An Engagement with Strunk and White's "Approach to Style"

So, style.

Strunk and White passed by me a couple of times recently, the second time in a situation that prompted me to re-read the thing with the want to again be familiar enough with it to give comment upon it. It is a book that probably gained its fame for there being nothing like it when it was first published (I do not know, but I would bet). And, there are things in it that are worth hearing for a writer if they had never heard them before. Lists like the "Words and Expressions Commonly Misused" are always worth going through, wherever you find them. If I have one comment on Strunk and White's list, it is that you should notice that when they give examples, sometimes their improvement/correction changes the meaning of the sentence. Actually, this throughout the book. To the other side, though, as a grammar book, it is wholly inadequate, and there is no excuse with someone who has reason to care for not owning a Chicago Manual of Style or an MLA Handbook, one or the other.

My biggest issue – even more than with the grammar – is with the final section, "An Approach to Style," written entirely by White. I disagree with him on the majority of his pieces of advice, either specifically to the point or with how he approaches it. I think the value of what he presents is limited to practical writing (and even then, at times, I have questions). When you move to creative writing, to making things out of words, suddenly his "Approach to Style" is, like the grammar section, greatly inadequate, if not at times out and out bad advice. Enough so I thought I would give my hand at writing a response. In a great part, my want to write this was to see if I could, and if I were being paid I might do some things differently. Though, there is also hope that I am presenting things worth thinking about, particularly in that I am approaching this entirely through the subject of creative writing, which feels at times almost secondary to White's aims. In that, his "advice" seems worth the revisiting. (To note, if you want to just have a browse, the most important entries are probably 1, 2, 3, 5, 11, and 16.)

To make it easy on me, White begins with nonsense, straight up:

 
 

1. Place yourself in the background.

 

White does not start well, breaking Strunk's own rules of composition by having three (or at least a solid two-and-a-half) separate ideas in the first paragraph. The paragraph begins talking about "mood and temper." However, style, the subject of his first piece of advice, is related to but is not synonymous with "mood and temper." Mood and temper – which, as White talks about it, can about be equated with emotion – can effect style, but it is not the source of it; and mood and temper can be created through style, but there is more to style than that.

Though, if we take the moment to turn back to that first idea, White is correct as so far as a writer should create a degree of divorce between one's mood and one's writing. If you are full of vitriol over some subject (a state that should be generally avoided) and want to express that vitriol in writing, you cannot let the writing be an unsupervised rant. Cry, bleed, or puke onto a page and all you end up with is a messy page. A writer has to separate the words from the emotions to the degree that the writer can calculate, can construct, can create out of the words the expression of vitriol that the writer is hoping for. Of course, the divorce cannot be complete. If you are writing comedy, being in a comedic mood is probably a necessity. But in writing a touching death scene, the writer cannot simply feel sad and hope the reader feels sad as well. The writer has to create that sadness. In truth, most readers are easy, their emotions will rise at the simplest cue, so "has to" has a second meaning: Good writing is the creating of emotions, not the cuing of it (showing and telling comes into play here), and that takes – and demonstrates – careful composition.

Returning to the confusions in the paragraph, White's central point – "to achieve style, begin by affecting none" – contradicts his final thought, that "the act of composition . . . disciplines the mind." I agree with that latter thought. But that means that writing is, as I have been saying, careful crafting, not standing back and hoping style will magically arise. And that is White's first piece of advice: "to achieve style, begin by affecting none – that is, place yourself in the background." With that I disagree entirely.

"A careful and honest writer does not need to worry about style." If you are writing a letter to your grandmother, you do not have to worry about style. You can sit in the background, as White says, and let your voice (whatever that may be) come through.

To the other side, though, if you are writing a story, writing a verse, writing a novel – if you want your grandmother to really enjoy your letter – you absolutely must concern yourself with style. Any pea brain can tell a story. In the world of literature, it is all about telling it with style. It must be recognized that I am making a distinction there: when you write a story, are you merely telling a story, or are you telling a story well (and I am not talking about good grammar)? They are two wholly different activities. The latter takes conscious crafting.

I would venture most books published nowadays – all the more so the more the book is genre – have very little style to them. One might speak of a well-known, pop mystery writer and talk about their "style"; I would be tempted to argue that you are confusing subject matter with style. Of course a mystery book will sound as having a "mystery" style. It is written to be a mystery, with the language of cops and detectives and weapons and secret motives. A science fiction book is going to sound like it has a science fiction style simply because of its vocabulary and subject matter. But that is not real style, is it? Real style is what distinguishes one book from all the others (or, one author from all the others). The books of Catherynne M. Valente have style. Brendan Sanderson's books have very little, if any. (Well, the one book of his that I read had no style. Or the one book of his of which I read half of. Or the first fifty pages of that book which I read until I realized it was not going to get any better.)

