WAS is a hell of a word, an
irritating prick potent in its venomous strike, cunning in its assassin’s
delivery, its uncouth presence a tenacious plague of passive mediocrity.
And it can make or
break your writing same as it makes or breaks entire novels.
I believe every
writer’s writing would improve a thousand fold if the only fault they mend is
deleting Was from their writing vocabulary in all its poisonous forms and restructure
their sentences.
But we all live in
sin.
I spent over 25
years of my writing life ignorant of the Was poison infecting my written
musings. Only a handful of years ago did I realize the error of my ways, and
boy the epiphany shocked me something fierce.
Ever get a tattoo
during which the jabbing needle pierces a little too deep and pokes the bone,
jolting you into the roots of your snapping teeth?
Yup, that’s the
feeling, that bone-buzzing startlement you never forget because your vibrating
marrow won’t let you.
Now, though, after
years of habitual penance, I recognize Was for what it is: the asymptomatic
carrier of the disease that is bad writing.
And I guarantee if
you apply my advice your writing will improve immeasurably.
(*take note of
this rare case of the -ly adverb, a plague in its own right that clumps while
festering into awful ‘Purple Prose’ ((read anything Patrick Rothfuss; his
wonderful poetic writing is rampant with awful -ly adverbs)), trumping better
description . . . or perhaps I’m just lazy).
The commandment of
excellent writing is Show Don’t Tell, and it’s always best to lead by example.
Sometimes the fix is simple:
1. He was standing
in the middle of the courtyard.
-versus
2. He stood in the
middle of the courtyard.
Or:
1. She was
watching the startled rooks burst from the copse.
-versus
2. She watched the
startled rooks burst from the copse.
Simple considering all you do is
remove Was and change the tense of the verb without losing any meaning.
But sometimes you need to fix it
with a little more pep in your descriptive step:
1. Marci looked at
the recliner. She was tired. She yawned and stretched.
-versus
2. Marci stretched
into a yawning Y while eyeballing the comfy recliner awaiting her nap.
Or:
1. Dennis was
wearing . . . (insert passive description of clothes) a straw hat and a white
button-down shirt.
-versus
2. Dennis wore . .
. (insert active description of clothes) a tilted straw hat one strong breeze
from blowing off his balding head, and a tight white shirt gripping round the
girth of his impressive paunch, its buttons protesting containment.
And same goes for nature as with
people:
1. It was a dark
and stormy night.
-versus
2. Staccatos of
lightning knifed the gloom between rumbles of thunder.
Or:
1. The rain was
pouring down.
-versus
2. The rain poured
in thick white sheets.
*we also removed ‘down’ because how else
would it pour, up? Unless it did so or sideways while riding tumultuous gusts
of whipping winds.
Successful writers are not immune
to the passive Was infection either.
Terry Goodkind,
author of the Sword of Truth fantasy series. This is taken from his novel Siege of Stone (paperback), Chapter 16,
page 133, last sentence of first paragraph:
But the new heart
was strong, his gift was restored, and Nathan was a wizard again.
-That’s 3 Was’s (Wases? Wasai?) in
one friggin sentence! And heck with that, because just performing the simple
operation of two Was deletions spruces this sentence:
But the new heart
was strong, his gift restored, and Nathan a wizard again.
Not the best fix, mind, but much
better. And we’re unfinished with Mr. Yeard because on same page, first
sentence of fourth paragraph:
Elsa wore a purple
silk robe, which was comfortable rather than extravagant.
-Here we’ll perform Was deletion
with a little restructuring while omitting needless words:
Elsa wore a purple
silk robe, more comfortable than extravagant.
Stephen King, his every book a
best-seller, author of you name it. This is taken from his novel 11.22.63 (hardback), Chapter 7, page
155, third paragraph, second sentence:
Groundfog was
rising up from the dips and valleys, and the drizzle was thickening into rain.
-Seriously? Come on, King, you’re .
. . well, you!
Groundfog
fermented from the dips and valleys. The drizzle thickened into rain.
Here’s another faux pas from Mr.
King, same novel, page 134, paragraph 8, end of first sentence:
I began to hear
laughter.
-Hey, Stevie, not for nothing but
you either hear something or you don’t. I’ve never in all my 40 years of
hearing ever ‘began’ hearing anything. Began standing? Sure. Began running? Why
not. Because these are physical actions that can be interrupted. But began
hearing? I. Don’t. Think. So. Bub. Because hearing doesn’t work like that.
And here’s one more of King’s
writing slips, same novel, page 347, paragraph 10 and first two sentences of
11:
Above us, the
thudding stopped abruptly.
She took hold of
my arm and began to shake it. Her eyes were eating up her face.
