Charity Writes

Or “what the hell?” in non-dialect speak. Today’s topic is dialects: when, if ever, to use them, and how to do it well when you do.

Even at it’s best, the use of dialect can confuse a reader, which is why generally, as an editor, I discourage using dialect unless I’m really confident the author can pull it off. So, suppose you want to try your hand; what are important aspects to keep in mind?

First, be sure you actually know all the nuances of the dialect you want to give your character. The title of this article, for example, would probably be a bad use of dialect because I’m pretty sure it would represent a speech affect at best and would be missing the components that would make it a particular dialect. (I made it up, so I’m not entirely sure. . . But that’s the point. As a writer, you should be sure.)

Consistency is key. If the character doesn’t pronounce H’s at the beginning of words, they can’t ever be caught doing it. If “is” is pronounced “us,” it better be done so consistently, and if the grammar is meant to be skewed, you need to know exactly how that should be done.

This is why dialect is such a nightmare to edit. Of course, most of us are happy to do it, because we love challenging jobs–and those of us that are obsessive enough to get things right will catch the errors.

Be aware that if you do have lots of inconsistencies, not only do editing prices rise because it requires more work from us, but publishers (should you bypass the editor altogether) will think you didn’t take the time to correct your text and hesitate at accepting anything that requires so much work of their team. Be aware that some readers will simply shy away from a heavy use of dialect.

But by no means let it discourage you entirely. Many great authors employed the use of dialect in their characters’ speech patterns and it worked out just fine for them, if not deepened their readers’ appreciation of the texts at hand.

By Nancy D’Inzillo

How long should a book be? How long can it be?

This depends largely on your genre, and the only way to know for certain is to review the submission guidelines of the publisher(s) you’re angling for. There are exceptions to everything, but here are some general guidelines:

Adult Novels

• “Mainstream” fiction: 80K, give or take
• Chic lit: 60K - 80K words
• Fantasy: 80K - 100K (epic fantasy can get away with longer, maybe 125K words max)
• Mystery: 65K words, give or take
• Thriller: 90K - 100K words

Children’s Books (check out the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators for the many, many, many specifics, and also their helpful “Facts” page)

• “easy-to-read” (ages 6-8) 200 - 1500 words
• early chapter books (ages 6 - 9) 2K - 5K words
• middle grade (ages 8 - 12) 25K - 40K words
• young adult (ages 12+) 30K - 50K words

Novellas are under 50K words (these can be notoriously difficult to sell).

Short stories can be anywhere from 2K words to 25K words, but most are between 2K and 7K words.

Browsing Nathan Bransford’s blog the other day, I stumbled on a discussion about stock phrases that are used so often they have become cliché, and when, if ever, it’s appropriate to use them. I read various opinions on the subject, some in favor and some against.

One of the points argued was that the cliché has become a fundamental part of everyday speech (to borrow from Nathan’s examples: “coming of age,” “trials and tribulations,” etc.). I will admit I couldn’t particularly disagree on this point. That is why, the one place I would ever (as a reader OR an editor) find stock phrases remotely acceptable is in the case of dialogue.

Even there, it should be used to enhance the speech mannerisms of the character, or else avoided at all costs. For example, the title of this blog, “She was as pretty as a rose” could be used in the dialogue of an Irish character who used such stock phrases frequently (e.g., “My lass was as pretty as a rose”).

Then again, there’s the choice of cliché. For example, if I were writing an Irish character who I wanted to use stock phrases to enhance his overall speech, I might rather choose something a little more colorful, such as “Her face is as beautiful as a horse’s arse, but damned if I don’t love ’er.” Much funnier, and it won’t make the reader cringe at how saccharine it is.
Nonetheless, no matter how deliberate, why not avoid the cliché altogether and make my Irishman even more colorful. He could say something like “She’s as precious pink as the baby piglet back on me mum’s farm.” This achieves a similar effect to both the above stock phrases, but manages to avoid them.

There was one other point mentioned in the blog on stock phrases I actually addressed directly. The idea that certain phrases carry amazing associative power specifically because they are cliché. Here was my response:

As for cliché being a powerful tool that taps the whole database of human memory, most clichés used are actually so conversational that I don’t bother to think any more about them. I read over “coming of age story” and think, “Oh, another one of those.” I’ve READ about Huck Finn. I want something new.

I will close now with the same words I closed with in my comment there: I say this to writers of the world not only as an editor, but as a reader (and will do my best to remember it in my own writing): please, don’t use clichés and believe they’re going to hook anyone. It’s probably unavoidable you will use them at one point or another, but make what’s supposed to be the catch your original voice. It’s the unique quality of YOUR writing—not my associations of some well-toted phrase—that will get me (and keep me) interested.