Yes, the more sophisticated a writer you become, the more style comes naturally. But it is never not part of the conscious act of writing. Talking about myself because I believe it a common experience, when I begin a verse or a story or a chapter, there is an interplay that goes on. On one hand, I am deciding what kind of style the work will have. On the other, the early drafting presents possibilities of style spoken by the work. Negotiations must be had. Once it is decided, however, the ongoing composition is consciously guided to stay within that style and to play that style to its maximum effectiveness. One issue I have with my own writing is that it is very easy for me to let humor slip in, which, most often, then has to be taken out because the humor does not fit the style of the work. It is a basic and perhaps obvious point, but it goes to that style is in part a conscious consideration.

And you have to keep in mind also that for sophisticated authors style can change from work to work. Every work has its own being and existence. Samuel Beckett's four books from Watt to The Unnameable, for example, each has its own style. Though, they are very much books by Samuel Beckett, they are also their own beings.

Important here also is the question of how do you develop your own style, and your ability to work with style. But here we are getting into the next point.

 
 

2. Write in a way that comes naturally.

 

Says White, "Write in a way that comes easily and naturally to you, using words and phrases that come readily to hand." Write like that and you will never develop in sophistication; or, you will develop very slowly, and mostly in a way that only makes your writing cleaner. Ask anybody in fitness: stay within your comfort zone and you will never improve. Now, the reason White would write this lies greatly in the next sentence: "But do not assume that because you have acted naturally your product is without flaw." Or, at least, in what that sentence does not say. For Strunk and White, the measure of writing is that of flaws. The question seems to be: did you get the information passed on that you intended to pass on? I say, rather, that with creative writing there is a different measure: "Do not assume that because you have acted naturally your product is as good as it can be."

In creative composition there should be in the writing a constant question: can it be worked in a better way. The difference between non-creative writing (for lack of a better phrase) and creative writing is that with the latter a better way may have nothing to do with the information being passed on. And here part of the problem with Strunk and White: they consider writing like to a mechanical activity. If the wheels turn and the flag goes up as planned the writing is successful. (And in all writing that is a consideration: the flag does have to go up. But, what is the flag?) Within that measure, writing as a mechanical task, natural style is sufficient to the point. But for literature, that is simply not enough. As was said, it is not a matter of telling the story, it is a matter of telling the story well. Hopefully, one day, telling the story exceptionally well. (Even, telling stories that no one else could tell.) So there is always that conscious element of composition. Not "does this work," but "how can this work better." If I may dare, "how can this work beautifully." That idea is wholly outside of the world of Strunk and White. And it is a land that cannot be reached by writing naturally.

Now, you cannot betray your own voice. Beckett's works are still Beckett's works. Better is not better if it makes the writing stiff or contrived.

And here we come back to the question of how to develop style, perhaps better said how to develop writing sophistication (as the style demanded by one work can be different than the style demanded by another). Presently, I believe the answer lies in exploration and experimentation. Exploration. You have to read to develop style. Particularly early on. And you have to read works of literary sophistication. To pick on him again, if you think reading Brendan Sanderson's many books will help develop style, you will be splashing in the puddles for years to come. And it is not enough to read these works, you have to think about them. You have to pay attention to what they do and how they do it. You have to see (and hear, for writing is very much an aural art). You must do this so the sounds and the flows and the constructions become familiar to you. Some will be more important to you than others, because you are your own mind and will be attracted to the pools that your own mind wants to swim in.

To this end I cannot recommend more the reading – if not the writing – of verse. Nietzsche has a line that speaks that all great prose stylists have a drawer of verse that they wrote, because they learn the former through the latter. But, again, you have to choose well. Rupi Kaur will get you nowhere. Indeed, a great many contemporary versifiers in the U.S. have little to offer in terms of sophistication. But, then, you have to start somewhere, and it is often in the course of readers' and writers' lives that they realize that some author no longer has anything to offer them, and they are left behind for better lands.

Experimentation. If you never try new things, you will never learn new things. As said already, stay in your comfort zone and you will never improve. There is good reason why so many collegiate poetry classes begin by forcing the students to write a sonnet. You have to explore, even with the simple questions like, "is there, maybe, a better word than the one that came 'naturally' to me." That constant question: can it be done better? Is there a better word? Can this sentence be reworked to greater ends? Can this paragraph excel? Does the structure of the work create what I want to create? Can it create something even greater? (See the next point.)

The earliest stages of experimentation includes imitation. White speaks against imitation: "Never imitate consciously." That is nonsense. Most poets talk about how in their early days they imitated other poets, and I am talking about the greats. Though it is not mere copying; they filled their ears and minds with the sound and structure and styles of their influences, and let it guide them. The problem is where you never break from imitation, where you never step out on your own and find your own voice. Many great writers – prose and verse – were influenced by Poe. The number of bands that began by imitating the Beatles are many (Jeff Lynne of ELO is a notable name). Then the experimentation comes in and you find your own voice. (For writing to succeed it also has to answer the question "Do I like it?") There is nothing wrong if people hear in your mature work the voices of those who began your path. What is bad is where that is all they hear.

