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  If you want me, I'll be in my room.

  Everyone knows what this speaker means. Yes, it's true that she'll be in her room regardless of whether the listener wants her. But I have no problem with that. It's a common expression that's clearly understood. Use your own judgment in such cases. Just be aware that more complex and less familiar if constructions can create big problems.

  Since is a controversial subordinating conjunction. Some people say it can't be used as a synonym for because. They say that since refers to a time span and because refers to cause-and-effect relationships. In fact, dictionaries allow since as a synonym for because. So use it that way if you like, but use it well.

  Since is like while in that its time-related definition has the power to confuse:

  Since you've graduated from Harvard, can you tell me how the professors are?

  Here the subordinate clause sounds at first like it's referring to a time period, as it would in, Since you've graduated from Harvard, you've gotten a lot of job offers. You have to get halfway through the sentence to know that the writer was using the "because" meaning of since.

  Than is another booby-trapped conjunction:

  Do you like Coldplay more than Madonna? If so, how do you know? Have you asked her?

  It's common to drop a verb after than. We do that because the verb that would come after than is the same as a verb that appeared somewhere before: Joe is taller than Sue is a shortened way of saying Joe is taller than Sue is. Bernice runs faster than Stanley means Bernice runs faster than Stanley runs. But be careful. Your Reader may need a little more help than that.

  Do you like Coldplay more than Madonna? leaves implied a second occurrence of the verb like, but we don't know who's doing the liking. You could mean Do you like Coldplay more than you like Madonna? or Do you like Coldplay more than Madonna likes Coldplay? There's no rule here other than to remember the pitfalls and be careful.

  If you find all this a little overwhelming, don't worry. Though it may take a while to get comfortable with theses concepts, you need not immediately commit to memory every subordinating conjunction and its potential hazards. Your goal is to start to recognize subordinating conjunctions in your writing and in your reading—to see the power they afford you to serve your Reader. These words help you organize your thoughts, say what you mean, emphasize what's most important, and even create art. If that takes a while, it's time well spent.

  A clause is a unit that usually contains a subject and a verb.

  A phrase is a unit of one or more words that works as either a noun, a verb, an adverb, an adjective, or something called a prepositional phrase.

  Sorry to jump straight into hard-core grammar talk without buying you dinner first. But this really is great stuff for a writer to know. With a firm grasp of phrase and clause structure, you'll start to see sentences almost like Lego sculptures made up of modular, movable, interlocking pieces. This will do great things for your writing. I promise. We saw some of the potential in the last chapter. But the only way to get there is by hunkering down with some serious grammar. As Stephen King wrote, "Grammar is not just a pain in the ass; it's the pole you grab to get your thoughts up on their feet and walking." So stay with me through the academic part, and I'll make it as quick as possible and well worth your while.

  Start by noting that a clause, because it contains a subject and a verb, can make up a whole sentence: Jesse dances. Jesse danced. Jesse has danced. Or a clause can be just part of a larger sentence: Jesse has danced the tango with a happily married septuagenarian woman who was wearing Spanx. A phrase, however, cannot stand on its own as a complete sentence. A phrase is a single word or a cluster of words that together work in your sentence as a single part of speech. As we have seen, phrases come in five varieties: noun phrases, verb phrases, adverb phrases, adjective phrases, and prepositional phrases. To get a better understanding of phrases, let's analyze that last Jesse sentence:

  Jesse has danced the tango with a happily married septuagenarian woman who was wearing Spanx.

  Jesse is a noun phrase. I know it's odd to think of a single word as a phrase. Indeed, that's a little out of sync with the everyday definition. But the Oxford English Grammar includes one-word units as phrases, and for our purposes this works best. Phrases can have phrases within them. So just know that Jesse, Jesse Wilson, Big Bad Jesse, the man called Jesse, and Jesse of Sunnybrook Farm are all noun phrases. Any of them might function as a noun in a sentence. That's what we're concerned with here: their job in a sentence. Every phrase has a headword—the word on which any other words are hinged. So in Jesse of Sunnybrook Farm, Jesse is the headword, and because it's a noun, this is a noun phrase.

