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In this episode of The Editing Podcast, Denise and Louise talk with Daniel Heuman, founder of Intelligent Editing and developer of PerfectIt – consistency-checking and style-enforcing software for editors and writers.
Click to listen to Season 2, Episode 3
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Summary
Listen to find out more about:
Find out more about PerfectIt
Ask us a question The easiest way to ping us a question is via Facebook Messenger: Visit the podcast's Facebook page and click on the SEND MESSAGE button Other ways to get in touch Denise and Louise
Music credit ‘Vivacity’ Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com). Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast. Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Fiction Editor & Proofreader, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
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In this episode of The Editing Podcast, Denise and Louise discuss how to prepare your book file for editing ... whether you're doing it yourself or working with an editor.
Click to listen to Season 2, Episode 1
Can we ask a favour of you? Would you rate and review us on iTunes, please? It would mean a lot to us. Thank you!
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Download transcript
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Summary
Listen to find out more about:
Editing bites
Other resources
Ask us a question The easiest way to ping us a question is via Facebook Messenger: Visit the podcast's Facebook page and click on the SEND MESSAGE button Other ways to get in touch Denise and Louise
Music credit ‘Vivacity’ Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com). Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast. Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Fiction Editor & Proofreader, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
Are you spending too much time on your novel’s text design? Here’s how to use the Styles function in Microsoft Word to ensure the various elements are formatted consistently.
In this article, I’ll walk you through the following:
What is the Styles tool? The Styles tool allows you to apply design consistency to the various text elements in your book. In a novel, you might want to create different styles for the following:
Microsoft Word has a handy suite of on-board styles, though it’s unlikely they’ll match your specific requirements. Modifying these is still a little quicker than creating fresh styles so take a look at the properties and work out what you’ll retain and what you’ll change. What properties can you influence? You can influence every property of your text when you assign a style to it. However, in a novel, you’ll most likely focus on the following:
How to access the Styles tool There are two ways to access the Styles function onscreen:
The gallery in the ribbon offers a preview of how the style appears. If I’m working with a lot of different text elements in a document, I find these visual clues useful when I want to locate a style quickly.
On smaller screens, less of the Styles gallery will be visible. To access the previews of all the styles in your gallery, click on the MORE arrow (circled). 
A new window will appear containing the full gallery.
Why you should format with styles
Using styles gives you control over design, consistency and formatting time. Time is money, so when you do the job instead of asking other professionals to do it, your book budgets goes further. Perhaps you can invest a little more time or money on cover design, sales and marketing, or learning how to improve writing craft. Can you format manually? Of course, but you could be making a lot of unnecessary work for yourself. Scenario 1 You complete the writing, drafting, and editing, and get cracking on designing the layout. Now that there are 85,000 words in place, your thriller’s looking more like a textbook thanks to the font you’ve chosen for your main text: Arial 14. A serif font like Times New Roman would be easier on your reader’s eye. The problem is, you can’t select all the text in the file with CTRL A and change it in one fell swoop because that would affect the chapter headings and the emails your transgressor is sending to the police, all of which are formatted differently. Instead, you have to work through the file, locate the main text elements manually, and change the font. If, however, you’ve assigned a style to your main text, you can modify that font property in just a few clicks. The change will automatically change all the main text, and only that element, to your new font. Further down, I’ll show you how. Scenario 2 You’ve written 12 additional paragraphs for your book but they’re in another document. You copy and paste the writing into your book file. Now you have to manually format the new sections so that they match the existing work. If you’ve assigned styles, however, it’s as simple as cut, paste and left-click. Job done. How to create a style There are several ways to create a style in Word:
1A. Manual method Open the styles pane and left-click on the A+ button in the bottom-left-hand corner. 
A new window will open (CREATE NEW STYLE FROM FORMATTING). Now you can give your style a name (1) and assign properties to the font, paragraph spacing and page flow (2 and 3).
1B. Manual method B
Alternatively, right-click on a piece of text that’s already formatted according to your preferences. A mini toolbar will appear. Click on the Styles button. 
A new window will appear. Left-click on CREATE A STYLE.
Name your style, modify if you wish, and left-click OK.
2. Updating method
Select a piece of text that’s already formatted according to your preferences. Now head up to the Styles gallery in the ribbon, or the Styles pane, and right-click on an unused style that you’re happy to update. Hover over UPDATE [STYLE] TO MATCH SELECTION, then left-click. 
How to modify a style
There are two ways to modify a style in Word:
1. Styles gallery Go to the Styles gallery in the ribbon and right-click on the style you want to modify. 
Left-click on MODIFY and amend the properties of your style. Note that this will change every piece of text assigned with that style.
2. Styles pane
Go to the Styles pane on the right-hand side of your screen and right-click on the style you want to modify. 
Left-click on MODIFY and amend the properties of your style. Again, bear in mind that this will change every piece of text with that style assigned.
How to assign a style to an element of text If a piece of text isn’t formatted correctly, left-click the cursor on a word or in a paragraph, or select it by double-clicking. Now head up to the Styles gallery in the ribbon, or the Styles pane, and left-click on the preferred style. Your style will be assigned. If you’re working on a smaller screen, you’ll probably find it easier to use the Styles gallery in the ribbon because it takes up less space than the Styles pane. To close the Styles pane and free up some screen real-estate, left-click on the X in the top-right-hand corner. 
Troubleshooting
Here’s how to fix some of the more common problems that arise when working with styles. 1. Styles gallery or pane isn’t visible If the Styles gallery isn’t visible, make sure you’re in the HOME tab in the ribbon. 
If the Styles pane isn’t visible, left-click on the small arrow in the Styles gallery.
2. Style not showing in gallery
If you’ve created a style and it’s not showing in gallery, head to the Styles pane and right-click on the missing style. This opens the MODIFY pane. Make sure that the ADD TO THE STYLES GALLERY box is checked. 
3. The gallery is cluttered with unused styles
If your gallery is busy with styles you don’t need to access, there are two ways to remove them. The quickest method is to right-click on an unwanted style, then left-click on REMOVE FROM STYLE GALLERY. 
An alternative is to right-click on the unwanted style and left-click on MODIFY. Then uncheck the ADD TO THE STYLES GALLERY box.
4. You’ve renamed a style but Word’s default name is still displayed in the pane
If you’re using the Styles pane to apply styles, the list might appear cluttered if Word’s default names are displaying, even though you've modified them. To fix, left-click on the OPTIONS button. 
Check the HIDE BUILT-IN NAME WHEN ALTERNATE EXISTS box, then left-click on OK.
Your list will now display with your modified names.
Heading styles and navigating your Word file
One of the advantages of using the Styles tool for a novel is navigation. To access the Navigation pane, press CTRL F on a PC. Now, left-click on the HEADINGS tab. Any style based on one of the in-built heading styles will show up in the menu. 
I use this function when I’m editing and want to check that chapter headings (and subheadings) are formatted consistently, assigned the correct level of priority, and numbered chronologically.