Just to push the point: experimentation is, in a way, a constant. Always you should be asking, "is there a better – more effective, more interesting, more beautiful – way?" (See point #5 on this.) Always you should be pushing yourself to try something new. If you write only in the way that "comes naturally," you will never develop. You have to ask the questions. You have to explore. You have try things out and be willing for the result to completely suck. As a friend of mine once said about cooking: "There are no failures, just learning experiences." Which is true, if you are paying attention. Yes, you have to be writing out of your own mind, not someone else's; but you cannot sit back and hope style and sophistication "naturally" appears. You have to develop it. And that is an active process. When your sophistication is strong, writing "naturally" means something wholly different than when you are just starting out.

 
 

3. Work from a suitable design.

 

No objection there, though I might change it to read "Work from a suitable design, to an effective design." Perhaps I should say a successful design. There are many words I can put there. The point is, in the end, and as I am wont to say, composition is everything.

And, in reality, what "working from a suitable design" means changes from person to person and work to work. The larger the works, the more I would say having a plan for the whole of it is important to its success. Neil Gaiman's Stardust reads like it was written chapter by chapter, with little consideration for what was going to happen, and not much consideration for what did happen. If there was more thought aforehand, I would say, the ghosts of the brothers would have played a much greater role in the book, as they did in the movie. How Gaiman did not see their potential – if not, once they were introduced, their necessity – I do not understand, except that it seems he was writing chapter to chapter, moment to moment, not looking ahead or behind. I do not think the book Stardust works terribly well at all. I love the movie, though. It solves so many of the book's problems. (As in the ending.)

Now, the smaller the work, the more one might be tempted to say the less figuring out ahead of time is necessary. I would say it depends on the sophistication of the work. But, then, by my experience, it usually happens, irrespective of size, that at some point I am thinking the ending even if I have not gotten there yet. I have often found myself writing an ending so I can then figure out the middle. And then I go back and rewrite the ending, if not then the beginning. Many times my first words are the middle words. One of the things good essay writers learn in college: writing the beginning is the hardest part, because to write the beginning well you have to know the whole. Simply, the more sophisticated the work, the more everything is organized to that singular whole of the composition. (You might also look at Virginia Woolf to this end, or Winesberg, Ohio.)

But as a general principle, having an idea of the whole helps in the making of the whole. Even if that idea changes along the way. (You should expect it to.) At early on in the development of sophistication it helps you not getting lost. If you sketch an outline (which can be difficult) it makes the writing a little easier. But with more sophisticated works, having an idea of the whole is almost a requisite, because what you are aiming for is unity. Think of a painting. In a lesser painting the painting of a woman in a chair is literally that: it is a painting, and there is a woman, and she is sitting in a chair. In a sophisticated work there is not solely the subject but there is the experience of the whole, of which the woman, the chair, and everything else, is a functional part. Every part of the canvas is working to the overall effect of the painting. The same is for sophisticated literature: every part is working to the overall effect. There is a unity to it. Here we move out from the idea of telling a story exceptionally well and to telling a story in the only way possible: that is because now the point of the work is the experience, and the story within the work functions to that overall experience. You are no longer merely "telling a story." You are creating a work.

Composition is Everything. It is not an easy thing to learn, how to see the whole. Genre fiction will not teach you much, here. That is often painfully linear. One thing happens then the next and that is the lot. Hollywood movies are usually this way, and this is why you get their many crimes: contrivances, plot holes, actions without motivation, actions contrary to the character, etc. All because it never was a unity. There was only "we have to get from A to B to C to D, by whatever means necessary." And in movies, that includes "there has to be the car chase, even if it makes no sense why it at all occurred."

Of course, structure works at all levels. In prose, you have to develop the ability to see the structure of your paragraphs. In verse, the structure of stanzas. Even, the structure of your sentences, and how it all inter-reacts with each other. Composition is everything, and composition takes every element into consideration, including structure at every level.

In sum, sophistication demands thinking in terms of structure: structure of the whole, structure of the parts. Something that has to be learned. Not something that comes naturally.

 
 

4. Write with nouns and verbs.

 

This is an interesting piece of advice because it goes against what White previously said. Here: "In general . . . it is nouns and verbs . . . that give to good writing its toughness and color." Which means those nouns and verbs are being carefully chosen and effectively used. One of the good writing techniques is to question every pronoun as to whether it can be replaced by a noun. I will guarantee you, pronouns come naturally to a developing writer, not nouns. And not a solid and carefully laid succession of "tough and colorful" nouns.

But as for the point of the advice, the cautious use of adverbs and adjectives, I question its universality. It seems White is pushing an overly conservative idea of writing. Every once in a while I hear a professional writer give the advice "Never use adverbs," and they seem to wear that advice like a badge of their masterful intelligence. In truth such a person probably does not have a full idea of what an adverb does and is not very good at using them, so they run and hide. Either that, or they are prone to kowtowing to dogma. Of course, the opposite is very true: a person who uses adverbs and does not understand what they do or how to use them writes funny text. Besides, I would like to see a person never give an idea of when to their sentences.