  Has danced is a verb phrase. It contains the auxiliary has and the past participle danced. Together, they convey the action and when it occurred. They're working as a unit to perform a single job in the sentence.

  The tango is another noun phrase. In our sentence, it's the object of the verb, unlike our other noun phrase, Jesse, which is the subject of the verb. Subjects perform the action in a verb. Objects receive the action—they're the things being acted upon. Nouns can do either job. So just see that Jesse and the tango are both nouns—things—in this sentence. They both qualify as noun phrases.

  With is a preposition. We'll talk more about prepositions in chapter 9. But for now, remember that these include words like with, of, to, at, in, above, before, and so on. It's crucial to note that a preposition takes an object—usually a noun phrase. The preposition and its object are a team. Therefore, our preposition with has the object a happily married septuagenarian woman. Together, they're our prepositional phrase. Note that the object of a preposition could also be a pronoun: with her.

  As we saw earlier, verbs also can take objects. In fact, verbs and prepositions are the only two parts of speech that do this. But not all verbs do. The ones that do are called transitive. So in I see Betty the word Betty is the object of the verb see. In I dance with Betty the word Betty is the object of the preposition with. Both uses of Betty can be swapped out for a pronoun: I see her and I dance with her. Remember that and you'll be far ahead of most people in understanding objects—not to mention prepositional phrases.

  Happily is an adverb phrase. But wait a minute, you say. Didn't we already account for happily as part of our prepositional phrase? Yep, we did. However, phrases can be contained within phrases within phrases. So our prepositional phrase with a happily married septuagenarian woman contains other phrases, including the adverb phrase happily, which is modifying the adjective married.

  Happily married is an adjective phrase. It contains our adverb and our adjective, and together they work as a unit to modify the noun woman. The noun phrase happily married woman contains the adjective phrase happily married, which contains the adjective phrase married and the adverb phrase happily. They're all modifying woman. Dizzy? Don't worry. Just remember that phrases can work like nesting dolls and you'll be okay.

  Septuagenarian is also an adjective phrase. In some cases this word would be a noun—A septuagenarian stole my bike—but here it's modifying the noun woman, so it's working as an adjective.

  Woman is a noun phrase.

  Who was wearing Spanx is a relative clause. It's a modifier, which means it works like an adjective, adding extra description to the noun that comes before it: woman.

  If you find this stuff difficult, that's okay. It is difficult. You don't need to have it all down now. You just need to begin to identify phrases and clauses in your reading and writing. Start looking for them, especially prepositional phrases, which can be the most helpful to a writer and also the most fun, as we'll see in chapter 9. Until then, suffice it to say that prepositional phrases are the key to fully enjoying the supposedly real classified advertisement that once offered for sale "mixing bowl set designed to please cook with round bottom for efficient beating"!

  As for clauses, you already have a good foundation for understanding them from out chapter on subordination. So, r
emembering that a clause usually contains a noun and a verb—a doer of an action and the action itself—can you identify all the clauses in the following sentence?

  After Floyd spoke, Lou laughed.

  What are the two actions here? There's some speaking going on and there's some laughing going on. Do we have doers of those actions? Yes, Floyd and Lou are the people doing those things. Each is paired up with an action in a way that makes Floyd and Lou subjects of verbs in this sentence. So now that you know what's being done and who's doing it, you can identify the two basic clauses: Floyd-spoke and Lou laughed.

  At this point, you can also identify the main clause of the sentence. Thinking back to our chapter on subordinators, remember that after is often a subordinating conjunction and, like all subordinating conjunctions, makes a previously independent clause suddenly unable to stand on its own as a sentence:

  Floyd spoke, [complete sentence]

  After Floyd spoke . . . [subordinate clause that does not

  qualify as a complete sentence]

  True, in casual speech and writing, people use fragments as complete sentences all the time. That's why you commonly see stuff like When did L leave? After Floyd spoke. That's fine. But even then, After Floyd spoke is a fragment and not a complete sentence.

