll a lot, and doesn’t entice them with a next thought. This spacing is worse than a bad listicle.

But consider the paragraph (for it is a single paragraph in reality) this way:

I was always interested in writing because I love words and have a talent for using them. When I was ten, my English teacher gave me an A on every paper I wrote since she had to read so much garbage and my stories were at least cohesive. Later, I spent a couple of years writing for a local newspaper. I got paid to write, which seemed a terrific windfall.

That’s an easy progression of the writer’s early history. It could motivate me to keep reading for more info. Sentences aren’t paragraphs. We readers are too lazy to keep scrolling to get your point.

Inconsistent verb tense or noun/verb agreement

Somewhere around the second grade, we learn that verbs describe actions, and actions can take place now, in the future, or in the past. A verb’s time frame indicator is called its tense.

• She moves across the room (present tense, right now).

• He tried out for the football team (past tense, happened before the present moment).

• They will be in Panama in September (future tense, sometime after right now).

It’s not tricky or complicated. Too often, if I don’t read my own work, I get immersed in the excitement of the story, and we see this:

The flying monkeys swooped over the treeline and came right at me, tails waggling. They scared the bejesus out of me, causing me to run headlong into the woods. They dive, targeting my head.

Swooped, came, and scared are past actions. I’m telling the story of something that happened to me once upon a time. Dive switches the action to the present moment and makes the reader go, “Huh?”

It can be effective and immediate to write in present tense when I don’t want the reader to guess the outcome. But mixing tenses confuses the reader. In past tense, the reader knows I survived; I am relating what happened before. Present tense leaves it open; maybe I won’t make it. An inexperienced writer forgets they began with past tense and suddenly sticks in a present verb. Proofread your work to catch these.

The long and winding introduction unrelated to the title’s promise

If I click out of a story, it’s often because of a bloated opening. The title is full of promise. I am eager to find out something about a topic. But the writer has a brainfart, rambling on and on, forgetting what they promised me. I feel pimped. Like this:

Kicker: “Sins of the Entitled.”

Title: “How Tourism Trashed the Ethereal Island of Crete.”

Subhead: “Greek Islands — Pastoral Paradise to Tacky Beach Motels.”

I’m in. I lived on Crete and adored the quiet, uncrowded, undeveloped outback where ancient temples dotted hillsides. Twenty years later, my daughter sent me photos of a tiny town I lived in that had become overrun with gaudy, crowded motels splayed across the sandy coast like overworked hookers.

So, if the story runs along those lines, explaining why it happened and how it can be fixed, I’ll keep reading and leave satisfied.

But what if the writer opens with a description of their Greek ancestry, goes on for three paragraphs, then morphs into a blurb about how much they loved My Big Fat Greek Wedding? A tirade about Greek cuisine follows, and then there is a brief passage about how regrettable it is that the islands have changed forever. Never mind. I’m gone.

We writers have an obligation to keep our promises. No matter how seductive a title is, if the story fails to deliver, the reader is left high and dry.

Assuming the reader is psychic

If I write on a topic known for specific jargon or language, I’m obligated to make sure you can ride along with me. I often write about pottery and ceramics. The language of that craft isn’t highly technical, but for my reader, certain terms may take a moment to decipher.

It’s on me to make sure you understand burnishing if I decide to tell you about a burnished pot. I’ll briefly say we burnish a surface by rubbing a metal spoon or smooth stone over it for an hour or so to compress clay particles and create a soft shine.

I’ve read several great stories about important topics, one in particular about neurodivergence. I truly wanted to know more, but the writer — a quite capable writer — sprinkled acronyms and medical terms around like glitter on a craft project. I was lost. Being obsessive, I looked them all up, but I felt a little cheated.

It costs a writer nothing but a little time to make specific vocabulary crystal clear.

Know when to hold ‘em

This is the quintessential tip. If we want readers to read us, we’re obliged to respect their time and patience. Before you disseminate anything, read it as though you didn’t write it. Read it as though you can barely spare the time to read it.

Edit out anything you’ve written that doesn’t move your reader comfortably through the piece. There’s that anecdote you’re in love with that seems to underscore your writing prowess and make you feel like Joan Didion. Does it advance the reader? No? Cut it and use it elsewhere.

Write tight. That can never be said too often. Write, proofread, cut 40%.

Bonus tip

For fucksake, try to think of a word less trite and more powerful than fuck. If I had a dime for every eff-bomb in Internet writing, I could retire to a tropical island.

If you want to contribute your thoughts, leave a comment about your pet writing peeves.

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