I think it safe to say a person who is afraid of using adjectives probably writes poorly. But, style is of the issue. You can read far in Hemingway before coming upon an adjective not needed to specify or explain. On the other hand, I recently read a few pages of an author that writes in a similar style, but her sentences seemed almost scientific in their directness, and for it her prose was choppy and boring. And it can be pointed out Burroughs used all the adjectives Hemingway passed on and more. You will see a lot more adjectives in verse than you see in prose, on average, I would venture. I like adjectives. They can be potent. They can sing back-up and they can also lead. But, they are part of the composition. And adjectives extend beyond the word they are modifying. Be loose with them, choose the wrong one, and you can upset your meaning-making, even create unwanted contradictions. A good reader will notice. And you should be striving to write for good readers, not mediocre ones.

 
 

5. Revise and Rewrite.

 

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And White is funny in his promoting the use of scissors. Though, even in the age of computers, I have myself printed up and chopped away. Sometimes it helps to edit in hand.

But as we have seen with the previous, with "revise and rewrite" White is mostly talking about getting rid of errors. And the most difficult ones are often structural problems (thus the chopping up). In writing an essay this is often cleaning up, rearranging, and wholly vivisecting paragraphs to get the argument's presentation as smooth and understandable as possible. Such is the nature of it: the more difficult the argument, the more care must be taken in its presentation.

This, of course, carries over into creative writing in equal measure: structure, structure, structure. But also, and to reuse the word, beauty, beauty, beauty. When I write verse on a yellow pad it can look like Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory with all the bits and pieces being written, rewritten, tried in different ways. Frankenstein had the advantage that he knew what a body looked like. Which goes to what White is probably not referring to: revise and rewrite not only for clarity and cleanliness, but also to maximum effect, to aural effect, to the unity of the composition. There is the up as well as the down. Do not just rewrite to fix errors. Rewrite to make it better writing, a better composition, a more beautiful composition.

You should develop techniques. I rather run with the Imagist idea of getting rid of every superfluous word. And here White's pencil. Always be looking for what can be taken out. Do not assume that because you are removing something you have to replace it with something else. Condense. The tighter the work, the better. That might be a universal.

But also learn the ill-favored writing habits you are prone to. I myself am backwards from most people: I generally have to add commas where I left them out. And there is that seeing if the pronouns can be replaced with nouns.

And when you do have a final complete draft, put it in the oven for a couple of months, then take it out and see with a fresh mind what needs to be fixed and what can be improved yet again.

Some comments on technique:

Even though we work generally on computers where it is easy to cut and paste and delete and move, you should not always. Get into the habit of leaving what you write in the document, be it prose or verse. If you get half way through a paragraph and realize it is not working, do not delete it, just hit "Enter" a couple times and start again. Your brain will thank you for being able to go back and look at what you were thinking the first time around. A sentence in the middle of the paragraph was misconceived? Do not delete. Strike it out and start again. Use your computer screen like it was paper where you cannot delete. Leave everything. When it gets too messy, start a new file and then delete the unwanted stuff. But do not delete the old file. Some things I write will have ten or more files of drafting before settling on a final form (I number their names: "poem 01," "poem 02"). If ever I am going to make major changes, I start a new file. I want to be able to see the previous form. It has happened that I have looked back from draft 09 to draft 03. And I cannot tell you how many times it saved me from things like making changes that I afterwards realized did not work at all.

Second, electrons on the screen only cost the price of the electricity. If a paragraph is not working, write it over again in different ways to see if you can find what does. Then, when you find what works, just keep going. And when it gets ungainly, start a new file. Same with revising toward overall composition. Rearrange, see what happens. Add stuff; subtract stuff. See what happens. We come back to the development of style through experimentation. You can always go back to the previous save. Print it up. Many people believe they get their best feel for their text when it is printed up.

Finally, something I throw in here because I have been told people find it very helpful: when writing prose, try shrinking your margins. I will sometimes compose on a page with a three inch margin on the right side. It seems to make reading the prose easier, makes seeing paragraphs easier, and generally makes editing easier. Added benefit: if you print it up, you have plenty of space to write comments and corrections. I will even shrink the top and bottom margins for even more room, and there is something to be said for the text looking like the page of a book. (To say, some people also like separating the lines a little. Not a full double space, but 1.3 or 1.5. I have done that in the past. Mostly now with printups to make editing easier.)

 
 

6. Do not overwrite.

 

"Rich, ornate prose is hard to digest, generally unwholesome, and sometimes nauseating." And I would bet White did not like Proust. But, then, not many people can write like Proust.

If we ignore White's paragraph and just stick to the heading, it is an obviousness. Do not use adjectives simply because you can, do not believe the more the merrier. Do not think verbs without adverbs are naked. Do not believe that longer sentences, merely by being longer, are the more fancy.

But the opposite of overwriting is not underwriting: that, too, is problematic. The opposite is controlled writing. There is nothing wrong with rich, ornate prose if, after the sentence, paragraph, or passage, the reader feels like the writer nailed the landing, perfect 10. One of the aims in great writing is to give the reader that feeling. And that is achieved through meticulous attention and control. Now, again, writing a letter to grandma does not requisite meticulous attention and control. But, then, one of my favorite jokes: "I would have written you a shorter letter but I did not have the time."