By Nancy D’Inzillo

Question: What handy symbol can be used for up to and including?

The en-dash(–)!

Longer than a hyphen (-), and shorter than an em-dash (—), the en-dash is so named because it is the length of a typed N. Most often used with numbers, though occasionally used with words, the en-dash most often roughly translates to “to.” Some examples:

The Siena–Rome train departs at ten o’clock. (Read: The Siena to Rome . . .)

Sandra spent 1992–1995 abroad in the San Juan Islands. (Read: Sandra spent 1992 up to and including 1995 . . .)

Join us Tuesdays April–July for book club. (Read: Join us Tuesdays April through July . . .)

However: for the sake of parallel construction, if “from” precedes the first element, use the word “to” in lieu of the en-dash; similarly, if “between” precedes the first element, the word “and” should be used instead of the en-dash. Examples:

I wrote this article from ten p.m. to midnight.

Enrique shuttled between Siena and Rome by train.

The en-dash is that talkative friend who starts blabbing the minute you see them and doesn’t stop until you leave … it is one continuous stream of thought. The en-dash denotes continuation. You can even leave the en-dash hanging by itself after a date to indicate an unfinished period when using it to speak of ongoing publications or lives. Some examples:

The anthology (2007–) will include a story by Steve Libbey in its upcoming volume.

Coral Whittaker (1990–) graduated high school this past spring.

The en-dash occasionally replaces the function of a hyphen when using a compound adjective in which one of the elements is an open compound or when one or two of its elements are open compounds or hyphenated compounds. Examples:

the post–World War I years

a hospice—nursing home connection

a quasi-friendly—quasi-batty associate of mine

En-dash never take the place of em-dashes. You don’t want that continuously talkative friend taking over in a situation better handled by your abrupt acquaintance. Remember, the en-dash marks a continuation (and, on the rare occasion it steps in for a hyphen, a link). The em-dash is meant to connote a break. They are not the same thing.

Despite its many purposes, the uses of the en-dash are quite specific. Treat the en-dash like that overly talkative friend—don’t call her it unless you mean it.

By Nancy D’Inzillo with Charity Heller Hogge

(I’ve been on vacation for the past two weeks; sorry for the delay in posting!)

What do you consider to be “sexist” language?

We all have our own ideas about what constitutes sexist language. Some might argue that it doesn’t exist at all, while others see it everywhere. To some, it is unmitigated discrimination. Others may see gender bias as a buzz word of the organic-celery-chomping politically correct.

It doesn’t really matter, in this debate, in which camp you pitch your tent. Most literary agents are women. Most readers are female, too. If you want to sell your book to someone who stands a very good chance of belonging to the fairer sex, NOT coming across as sexist is a great place to start.

What are some examples of gender biased language?

The biggest issue I see while editing is using man as a universal term to refer to men and/or women. This was acceptable at one time; in fact, I remember being taught to use man in a seventh-grade English class in 1989.

Man has always searched for meaning in the universe . . . nope. Not any more. Humans, or humanity, or people can search, but not man.

Blond is preferable to blonde. (I think spell-checkers pick this one up these days.)

Many words with man in them are out: chairman becomes chairperson, congressman becomes representative or member of Congress, fireman becomes firefighter, waitress becomes server; mankind becomes people or human (which, yes, also has man in it, but what can you do?); weatherman becomes meteorologist . . . you get the idea.

And here’s another, more subtle form of gender bias: assuming that a person is male or female based on profession. Thus:

A nursing student is responsible for providing her own scrubs. (Not all nurses are women.)

Wives of city council members are expected to report any gifts valued at over $100. (Not all city council members are men.)

Maybe some of these suggestions seem extreme to you. From an editing standpoint, however, it’s not entirely a matter of principal. It’s a matter of practicality in the modern age.

How can three letters cause so much confusion?

To lie: Heather’s laptop lay on the drier. Here, “laptop” is the subject, “laid” is the verb, (and “on the drier” is a prepositional phrase.) There is no direct object in this sentence.

To lay: Heather laid her laptop on the drier. I, “Heather” is the subject, “lay” is the verb, and “laptop” is the direct object.

So why do these words cause writers of English, both ESL and native speakers, so much trouble? Lay is the root form of the word, but the past-tense form of lie, an entirely different word, is also “lay” . . . so confusion is understandable!

(I remember the difference via word association: To “lie” is intolerable — and intransitive!)

Do you know the difference?

Important is an adjective, while importantly is an adverb.

Many people mistakenly use importantly when they mean important.

Wrong: “The candidate is a good fund-raiser. More importantly, the mayor endorsed the candidate.” In this case, “importantly” modifies the verb “endorsed” (as it is an adverb, ending in -ly); this suggests that the president endorsed the candidate in an important manner.

