Sometimes, when I read a manuscript, one particular stylistic element seems poised to bring down the whole book—impossible-to-read dialect; verbose, long-winded exposition; trite or “symbolic” imagery; scenes so mysterious you don’t quite know what’s going on; or some other literary device that simply doesn’t fit. But when I tactfully mention the offending device to the author, the response is “I meant to do that.” Uh-oh.

The impulse toward unconventional techniques is easy to understand. To write memorable, stylish prose, great authors often break the rules and incorporate uncomfortable elements into their writing. When a nontraditional method works, it garners attention for the book and adds to a writer’s reputation for creativity, judgment, observation, and skill. It’s most noticeable in fiction, but it’s true of nonfiction too. Think of Jeffrey Gitomer’s books—no paragraph too short, no punctuation too exciting, and over a million copies sold to date. A signature style or signature stylistic device can make an author a legend in his own time.

But that’s when it works. More often than not, a brazen stylistic device will detract from the work in question. By “detract,” I mean “make to appear amateurish and overwrought, annoy the reader, and increase the chances the reader will abandon the book somewhere around page 89.” Self-conscious stylistic devices jolt the reader out of the world the writer is building, or make it hard to settle in to begin with. It’s the in-print version of breaking the fourth wall. If you’re going to do it, you’d better do it right.

With that in mind, here are three handy tests to help you decide whether a device works or not. (If you’ve got better ones, I’d love to see them.)

1. Less is more. Like loud fabrics, loud literary devices are hard to mix and match. If you’re going to narrate in stream-of-consciousness, do not also use screenplay-style stage directions and scene breaks. Pick the device that means the most to you. Once you’ve chosen your gimmick, don’t overdo it. Think of that guy you saw last weekend wearing all hot pink plaid. Did you say, “Wow, I admire his consistency to his theme”?

2. Make sure someone gets it. Kurt Vonnegut recommended writing with an audience of one in mind. Whoever you’re writing for, test it out. If your audience doesn’t like your device, you may want to consider toning it down. Even if you’re not thinking of a specific person as you compose, a suitably sympathetic, unbiased reader ought to be able to get through the device without trouble. I’m thinking your editor here.

3. Most important, make sure it’s crucial and authentic to the work, not just something you’re doing to show off. Christopher Bachelder’s Bear v. Shark uses stream-of-consciousness narration with two-page chapters and commercial breaks as its main style—a highly disruptive format. But the book is a satire about a near future in which television screens have taken over all four walls of the room and no longer turn off, where advertising invades our thoughts and the attention span is a thing of the past. The method is the message—so Bachelder’s outré style doesn’t distract from his point. (Also, the book is short—the author doesn’t expect us to get through three hundred pages of this bizarre prose.) If your device isn’t integral to your work, you’re probably better off without it.

At the dog park last weekend, a car pulled in with the sticker “I love my French poodle” on the back bumper. My dog Otis stopped midsniff as the pom-pom-sporting poodle darted from the car to the nearest patch of grass. Otis wanted to say hello, but not being able to bark a word of French, he was just too intimidated. No matter how much I tried to convince Otis that the poodle probably wasn’t French as in from France French, he wouldn’t budge. Who would have thought a lousy bumper sticker could have such an effect on a dog’s self-esteem?

My interpretation of the line was different from Otis’s. I assumed the creator of the sticker had erroneously thought that “French poodle” is a breed and had capitalized the initial letter of the term as is the commonly accepted spelling for the names of breeds that can be traced to specific geographic locations (e.g., Rhodesian ridgeback, Norwegian elkhound, and Chihuahua).

But if capitalizing the first letter of the word to identify the geographic origin of something is common practice, then why, you may ask, not capitalize the F in “french toast,” the B in “brie,” or the initial I in “india ink”? If Webster’s is your source for capitalization and spelling, then you probably already capitalize these initial letters. But watch out, Webster’s can be vague. For example, the main entry for “scotch” (as in the whiskey distilled in Scotland) is “Scotch,” with a capital S. However, “often not capitalized” precedes the definition. Another example of this sort of fuzziness is the term “french fry,” which appears with lowercase Fs, but is followed by the usage note “often capitalized first F.” Hmmm. Though Webster’s will let you know how the word “scotch” commonly appears, and that the first F in “french fry” may or may not be capitalized, the dictionary reflects the vernacular instead of hard-and-fast rules that determine usage.

