It Was the Best of Sentences, It Was the Worst of Sentences: A Writer's Guide to Crafting Killer Sentences

Overview

Great writing isn't born, it's built-sentence by sentence. But too many writers-and writing guides-overlook this most important unit. The result? Manuscripts that will never be published and writing careers that will never begin.

In this wickedly humorous manual, language columnist June Casagrande uses grammar and syntax to show exactly what makes some sentences great-and other sentences suck.

With chapters on "Conjunctions That Kill" and ...

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It Was the Best of Sentences, It Was the Worst of Sentences: A Writer's Guide to Crafting Killer Sentences

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Overview

Great writing isn't born, it's built-sentence by sentence. But too many writers-and writing guides-overlook this most important unit. The result? Manuscripts that will never be published and writing careers that will never begin.

In this wickedly humorous manual, language columnist June Casagrande uses grammar and syntax to show exactly what makes some sentences great-and other sentences suck.

With chapters on "Conjunctions That Kill" and "Words Gone Wild," this lighthearted guide is perfect for anyone who's dead serious about writing, from aspiring novelists to nonfication writers, conscientious students to cheeky literati. So roll up your sleeves and prepare to craft one bold, effective sentence after another. Your readers will thank you.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“an editor and grammar columnist’s funny but no-nonsense guide to better writing.” —St. Petersburg Times

“Great writing starts with strong sentences. This is your guidebook to mastering the art.”
—DONALD MAASS, literary agent and author of The Fire in Fiction
 
“June mixes sassy fun with practical advice. You’ll laugh all the way to writing better.”
—MIGNON FOGARTY, author of Grammar Girl’s Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing
  
It Was the Best of Sentences, It Was the Worst of Sentences is that incredibly rare breed of book: a guide to grammar and style that is simultaneously smart, engaging, and instructive. By tackling prose composition on a sentence-by-sentence level, June Casagrande has found a way to provide intensely practical advice for the novice writer—not to mention unexpected insights for the expert writer. It would make a welcome addition to any language lover’s library.”
—ELIZABETH LITTLE, author of Biting the Wax Tadpole

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781580087407
  • Publisher: Ten Speed Press
  • Publication date: 7/27/2010
  • Pages: 224
  • Sales rank: 146,736
  • Product dimensions: 5.62 (w) x 11.06 (h) x 0.60 (d)

Meet the Author

June Casagrande is a journalist and editor who writes the weekly syndicated grammar column “A Word, Please.” The author of Grammar Snobs Are Great Big Meanies and Mortal Syntax, June lives in Pasadena, California.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

Who Cares?
Making Sentences Meaningful to Your Reader

For years I made my living schlepping city council stories for a small community newspaper. Perhaps a third of the articles I wrote could have begun with an identical opener: “On Tuesday, the city council voted to . . .” But they didn’t. The reason: the almighty Reader.
 
In any type of writing, be it journalism, fiction, or advertising copy, the almighty Reader is the boss. But there’s no better field for understanding this than community news. When I worked in that field, the Reader was always in my face. He wasn’t like the silent, invisible, fickle master consuming literary fiction, corporate earnings reports, or sales brochures. The community news Reader wrote to me. He called me. And, because I was working in a much smaller arena than that of big-city reporters, he knew me. The Reader considered me part of the community, even though I lived fifty miles away, and he expected me to serve the town’s best interests while answering to him directly.
 
Yes, this got annoying at times. Especially when he failed to realize that he didn’t get to assign me stories: “I want you to do an exposé on how the president of my condo association refuses to put up ‘Keep Off the Grass’ signs.” In community news, the Reader will not be ignored.
 
Now that I no longer wake up in the middle of the night screaming, “I will not write a front-page article about your dog!” I realize this experience is a good thing. It helped me understand how to form sentences that serve the Reader.
 
Consider this story lead:
 
The city council on Tuesday voted on a budget that contains no funds for fixing Main Street potholes.
 
Informative, relevant, clear, true. But could the writer do a better job of remembering her boss, the Reader? Absolutely. A sentence like the one just stated is written from a writer’s perspective. The writer’s job consisted of going to a meeting, documenting a vote, and perhaps listening to some discussion of one important element of that vote—pothole repair. So that’s what got emphasized in the sentence.
 