 
 

7. Do not overstate.

 

It is a bit I have no qualms with whatsoever. I refer you to the scene in Shakespeare in Love where Viola-in-drag is practicing a scene where she as Romeo is talking about Rosaline and is giving too much passion in the performance. Will stops her and tells her to back off some. His point: "If you give it all here, where are you going to go when you meet the love of your life?" Though, that is acting. In writing you should be wary of overstating, because once you hit all caps there is no going back. Distrust superlatives. Often they are a crutch, an easy way through to avoid a more difficult construction. Your power should be through the language, not the volume knob.

 
 

8. Avoid the use of qualifiers.

 

He is talking about constructions such as "I just wanted to say" and "it is a little sideways." For the most part it is good advice, and again the practice of removing every unneeded word. Though, I am honestly not sure if his own use of "little" in the paragraph is a joke. Because in that instance "little" functions to an end and should be kept. Qualifiers can be superfluous and should be edited out; they can also be lazy writing and signal you are not paying attention to what you are doing. I don't like the universal sound of the advice, but in general it is a good idea. You should train yourself to be able to see just and its relatives when you are writing and editing, and to know when they are legitimate and when they are not.

 
 

9. Do not affect a breezy manner.

 

Really the advice should be: "Do not affect a breezy manner unless you can pull it off (and it is what you are aiming for)." After all, White condemns the poor imitators of Whitman (of which there are many), but not Whitman himself. If there is reason for a "breezy" manner in your work, or for one governing your work, go for it. Experiment and see what you can create. Maybe it will work, maybe it will not. Does not mean you cannot try.

Really, the heart of it is questions of style. If you are trying to affect a style, whether it is across the work or bringing the water to boil in one scene, you have to be able to pull it off. And one must be wary: the more extreme the style, the more care must be taken to get it right, because if you do not it will all quickly unravel and your reader will be laughing (or wincing, or both) at text not unlike White's example. If you want a character to have an exaggerated personality, you have to get it right or the whole work can come undone. (Keep in mind here the advice about overstating.) Reading and research comes into play. See how other people handled it, and imitate until you can break free from imitation. Once I had an idea for something that had to do with a jungle, but creating the mood or style of "jungle" was wholly beyond me. So I went to the source: Tarzan novels. Built up a vocabulary through them. Nothing came of it, but I remember the research being fun.

 
 

10. Use orthodox spelling.

 

Yes, obviously.

But if I may my high horse for a moment, this includes, in verse, substituting "&" for "and." There is nothing accomplished in that except the writer going "ooh, look at me, I am being cool." I do not think that that is a thing to aim for in your verse. Using an ampersand is a gimmick. You want to avoid gimmicks. The exceptions prove the rule.

I am off said horse.

 
 

11. Do not explain too much.

 

White uses this to launch into a little spiel against adverbs being added to dialog tags. And he is absolutely right, except he misses the point. You should never say, "he said consolingly," because it sounds bad, you should never say it because if you need the idea of consolation then consolation should be being created in the text, through the dialogue or what is nearby. Using the adverb is a lazy out.

But let me go back to the line of advice, and I remind you I am here breaking from White and talking entirely about creative writing. Rather than "do not explain too much," I would put forward the idea do not explain at all, unless it is absolutely necessary. Most everyone knows the rule "No exposition." Explaining is exposition. When you write, "he said consolingly," that adverb is exposition. Avoid it. If you are doing your job, you should not have to explain. The ideas sufficient to the task will be being created in your text. Indeed, the text should be sufficient without explanation. The painting does not offer us the reason why the man in The Scream is screaming. It is unnecessary to the experience of the painting. The more you develop, the more you will find explanation is generally unnecessary. And if it is necessary, it very well may mean you messed up somewhere in the writing.

Besides, a work without explanation is simply the more tight, and the more interesting. Explanation is boring, not to mention condescending to the reader. Think about if every poem or story ended with a stanza or chapter starting off with "In case you did not get it . . . . ." Just assume your reader is intelligent and leave out explanation if you at all can. (It should be absolutely avoided in verse.)

A good rule of life: Do not explain your jokes. If they did not get the joke, it means either it did not click in their head or you told it poorly. In the former case, you let them figure it out, and if they cannot they never will, and explaining it is only awkward. In the latter, you need to go back and fix your telling. They did not get the joke because the joke was not funny.

 
 

12. Do not construct awkward adverbs.

 

Here we get into something that has poked a nose into the conversation here and there.

"Do not construct awkward adverbs."

"How do you know they are awkward?"

"They sound awkward."

"How do you know if they sound awkward?"