At Greenleaf, we refer to the Chicago Manual of Style (CMS) first, Webster’s second. CMS states that words derived from personal names are usually capitalized: Jean-Paul Sartre wrote the play No Exit. “Hell is other people” is a Sartrean concept. CMS refines usage with the following rule of thumb: “personal, national, or geographic names, and names derived from such names, are often lowercased when used with a nonliteral meaning.” So instead of adding “French bread” to your shopping list when you want a baguette, write “french bread,” lest you end up trying to decide between a croissant and un petit pan in the imported bread section of your bakery. The same holds true for “french braid,” “french toast,” “french dressing,” and “french doors.” (My how we’ve been influenced by the French.)

So, following the CMS’s guidelines for capitalizing words derived from proper nouns, wouldn’t it seem logical that the proper spelling of the dog breeds listed above appear with a lowercase letter? One would think so. But CMS recommends consulting a dictionary for the proper spelling of domestic animal breeds. You try explaining that to your dog.

You can read as many books as you want about grammar, style, the well-crafted sentence, and the well-developed character, but if you want to be a writer, you need to think like a writer. And if you want to think like a writer, you need to live like a writer. A good first step is to understand how other successful writers live and think. You may not write like they write or live like they live, but I bet they have some insights that could help you improve your craft.

So here’s a list of books about writing and being a writer by people who live the writer’s life.

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

I love this book because Anne Lamott so clearly loves writing, and her stories should help you remember what it is you love about writing. And Lamott is a wonderful writer, so the book is a touching, inspiring read.

On Writing by Stephen King

Whether you like King novels or not, you can’t deny that he has a huge following and is incredibly prolific. And his character and scene development is some of the best in the industry. Of course, King attended my high school in Maine, which makes me a little prejudiced.

The Facts: A Novelist’s Autobiography by Phillip Roth

There aren’t many lessons here about how to be a writer, but it’s an interesting read and reveals the flaws of the autobiography genre. Roth is one of the great American novelists, so reading anything by him is likely to be enlightening.

These books may not make you a bestselling writer, but they offer inspiration, lessons, and habits that could help you along the way. Oh, and read the dictionary every day. It worked for Stephen King.

What do we want? Syntactic equality. When do we want it? Now! Parallel syntactic elements—words that serve the same function in a sentence—must be treated equally to foster peace, love, and (most importantly) understanding. The key is creating balance among similar words, phrases, and clauses in each sentence you write.

In the following sentence, for instance, the meaning is clear, but the sentence is clunky and stumbles to an end: Bernice likes eating cake, drinking coffee, and to read the Big Bad Book Blog. When the syntactic elements are treated equally, however, the sentence has much more poise: Bernice likes eating cake, drinking coffee, and reading the Big Bad Book Blog. A less concise but no less balanced version of the sentence could be the following: Bernice likes to eat cake, to drink coffee, and to read the Big Bad Book Blog. With a slight change in syntax to make the gerund or infinitive phrases parallel, the sentence now has a more refined demeanor. Plus, it’s more reader friendly.

Enforcing parallelism is a surefire way to guarantee readers will pick up what you put down. In the following sentence, for example, it is unclear what Martha actually likes: Martha likes saving whales and people. Does Martha like people and also saving whales, or does she like saving whales and saving people? Recasting the sentence with a parallel structure would clarify what Martha likes to do: Martha likes saving whales and spending time with people.

Parallelism is also effective in lists. I have several goals this year: to write a book; to publish my book; and to sell lots of copies of my book. The equal treatment of these elements effectively shows how they roll together under the banner of “goals for the year.”

Now that you’re aware of parallel structure, putting it into practice will become second nature and your writing will be better for it. Activists have never had it so good!