Headings with arrows next to them indicate lower-level subheadings. You can expand or collapse subheadings by left-clicking on the arrows. Furthermore, if you want to shift a headed or subheaded section to another position in your document, left-click on the relevant heading and drag up or down the menu. Summing up Styles let you focus on your writing rather than fretting about internal text design. Applying a style to an element of your book file takes a fraction of the time required for manual formatting. And because any style can be tweaked, you get to change your mind as often as you like. If you have any problems with using Word’s Styles gallery and pane, drop me a note in the comments and I’ll do my best to fix the issue. Fancy watching a video tutorial? Visit my YouTube channel and watch: Self-editing Your fiction in Word: How to Use Styles.
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast. Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Fiction Editor & Proofreader, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
Semi-colons are disliked by some, misused by others, and avoided by many. If you want to keep them out of your writing, that’s fine. In this article, I show you how they work conventionally. That way, you can omit them because that’s your preference, not because you daren’t include them!
What is a semi-colon?
It’s one of these: ;3 ways to use a semi-colon There are 3 situations in which you’re likely to use a semi-colon in fiction:
Here, I focus on parallelism and clarity, but sentence pacing comes into play too – a useful addition to any fiction writer’s toolbox. A little bit of grammar Above, I mentioned independent clauses. An independent clause is a group of words that contains a subject and a predicate. In case you don’t know what they are – and many writers know how to write extremely well without knowing grammar terminology so there’s no shame in that – here’s an overview. Subject A subject is the thing in a sentence that’s doing something or being something. In the examples below, the subject is in bold.
If you’re not sure what the subject of your sentence is, try this trick: change the subject into a question that you can answer yes/no to, as in the examples below.
Predicate
A predicate is the part of a sentence that contains a verb and that tells us something about what the subject’s doing or what they are. In the examples below, the predicate is in bold.
If you’re not sure what the predicate is in a sentence that’s a question, turn it into a statement, as in the example below. The result might be clunky but it’ll show you what’s what. The subject is in bold and the predicate in italic.
Independent clauses
Quick recap: an independent clause is a group of words that contains a subject and a predicate. The subject is in bold, the predicate is in italic, and the full independent clause is in red.
Parallelism and the semi-colon Take a look at these two independent clauses.
The second sentence is related to the first because the gravel that’s digging into the agent’s elbows is what she experiences after falling to the ground. We can therefore use a semi-colon to indicate this relationship, if we wish.
Note that the first word of the clause after the semi-colon does not take an initial capital letter. Could we use a colon? A colon is non-standard because colons introduce additional/qualifying information about the first clause, not new information. Think of the information they introduce as subordinate, if it helps. I recommend avoiding colons to join parts of a sentence that are equally weighted.
Could we use a comma?
A comma is non-standard when joining two independent clauses. Sentences using commas in this way are said to contain comma splices. I recommend avoiding this usage.
Clarity and the semi-colon
Heavily punctuated sentences can be confusing and clunky. For the reader, it can mean limping through your prose rather than moving at a pace dictated by narrative intent. Take a look at this example from Mick Herron’s Dead Lions, p. 88. There are two semi-colons in the original version, but for this example I’m focusing only on the first (see the section in bold).
1. Amended with en dash
He was bald, or mostly bald – a crop of white stubble gilded his ears – and gave off an air of pent-up energy, of emotions kept in check – the same sense Lamb had had watching the video of him, shot eighteen years ago, through a two-way mirror in one of Regent’s Park’s luxury suites. Joke. These were underground, and were where the Service’s more serious debriefings took place; those which it might later prove politic to deny had happened. 2. Amended with comma He was bald, or mostly bald – a crop of white stubble gilded his ears – and gave off an air of pent-up energy, of emotions kept in check, the same sense Lamb had had watching the video of him, shot eighteen years ago, through a two-way mirror in one of Regent’s Park’s luxury suites. Joke. These were underground, and were where the Service’s more serious debriefings took place; those which it might later prove politic to deny had happened. The en dash in the first alternative version looks awkward because we already have two parenthetical en dashes in play. What happens if we introduce a comma instead? The sentence is already comma-heavy. All we’ve done is bring in yet another to muddy the waters. The semi-colon works best. It effectively links the clauses it connects, but in a way that subdivides the sentence clearly. However, pacing comes into place here too. There’s more on pacing below but, for now, compare the original and the version amended with a comma. The creepy voyeurism is starker when set off by the semi-colon. More on pacing and the semi-colon The semi-colon is harder than the comma. It lengthens the pause or increases the distance between two clauses that could have been linked with a comma, making them both stand out. The semi-colon is softer than the full point. It shortens the pause or reduces the distance between two clauses that could have been linked with a full point, indicating a stronger, more intimate relationship. Back to Herron for a closer look at the second semi-colon (see the section in bold) and some alternatives we could try:
Original
He was bald, or mostly bald – a crop of white stubble gilded his ears – and gave off an air of pent-up energy, of emotions kept in check; the same sense Lamb had had watching the video of him, shot eighteen years ago, through a two-way mirror in one of Regent’s Park’s luxury suites. Joke. These were underground, and were where the Service’s more serious debriefings took place; those which it might later prove politic to deny had happened.
1. Amended with comma
He was bald, or mostly bald – a crop of white stubble gilded his ears – and gave off an air of pent-up energy, of emotions kept in check; the same sense Lamb had had watching the video of him, shot eighteen years ago, through a two-way mirror in one of Regent’s Park’s luxury suites. Joke. These were underground, and were where the Service’s more serious debriefings took place, those which it might later prove politic to deny had happened. In the original, the semi-colon acts as a super-comma, subdividing the whole sentence into two more readable chunks. However, more marked is the impact on the pace. The semi-colon forces us to slow down. That’s important because the clause that comes after it is about the denial of interrogations. The semi-colon makes us pause a little longer, which makes the sinister information that follows stand out. Semi-colons and dialogue Some authors resist the use of semi-colons in dialogue, usually on the grounds that the reader can’t hear the punctuation. Does that mean you shouldn’t use them? A novel’s dialogue isn’t real-life speech; it’s a representation of it. Speech, like narrative, has rhythm. The writer’s job is to create speech that’s clear and well paced. If a semi-colon helps you to do that, why wouldn’t you use it? Here’s a great example from David Rosenfelt’s New Tricks, p. 316:
Both versions work but Rosenfelt elects to use a semi-colon because he wants to show the relationship between the two independent clauses. A full point would pull the clauses a little further apart and reduce the intimacy between them. Should you use semi-colons in your fiction? Some authors prefer to omit semi-colons for a variety of reasons: they're deemed pretentious, confusing, interruptive or ugly. But I’m not sure we should judge them so harshly:
Further reading and cited works
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast. Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Fiction Editor & Proofreader, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
Is your dialogue pushing your novel forward or making the reader feel like they’re eavesdropping on a mundane conversation at the bus stop? Here’s how to ensure your dialogue pops.
