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Feb. 7th, 2009
Rhythm in prose does not come easily to me. I don't know if that's from a lifetime spent hearing monotone midwestern accents and speech patterns, or just blank spot in my brain. I can hear the music or clunks in other people's writing. In mine, I can't. I've tried reading outloud; I've tried taping readings and listening to the recording. I can spot big clunks and smooth them somewhat, but any music (and it's rare, believe me) is sheer luck.
I think that's a big reason for me relying on the sentence structures I do. Usually, short s-v-o constructions. The more clauses, the more chances there are for clunkiness.
At first, I think those short sentences helped me. Rhythmic clunks are more often the product of too many words (or syllables) than bad word choice. By reducing words, by clearing out the bramble, my sentences sounded better because they were cleaner and clearer. It's easier to get the grammar and punctuation correct on short sentences (and that aids rhythm).
But, at best there's the danger of unwanted staccato, and at worst, it's plodding and tuneless. So I started dissecting long sentences I liked.
And I'm more confused than ever (also, more convinced than ever that I'm never going to be truly good at writing). Great sentences tend to fall into two categories. a) so perfect (see: The Gettysburg Address. ... we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground.), that kind of grace will never come from my brain, or b) grammatical and stylist renegades.
Now, I've done a lot of grammatical and stylistic renegading. Most of it unintentional, and boy, has it stunk up the joint. Why is the line between magic and shit so thin and easily crossed?
Why is it that once I finally see the good sense behind a stylistic convention, I find sentences that totally stomp on it and create envy-inducing beauty?
Because my latest obsession is Crooked Still, I'm going to use a line of theirs: There so high upon that mountain, beneath that little mound of clay, the girl that I returned to marry so still among the flowers did lay.
According to usual thinking, it's a mess. The subject and verb (girl, lay) are dullsville, and their placement ignores two usual style "rules": put subjects and verbs upfront, and keep 'em close. Along personal taste lines, I'm not a fan of starting a sentence with "There". This one is better than most; I really dislike sentences like "There was a spot on the floor." Another personal taste thing is the Yoda-like construction of the sentence with the verb coming last.
But despite all that, the line is heartbreaking and vivid and honest. And it's something I don't think I'd ever write, or if I did, I wouldn't recognize its genius. I wouldn't hear its music. "Beneath that little mound of clay" kills me every time. His girl isn't under the usual dirt or ground. She's under clay-- sticky, nasty, doesn't grow anything but heartache and poverty clay. A mound of it, as if the grave hasn't yet been smoothed over by time. I love the contrast between the lilting "so high upon that mountain" and the earthy "beneath that little mound of clay" "High" floats so breathy, "little" and "clay" stumble around.
I know I wouldn't know what to do with a sentence like that. Other than edit it to death. Goodbye "there"; the back end would get stripped and squished. I'd probably turn it into two sentences. No lilting or falling back to earth for me. Just monotone.
I think that's a big reason for me relying on the sentence structures I do. Usually, short s-v-o constructions. The more clauses, the more chances there are for clunkiness.
At first, I think those short sentences helped me. Rhythmic clunks are more often the product of too many words (or syllables) than bad word choice. By reducing words, by clearing out the bramble, my sentences sounded better because they were cleaner and clearer. It's easier to get the grammar and punctuation correct on short sentences (and that aids rhythm).
But, at best there's the danger of unwanted staccato, and at worst, it's plodding and tuneless. So I started dissecting long sentences I liked.
And I'm more confused than ever (also, more convinced than ever that I'm never going to be truly good at writing). Great sentences tend to fall into two categories. a) so perfect (see: The Gettysburg Address. ... we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground.), that kind of grace will never come from my brain, or b) grammatical and stylist renegades.
Now, I've done a lot of grammatical and stylistic renegading. Most of it unintentional, and boy, has it stunk up the joint. Why is the line between magic and shit so thin and easily crossed?
Why is it that once I finally see the good sense behind a stylistic convention, I find sentences that totally stomp on it and create envy-inducing beauty?
Because my latest obsession is Crooked Still, I'm going to use a line of theirs: There so high upon that mountain, beneath that little mound of clay, the girl that I returned to marry so still among the flowers did lay.
According to usual thinking, it's a mess. The subject and verb (girl, lay) are dullsville, and their placement ignores two usual style "rules": put subjects and verbs upfront, and keep 'em close. Along personal taste lines, I'm not a fan of starting a sentence with "There". This one is better than most; I really dislike sentences like "There was a spot on the floor." Another personal taste thing is the Yoda-like construction of the sentence with the verb coming last.
But despite all that, the line is heartbreaking and vivid and honest. And it's something I don't think I'd ever write, or if I did, I wouldn't recognize its genius. I wouldn't hear its music. "Beneath that little mound of clay" kills me every time. His girl isn't under the usual dirt or ground. She's under clay-- sticky, nasty, doesn't grow anything but heartache and poverty clay. A mound of it, as if the grave hasn't yet been smoothed over by time. I love the contrast between the lilting "so high upon that mountain" and the earthy "beneath that little mound of clay" "High" floats so breathy, "little" and "clay" stumble around.
I know I wouldn't know what to do with a sentence like that. Other than edit it to death. Goodbye "there"; the back end would get stripped and squished. I'd probably turn it into two sentences. No lilting or falling back to earth for me. Just monotone.