Want people to believe what you write? Persuade them. It’s not complicated, but there’s a lot of competition out there fighting for your audience’s trust and attention. You can’t afford to sound unsure or unqualified. Here are three techniques guaranteed to get more people listening.

1. Use clear, strong language. As The Elements of Style so famously declares, “Vigorous writing is concise.” Avoid clutter. Structure sentences with active verbs. Use the right word, not the longest or most “impressive” word. (Often this means the Anglo-Saxon instead of the Latinate: not utilization, but use; not prevaricate, but lie.) Reduce clauses, trim sentences, clarify meaning. You don’t want to bore your reader with inert vocabulary and flaccid structure.

2. Give evidence. Readers may be taken with your bold style, but they appreciate substance as well. Support your argument with your reasoning or your proof. A reader who can follow your logic is much more likely to agree.

3. Use your own voice. If what you write sounds forced or uncharacteristic, you lose credibility. Don’t ignore etiquette or grammar, but don’t affect any styles or mannerisms that aren’t natural unless you do so for a reason.

Listen to the responses you get, and try to tailor your message to address the obvious complaints. The art of persuasion is a powerful one—just try not to use your power for evil.

Passive voice: one of the most commonly vilified, frequently bemoaned, and terminally misunderstood constructions in English. Yes, it’s true—the active voice is more vigorous, more forceful, more natural, and simpler in many cases. Sentences like “The book was put down by Mary” or “The dog was walked by my brother yesterday” make sensitive listeners shudder. But passive voice has its place. Here are a few situations where I’m willing to fight for it:

1. When the focus is on the action or the effect, not on the actor. “The mail was delivered at three o’clock sharp.” “The hydrangeas were watered daily.”
2. When the actor is aggregate or unknown, or there is no clear actor responsible: “The building was destroyed in 1923.” “These markings were made by someone with a knowledge of Ogham.”
3. When the construction emphasizes something you wish to emphasize (by placing the agent at the end of the sentence): “The terrible crime was committed by none other than the esteemed Judge Jones”; or conversely helps “play it pianissimo*” (by refusing to assign direct responsibility): “Your invitation has been declined.”

Passive voice is also common and sometimes acceptable in rulespeak (“The passive voice should be used when . . .” ) and other situations when the writer wants to adopt an air of authority. But beware—passivity does not automatically confer credibility on the writer. In fact, it can detract from your credibility:

1. When it obscures your meaning and bogs down your rhythm. Passive sentences tend to use more words than active ones, so watch out for long, involved, convoluted Frankensentences.
2. When it’s a disguise for the writer’s insecurity or uncertainty. You will not fool anyone by saying “Conclusions have been reached that . . .” or “This argument was found somewhat unsatisfactory.” These constructions are the refuge of fearful, forgetful high-school essayists who can’t remember who concluded what and are afraid to take responsibility for an opinion. Do your research and own your observations. Say, “I find this argument unsatisfactory,” or tell us who does.
3. When you’re using it too frequently. The passive voice should be an occasional deviation from writing in the active voice, not vice versa. Excessive passive voice will dry out nearly any topic: compare “He whipped the car around the turn, pressing the gas pedal into the sticky floor mat,” to “The car was whipped around the turn, and the pedal was pressed into the sticky floor mat by the driver.” The second version is dull, confusing, and impersonal, and it begs for superfluous adverbs to liven it up. But “The car was whipped quickly” is no better way to begin.

So: While the passive voice is not recommended for habitual use, it proves useful and often elegant in the right context. If all your sentences contain the word by, you may want to reconsider. But don’t force a sentence into active voice if its natural and proper realm is the passive.

*Theodore M. Bernstein, The Careful Writer (New York: Athaneum, 1965), 15. TIP: This is an excellent book (reprinted in 1995), and if you can get your hands on it, do so.