And there we are. The poetic ear. An absolutely essential tool to sophistication in writing. But how do you develop it? I know no other answer than reading beautiful language. Read Yeats; read Eliot; read Shakespeare's sonnets. Eliot used to say read Dante in the Italian; even if you do not understand it the music of the language will have its effect on you. Practice reading such work. It may be if you can read beautiful language fluently, you can hear it fluently. In honesty I have never come across an answer to "how do you develop a poetic ear" except reading, especially reading verse, and by that I mean verse that pays attention to sound. Even White points this out in Advice 14: "A matter of ear, a matter of reading the books that sharpen the ear." And not every book sharpens the ear. Most genre books are written with dull pencils. And there is plenty of stuff being published as clunky as a five-sided wheel.

Now, a technique used for proofreading may apply. That is, have someone read your work to you. You will (hopefully) hear every bump and pot hole they hit as they struggle through your text. Fixing those flaws may be part of developing an ear. One would assume. And, as you get better at it, you can read your own work – out loud – and hear the bumps and holes. You have to want to improve your ear, though. And it may not be an easy thing. One would think that if it was, verse published in the U.S. would be of better quality. (But, then, do they even try?)

Do not construct awkward adverbs because they sound terrible. The rest is up to you.

 
 

13. Make sure the reader knows who is speaking.

 

Dialogue tags. White speaks to the one side: you do not want your reader getting lost in the dialogue. Though, at the same time, you should be able to expect your reader to be paying attention.

There is also the other side, though. In truth, when writing, you should be trying to use as few dialogue tags as possible. "He said" and "she said" after every spoken sentence sounds just as terrible as poorly used adverbs. In fact, the reader will stop reading them. So why put them in?

Use only what is necessary. But use what is necessary.

And, as White points out, how it sounds is also important.

 
 

14. Avoid fancy words.

 

White, as I have pointed out, is writing advice to a particular type of writing, a rather plain type of writing. And I am talking about creative writing, and in creative writing anything can be put to use. So I would not say, "avoid fancy words"; I would say, "make sure what words you use work."

In a great part, it is a question of context. White's choice of beauteous is excellent. You cannot just slap that word into a sentence and expect skittles and beer. The sentence, and the sentences around it, have to be such that the word settles into place as though lying down on a oversized pillow, this whether it is a "fancy" word, an irregular construction, or whatever other feat of daring.

And White is right: it is also, greatly, a matter of ear, which we have already talked about. But read White's discussion and take it to heart. Developing the poetic ear is important, whether writing verse or prose.

 
 

15. Do not use dialect unless your ear is good.

 

E.E. Cummings uses dialect in some of his poems; mostly, if I remember right, a heavy New York accent. (Perhaps Boston, too.) And while it may be accurate, sometimes it takes some figuring out to know what is being said. Cummings can get away with that because his poems do sometimes take some figuring out, but they usually pay off. I would not risk what he did in a prose text. Reading would come to a screeching halt any time anyone talked.

Using dialect is a dangerous affair. Get it wrong and your text sounds silly, not only aurally but semantically; or, to the other side, it ends up more difficult than it is worth. Most authors stay away from dialect, and the general advice is to do the same. But if you want to try it, keep these things in mind.

(1) White is right. It is all about how it sounds.

(2) You have to be consistent. (And accurate.)

(3) A little goes a very long way.

(4) The second your reader struggles with meaning or stumbles through the dialogue you have failed.

Note that dialect (as in how words sound) and idiom (as in what words are used) are not synonymous. And you can affect the former with the latter. But if you try idiom, the same rules apply. And keep in mind, idiom can sound really silly really quickly. I recently read a paragraph (in a published book) written out of a narrative voice that used idiom. Only, only one word in the paragraph was idiomatic, so it did not look like idiom, it looked like an error.

If you want to see dialect done well check out Frank Norris's The Octopus. Carson McCullers does a good job with idiom in The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.

 
 

16. Be clear.

 

White finds himself stumbling over himself in this one, as he is forced to venture into types of writing outside of what he has been driving for thus far. The games he plays – things like "Be elliptical in a straightforward fashion!" – gives me a strong feeling he does not really have a solid definition in hand of what clarity means when confronted with the broad spectrum of the written word.

Except there is in his advice one, crystal clear sentence: "But since writing is communication, clarity can only be a virtue."

White finally makes overt what has been behind his advice since the beginning. And we see why he is having such trouble talking about clarity. That is because, for him, writing is primarily one act: the communication of information. And, thus, good writing is the clear communication of information. Thus we have the Rockefeller example as the means to the condemnation of the sins of ambiguity. But such as William Empson's well known Seven Types of Ambiguity speaks directly to the opposite: the important role ambiguity plays in literature.

Perhaps I overestimate White's objection to ambiguity, but the above sentence is undeniable: when White talks about writing he is talking about the communication of information. But I say creative writing is not merely writing, it is creative writing. Building things out of words. The communication of information is a part of that, but it is only a part. It is not the defining aim. The aim is the experience of the created text.

A screaming comes across the sky.

What percentage of that opening sentence is motivated by and to the ends of the communication of information?