But this approach downplays the facts that are most pertinent to the Reader. Look at the main subject and action of the sentence: The city council voted. The Reader already knows that the council voted. The council is always voting. It votes on thirty, forty, fifty things a month—most of which are total yawners. The Reader doesn’t really care that the council voted. He cares about what it all means to him.
 
These are the questions that a skilled newswriter asks: “How will this affect the Reader? Why should he care?” Such questions lead to an opener like this:
 
The bumpy ride on Main Street isn’t going to get smoother anytime soon.
 
Although this example works well, we’ve all seen this go too far. Used dishonorably, this approach can come off as pandering or even downright sleazy. Nonprint media come to mind: “Something in your kitchen wants to kill your children! Details at eleven.”
 
But if you stop and think about such sleazy tactics, you see that this lead really has the same problem as the snoozer lead: It’s writer-serving writing as opposed to Reader-serving or Viewer-serving writing. It’s deliberate manipulation, and Viewers can smell it a mile away. It works—but the best writing doesn’t stoop to this level.
 
To strike a balance between snoozer “the city council voted” sentences and sleazy “there’s a killer in your kitchen” sentences, all you have to do is remember the Reader. Ask, “What’s important to my Reader?” not just, “What will get his attention?”
 
The answer—be it about the bumpy ride on Main Street or the bottom line on a tax bill—then becomes the main point of your sentence, and your sentence can become a thing of real value.
 
Of course, it’s not always that simple. Wanting to accommodate your Reader and actually pulling it off are two different things. Ironically, sometimes the very act of trying to explain things to the Reader creates problems. Consider this sentence, written by a professional writer, which was in a piece I copyedited. I’ve disguised it slightly to save the writer embarrassment:
 
While the boat show is predictably crowded over the weekends, holding the event over Thanksgiving for the second consecutive year positively impacts the flow of attendees over the closing weekend, which is traditionally the busiest.
 
Any copy editor who works with novice writers sees stuff like this all the time. This sentence, while not the worst ever, contains a number of problems that are all rooted in the writer’s misguided attempts to explain stuff to the Reader. Let’s look at it piece by piece:
 
While the boat show
 
While is a subordinating conjunction, which we’ll talk about in chapter 2. There’s nothing wrong with starting a sentence with a subordinating conjunction in general or with while in particular. But such an opening can, in unskilled hands, pave the way for a problematic sentence. At the very least, it tells the Reader, “Stay put. It could be a while before I get to the point.”
 
is predictably crowded
 
Really? It’s predictably crowded? We can see what the writer meant: the show is so consistently crowded on the weekends that you could predict it. But does predictably crowded really capture this? The adverb predictably comes right before the adjective crowded, as if it’s modifying crowded, as if it means that predictably is a way—a manner—of being crowded. As you’ll see in chapter 7, adverbs are flexible. They’re so flexible, in fact, that they can modify whole sentences. You could argue, then, that this part of our sentence is okay. But is it good? No.
 
over the weekends
 
Nothing wrong with that—yet. But two more over phrases are about to appear in this sentence, so over the weekends sets up an annoying redundancy. We’ll look at this type of problem more in chapter 9 when we discuss prepositional phrases.
 
holding the event over Thanksgiving for the second consecutive year positively impacts the flow of attendees
 
Most of the choices reflected in this clause might be fine in certain cases. But the overall effect stinks. For starters, this is the main clause of our sentence. That means it contains our main subject and our main verb. (We’ll look at clause structure in chapter 3.) But both are downright anemic. Holding—the subject of our lengthy, winding sentence—is a form of a word that usually connotes action: I hold, you hold, he holds. But here it’s made into something called a gerund, which is basically a noun. We’ll talk more about actions made into nouns in chapter 13. The usage is grammatical, but is it wise to make this the main subject? Do you really want the single most important actor in your whole sentence to be the abstract concept of holding?
 