Authors, emailers, bloggers, and writers of all kinds: are common mistakes making you look like a dum-dum? In our lovely English language, phrases sometimes take an ugly turn when sneaky homophones or sound-alikes get involved. For instance, have you ever offered to flush out an idea for someone? Unless the thought is lodged in your intestines, you should flesh out that bad boy instead. Have you ever bragged about pouring over a document? So long as you didn’t upend your water glass over it in disgust (though I’m sure you can remember reading something that bad), use pore, “to read or study attentively.” But these two examples are only cases of mistaken identity, words with similar sounds and different meanings. Once you’ve learned the meanings they’ll never fool you again. Sound-alikes can cause far more trouble when they invade an obscurer phrase, a metaphor that everyone knows but few understand. Below are three of the sneakiest infiltrators.

Cut the mustard
How many times have you heard someone claim that something “just doesn’t cut the muster”? The confusion comes from the similar sounds of “cut the mustard” and “pass muster.” The phrases have similarly similar meanings—to meet a standard or gain the necessary approval. But these sound-alikes are no relation to each other—each has its own origin and particular flavor.

Pass muster is a straightforward military term, in which a “muster” is an inspection of assembled troops. “Passing muster” is passing the inspection, right down to the shine on your shoes.

Cut the mustard first appeared in the O. Henry story “Cupid � la Carte” from Heart of the West (1902), in the mouth of a slightly food-obsessed traveling man who needed a restaurant that met his standards. Where “cutting” enters the picture no one’s quite sure; some suggest it’s the same sense as “a cut above” or has to do with mustard crops in some way. Mustard is definitely necessary to the meaning, though, not just a mishearing of “muster.” Mustard was a dominant condiment in turn-of-the-century America and referenced in several popular phrases. In Henry’s “The Phonograph and the Graft” from Cabbages and Kings, “the mustard in the salad dressing” is the most important element, the ingredient that gets the job done. Meanwhile, Webster’s still lists one of mustard’s meanings as slang for “zest.” Personally, I prefer mithi chutney.

Toe the line
This phrase is often written “tow the line,” which would be correct if the image we were trying to elicit was more along the lines of hauling a particularly weighty rope or maybe dragging heavy things in single file. But that would be stupid, so we wouldn’t do that. The phrase “toe the line” means to behave, to conform to the rules or the standard, to follow the law of the land—often in the face of one’s express desire not to do so.

If you prefer a boring story, the saying comes from racers’ need to line up on or behind a starting line, with not even a toe over, to ensure a fair start. If you like better stories, the phrase comes from the British House of Commons, where partisans were required to stay behind lines (party lines?) when addressing their opponents—because the intuitive people who drew the lines made sure the men behind them would be more than a sword’s length apart.

Pent-up emotions, thoughts, or anger
The most common alternative form of this stock phrase is penned-up. Unique among the phrases we’re discussing here, this mistaken form does not actually change the meaning of the phrase significantly. Pent is the past participle of an obsolete verb meaning “to confine, shut up, repress.” Pen is the more familiar verb that describes what one does to animals that shouldn’t be wandering around. So pent-up emotions are restrained and held back, possibly to be dramatically released later; penned-up emotions are metaphorically corralled, possibly to escape later. The nonstandard form also raises the issue of agency: while emotions can only be pent up by the person who experiences them, anyone can pen something. But “penned” does replace the unfamiliar sound of the obsolete word with a sort of barnyard concreteness. I’ll still be using pent myself, but if you’re restraining yourself from expressing particularly cowed, pigheaded, or sheepish feelings, you might have an argument for pen.

Tip: For more on phrase origins, see the Word for Word archive, which has gems of insight on hundreds of popular sayings. If you’re more interested in correct vs. incorrect usage, see Paul Brians’s Non-errors or Common Errors in English. For more tricky word pairs like those at the beginning of this article, see Melanie Spiller’s Quirky Words.

Picture the worst English teacher you ever had. The one who made you diagram sentences and say “May I” instead of “Can I” and never, ever laughed, even if you packed five vocabulary words into one demonstration sentence. The one who made you read The Scarlet Letter. The one who told you that everything you wrote from that moment forward had to have an introduction, three body paragraphs, and a conclusion to sum up your claims, preferably beginning, “In conclusion . . .”

How would you like to break some rules you learned in that class? What if it turned out that you never really needed to follow them in the first place?