What good dialogue isn’t
Good dialogue is the icing on the cake of a well-structured novel. Bad dialogue will mar a well-structured narrative and bury a story that is barely hanging in there. Before we look at what makes great dialogue, let’s look at what dialogue isn’t:
WHAT DIALOGUE IS NOT
3 components of effective dialogue ‘Dialogue should be the character in action,’ says John Yorke in his must-read Into the Woods (p. 151). Yorke’s talking about the art of screenwriting but the advice is just as pertinent for novelists. I recommend you read it even if you have no intention of writing for the screen because it’s a masterclass in storytelling, whatever the medium. When we stop thinking about dialogue as words spoken – as conversations – and instead frame it in terms of characters, we create something that’s fit for a novel. What does your dialogue tell readers about who your characters are, how they’re feeling, and what their motivations are?
Unreliable dialogue What a character expresses through dialogue need not match their true voice, mood or intent. Unreliable dialogue is powerful precisely because it jars the reader by masking the truth (which the characters themselves may even have buried). Imagine this scenario: John has been kidnapped by Jane. They met in a club where she spiked his drink. He started to feel unwell and she offered him a ride to the Tube station. He never made it. He’s been held captive for several days, during which time he’s been physically abused and deprived of food. He’s frightened out of his wits, and weak to boot. The dialogue between John and Jane could go as follows: John raves and rants, telling Jane her behaviour is monstrous, that Jane’s going to pay for her actions and that he’s going straight to the police as soon as he’s escaped. Jane responds in fury, telling John he deserves it all and how there’s no way he’ll ever escape. Or the dialogue could be unreliable. John might be polite, sycophantic even, as he thanks her for the water she provided, compliments her on her appearance, or asks her about her life. Through that speech, we are shown his desperation. It’s about keeping her on side and calm in order to save himself. And Jane’s verbal response might be chipper, seductive even. Through that dialogue, we are shown her psychosis. The result is a sinister verbal exchange that allows us to explore the inner workings of the characters’ minds without it being forced down our throats via an all-to-obvious narrative that’s centred around the viewpoint character. Breaking free of viewpoint limitations Most novelists opt to hold third- or first-person narrative viewpoints. That means the story in a chapter plays out through one person’s perspective. When authors drop viewpoint, readers end up playing a game of narrative table tennis in which they bounce from one character’s head to another. We know who everyone is (voice), what everyone’s feeling (mood), and what everyone wants (intention) all of the time. Readers become disengaged because they don’t have time to immerse themselves in any one character’s experience. Good dialogue allows writers and readers to break free without head-hopping. Through dialogue, readers can intuit the voice, mood and intention of multiple characters, yet the singular narrative viewpoint remains true throughout. That keeps the reader engaged and the writing taut. Purposeful dialogue in action Here’s an excerpt from Lee Child’s Never Go Back (pp. 457–8). I chose it because I’ve also seen the movie, which allowed me to compare my experience of the screen dialogue (and the advice Yorke gives) with the novel’s, and because there are no action beats, only two speech tags and no narrative. It’s just dialogue between a teenage girl and Jack Reacher.
‘Am I in trouble?’
Reacher said, ‘No you’re not in trouble. We’re just checking a couple of things. What’s your mom’s name?’ ‘Is she in trouble?’ ‘No one’s in trouble. Not on your street, anyway. This is about the other guy.’ ‘Does he know my mom? Oh my God, is it us you’re watching? You’re waiting for him to come see my mom?’ ‘One step at a time,’ Reacher said. ‘What’s your mom’s name? And, yes, I know about the Colt Python.’ ‘My mom’s name is Candice Dayton.’ ‘In that case I would like to meet her.’ ‘Why? Is she a suspect?’ ‘No, this would be personal.’ ‘How could it be?’ ‘I’m the guy they’re looking for. They think I know your mother.’ ‘You?’ ‘Yes, me.’ ‘You don’t know my mother.’ ‘They think face to face I might recognize her, or she might recognize me.’ ‘She wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t.’ ‘It’s hard to say for sure, without actually trying it.’ ‘Trust me.’ ‘I would like to.’ ‘Mister, I can tell you quite categorically you don’t know my mom and she doesn’t know you.’ ‘Because you never saw me before? We’re talking a number of years here, maybe back before you were born.’ ‘How well are you supposed to have known her?’ ‘Well enough that we might recognize each other.’ ‘Then you didn’t know her.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Why do you think I always eat in here?’ ‘Because you like it?’ ‘Because I get it for free. Because my mom works here. She’s right over there. She’s the blonde. You walked past her two times already and you didn’t bat an eye. And neither did she. You two never knew each other.’ WHAT WE LEARN
This is characters in action, expressed through speech. Child makes every line count towards the chapter denouement. If he was tempted to introduce narrative and action beats that ensured we’d get it, it doesn’t show. In fact, they would have been interruptions and slowed the pace. Instead, he trusts us to do the work because the dialogue gives us everything we need. Here’s an excerpt from The Poison Artist by Jonathan Moore (pp. 244–5). I chose this because of the contrast between Kennon and Emmeline’s speech.
“Don’t move,” Kennon said.
This time, his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. [...] “Inspector, you’ll hit somebody,” Emmeline said. [...] “You look sick, Inspector,” Emmeline said. “I could get you something to drink. A glass of water, maybe? Something a little stronger?” Kennon fired again and Emmeline didn’t even flinch. The bullet missed her by ten feet, punching a hole in the back of the building. “Stop—” “You should be more careful what you touch,” Emmeline said. “Some things can go right through the skin.” WHAT WE LEARN
This, too, is characters in action, expressed through speech. Moore draws us deep into the transgressor’s mind – even though she’s not the viewpoint character. Her dialogue, juxtaposed with Kennon’s exhausted near-silence, generates a powerful scene that oozes with sickly tension. Here’s a third example from Harlan Coben’s Run Away (pp. 68–9):
“The murder,” Simon said. “It was gruesome.”
Ingrid wore a long thin coat. She dug her hands into her pockets. “Go on.” “Aaron was mutilated.” “How?” “Do you really need the details?” he asked. [...] “According to Hester’s source, the killer slit Aaron’s throat, though she said that’s a tame way of putting it. The knife went deep into his neck. Almost took off his head. They sliced off three fingers. They also cut off ...” “Pre- or post-mortem?” Ingrid asked in her physician tone. “The amputations. Was he still alive for them?” “I don’t know,” Simon said. “Does it matter?” WHAT WE LEARN
Again, through speech we see the characters in action. The contrasting voices and moods show us Simon and Ingrid’s different intentions. There’s no need for more than a peppering of supporting narrative. Summing up
Free dialogue enrichment tool To help you think about your characters' voices, moods and intentions, and how these will enrich your dialogue, download this tool. It's a fillable PDF with ready-made examples and space for you to record your own decisions. 