-I hate abruptly (also its suddenly
cousin). Not only is it a needless word (everything stops ‘abruptly’ because
that’s the definition of stop. If it doesn’t then it’s slowing, not stopping),
but it’s also a poisonous -ly adverb. I’ll cut Stevieboi some slack on the ‘began
to shake it’ bit because although it’s a poor choice of words, shaking
something can be a physical action interrupted. But ‘Her eyes were eating up
her face’? That’s where the slack ends for better writing:
Above us, the
thudding stopped.
She gripped my arm
and shook it, her eyes startled blooms of panic.
Don’t get me wrong, Stephen King
knows a thing or two about a thing or two when it comes to writing. If a
publisher told him his next novel must take place in a closed room with nothing
in it but he could populate it with as few or many people as he wants,
Stevieboi would pen another best-seller: because
he’s a master crafter of character.
Even when his
plots suck and are full of holes, his characters putty those gaps because they’re
always interesting and well developed. No one-dimensional stereotypes live in
King’s imaginary worlds, and it’s this gift that has elevated him into
legendary status as a writer despite sometimes lacking in other story areas (he
doesn’t plot so much as propose a What if? scenario then writes around it; he
explains as much in his book On Writing,
the latter half of which is disappointing for its vague writing advice though
it’s first half—basically an autobiography—provides a compelling read and is well
worth the buy and time despite his writing advice being pared down to: read and
write a lot. And: bad writers can become good writers but never great writers.).
Though his gift of character creation doesn’t make him infallible. He’s a
writing machine but he’s also only human.
I advise you to
read Terry Goodkind’s Siege of Stone,
and Stephen King’s 11.22.63, not
because they’re good (King’s story is there and very entertaining, Terry’s not
so much to the point of awful; seriously, Siege
of Stone reads like the first draft of a fifth grader, and the poor dialogue
is so plot-direct obvious it’s laugh out loud on top of cringe. Mr. Yeard’s two-dimensional
characters recite backstory and plot points to each other for the sake of his
‘dumb’ readers like most people exchange Hello’s and Goodbye’s, making Siege of Stone a perfect lesson on how not to write good dialogue, while King’s
11.22.63 is quite the opposite when
it comes to writing natural dialogue despite Was and passive voice infecting
every other sentence) but because both novels are chock full of the irritating Was
plague as well a plethora of other writing no-no’s, and you learn a great deal
by reading bad novels more than you do good ones. Others’ mistakes become
glares to your reading scrutiny, and this helps ensure you don’t repeat them in
your own writing because they irritate the crap out of you while you suffer
through them over and again in another’s work you’re trying to enjoy.
Imagine watching
your favorite movie . . . but with someone sitting beside you and pricking you
with a needle every five minutes. Sure you may still enjoy the movie, but you
won’t forget those irritating pricks. Reading bad novels is similar, but with
the author sitting beside you and pricking you with their bad writing needle
every few pages—or worse, every few paragraphs.
If you do nothing
else but remove the irritating prick of Was from your writing vocabulary, it
may not pen you a best-seller but you’ll achieve multiple rungs higher on the
long ladder of writing success because removing Was isn’t just the deletion of
a single word but a valuable lesson teaching you to restructure your sentences
while tightening your writing.
My opinion holds
at 99% when it comes to removing Was, because there are rare times when there’s
no better way for conveying sound writing.
Sometimes a
despondent character soliloquies: I was
wrong about her.
Or through
dialogue: “I was hungry,” Elmer said, shrugging, “so I stole me a sammich.”
Or just plain ol’
because you want to: Staring across the littered battlefield, Gavin understood
one of the truest pains in life was knowing most men never got to choose how
they died no matter what they planned or how well they planned it.
And here’s a bonus treat for all
you good doggies: Had is the second foul banana to Was.
1. Mark had a
lopsided beret.
-versus
2. Mark wore a
lopsided beret.
Or:
1. Sally had long
black hair.
-versus
2. Long black hair
framed Sally’s face made all the paler by contrast.
But just as with
Was, Had also has its place: I had to do
it. “I had to do it!” He had to do it.
Start with the Law of Never, not
because you should never use Was but because this will develop in you the
novice habit of striving for better writing by instinct. Soon your discerning
eye will spot Was in every novel you read and every story you write. You’ll
grow to loathe its poisonous presence, you’ll question how such awful writing
ever made it to publishing, and confidence in your own writing will soar
because you’ll know your improved writing is better by comparison to those
already in print.
I guarantee it.
And if you’re a
sadist, or just a slow learner, then keep a needle in your hand while reading.
Every time Was poisons a sentence, give yourself a prick courtesy of the author’s
bad writing. Then remember those irritating pricks while you write so you don’t
repeat them, and your potential readers will thank you for it.
Happy writing!