In the upcoming posts we will slowly move through some of the writing techniques and suggestions that are espoused in The Elements of Style by Strunk and White. After this we will add other teachings that have been picked up along the way and move on to different authors and examine their narrative techniques. We will look for your suggestions of the master authors to focus on later on in this blog.
The second suggestion that S&W provide after placing yourself in the background is to write in a way that comes naturally. You must do this since how else will you ever enjoy writing and expressing yourself. It's the only way to proceed – it's the hook that gets you writing and not procrastinating about writing.
So when you write, use phrases and words that come naturally. They also suggest imitating your favourite writers since your favourite writers likely think and write in a way that's similar to your own style.
Having said this, lets begin applying the S&W teachings to something we can all build on. The suggestion is to start to imitate a writer who uses fairly simple narrative.
So we will first begin imitating Charles Bukowski's 1971 novel, Post Office, because of its simple style.
The first step is to read the first chapter; it's only eleven paragraphs.
Then you begin to write your narrative in a similar short predicative style. His story is about his days working for the the post office, but your story will be about your experiences in a past job.
Objectives:
(1) Keep your piece to the same length as his.
(2) Vary the length and structure of your sentences.
(3) Attempt humour if possible (if you can't find anything funny that's cool but from now on be on the look out at work for all those silly things that pop up that are funny because they're everywhere once you start looking for them, record them in a notebook and mess around with how you might work some of them into a story)
(4) Add some dialogue.
9 comments:
Below I broke the one page chapter down into its underlying structure so you can see it through the skeletal lens. It reveals some interesting things. Have a look.
Simple sentence.
Compound-complex sentence (independent clause, independent clause + subordinate adjectival clause, independent clause, independent clause, independent clause), Simple sentence, Interjection, Compound-complex sentence (independent clause, subordinate adverbial clause + independent clause, independent clause, independent clause, independent clause, independent clause)
Complex sentence (independent clause + first level subordinate adverbial clause + second level subordinate adverbial clause), simple sentence, compound sentence (3 separate independent sentences)
Simple sentence. Simple sentence. Compound sentence (3 separate independent clauses)
Simple sentence.
Simple sentence.
Simple sentence.
Compound-complex sentence (independent clause, independent clause + subordinate adverbial clause, independent clause), simple sentence.
Simple sentence.
Compound sentence (independent clause, independent clause, independent clause, independent clause)
Complex sentence (independent clause + adjectival subordinate clause), simple sentence.
Summary of sentence structure:
10 simple sentences
3 compound sentences.
2 complex sentences.
3 compound-complex sentences
26 independent clauses within binary sentences or 36 independent clauses if you count the simple sentences.
2 adjectival clauses
4 adverbial clauses
1 interjection
1 second level modifying clause.
Here is my version and attempt at his style of writing. I will say his style of writing is quite enjoyable and it seems to flow out without effort - maybe a good way to start narratives before adding in more bulk and complexity.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” asked my second grade teacher, Mrs. Rydaman, on the first day back to school.
This was my second trip through second grade having gone down in flames the first time ‘round, so I had this question down cold. I had failed because I couldn’t read and apparently reading was important in life. Really! Who knew. You needed to be able to read to be a success in our Monopoly world and so I was not allowed to pass go and collect my two hundred dollars. I had picked up the “Go to Jail” card or was it the “Go to Hell” card.
Just last year I was a failure and I was washed up at age seven in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and seventy six.
I recall there was only one other failure that year. Failure comes in twos. We sat beside each other in the front seat of the bus and bawled like babies all the way back to town.
Twenty minutes of non-stop bawling.
They should have put those placards on us with the word Failure emblazon across it.
They should have paraded us down Main Street for all to see.
“Come, see the town freaks” a man’s voice would blast out of the roof mounted PA megaphone. That would be doing it up right. But this time they were easy on us. They let us melt away into the summer, out of sight and out of mind.