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Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and an Associate Member of the Crime Writers’ Association (CWA). Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Fiction Editor & Proofreader, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
A vocative expression is one in which a person is directly referred to in dialogue. It needn’t be someone’s name; it could be a form of address that relates to their job or position, or a term of endearment, respect or disrespect. Here’s how to work with them.
Purpose of vocative expressions
Vocatives serve several purposes in fiction writing: 1. They help readers keep track of who’s saying what to whom. This is especially useful when a character is talking to two or more people.
‘Dan, can you take the father into Interview Room 2? I don’t want him having to face the mother – not yet, anyway.’ Charlie flicked through the file and scanned down the penultimate page. ‘Deputy Douglas, I know you’re new to the team but I’d like you to handle the mom.’
2. They can enrich characters’ emotions by conveying a deeper sense of urgency, frustration, surprise or patience.
3. Readers can learn quickly about how characters relate to each other. Does one rank higher or defer to the other? Perhaps they’re friends, lovers, or loathe each other.
Overuse that distracts Overusing people’s names and titles can be grating. Vocatives aren’t the only way of signalling who’s being talked to – you could use action beats (See: What are action beats and how can you use them in fiction writing?). And if there are only two people in a scene it will be unnecessary to continually use direct forms of address. Think about the natural speech you hear in your everyday life. Most of the time, people don’t use vocative expressions excessively. Follow their lead in your novel. Compare the following examples:
The original version is much cleaner. The vocative in the first line helps to convey Vivian’s sarcasm. After that, Chandler lets us do the work and the conversation sounds natural. How to punctuate vocatives Commas are required for clarity.
Punctuating vocative expressions incorrectly can lead to ambiguity. Compare the following examples of dialogue. Notice how the missing comma changes the meaning from expressions of address to instructions to carry out acts of violence.
Lower-case or upper-case initials?
Should you use lower-case or upper-case initials when addressing a person in written dialogue? It depends. People’s names Names are proper nouns and therefore always take initial capital letters in the vocative case.
“What the hell are you doing with that novel, Louise? You’ve changed how all the vocative expressions are punctuated,” said Johnny.
‘You, Ringo, are a cad and a bounder. However, I’m prepared to forgive you because of your excellent taste in music,’ said George, thumbing through five different editions of The White Album. Terms of respect, endearment and abuse Vocative terms of respect and endearment take lower case when used generally. Examples include: madam, sir, m’lady, miss, milord, mister; buddy, sweetie, darling, love, dear; and dopehead, fuckwit and plenty more I’d love to write here but won’t!
When terms of respect are used in conjunction with names, they become proper nouns and take upper case. Endearments and insults usually remain in lower case because they’re used adjectivally.
Titles of rank and nobility Titles of rank and nobility take initial capitals when used vocatively. Examples include: Your Majesty, Commander, Constable, Agent, Lord, and Detective Inspector.
Compare these with narrative text and dialogue that include indirect address forms. If the relational titles are used as names (proper nouns), we retain upper case. If we’re using common nouns with determiners (a modifying word that references a noun such as ‘a’, ‘the’, ‘each’, ‘her’ and ‘my’) we use lower case.
The commander knocked on the door and marched in without waiting for an invitation.
Fifteen minutes later, the chief called the squad into the incident room. ‘I’ve asked Inspector Harnby to take a look at the case. Hope that’s okay with you.’ ‘That other constable is a waste of space, don’t you agree, Constable MacMillan?’ Titles indicating a relationship When used as a form of direct address, relational titles take upper case. Examples include: Mother, Uncle, Dad, Auntie, Grandma and Papa.
‘I’m begging you, Dad, don’t make me watch that Jimi Hendrix docudrama again. Thirty-five times is enough.’ I smashed the guitar over the back of the sofa and stuck my nose in the air. ‘See? It’s never going to happen.’
“Oh, don't refer him to me, Mama! I have just one word to say of the whole tribe – they are a nuisance.” (Jane Eyre, Chapter 17) Again, compare these with narrative text and dialogue that include indirect address forms. If the relational titles are used as names (proper nouns), we retain upper case. If we’re using common nouns with determiners, we use lower case.
I thought back to the earlier conversation. Hadn’t his dad said we could catch the 8.15 from Waterloo if we put our skates on?
‘Can you ask your uncle if we can stay at his place this weekend?’ ‘Every grandmother receives a free cup of tea and a slice of cake. Do you think Gran would like to come?’ The guy’s mom was an absolute monster, or so he’d heard. That was just one side of the story, though. Best to check before bowling in and arresting anyone. Summing up Use vocatives as follows:
And, thank you, dear reader, for getting to the end of this article! (See what I did there?) Cited sources
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and an Associate Member of the Crime Writers’ Association (CWA). Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Proofreader & Copyeditor, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
Powerful dialogue and thoughts enrich a story without the reader noticing. When done poorly they distract at best and bore at worst. Here are 8 problems to watch out for, and ideas about how to solve them.
Problem 1: Maid-and-butler dialogue
Is one of your characters telling another something they already know just so you can let your reader access backstory? If so, you’ve written maid-and-butler dialogue. It’s a literary misfire and should be avoided. Here's an extreme example:
‘Hi, Jenny! It’s good to see you after your three years at Nottingham University. Bet you’re delighted with that first-class honours degree in archaeology.’
‘Thanks. Yeah, I’m thrilled to bits, though there have been times when I’ve yearned for your nine-to-five job as an editor in a small fiction publishing company on the outskirts of Norwich.’ SOLUTIONS
‘Hi, Jenny! Good to see you. Been a while.’
Three years in fact. Clever Jen had notched up a first in archaeology from Nottingham Uni while I was inching my way up the publishing ladder with a small fiction press on the outskirts of Norwich. ‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Seems like an age. How’s tricks in the world of business? Found the next Booker Prize winner yet?’ Problem 2: Real but mundane The conversations many of us have in real life are deathly boring. Here’s one I had recently:
‘Fancy a brew?’
‘Yes, please. Coffee please. Er, or tea. Um, whatever you’re having. As long as it’s wet and warm.’ ‘I’m having coffee but I’m happy to make you tea.’ ‘No, erm, coffee’s perfect. Thanks.’ ‘Milk and sugar?’ ‘Just milk. No sugar, thanks.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Cheers.’ ‘Um, can I use your bathroom?’ ‘Of course you can. There’s extra loo roll in the cabinet if you need it.’ It’s realistic, certainly, but has no place in a novel. Most of the words are a waste of space, and the trees that were felled to create the paper on which they’re written deserve better. Dialogue needs to be natural, but not too natural. The best dialogue is a hybrid of the real and the contrived, ‘a kind of stylised representation of speech’ as Nicola Morgan calls it in Write to be Published (p. 151). SOLUTIONS
Problem 3: Written accented dialogue It can be tempting to convey accents with phonetic spellings, as in these appalling examples below:
‘Zis cannot be ’appening. Zer family would sinc it unacczeptable.’