Of course, this all falls under issues of style. And it is also something of a philosophical choice. I am sure it was for White. You can decide that the conveyance of information is the most important part of writing, and that everything else must be sacrificed to it. And in some forms of writing, clarity of meaning is much desired – as with writing essays. But in creative writing, one should always be willing to sacrifice the clear communication of meaning in favor of the greater composition, the overall effort. And there I am not only opening the idea of creativity to its fullest extent, I am making a statement as to the definition of the word creative. I am making a philosophical statement.

A beginner writer writing something based on reality, on a true event, will tend to the faithful representation of what happened. That habit has to be broken if the writer wants to move from telling stories to telling stories well (to telling interesting stories). The same is seen in fiction, in writers who are too concerned with getting the action accurate. Moving out of that kind of writing is in part breaking a habit and in part learning new skills. And style is, in essence, choosing effect over the accurate transference of meaning.

In short, the communication of information is but a part of creative writing – one tool in the box. Sophistication in creative writing means knowing when and how to manipulate it or, even, ignore it.

A metaphor, after all, is never "clear."

And creative writing is not communication. It is making things out of words.

What, then, would I say instead of White's advice to "be clear"? I would say what I have already said: composition is everything.

 
 

17. Do not inject opinion.

 

This is a much more complex issue than White is permitting, and than I will give it space for here. In creative writing "opinion" can play an important role. In prose we can speak of the tradition of the philosophical novel; in verse we need only speak of the great odes. But, then, just because you put philosophy into a novel does not mean it works, and verse written out of diary can be pretty bad (and generally tends that way).

Some considerations quickly offered:

Who is giving the opinion? Characters can be full of opinion. Holden Caulfield has an opinion about everything. But do not betray the character's persona. Indeed, opinion is a rather potent way of defining persona. And do not betray the character's rhythms, equally as important. Having a character that mostly keeps silent suddenly break into three paragraphs of opinion can feel like you radically changed the character's color palette. Of course, behind this there is the question of whether the opinions of the characters are meant to be accepted or rejected, and to what degree the author is speaking through their characters.

Narrators also can be full of opinion, and legitimately so. Of course, the more covert the narrator the less breaking into an opinionated voice fits. An overt narrator, on the other hand, can even go places characters cannot. Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer breaks into escapades of opinionated thought that would be wholly out of place in dialogue; though, the narrator in that book is identified with the author. For it, the ventures into imaginative philosophy are entirely of the style of the book.

Then, of course, there is also the subject, delivery, and general intelligence of the opinion. Not just philosophical rigor is at hand. Preachiness, for example, is almost always a negative, and should be reserved for where that negativity fits the character and the moment. A character trumping out an inanity with the writer thinking it philosophy is funny. And, then, just because it can be said does not mean it should, not in every context. And as with any ventures out of basic narrative it absolutely has to be done well. Bad philosophizing in a book can create a tear in its overall reception. To be blunt, the author can come out sounding like an idiot.

All reasons why you should be careful with opinion. Particularly in creative writing. Readers are not trapped audiences. Move into a philosophizing that the reader did not at all expect, move from prompting food for thought to delivering the disagreeable, and they are likely to put down the book.

 
 

18. Use figures of speech sparingly.

 

Of course, what does "sparingly" mean? And there are many figures of speech, and a complex of them can be an enjoyable read. Figures of speech are much of what makes creative writing interesting, after all. So I would not say, "sparingly"; I would say, "as they are needed to the ends desired, as they can create the ends desired."

That said, White is right. It does not take many similes close together to sound bad. Similes are also often a lazy crutch to escape a more difficult construction. And mixed metaphors are easily fallen into, but are always to be avoided, unless you are going for the laugh.

 
 

19. Do not take shortcuts at the cost of clarity.

 

This advice is really for non-fiction writing, and in issues like the examples White gives, you should follow your style manual. Is there, though, an equivalent for creative writing? Yes.

Do not take short cuts.

Do not settle for the easy word. Question always, "can it be better?" Write it again and again until you get it right. Never settle for "that is good enough." We live in the internet age, there is no excuse for not looking it up. The aim is the whole, not the part.

The idea of finding the perfect word is not for verse only. And there is much happiness in finding it.

 
 

20. Avoid foreign languages.

 

In the briefest, you must recognize that if you move into a foreign language, it will always be that someone is not going to understand what you wrote. So do not put any important plot details in a foreign language (unless the information is also given elsewhere). That said, using a foreign language can add color to a text. Of course, it has to be legitimate to the text, and you do not want to overdo it.

Tropic of Cancer, if I may again, will occasionally have a French sentence. Though, the book occurs in Paris, with the main character-also-narrator wandering about, and for its style the book feels as though wanting the occasional native phrase. Still, it is worth noting how infrequently Miller uses French words. Which is not to say inject foreign languages only infrequently; but it is saying know what your work can handle, and what your readers will tolerate. (And get it right: the native American dialogue in Dances with Wolves was modified to avoid complexities, and Lakotans who saw the film laughed at the result.)

A word, here, should be offered on made-up languages in speculative fiction. This applies to names as well. Let me work backwards.