Here are some of the lies your English teacher may have told you—grammar “rules” that are simply myths perpetuated through hearsay and folklore and transmitted to generations of students. Let the deception stop with you.

1. You can begin a sentence with “and” or “but.” There’s no reason not to. You shouldn’t begin all of your sentences with “and” or “but,” but if it sounds right, don’t fight it.
2. You can end a sentence with a preposition—“with,” “to,” “for,” “against,” any of them. The idea that you shouldn’t end a sentence with a preposition comes from the fact that you shouldn’t in Latin. English is not Latin. In many of the most natural and simple constructions in English, a preposition falls at the end of the sentence. Don’t let a dead language complicate what’s not complicated.
3. You can split an infinitive. Some poor misguided souls try to follow this rule, even to the point of phrases like “to go boldly where no one has gone before,” or “to reach home finally,” instead of “to boldly go” and “to finally reach.” Don’t let this so-called correct construction make your sentences weak and awkward.

Now that you know the truth, one quick reminder: these techniques are best used in moderation, just like other constructions. But don’t let misinformation from your youth stilt your prose and cripple your sentences. For invigorating, natural writing, unlearn these silly superstitions and rediscover how to write what sounds right. It’s a freeing experience—and with no Gorgon of Grammar breathing down your neck, it’ll be much easier this time around.

Does the foreword belong before the preface? When do the page numbers start? What’s the difference between a preface and an introduction? If you need answers to demystify the front matter of your book, read on.

Books are generally divided into three sections: front matter, principal text, and back matter. Front matter is the material at the front of a book that usually offers information about the book. The principal text is the meat of a book. Back matter is the final pages of a book, where endnotes, the appendix, the bibliography, the index, and related elements reside. Though the front matter may not be as sexy as the main text or as information packed as the back matter, it’s an opportunity for authors to set the tone for their readers’ experience.

Barebones front matter may consist of only a half-title page, full-title page, and copyright page in a work of fiction, and these elements plus a table of contents in a work of nonfiction. A really extensive front matter section might contain the following components (listed in the order preferred by The Chicago Manual of Style): half title, series title or frontispiece, title page, copyright page, dedication, epigraph, table of contents, list of illustrations, list of tables, foreword, preface, acknowledgements (if not part of the preface or in the back matter), introduction (if not part of the principal text), list of abbreviations (if not in the back matter), chronology (if not in the back matter), and second half title.

The name of each component is generally descriptive of the information it provides. For example, a table of contents is a list of the contents in a book, and the half title page consists only of the main title (sans subtitle). The kind of information that goes into a foreword, an introduction, or a preface, however, is less obvious. As a result, many authors choose not to include these elements in their books, which is unfortunate because each of these components could enhance a reader’s experience with a book.

The front matter is the only section where a page can be easily added once the book is in page proofs (printed typeset pages that show all elements as they will appear in a printed book). Because of this, the front matter has a separate page numbering sequence from the rest of the book. All pages in the principle text have arabic numbers, and the first page of actual content is page 1 (this may be chapter 1 or an introduction or prologue). Front matter pages are numbered from 1 through whatever page is necessary, but the page numbers appear as lowercase roman numerals. Some front matter pages do not include page numbers—blanks, half title, title, copyright, dedication, and epigraph—although they are counted as numbered pages.

Be Foreword

A foreword is a substantial introduction or statement about a book by someone other than the author of the book. Since someone else is giving your book props just by agreeing to write a foreword and sign his name to it, it’s almost like a very long endorsement of the work minus the gushiness about how great you are. The better the author of the foreword is known, the more helpful the foreword will be in generating interest in your book and increasing sales. Imagine the readers a foreword by Jack Welch or Steve Jobs would attract compared to a foreword written by your neighbor (unless your neighbor happens to be Jack Welch or Steve Jobs, of course). But don’t sweat it if you don’t have access to the big names; it’s unlikely that a foreword by Author’s Neighbor will hinder your sales.