‘Ve have vays of getting vat ve vant.’ There are so many problems with this approach that I recommend you avoid it altogether. Bear in mind that dialogue tells us what words have been spoken, not how they’re spelled. Phonetic spelling can turn dialogue into pastiche, and offensive pastiche at that. It’s also difficult to absorb and distracts readers from your story. SOLUTIONS
Problem 4: Troublesome tags The function of speech tags is to tell the reader who’s speaking. They shouldn’t push the dialogue into the background. Nor should they repeat what the reader knows from the dialogue. Furthermore, the verbs we use to tag the dialogue should be speech-related. Otherwise we end up with a reality crash that jars the reader.
‘That dress looks ridiculous,’ guffawed Marie.
‘Come here. Let me show you how it works,’ demonstrated Jonathan. ‘I swear I’ll stick this knife where the sun doesn’t shine if you don’t give me the letter,’ brandished Marcus. SOLUTIONS
Problem 5: Talking heads and monologues Some books can turn into podcasts on the page when dialogue isn’t grounded in the physical environment. Too much dialogue can make the reader feel dissociated from the story, as if the characters are talking in the cloud. In Jo Nesbo’s The Bat, McCormack starts talking on p. 249. On p. 250, Nesbo introduces one line of movement: ‘He turned from the window and faced Harry.’ Then McCormack’s off again. He doesn’t stop talking until p. 251. It’s a monologue in which Hole, the viewpoint character, seems to be nothing more than a receptacle for McCormack’s ear bending. There’s a little bit of back and forth with Hole, plus some action beats in the lower third of p. 251, but then McCormack’s off again for all of p. 252 and the top third of p. 253. The blue highlights show how much of these four pages are taken up with just one character’s speech.
Perhaps it’s deliberate, a way of showing that McCormack’s feeling jaded, worn down by the business of policing. Plus, Jo Nesbo has a big enough fan base to get away with this. However, for the writer who’s building readership, lengthy passages of speech that aren’t grounded in their environment could turn into snooze-fests.
SOLUTIONS
Problem 6: ‘Too many vocatives, Louise.’ The vocative case enables the writer to indicate who’s being spoken to in dialogue. In a bid to avoid speech tagging, some less experienced writers overuse vocatives, which renders the speech unnatural. Next time you get the opportunity to listen to a conversation between two people, notice how often they use each other’s names. You might find they don’t, other than for emphasis. Overuse can labour dialogue, as this example illustrates:
‘Louise, did you murder the sheriff?’
‘I didn’t murder anyone, Johnny. And I’m gutted that you felt the need to even ask that question.’ ‘I’m sorry, Louise, but it’s standard procedure.’ ‘Johnny, you don’t really think I could’ve done that, do you? ‘Not for a second, Louise. Just playing by the rules.’ The exception is dialogue between ranking officers or titled people and their staff. Omitting the sir, Your Lordship, Your Majesty, milady and the like would be unrealistic:
‘Sergeant, how many arrests have been made?’
‘Twelve, sir. We’re expecting two more today.’ ‘Any news on the Merton Street lead?’ ‘Not yet, sir.’ ‘Keep me informed, will you?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ SOLUTIONS
Problem 7: Thoughts in speech marks Speech marks (or quotation marks) have one function – to show the reader that a character is speaking out loud. While some recognized style guides allow for the use of speech marks to indicate thoughts, most professional editors and experienced writers don’t recommend this method because it’s confusing. Some authors might be tempted to use a different speech-mark style to indicate a thought. Again, this is confusing. Your reader might assume that you’ve not edited for consistency. Here’s an example in which dialogue and thought have become muddled:
“Jackson, put that gun down. You’ll hurt someone.”
“No way. Not until I have some guarantees.” Jackson gripped the weapon and glanced left then right. He was surrounded by agents, all of them armed to the teeth. ‘Fuck fuck fuck. How the hell am I going to get out of this one?’ he thought. SOLUTIONS
Problem 8: Thinking unlikely thoughts If your character’s in the middle of an escape, a heist, great sex, or a mixed-martial arts smackdown, thoughts need to be handled with care to remain realistic. High-intensity scenes require rapid-fire thoughts otherwise the thinking becomes intrusive and moderates the pace of the action. Here’s an extreme example of how things can go awry:
Fleur dove behind the chair as the wall exploded. She fumbled for the phone, choking on brick dust, and punched a number onto the screen. Pick up, dammit. God, what I wouldn’t give for a hot bath, a long gin and a warm fire. I haven’t taken time off in ages – not since last summer when I went to the Lakes for a couple of weeks. When this is over and done with, I’m going to hunker down and chill for a few months … just me, the dog and a sandy beach.
Gunfire sent her scrambling on her belly for the door. Some writers use a character’s thoughts as a conduit for providing physical description. Take care with this. In reality, it’s rare for us to look in a mirror and notice our brown hair, green eyes or big feet. Instead, we’re more likely to frame those ideas in terms of criticism, appreciation or concern: Compare these two examples:
SOLUTIONS
Summing up ‘Dialogue isn’t a report of everything that characters say. It’s the compelling and noteworthy real-time, purpose-filled talk that plays out in front of the reader,’ writes Beth Hill (p. 157): The same can be said of thoughts. Reality takes a nosedive when it comes to the novel because only a little of what people think and say in real life will drive a story forward. Most of it is dull. Here’s Sol Stein (p. 113): ‘People won’t buy your novel to hear idiot talk. They get that free from relatives, friends, and at the supermarket. […] Some writers make the mistake of thinking that dialogue is overheard. Wrong! Dialogue is invented and the writer is the inventor.’ Invent dialogue and thoughts that show readers what is being felt (emotion) and what is happening (action). Cited sources
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and an Associate Member of the Crime Writers’ Association (CWA). Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Proofreader & Copyeditor, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
If you’re including fingerprint science in your fiction writing, these tips will help you get the basics right.
Fingerprints are an established part of forensic procedure. If they’re in your novel, you’ll need to think about the science, the degree to which you’ll stay true to reality, and how much detail to include without turning your fiction into a textbook.
Here are 9 tips to get you started. 1. Know how a fingerprint is formed In ‘Introduction to Forensic Science’, Penny Haddrill describes fingerprints as follows:
‘On our fingers and toes there are many fine ridges. These ridges form recognisable patterns and are formed during the gestation period of the foetus during pregnancy. Fingerprints are produced from the contact between the ridges present on our fingers and a surface. The transfer is achieved by the deposition of the secretions from our glands associated with the ridges on our skin or by contaminants present on the finger surface.’