I later concluded the whole unable-to-read thing started way back in grade one. That’s the stage where they teach you the basics, the stepping stones toward a future life of reading and writing and success in The Game of Life. The problem was that my grade one teacher was new, fresh out of school and fantastic looking. All I could remember was her face and body but mostly her body. It was my first infatuation when I didn’t know what infatuation was. I had faint tingles and urges and night sweats about her. I was unsure of what it all meant but I was sure I liked how she looked. She was powerfully built, tall or at least tall to a four-foot-one kid. Her skin was silk-white – not a blemish. Long jet-black hair parted in the middle bracketed her face and her deep green eyes. Of course she had those pouty lips you wished you could press yours against – so red and warm and so soft. She smelt of citrus because she always seemed to be sensuously eating an orange or tangerine. Everyday she wore high heels with black stockings and her long colt-like legs seemed to go on forever before they disappeared up under her skirt.
The only draw back was that she couldn’t teach a lick.
But that didn’t bother anyone at my school especially the school administrators. Those guys didn’t care. All they wanted was to keep her there. She was their Aphrodite and no doubt they all tried to make her if only in their minds under the steamy heat of a running shower. I don’t blame them. I wanted to make her too although at that age I didn’t know what that meant.
But that was then and now here I was facing second grade again and this time I was in control and wearing my new outfit and fresh off the photo-shoot upon my parents crumbling front step. I sat at the front of the class. It was going to be different. Now I had all the answers. I was ready. Life was making me tough, life was showing me the angles and I wouldn’t look back.
There was only one problem on the horizon. It was my new teacher.
She was hot.
“Here we go again” I said.
Really enjoyed it! I was thinking about where to add dialogue, perhaps in the paragraph about Admin lust. You could put in some typical sexualized male comments delivered in the staffroom or secluded school locations. Take advantage of how the education field was dominated by me at the admin level, but women in the classrooms. Men had the political power, but women had the sexual power. Especially as they relaxed on teacher dress codes.
Maybe a shout out to VH's "Hot For Teacher". Great job.
Here is my attempt.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like the physical work. I was use to that. There just weren’t any tips in that business. And let’s face it, who could ever get by on minimum wage. The beauty of the pool business was that there was a need for both the grunts and the gigolos. And I preferred playing the role of the latter.
I had just finished grade 12 and was desperate for a job. Abandoning my hometown in order to attend a better high school meant that I needed to make money. If I wanted to stay, that is. Otherwise it would be back to my dysfunctional family and the boredom of a small town. Not to mention that “Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop”, and I couldn’t afford to dance with the Devil any more. We’d waltzed too many times.
No, I preferred the slow pace of being poolside over the dust, concrete and long hours of pool construction. That was a job for the stupid. The uncultured. The toothless.
Instead, I decided to become the model pool-boy with tight shorts, bronzed skin, and muscles that flexed with every skim of the pool. I was there to take care of my customers’ every cleaning need. And as the weeks went by, the skimmer pole wouldn’t be the only thing I was dipping on a regular basis.
I cleaned pools for Rintoul Pools and Spas that summer. I cleaned pools and satisfied the needs of many lonely housewives who salivated over the eye candy I provided. Please don’t place any moral judgement on what I did. There was nothing moral about it. It was a dirty, nasty business that involved the individual degradation on a daily basis. And I loved it!
I loved the way the women would parade around the pool and lounge in their racy swimsuits. Swimsuits designed to accentuate their assets, or should I say “ass” and “tits”. And it didn’t matter the age or appeal. I always found myself hard minutes into a job. And they loved it! They loved to stare at my bulging junk, through darkened shades, while they sipped on their strong cocktails imagining my cock in their tails.
It didn’t take long for word about my services to get around. While the men of the upper-crust smoked cigars and sipped scotch in the den, talking numbers and politics, hushed whispers about my talents passed over lips between wives.
“Honey, Carol has the name of a good pool-boy. Should I get his number?” wives would call to their men in the other room.
“Sure Sweetie. Book him for next week. I’ll be out of town and won’t be able to get the pool ready for the party on Saturday.”
That summer, the men never cleaned their pools again. And my schedule was always booked rock solid.
Yes the addition of dialogue
I’d failed the drug test but still had the job.