  Instead of subordinating one of our clauses, we could, if we wanted to, coordinate them:

  Floyd spoke and Lou laughed.

  The coordinating conjunction and is linking two equally weighted clauses. In fact, these two are so equally weighted that you could swap their order: Lou laughed and Floyd spoke, Floyd spoke and Lou laughed—it's all good. Sure, the meaning is different from our first example, in which Lou laughed only after Floyd spoke. But that's precisely why sometimes you want to subordinate—for the extra meaning you can convey:

  Although Floyd spoke, Lou laughed.

  Because Floyd spoke, Lou laughed.

  When Floyd spoke, Lou laughed.

  While Floyd spoke, Lou laughed.

  Until Floyd spoke, Lou laughed.

  Although Lou laughed, Floyd spoke.

  Because Lou laughed, Floyd spoke.

  Floyd spoke. Lou laughed.

  These demonstrate some of the ways that clauses can be moved around, combined with conjunctions, and made to convey your exact meaning.

  A few more things you should know about clauses before we move on: Not all have two words or even a subject. Most commands, for example, contain only an implied subject. Stop! is a complete clause and even a complete sentence because, in English, commands— called imperatives—drop the subject, which is you:

  [You] Stop!

  [You] Go away!

  [You] Run like the wind!

  [You] Listen!

  Also, in a sentence like Joe wanted to cry, the infinitive verb to cry is considered a clause—called a nonfinite clause because it's not conjugated in a way that shows time. In Joe doesn't like crying, the word crying is also considered a nonfinite clause. Don't worry. These are not need-to-know facts for crafting great sentences. But there's an irony here that shouldn't be overlooked: clauses are defined as units that usually contain a subject and a verb, but they don't always fit their own definition. Still, if you think of clauses in these simplest terms and just remember that there are exceptions, you'll do fine.

  Phrases are even more portable than clauses and their placement is even more likely to affect your meaning. We'll see more examples of the power of both these units throughout the rest of this book. For now, begin to think of phrases and clauses as the basic parts of every sentence. Start to identify them. Start to see other ways phrases and clauses could work within the same sentence. And pat yourself on the back for getting through this chapter.

  Now let's move on to something fun.

  Here's a great opening sentence for a magazine article:

  Alec Baldwin has the unbending, straight-armed gait of someone trying to prevent clothes from rubbing against sunburned skin.

  This sentence is not just interesting and visual, it's very effective at setting the tone for the article. You can tell right away that the writer has a unique take on Baldwin. With just one sentence, the writer has evoked that riveted sensation you get when you can't look away from a four-car pileup on the side of the freeway. It's clear that this will not be the typical fawning feature article. It will not read as though it were pitched by Baldwin's publicist. There's no doubt you're in for a good read.

  But what if the writer, in the middle of this sentence, decided that there were some other bits of information that just couldn't wait till sentence two? What if she said, "Ah, crud. I had a good sentence here but if I don't squeeze in something about Baldwin's work and state of mind, I may never get another opportunity"?

  You might end up with something like this:

  Alec Baldwin, who stars in 30 Rock, the NBC sitcom that has revived his career and done nothing to lift his spirits, has the unbending, straight-armed gait of someone trying to prevent clothes from rubbing against sunburned skin.

  This is a textbook example of how longer sentences can sabotage writing. The inserted information is an interruption. When you look at the grammar, you see it's a clunky interruption at that. The writer has inserted a relative clause, who stars in 30 Rock, which is then restated as an appositive, the NBC sitcom, which in turn is modified by not just another relative clause but a double-duty relative clause: that has revived his career and done nothing to lift his spirits. We'll talk about those terms later. But for now the important thing is that all this bulky stuff comes between the subject and the main verb, has. You have to trudge through all that stuff just to get to the main point. Pretty much any freshman English teacher or Palookaville Post copy editor will tell you this is the wrong call.