2. Know your terminology If you’re seeking authenticity, the terminology you use will be determined by where your novel’s investigators are based. If your fiction is set in the UK at least, ‘fingerprint’ and ‘fingermark’ mean different things:
3. Categorize your fingermarks correctly In Explore Forensics, Jack Claridge offers three categories of mark (though, again, in your novel’s jurisdiction, these might be referred to as prints):
4. Understand where the science wobbles It is believed that no two fingerprints are alike but there is no empirical evidence to prove this. While it’s true that, to date, identical fingerprint matches have not been found, there are enough similar ‘matching points’ between two people’s prints such that false positives and negatives have occurred. Says Laura Spinney in Nature:
‘Fingerprint analysis is fundamentally subjective. Examiners often have to work with incomplete or distorted prints — where a finger slid across a surface, for example — and they have to select the relevant features from what is available. What is judged relevant therefore changes from case to case and examiner to examiner.'
You might want to bear this in mind when your characters are doing or talking about fingerprint uniqueness. 5. Get the twin stuff right Identical twins have almost identical DNA because they develop from one zygote (created by one egg and one sperm) that splits into two embryos. Fingerprints, however, are formed during foetal development. Here's Spinney again:
‘The ridges and furrows on any given fingertip develop in the womb, [and are] shaped by such a complex combination of genetic and environmental factors that not even identical twins share prints.’
With that in mind, don’t make the mistake of hanging your plot on murderous monozygotic mayhem created by a couple of trickster twins. Their DNA might be an almost perfect match, but their paw prints won’t be. 6. Acknowledge real-world procedure and bias The Centre for Forensic Science identifies four separate stages in the methodology of fingermark collection: ACE-V. 
In Forensics, Val McDermid discusses a miscarriage of justice that occurred because of flawed procedure (pp. 134–7). A partial fingermark left at the scene of a horrific bombing in Madrid in 2004 was analysed in comparison with a suspect’s fingerprints. In other words, the A and C were not separate procedures. The examiner went looking for points of similarity rather than taking into account the differences, even though only a partial fingermark was available. This introduced unacceptable bias and led to erroneous findings. She summarizes the FBI’s later conclusions:
Does this mean you can’t have flawed procedure in your novel? Not at all – it could be a great plot point. Just bear in mind that the issue of bias is on the agenda for the forensics community internationally. Read ‘A Review of the FBI’s Handling of the Brandon Mayfield Case’ in its entirety if you want more insights into the challenges of fingerprint forensics. Furthermore, many police forces are having to endure budget cuts. Stretched resources can lead to corner-cutting. How might that affect your story? 7. Familiarize yourself with processing and enhancement Latent fingermarks are currently processed using the following techniques. To find out more, read Dr Chris Lennard’s paper, ‘The detection and enhancement of latent fingerprints’, presented at the 13th INTERPOL Forensic Science Symposium.
Exemplar fingerprints – those taken directly from an individual in controlled circumstances – are captured via two methods:
Read about how two law-enforcement organizations – one in the UK and one in the US – use ink and scanning technology here:
8. Use the right fingerprint databases Images of fingermarks extracted from a crime scene can be uploaded to databases containing both fingerprints (and other biometrics) of known individuals and fingermarks that have yet to be identified. The main fingerprint databases are:
9. Decide how far to bend the rules Do you need to worry about any of this? After all, it’s fiction! It depends on the subgenre of your writing, and how your readers are likely to respond to deviations from reality. If your novel is set in an alternative world or in the future, you can play it however you want. If, however, you’re writing a realistic procedural, you could alienate sticklers if you get it wrong, especially those who are police officers, forensic scientists, scene-of-crime officers, and fingerprint examiners. TV shows like Silent Witness and CSI offer audiences a single viewpoint. Most viewers accept that the real world involves more complex investigations with many more players. Books, like TV shows, entertain us, so readers too will indulge writers who bend the rules to a degree. Even if you don’t want to go for maximum authenticity, consider sprinkling your narrative with factual information that grounds your investigation just enough to head off those whose fingers are hovering over the one-star button in Amazon’s review pane! Further reading and related resources
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and an Associate Member of the Crime Writers’ Association (CWA). Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Proofreader & Copyeditor, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
Not every reader can stomach violence in fiction, and not every writer wants to go the whole hog with it. Here are two ways to approach it: compressed reporting after the fact; and showing it all as it happens.
Compressed reporting after the fact
Reporting the outcome of violence after the fact can be a superb alternative to detailed descriptions that might upset or sicken authors and their readers. This technique is used on the screen too. In Series 5, Episode 3 of Line of Duty (BBC1), the perpetrator breaks into the home of a core character’s ex-wife. The transgressor proceeds to torture the victim. There’s a drill involved and lots of screaming. It’s gross. Well, it would be if we saw it. But we don’t. All we see is the outcome. The ex-wife lies in a hospital bed, bandaged from head to toe. We glimpse patches of skin, her flesh swollen and angry. Her face is physically untouched though trauma is etched into it. And even the slightest movement results in a whimper and a wince; despite the medication, she’s in pain. All we know so far is that something awful has happened to her but we don’t know what. The scene cuts to two police officers listening to an audio file of the torture. Now we hear the drill and the screams. The officers play a little of the audio then switch it off and express their horror. A phone conversation with the victim’s husband ensues and we discover a little more about what’s been done to the woman. They finish the call and discuss the crime between themselves. Then the audio’s back and we hear a few more snatches. Off again, and there’s more analysis. It’s a powerful rendition of extreme violence that protects viewers from the gory detail but leaves us in no doubt about the suffering that’s been endured. This method can work just as beautifully in a novel. It’s not that the violence is diminished but that we access less of it. Harlan Coben’s Run Away (Century, 2019, pp. 68–9) provides an excellent example. Aaron, a corrupt and possessive junkie, has been murdered. Coben elects not to show us the violence as it plays out. Instead, we learn what happened via a later conversation between Simon and Ingrid.
Two things stand out about this scene:
Cosies are a subgenre that bend particularly well to compressed after-the-fact reporting. Yes, people get hurt and die in grisly ways but most of the horror is left to the imagination. Here’s an example from Emily Brightwell’s The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries (C&R Crime, 2013, pp. 1–3):
Brightwell focuses on the impact of the poison on the body; unlike in the Line of Duty screen example, there’s nothing that tells us about the suffering endured. That’s the cosy way. And as with the Coben example, the implied violence is balanced by dialogue that unveils character personality. It’s not just the readers who shy away from the horror; Inspector Witherspoon does too. We also learn how he’s perceived by others in the scene – as a bumbling buffoon who can’t see the obvious. This sets the scene nicely for Mrs Jeffries’ more capable intervention later on in the novel. Showing it all as it happens Some acts of violence – such as fight scenes – work best when we’re shown everything as it plays out. Rendering a fight after the fact (as in the examples above) would destroy the dramatic tension. Still, a fight scene needs to hold the reader’s attention. That means paying attention to pacing and providing just enough stage direction to enable the reader to understand the choreography. This extract from The Poison Artist by Jonathan Moore (Orion, 2014, pp. 244–5) appealed to me because it avoids high-octane, kickass tropes. Rather, the author captures the transgressor’s mysterious sensuality in the violent narrative. Her psychotically calm speech and composed movements have an ethereal quality. In sharp contrast, the protagonist’s actions are punctuated with sentence fragments that elevate the pace and introduce tension.