If you give a look at the English language you will find the oddest combination of letters can make up a word. (Just give a moment's thought to syzygy.) Same with names, particularly in the melting pot U.S. As a writer, then, you need only recognize that, when it comes to it, any made-up name becomes familiar as a character's name once it is used a couple of times; same with places or items. The reader gets accustomed to the sound rather quickly. Just do not name your characters Mr. Mxyzptlk and you will be O.K. (Unless, of course, you want to name them Mr. Mxyzptlk and recognize the dangers and results.)

So, as a general rule, I would say do not get in the way of a word or name being accepted by the reader and all is good. (If you need help, do not be afraid of chosing names or words that sound like everyday words in English. None of your readers will notice, unless are too obvious about it. However, if all your characters sound like kitchen tools you might want to ask for help.)

Phrases and sentences in a made-up language are pretty much the same. As long as you do not come up with something difficult to read or pronounce you are good. The only question is do you want or need similar words through the text to sound the same so as to give a kind of consistency. (Again, pay attention to English. Even out of its Middle English roots, words can vary greatly in sound. But, suffixes are suffixes.) In the end, would you know by looking at it whether

Con cao nhanh nhen nhay qua con cho luoi bieng.

was real or fictional? (It is "the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog" in Vietnamese, with all the diacriticals removed.) Can you see any grammatical organization in it? To me, it is just a string of sounds (and I probably would have guessed Vietnamese). Making up names of people places and things, or phrases in fictional languages, is not that hard, not really. And the reader will usually accept it as offered. Again, just do not get in the way of that.

 
 

21. Prefer the standard to the offbeat.

 

White's own words should be used against him.

By the time this paragraph sees print, uptight, ripoff, rap, dude, vibes, copout, and funky will be words of yesteryear.

It has been forty years since my edition of the book has come out, and all of those words have entered common parlance. Perhaps funky the least used, and perhaps some of them do not fit every context, but White was hoisted, as it were, by that sentence.

On the other hand, watch a film or TV show from the sixties that at all drops into popular culture and the language of some characters can sound alien. But, then, that was probably the point at the time of the writing of the script: for the characters to sound alien.

Still, slang comes in an out rather quickly. Particularly contemporary social media slang. Stay away from it. If middle schoolers are using it, you do not want to be.

For the most part, I am with White. Stray from the dictionary at your own risk. And if you are going to stray, be consistent and, permit me to repeat myself, do it well. Keep in mind also, there are things a character can say that a narrator should not.

In the end, creative writing is creative writing. By nature you want to stay away from the hackney and otherwise trite. And if you give a good look, you will see just how much the great books stay away from "the offbeat," even the ones that are emblems of their time. But, then, there are also books that play to the offbeat to effect, Micheal Moorcock's King of the City is an example.

 
 

A closing thought (that becomes a personal statement).

 

So, style.

Webster has two applicable definitions. The first is:

3. (a) manner or mode of expression in language; way of putting thoughts into words; (b) specific or characteristic manner of expression, execution, construction, or design, in any art, period, work, employment, etc.; as, the Byzantine style, the modern style

Which speaks to it in the broad sense, but does not answer the question, "Yeah, but what goes into style? What are the elements of style?" White brings up twenty-one points concerning style and yet hardly touches on the question of what makes a person's style. (That is mostly because he is concentrating on what not to do.)

The means to style is making decisions in writing that vary from the direct communication of information. Any step away from reportage is a step toward the poetic, a step away from telling a story and toward telling a story well, toward creative writing, toward making things with words. Which is important. Very important. But that does not make style. Style is a "specific or characteristic manner." A writer is not born with style; style develops as writing sophistication develops. It is to see parataxis (butting things together without transition) in a work, and go, "I like that. I think I will use it in my work." Then comes experimenting with its use, and then, if it fits your psyche, it becoming a natural part of your idiom. You are looking for places to do it, and to do it the way you do it. The way you write becomes made for the presence of parataxis, and it becomes part of your style. Exploration and experimentation. Taking what you find and making it your own. A great writer does not borrow, they steal.

But then there is also the second definition:

4. distinction, excellence, originality, and character in any form of artistic or literary expression; as, this author lacks style

Note the conjunction there is not or; it is and. Distinction and excellence and originality and character. The most important are the middle two: originality and excellence. That is ultimately what you are striving for, and there lies the move from writing things well to writing things that only you could write. Making something unique.

It is said, "Artists paint for artists." Within that is to be found, "The best artists paint for the best artists." And sophisticated writers write for those who know writing. If I write an excellent sentence, I wish it to be appreciated. I am writing for the people capable of appreciating that sentence. Style is for those who can appreciate style, which is part of the goal: it is not just the pleasure of creating through writing, it is the pleasure of reading, to get to where you can appreciate style, to get to where you can appreciate excellence and originality. Then you can create it in your own work. I am quite sure were I to read the whole of the oeuvre of Brendan Sanderson I would never once say, "Holy hell, that is a wonderful sentence." It is a philosophical choice: beauty, originality, excellence.

Nietzsche also said the common has no value because it is common. It is only the uncommon that has value. And it is, in the end, a philosophical choice.