  There's just one problem. The longer version of the Alec Baldwin sentence, not the shorter one, was the opening sentence of an article in one of the most respected magazines in the country: the New Yorker.

  A lot of people will tell you that the longer sentence is always the lesser sentence. Some even say long sentences are an out-and-out no-no. But it's not that simple.

  Personally, I have a strong bias in favor of short sentences. I suspect that the New Yorker's not-infrequent 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. Plenty of people in the world would prefer the longer sentence. The writer and/or editors of the New Yorker may be among them.

  In fact, you could argue that the second sentence carries some unique benefits. It shakes up the Reader by defying conventional form. As such, it has an ability to command attention that the shorter version does not. Further, some of the inserted stuff actually bolsters the point of the sentence. In particular, the fact that Baldwin's successful show has done nothing to lift his spirits is both relevant and juicy. It gives further insight into why this guy might walk around as though he's trying not to rub a sunburn. And though we could find plenty wrong with the real New Yorker sentence, it's actually quite skillful and effective.

  Now compare two more long sentences:

  After being rebuffed as the next head football coach at Boston College after Jeff Jagodzinski was fired two weeks ago and after not being hired at the University of Massachusetts after Don Brown left to become the defensive coordinator at the University of Maryland, Boston College assistant head coach and offensive line coach Jack Bicknell Jr. is moving to the NFL, as an assistant offensive line coach of the New York Giants, according to several sources close to the program.

  and

  The play—for which Briony had designed the posters, programs and tickets, constructed the sales booth out of a folding screen tipped on its side, and lined the collection box in red crepe paper—was written by her in a two-day tempest of composition, causing her to miss a breakfast and a lunch.

  The first one—the opening sentence of a Boston Globe sports-writer's blo
g—reads as though the writer couldn't wrap his head around the sequence of events. The second sentence reads as though the writer had an intimate knowledge of a complex series of events and all the sights and smells and sounds and emotions attached to l hem. So you won't be surprised to learn that the second one is the opening sentence of Ian McEwan's prizewinning novel Atonement.

  Though it's leaps and bounds better than the sportswriter's sentence, I'm not a big fan of McEwan's sentence. To me, it's unnecessarily busy. I don't like the passive was written by her. I don't like the stiff and awkward for which Briony or how it sort of turns the sentence upside down. And the copy editor in me is almost offended by McEwan's choice to squeeze a whopping thirty-two words between the subject and the verb. But if I were the copy editor, I wouldn't change a word. I can't see any way to restructure it that doesn't take away from the author's voice and his style and the effect he's working to create—elements that should never be discounted or sanitized into oblivion to accommodate sentence-length sticklers or by-the-book copy editors. It seems that the very things I don't like about the sentence are things McEwan was trying to convey: the sentence is tempest-like. If he was trying to create a sense of frenetic passion-driven activity, mission accomplished. It's not my cup of tea. I'm more a fan of Kurt Vonnegut's one-word paragraph, "Listen." But that's just me.

  Compare two more examples and you'll see why, in general, I'm biased toward shorter sentences:

  I killed him even though I didn't want to because he gave me no choice.

  I killed him. I didn't want to. He gave me no choice.

  I believe that modern sensibilities are more attuned to short sentences. Media culture is partly responsible. Think about it. We spend countless hours listening to thirty-second TV commercials that contain six, eight, ten sentences each. But we know that most of the words are just filler. Each commercial has only one central message that boils down into one sentence: "Windex doesn't leave streaks." "Drive a Mustang and you'll be popular with the ladies." "If you really love your kids, you'll buy Purell hand sanitizer." The central message is supplemented with extra sentences used to hammer home the same point. As a culture, we're becoming ever more inclined to tune out fluff. Stripped-down-bare information is an anomaly that can command our attention and our respect.