Like, maybe he’s endorsing the candidate with a swagger and a snazzy gold pen. But that’s probably not what the author means.

Right: “The candidate is a good fund-raiser. More important, the mayor endorsed the candidate.” What the writer probably means is that the fact of the president’s endorsement is what is more important; the adjective form should be chosen.

You know those sweet spots in your writing, the turns of phrase that send shivers of happiness down your spine as you read and re-read them? They should be the first to die.

At a Willamette Writers meeting I attended tonight, the YA author Christine Fletcher made a good point: any time you love something so much that cutting it out is NOT AN OPTION … well, that may be a good place to start cutting.

This is so hard.

I have some lines in my novel-in-progress that I’ve been writing/coddling (for a very long time now) that I would sooner die a thousand deaths than remove. Metaphors that I saved for years. Snappy dialog that sings on the page. Take it out? Really?

Interestingly, I’ve found that often these darlings are some of my earliest passages. In fact, in several cases, some of my favorite lines are in fact the very basis for the book. I may have thought–and it’s been so long now that I don’t really remember–that the line was so very clever that it would make a good comeback for a character … and that character would work well in this book I’ve been thinking about … and thus a seemingly fabulous one-liner inspired my novel.

But you don’t actually have to kill all your great lines just because you love them. This infamous directive, and Christine Fletcher, suggest that no writing is sacred. No phrase should be considered so wonderful that it can’t pick the short straw.

Often, in fact, a healthy culling can produce a fresh round of ideas and lead your story in a direction you never would have conceived if that darling were still cozy in the pages of your book. Once a boggy character or paragraph is gone, something else might spring up. Something better.

There was a day when the ampersand (&) was a popular symbol. Maybe it was the elegance of its lines, or perhaps it was because of the ease of writing (or typing) one little symbol instead of the three letters (”and”) it’s meant to replace.

While it is a classical-looking mark, you don’t see it often in contemporary literature except in the bibliography. The days when the ampersand effortlessly replaced “and” in sentences of published texts are pretty much over. This saddens us; most writers and editors have a special place in their hearts for the ampersand.

But don’t submit a piece of work to a publisher or editor in which “and” is replaced with an ampersand just for the elegance of the effect! (And we wistfully agree–it is elegant.)

That said, you may find cause to use this lovely mark—particularly if you’re someone like me who has strong academic impulses and need to cite publishing companies of the texts you are referencing.

The ampersand is used most frequently in the context of company names. Johnson & Johnson and Texas A&M are two examples. Depending on whether or not you’re using it with two whole words (usually names) or with initials, the ampersand may or may not require surrounding spaces. They’re shouldn’t be spaces with initials, in all other cases, add the spaces.

When it comes to the published product the general practice is to omit ampersands in a list of authors (though it’s a common practice at universities). The only exception of this is in legal style that will use an ampersand with two or three authors.

Whether or not you use the ampersand in a publisher’s name is often left to the editor’s and/or publisher’s discretion, but the trick when you are using it as the author is to be consistent. “And” or “&” may be used in a publisher’s name in a written text; just be sure that you use one or the other continuously throughout your text.

A more obscure use of the ampersand is in the newer references of Old English texts. If using Old English, the ampersand can substitute the older symbol: “J” with a longer line on top extending to the left. (If you have cause to use it, I’ll bet you know which symbol I mean!)

So is the ampersand antiquated? Though it seems to be phasing out, we call it a classic. Who knows–it may go the way of some of the Old English symbols in the days to come, but until then we’ll enjoy its curves and take pride in using it properly.

Written by Nancy D’Inzillo with Charity Heller Hogge

A little break from the Grammar Gorilla . . .

There’s nothing so poignant as a good metaphor, and nothing more funny or terrible than a mixed one. Here are some of the good, the bad, and the ugly (and a very good reason for making up your own metaphors, rather than relying on cliches that may do more harm than good!):

“We could stand here and talk until the cows turn blue.”

“I shot the wind out of his saddle.”

“I’m watching you with a fine-tuned comb.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead there with a ten-foot pole!”

“You can change the spots on an old dog.”

“He’s a little green behind the ears.”

“You buttered your bed, and now you have to lie in it. ”

“The fan is going to hit the roof!”

“It’s not rocket surgery.”

And my favorite: “I smell a rat, but I will nip it in the bud.”

Not all metaphors (a comparison not using “like” or “as,” of course) are cliche, of course. “Cliche” is an adjective to describe overuse; for our purposes, it’s a metaphor that has been used waaaay too often.  CopyBlogger Brian Clark, with the visual aid of a creepy picture of Chris Cornell, discusses the subtle difference between metaphor and cliche.

Do you have an favorite mixed metaphors? Send them in!