Tell ’Em All About It

A preface could be described as a book’s profile. It includes material about the book that is separate from the book’s subject matter, such as why the author decided to begin the work, the scope of the work, and the work’s intended audience. Sometimes authors use the preface as a place to discuss research methods and to acknowledge assistance, though the latter is usually included in a separate front matter element, the acknowledgments.

Introduce Yourself

Though introductions vary in the type of content they present, they generally should identify the book’s audience, establish a clear sense of the topic and angle the author will develop, tell the reader why the topic has value, and set the stage for the rest of the book by establishing the necessary context and language. Some introductions will describe the function of each chapter in a book, which could help readers decide if they want to read the entire book or only parts of it.

The introduction should be more closely connected to the book than any other component in the front matter. Ideally, an introduction functions as the first couple of paragraphs in a chapter should, by drawing in readers and making them want to keep reading.

Either the author or someone the author deems appropriate and capable to write about the subject can write an introduction. Keep in mind that though introductions can be written by the author or a contributor, someone other than the book’s author must write the foreword.

A big bad review of the order in which the top 10 most common front matter elements should be presented:

1. Half-title page

2. Title page

3. Copyright page

4. Dedication

5. Epigraph

6. Table of Contents

7. Foreword

8. Preface

9. Acknowledgements

10. Introduction

Decided May 17, 2006

Cases before the court:

Bring � � v. � � Take
Like � � v. � � Such as
Over � � v. � � More than/Greater than

Big Bad Book Blog delivered the opinion. Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary occasionally dissenting. Chicago Manual of Style occasionally dissenting.

Common usage has invaded the domain of correct usage. The two parties constantly battle for dominance in the written language. Over time, correct usage eventually accepts certain elements of common usage, blurring the lines for writers and editors. And of course, multiple parties take sides in the dispute—editors, linguists, publishers of dictionaries and style manuals. In the end, the true victim is the writer. How is the writer to determine when common usage is acceptable?

It is the opinion of this blog that it is always better to be more specific than less specific when writing. That rule, as well as solid knowledge of the exact meanings of words, should guide writers and editors. Of course, there are always exceptions, instances when common usage, though not correct, is more appropriate. Dialogue is a good example, as is use of slang to make a point or set a tone. And since the tone and writing style of most blogs is very casual, you will no doubt find some examples of common usage here, too.

Keep in mind that it is possible to be correct and specific without sounding pompous or stiff. Following are a few cases that can easily be decided by the writer and will generally not change the tone of a sentence.

bring v. take: People often use bring when take is more correct. For example, “Don’t forget to bring the book with you on your trip.” The difference between bring and take is all about location. When you are asking someone to deliver something to your current location, you should use bring: “Please bring me a glass of water.” When you are asking someone to carry something to another location, you should use take: “Don’t forget to take the book with you on your trip.”

like v. such as: Like is used in so many different ways in our language; it’s not surprising that it rapidly takes the place of a variety of other words and phrases. However, it is important to keep in mind that like really means similar to. In writing, it’s best to use like when similar to could be used instead. If a better replacement phrase is such as, use such as. For example, “Sheila enjoys period films, such as Sense and Sensibility” (meaning Sheila enjoys Sense and Sensibility and other period films), and “I often go to family dining restaurants like Denny’s, but I never go to Denny’s.” When speaking, you might say “films like Sense and Sensibility” (meaning Sheila enjoys films similar to Sense and Sensibility, but not Sense and Sensibility) and it wouldn’t sound strange or incorrect. But when you write, you should try to be more specific.

over v. more than/greater than: This is a classic example of being specific and a classic example of common usage becoming correct usage. Merriam Webster’s and Chicago Manual of Style will tell you that it is just fine to write, “He makes over thirty thousand dollars a year.” But don’t be surprised if your editor changes that “over” to “more than.” For a long time, it was not correct to use over (a term for direction or placement) when you meant more than or greater than, and more than is still more specific.

In the case of Common v. Correct, the Big Bad Book Blog awards the defendant the point of specificity, but acknowledges the plaintiff’s right to assert itself within the language. It is not our intent to deny the natural evolution of acceptable usage. However, it is best for a writer to err on the side of specificity.

It is so ordered.