Here’s a more troubling part of that excerpt:
 
for the second consecutive year
 
The way this phrase modifies holding makes the sentence illogical. Let me pare down the sentence to show you what I mean: Holding the event for the second consecutive year positively impacts the flow. See how for the second consecutive year attaches itself to holding? We’re no longer talking about just holding. We’re talking specifically about the second time you do it. So our sentence says that the benefits of holding the boat show over Thanksgiving weekend apply only the second year. In years three, four, and five, holding it over Thanksgiving weekend has no effect. Only holding it for the second consecutive year impacts the flow. That’s just wrong.
 
positively impacts the flow of attendees
 
Positively impacts sounds like something in a corporate earnings report, and flow of attendees sounds like something in a fire safety manual. Each of these phrases squanders an opportunity to connect with the Reader in a more meaningful and tangible way. The Reader knows all about long ticket lines, bottlenecked foot traffic, and crowds in stadiums. He has visual and emotional associations with the concept of crowd control. There are so many ways to make the concept more meaningful than positively impacts the flow of attendees.
 
Impacts, all by itself, is a problem. It couldn’t be vaguer. Here it’s used to mean that something improves or reduces or ameliorates crowding. But impacts contains less information than any of these alternatives. Also, why use a word that could mean something negative or positive when you’re clearly talking about something positive? (We’ll discuss choosing specific words in chapter 6.) Making matters worse, some people argue that impact isn’t really a verb. They’re wrong. But since you’ll never get a chance to sit down and explain that to them, you have to decide whether it’s worth irking them.
 
Oh, and don’t miss that second over phrase,
 
over Thanksgiving
 
because here comes our third over phrase:
 
over the closing weekend
 
So we now have in one sentence over the weekends, over Thanksgiving, and over the closing weekend. Personally, I’m amazed that the writer did such a good job of associating each time element with a specific action. Usually when you see this many time elements in a sentence you end up with a nonsensical statement like He took a three-year hiatus in 1992 or over the weekend he got lost over the course of three hours. The three over phrases in one sentence tell us that the writer was simply cramming in too much information. Then, as if that weren’t enough, one last thought gets tacked on:
 
which is traditionally the busiest.
 
This is called a relative clause (which we’ll discuss in chapter 8). Relative clauses can be great for squeezing in more information—when the information fits. But the usage here is like squeezing Louie Anderson into Ryan Seacrest’s jogging shorts. Not pretty.
 
Just look at all the distinct pieces of information we have in this sentence:
 
The boat show is crowded on the weekends.
 
This crowding is predictable.
 
The event is being held [or can be held] over Thanksgiving.
 
The event was held over Thanksgiving last year.
 
Holding it over Thanksgiving means crowds are better spread out over the duration of the show.
 
This improves crowding on the closing weekend.
 
The closing weekend is traditionally the busiest.

 
We can understand why the writer didn’t want to spend too much time on each of those points. But his attempt to slip them in gracefully failed because he was overambitious. He crammed in too much. The best thing you can do in a situation like this is to first consider whether any information can go (I, for one, can do without that predictably business) and to then break up what’s left into smaller sentences. The possibilities are endless:
 
The boat show gets crowded on the weekends. So this year, for the second time, it will conclude over the four-day Thanksgiving weekend. This spreads out the number of visitors and relieves crowding during the closing weekend, which is traditionally the busiest.
 
or
 
Saturdays and Sundays usually mean huge crowds at the boat show. The closing weekend gets especially jammed. But last year the producers had an idea: why not make the last weekend of the event the four-day Thanksgiving weekend? The strategy was so successful at reducing overcrowding that they’re doing it again this year.
 
I could go on. But you get the idea.
 
As a writer, it’s your job to organize information, to prioritize it with the Reader in mind, to chop and add as you see fit. But only by fully understanding the mechanics of the sentence can you do so in the best possible way.

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments ix

Introduction: The Sentence: The Writer's Most Important Tool 1

Chapter 1 Who Cares? Making Sentences Meaningful to Your Reader 7

Chapter 2 Conjunctions that Kill: Subordination 15

Chapter 3 Movable Objects: Understanding Phrases and Clauses 29

Chapter 4 Size Matters: Short versus Long Sentences 36

Chapter 5 Words Gone Wild: Sentences that Say Nothing-or Worse 53

Chapter 6 Words Gone Mild: Choosing Specific Words Over Vague Ones 61

Chapter 7 A Frequently Overstated Case: The Truth about Adverbs 65

Chapter 8 Are Your Relatives Essential? Relative Clauses 72

Chapter 9 Antique Desk Suitable for Lady with Thick Legs and Large Drawers: Prepositional Phrases 80

