When I first met my husband, Neal, nine years ago, he was helping elderly clients write their memoirs, while I was giving workshops on how to get any kind of writing done at all. His clients had typically procrastinated for years, sometimes decades, getting down on paper the stories of their lives if, for no other reason, so that their grandchildren might someday know from whence they had sprung.
Meanwhile, I was working with writers who were suffering from low self-esteem, performance anxiety and writer’s block, often without yet having put a single word to paper. I’d written a book on everything I knew about writing called Bird by Bird more than 20 years earlier. Basically, it came down to two suggestions: First, write really short passages or memories and string them together. Second, let yourself write a bad first draft, because this is how 95% of the writers we all love get their work done.
Pooling our experiences, Neal and I just released a book called Good Writing: 36 Ways to Improve Your Sentences. This hybrid of our long literary careers is for anyone writing anything, whether a novel or what Neal was doing when I first met him — memoirs. I think of memoirs as a gateway drug to novels and screenplays, the perfect training ground.
On our second date, Neal showed me a list of writing hacks, a tip sheet of rules he had compiled over the decades since he worked as a journalist. I started passing this list out to all my writing students: Trust your voice. Take out the clichés. Try not to use the word “actually” — and many more.
A couple of years ago, Neal began to turn his list into Good Writing, with a short essay on each rule and examples of how he or a famous writer used it. In a few cases, he even quoted my work, but I think this was just so that I would be nicer to him and not complain so often about his horrible sneezes.
Neal’s first rule in this book of 36 rules was, “Use strong verbs.” He cites “walk” as a typical weak verb. Not only does a more vivid verb punch up the sentence, it can also get rid of the need for an explanatory adverb. “Raced” doesn’t require “quickly”, and “meander” doesn’t require “aimlessly.”
When I give Neal my work to edit, which is whenever I write anything for publication, he circles the adverbs, and if you read between the lines, he is disappointed in me. I worry he may be reconsidering the marriage (likewise when I break his cranky little rules about using clichés or the word “very”).