The final summer before starting college and I’d been hired as a deckhand on a riverboat, which was just great because I was reading a lot of Twain and avoiding, at all costs, the 9 to 5 slog. I’d see the Heartland, meet some river rats and come away with a tale or two. I signed a three month contract, pissed in a cup and bought a pocket knife on a lanyard because I didn’t know any better.
Three weeks later, any notions of languid, easy days down the Mississippi River writing in my journal were replaced with diesel fumes and pointless polishing to fill the time. The problem with working on a boat is that you never leave. Never.
The ship’s crew included a Captain that envisioned hosting regular cocktail parties for the city’s socialites. In reality, the ship’s voyages had devolved to thrice weekly trips for blue hairs dancing to the music of Glenn Miller, played by one musician that, cigarette dangling, bitched he was born to the wrong generation. The first mate, seemingly oblivious to current and future business prospects, demanded naval proficiency from a remaining crew that, excluding me, numbered two. He was a dull, sorry sap that carried himself that way because he’d seen a comic strip depicting an authoritative ship captain. The other deckhand had just finished high school like me. He was fat with rosy cheeks, a permanent smile and a clueless can-do attitude. I hated him.
The only woman regularly on the ship under the age of 40 was the ship’s stewardess. The monotony of the days and the finite options forced me to notice. She wasn’t skinny but had the body of someone constantly on their feet and the fair skin and reddish hair that promised ample resources under the god-awful uniform she was forced to wear. The more I banged away in the engine room pretending that I knew what I was doing, the more I wondered what was under that uniform. I wanted her.
On the last day of the first month, I was called to the Bridge. The Captain glanced at me with a look of indifference trumped by annoyance.
“You failed the drug test, positive for dope,” he said.
“I celebrated when I got the job,” I said.
He wasn’t listening. “I don’t have time to return to port to drop your ass off and I don’t have time to try and find someone else this late in the season. Keep off the dope and get outta here.”
“Um…thanks,” I said as I left.
That night, sitting aft watching the fake paddle wheel turn, I contemplated my “good” fortune. Out of the darkness, the stewardess approached. “I can’t believe they let a doper stay on,” she said as she handed me a joint.
“Indeed,” I said.
I like the attention grabbing words "failed" and "drug" test in the first sentence.
"I signed a three month contract, pissed in a cup and bought a pocket knife on a lanyard because I didn’t know any better." - great use of the rule of three and humour
Mississippi River - great concrete noun because of the mystic that river implies.
"pointless polishing' - cool use of assonance to fill the time.
"Never." - nailed the interjection here.
'devolved to thrice weekly trips for blue hairs dancing to the music of Glenn Miller, played by one musician that, cigarette dangling, bitched he was born to the wrong generation.' - like the humorous contrast from expected to the reality.
"depicting an authoritative ship captain" - funny because its linked back to th previous crew description.
"ample resources" - conjures up the readers own ideas of ample resources but is not explicit letting the reader to fill in the gaps.
“You failed the drug test, positive for dope,” and “I celebrated when I got the job,” - the dialogue to forces the reader to run the movie version in their mind and hence engages/hooks the reader deeper.
"watching the fake paddle wheel turn" - humorous irony dude, nice.
“I can’t believe..." irony again! Good job!
"grunts and the gigolos" - good use of assonance.
“Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop” - cool use of a proverb
"We’d waltzed too many times." - creates a humorous image!
"over the dust, concrete and long hours of pool construction" - good use of the rule of three.
"That was a job for the stupid. The uncultured. The toothless" another good use of the rule of three and on top of that it creates a duple parallelism. Very cool structure.
"with tight shorts, bronzed skin, and muscles that flexed with every skim of the pool." great use of humour and a funny image in the readers mind.
"dipping on a regular basis" again a funny inference.
"And I loved it!" humorous irony depending on the readers mind set, good job.
"parade" and "lounge" - creates that visual image in a slightly humorous way, cool.
"And it didn’t matter the age or appeal. I always found myself hard minutes into a job." - very funny is a disgusting way!!!
“Honey, Carol has the name of a good pool-boy. Should I get his number?”and "Sure Sweetie. Book him for next week. I’ll be out of town and won’t be able to get the pool ready for the party on Saturday.” good dialogue that runs the movie scene in the readers minds.
Good comic work.
Post a Comment