Chapter 10 Dangler Danger: Participles and Other Danglers 85

Chapter 11 The Writing was Ignored by the Reader: Passives 90

Chapter 12 You Will Have Been Conjugating: Other Matters of Tense 98

Chapter 13 The Being and The Doing are The Killing of Your Writing: Nominalizations 107

Chapter 14 The The: Not-so-Definite Definite Articles 112

Chapter 15 The Writer and His Father Lamented his Ineptitude: Unclear Antecedents 116

Chapter 16 To know Them is to Hating Them: Faulty and Funky Parallels 122

Chapter 17 Taking The Punk out of Punctuation: The Problem with Semicolons and Parentheses 125

Chapter 18 You Don't Say: Descriptive Quotation Attributions 131

Chapter 19 Trimming The Fat: Expressions That Weigh Down Your Sentences 134

Chapter 20 The Major Overhaul: Streamlining Even the Most Problematic Sentences 149

Chapter 21 On Breaking the "Rules": Knowing When to can the Canons 164

Appendix 1 Grammar for Writers 167

Appendix 2 Punctuation Basics for Writers 191

Appendix 3 The Deadliest Catches: The Most Incriminating Errors and How to Avoid Them 204

About the Author 208

Index 209

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  • Posted July 30, 2010

    Truly Tripe

    We know from the titles of June Casagrande's books what kind of writer she is, and for whom she writes. "Grammar Snobs Are Great Big Meanies," an earlier book of hers, is clearly not a book for accomplished writers or even, one can easily imagine, bright people. And so it is with "It Was the Best of Sentences, It Was the Worst of Sentences," a book meant for novice writers, as, I suspect, Casagrande is herself.

    Casagrande's newest book is another in an unending assault of badly written language books (written by her and others) that are designed to appeal to dull-minded men and women. Publishers correctly reason that since a great many people are dull and unimaginative, a book written for this audience will likely sell far better than a book written for an intelligent readership. Well-written, intelligent books seldom sell well.

    As Casagrande states, her goal in this book is to show her readers how to write good sentences, but many of her own sentences are not well written, which bodes very badly indeed for a book that purports to help people write well. Her Introduction begins:

    "This sentence rocks. It's concise. It's powerful. It knows what it wants to say, and it says it in clear, bold terms." (p. 1)

    It wasn't immediately clear to me that she is commenting on her own first sentence, and I suppose it wasn't immediately clear because, aside from her first assessment ("It's concise"), her sentence is neither powerful nor knows what it wants to say nor says it in clear, bold terms. It is a silly sentence that has nothing (other than its brevity) to recommend it. This first sentence of her book is illustrative of many of the sentences that Casagrande writes throughout the book.

    Though she presumes to advise people on how to write well, Casagrande occasionally reveals her distaste, if not contempt, for well-written sentences and the makeup of them:

    "Sorry to jump straight into hard-core grammar talk without buying you dinner first." (p. 29)

    "Personally, I have a strong bias in favor of short sentences. I suspect that the New Yorker's not-frequent use of longer, clunkier forms is a deliberate flouting of conventional wisdom -- a sort of "We don't take orders from freshman comp teachers because we're the New Yorker, dammit" approach. But I could be wrong." (p. 37)

    "I can't tell you which tense to choose for your writing. No one can. But there's much to be learned by professional writers' choices. Simple past tense is the standard form [when telling a story]. It's a safe choice. You can deviate from it, but unless you have a good reason to, maybe you shouldn't." (p. 102)

    "If you've come to this chapter looking for a balanced and reasonable discussion of semicolons and parentheses, keep looking. You'll find no balance here. I hate semicolons. ... Semicolons often serve no purpose other than to show off that the writer knows how to use semicolons." (pp. 125-126)

    Along with these misgivings, I've identified six reasons why Casagrande's "It Was the Best of Sentences, It Was the Worst of Sentences" is not a book you should buy -- unless, perhaps, you do not know the difference between these two sentences:

    Look, there's a cat.
    Look, there's the cat.

    ...

    [Read the complete review of this book in The Vocabula Review.]

    2 out of 13 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 18, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

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