Moore, like Coben, doesn’t overwork it. The scene never drags even though the pace changes depending on who we’re watching. Here’s a high-octane example from Robert Ludlum’s The Matlock Paper (Orion, 1973/2005, pp. 268–9). Ludlum never bores us, just tells us straight. The pace is quick and every word counts.
Ludlum keeps the stage direction lean and the pace consistent. But I also love how he introduces the earth and rain into the narrative, but only briefly. The weather doesn’t distract us. The mentions are just enough to ground the violence in a physical environment that can be felt and heard; the men aren’t fighting in white space. Lean is good but not too lean! Omitting the detail would render the scene inauthentic. Imagine reading this:
Lamaison saw his chance, and he took it. But Reacher was ready and took him down. Game over.
Really? So how did he manage that? Was is that easy? Jack Reacher’s good but he’s human. Readers still need to know how he won the day, how he was challenged, what obstacles he had to overcome. That way we can rally behind him. Here’s the real extract from Lee Child’s Bad Luck and Trouble (Bantam, 2007, p. 492). Child gives us the detail, shows us the choreography of the fight, but it’s focused. None of the steps are repeated so we don’t get bored.
Child uses sentence fragments to accelerate the pace, and polysyndeton to introduce a sense of rampancy. And he deepens our interest by shifting the narrative distance – we move from observers in the wings to right inside Reacher’s head. Summing up For showing-it-all violence:
For reporting-after-the-fact violence:
A final word. If your scenes of violence include weapons or specialist fighting techniques, do your research. Some of your readers will know their guns and martial arts. Placing suppressors on pistols that don’t take them or getting your martial arts moves wrong will pull readers out of your story and provide the pedants with excuses to knock stars off your Amazon reviews. Further reading
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and an Associate Member of the Crime Writers’ Association (CWA).
If you’re looking for ways to inject some drama into your novel’s sentences, omitting filter words could be just the ticket. Do so judiciously though. Including them can add texture to mood and voice.
What are filter words?
Filter words are verbs that increase the narrative distance, reminding us that what we’re reading is being told by someone rather than experienced, or shown, through the eyes of the character. Examples include noticed, seemed, spotted, saw, realized, felt, thought, wondered, believed, knew, decided. I see more extensive filtering in books written by less experienced novelists who’ve not yet learned to trust their characters’ voices, who are uncomfortable about playing with devices such as free indirect style, or who are still learning the craft of injecting drama into narrative. I’ve taken some examples from published fiction and introduced filtering so you can see the difference, and how by avoiding filter words the writers have brought immediacy to their narratives:
When filter words distract
Filter words – particularly when they’re used as a narrative staple – tap the reader on the shoulder and say, ‘You’re not in this book. Someone else is experiencing this.’ They’re a reminder that doing is being done. Of course, we as readers know this to be true. Still, there’s nothing like immersing yourself in a character’s journey. Here’s an extreme example I made up:
John realized he needed to tell Marie. He’d wondered about how awful it would be. He’d long felt the weight of guilt bearing down on him, but now he’d decided it was time to let that go. He’d become aware that he’d fallen out of love with her months earlier and thought about what had gone wrong between them as soon as Mark had come into their lives.
He recalled their most recent argument and felt himself shudder. He’d looked on as she’d screamed abuse at him, seen the spittle fly from her mouth. He’d felt sadness at first but that had turned to fear when he’d seen her pick up a knife from the table. The text is horribly laboured – overly cluttered with doing being done. When confronted with a novel filled with filtering, readers will be tempted to skim, which means they might miss something crucial. A worst-case scenario is that they’ll give up because it’s not an enjoyable experience. Now let’s tighten it up by removing the filter words:
John was dreading telling Marie. The guilt had been eating him alive, but he was done with that. He’d fallen out of love with her months earlier, Mark’s entrance into their lives the trigger.
He shuddered, recalling their most recent argument. At first, there’d been only sadness as she screamed abuse at him, spittle flying from her mouth, but that had turned to fear when she’d reached for the knife on the table. We’ve lost none of the detail but now the prose is more emotionally immersive. We can better feel John’s predicament because we’re not repeatedly told that he’s doing the doing. It’s narration that feels less narrated. When filter words add texture I’m not suggesting you ban all filter words. When used intentionally they have a layering effect that can enrich a novel.
The Mackintosh example above is in first person. I think my filtered version works; it’s just different. Or perhaps it would be stronger with only one of the filters. Either way, one might argue that it imparts a deeper sense of the character’s scouring the envelope for clues. I still prefer Mackintosh’s approach because I like my crime fiction on the nose, but the experiment demonstrates that filter words aren’t wrong or right, but rather devices you can use to play with the reader’s experience of your story and the characters moving around within it. Here’s an example from Philip Prowse’s Hellyer’s Trip, p. 194:
Then the interrogation ceased. He knew he should have been scratching lines on the cell walls to mark the passing of time. But what was the point? He wasn’t the Count of effing Monte Cristo.
Prowse uses a filter word here: knew. He then follows through with free indirect style to close the narrative distance and take us right inside the character’s head while still maintaining a third-person viewpoint. So let’s look at what happens when we remove ‘He knew’.
Then the interrogation ceased. He should have been scratching lines on the cell walls to mark the passing of time. But what was the point? He wasn’t the Count of effing Monte Cristo.
I think the unfiltered version works very well but it does change the feel of the writing. Gone is the sense of deliberation. All four sentences are immediate. To my ear, the rhythm accelerates. And although there’s a feel of telling with the inclusion of ‘He knew’ in the published version, there’s also an increased sense of despondency, as if the character has had time to think this over and arrive at this knowledge. I mentioned character voice above. Here are two examples from Play Dead by David Rosenfelt:
When the movie is over, I realize I haven’t called Karen to ask if she can put me in touch with Keith Franklin. (p. 111)
Rosenfelt’s writing is tight. He never drops a beat. When he uses a filter word it’s with intention. Those who’ve read the Andy Carpenter series will know that this fictional attorney’s voice drips with a delicious acerbity, and the character thinks, acts and speaks with purpose. When we’re told he realizes something it’s because the author wants us to have a sense of dawning awareness, not because he couldn’t be bothered to cast the sentence in a way that avoided it.
