What I've Learned

If you ask me to read your writing and give an opinion, I'll lie to you. I'll even point out specific passages to lie about.

"How you described Howard's reaction to the death of the puppy was perfect.

"You wrote, 'He cried and cried and cried intently, tears – large tears! – spilling from his sad eyes and running in torrents down his young cheeks like rain drops in rivulets down a window pane on a stormy summer's evening.'

"Good job. Very good job. It was clear how upset Howard was."

As I'm saying this to you in my most sincere voice, bad karma is accruing. That's a horrible bit of writing. It's more about you showing off than about Howard's grief.

So, why lie? Because most people are not looking for constructive criticism. They know they are God's gift to the English language and want me to confirm it. I've learned from sad experience that if weaknesses are pointed out, people become defensive and will, in all probability, stop reading my column, just for spite. I don't want to lose readers – even if it does tilt moral causation against me.

Perhaps I can balance my karma account just a bit. To those of you who are less sure of your ability, are too shy to ask, and would welcome criticism, let me try to help.

Stephen King said that good writing equals draft minus 10 percent.

He's right, but his formula is for experienced writers. Those with less experience probably need to cut more – maybe as much as 30 percent.

Wow, you say, I've just written a draft of a story. What should I cut?

I'll mention two things to get you started.

Begin with exclamation points. Go through your story and change every single one to a period or a comma. If you have to use an exclamation point to let the reader know someone spoke or acted forcefully, you are failing in your job.

The only exception is if something short and vital is said at the top of a character's lungs. If the enemy is advancing ("Fire!" the sergeant yelled.) or a child is running into traffic ("Amanda, stop!" her mother screamed.), an exclamation point might be called for. Even then, I'd think twice.

The second thing to cut is all adverbs that end in ly. All of them. Better to have your story suffer from want of an adverb than have it die from a glut.

Mabel eased the door open gently, then carefully glanced out.

Kill both adverbs.

Mabel eased the door open and glanced out.

The verb, eased, tells the reader the door was opened gently. And if Mabel's situation demands that she ease open a door and glance out, it's clear she's being careful. Move your story along, don't clutter up the ground with adverbs and force your reader to stumble over them.

In particular, don't use adverbs to describe how people speak.

She said sadly. He said scaldingly. She said persuasively. He said lovingly. She said gently. He said impatiently.

Don't do it. Kill the adverbs. To understand why, let's look at one. Angrily, for example.

"You're wrong," Brian said angrily.

We read Brian's words, then must go back and quickly rehear them in light of the new information you tacked on at the end of the sentence. This millisecond of jumping back, if repeated often enough, will bog down any story.

Also, anger is a hot emotion, but its heat is lost when expressed as an adverb. Why? Because the character is not showing anger. You, the author, are informing us that he is angry, which means we are getting the information second hand. Let us see the anger, and we'll feel the heat in the character's words.

Color flared into Brian's cheeks, and he pounded the table with a fist. "You're wrong," he said.

If you ask me to read your writing, and it's filled with exclamation points and adverbs, I'm going to lie to you, bad karma or not. I'll say you've done an excellent job.

And how will I say it?

Sweetly.