I’m so pissed at Vince that I don’t talk to him for the twenty-minute ride to our destination. He spends most of the time whistling and listening to the Mets game; I don’t think my silent treatment is bringing him to his knees. (p. 163)
Most of the time, Rosenfelt avoids filter words: ‘I’m so pissed …’ not ‘I feel so pissed …’; ‘He spends most of the time …’ not ‘I listen to him …’. However, he chooses to tag ‘I don’t think’ onto the beginning of the final sentence rather than going with something like ‘My silent treatment isn’t bringing him to his knees.’ And, actually, the protagonist’s thinking is what deepens the voice and the immediacy. Summing up To keep your prose tight, look out for filter words that tell of doing being done. Then consider whether a gentle recast without them will improve your prose. How does the revised text make you feel? Is the meaning still clear? Is the mood you’re seeking evident? If the prose feels more dramatic and immersive, you’ve done your novel and your readers a favour. If you lose something in the revision, like voice, mood or intention, reintroduce your filters at the appropriate points.
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders (SfEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and an Associate Member of the Crime Writers’ Association (CWA). Visit her business website at Louise Harnby | Proofreader & Copyeditor, say hello on Twitter at @LouiseHarnby, or connect via Facebook and LinkedIn.
Action beats are short descriptions that come before, between or just after dialogue. Here’s how to use them in your fiction writing.
What do action beats do?
Action beats enrich characters’ voices by telling us about their emotions, their movements and their intentions while they’re speaking. They can even tell us who’s speaking and whether their speech is reliable or not. And they can ensure that readers don’t become bored. In that sense, we can think of them as alternative narrative ‘voices’ that enrich our perceptions of, or engagement with, the characters. 1. The voice breaker Long chunks of dialogue can be off-putting. Action beats can act as rhythm moderators that break up the speech and its tagging.
2. The emotional voice Action beats can be mood indicators. In real life, we express what we’re feeling or sensing – for example, sadness, pain and frustration – with our bodies as much as our voices. Emotions manifest physically. In fiction, complementary action beats can enrich the reader’s understanding of character emotions but without clumsy dialogue tags or adverbial modifiers that distract from the dialogue. Here are some examples:
3. The physical voice Perhaps you’ve heard of the term ‘talking heads syndrome’. When there’s a lot of dialogue, the reader can end up dislocated from the environment, as if the characters are speaking in a vacuum or floating in white space. In ‘The Dreaded “Talking Heads Syndrome”’, writer James Boyle discusses an example from a writer in his critique group: ‘... [they] wrote a scene for a mystery story in which a detective is arguing with her boss. Though somewhat trite, the dialogue was realistic and believable, but there was virtually no description of their surroundings, no description of how the characters react to their environment.’ Action beats ground the dialogue by quickly giving it physicality – a geographical region, a room, a time of day, the weather conditions, even a body. They keep the reader grounded in the scene, which helps retain immersion. Here are a few more examples:
4. The alternative voice What a character says via dialogue and what they mean or think might be very different. Action beats can act as an alternative voice that indicates reticence or unreliability. They say what the character can’t or won’t. The examples below show you how it works:
‘I swear, I’m not going to tell anyone about this.’ I rubbed my hand over the back of my jeans pocket, feeling for the wire.
Margot relaxed her grip on the knife and pushed herself against me. I flinched at the stench of acrid sweat and stale smoke as she tucked her head into the side of my neck. ‘Promise you’ll never leave me,’ she said. ‘Never.’ I sized up the door and the window. ‘I love you. We’ll always be together.’ The window looked flimsier, jumpable. 5. The voice indicator Action beats and dialogue run on from each other because they’re connected. That means we can use beats instead of tags; they tell the reader who’s speaking. Once more, I've given you some examples below:
How to lay out action beats and dialogue Because action beats relate to dialogue, we run them on rather than creating a paragraph return. Here’s an example from Alexander McCall Smith’s The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (p.125):
Mma Ramotswe stiffened. If Rra Pekwane had killed somebody she would have to make it quite clear that the police should be called in. She would never dream of helping anybody conceal a murderer. [New para: Description]
‘What is this terrible thing?’ she asked. [New para: Dialogue > tag] Mma Pekwane lowered her voice. ‘He has stolen a car.’ [...] [New para: Action beat > dialogue] Mma Ramotswe laughed. ‘Do men really think they can fool us that easily?’ she said. ‘Do they think we’re fools?’ [New para: Action beat > dialogue > tag > dialogue] ‘I think they do,’ said Mma Pekwane. [New para: Dialogue > tag] How to punctuate and format actions beats Before the dialogue The action beat ends with a full point. An opening speech mark follows. The first word of the dialogue takes a capital letter.
Note that I’ve styled this with single quotation marks, but doubles might be your preference, especially if you’re writing in US English. After the dialogue The dialogue finishes with a full point followed by a closing speech mark. The first word of the action beat takes a capital letter.
Again, I’ve used single quotation marks, but doubles are fine too. It’s a style choice. Within the dialogue You have several choices about how to handle this depending on where the beat goes and what punctuation style you choose. Example 1: Mid-sentence In this case, the beat interrupts the dialogue mid-sentence, which lends emphasis to the word ‘This’. If you’re writing in British English style, you might prefer spaced en dashes and single quotation marks. This is how it looks:
If you’re writing in US English style, you might go with closed-up em dashes and double quotation marks. This is how it looks:
Notice the lack of initial capital letters and the omission of commas in both examples. Example 2: Between complete sentences In this case, the beat interrupts the dialogue between sentences. This is how it works:
Notice that because the sentences in the dialogue are complete, we punctuate and capitalize according to the Before the dialogue and After the dialogue examples above. Overuse, repetition and cliché As is always the case with good writing, devices such as action beats, free indirect speech, dialogue tags, and anaphora work best when the reader can’t identify a writing pattern. Instead, mix things up so that your reader doesn’t guess which literary tool’s coming. Pay attention to whether you repeat particular action beats, particularly clichéd ones. If your characters often purse their lips, furrow their brows, rake their hands through their hair, spit on the ground, or roll their eyes while they’re speaking, it’s time to think of alternative ways to express despair, disgruntlement or annoyance. Summing up Use action beats to enrich the emotionality of your characters’ speech and add interest to your writing. Think about how they can anchor the dialogue in a physical space, and whether they’ll provide an alternative to a speech tag so we know who’s saying what. However, watch out for oft-repeated phrases that turn beats from pop to pattern. Cited sources
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with independent authors of commercial fiction, particularly crime, thriller and mystery writers.
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Adverbs and adverbial phrases sometimes get a bit of a pummelling, and yet they needn’t intrude and shouldn’t be removed indiscriminately. An adverb is no more likely to spoil a sentence than a poorly chosen adjective or noun.
Use them purposefully in your writing when they bring clarity, but remove them when they create clunk. 
Are there rules? You won’t find any in this article, just common-sense guidance to help beginner writers make informed decisions.
The fiction writer – and the fiction editor – who takes a formulaic approach to the treatment of adverbs is heading for trouble. A note on form Not all adverbs end in –ly (e.g. backwards, inside) and not all words ending in –ly are adverbs (e.g. deadly is an adjective and anomaly is a noun). That’s one good reason not to eradicate all –ly words from your writing. To work out whether a word or phrase is behaving adverbially, focus on what it’s modifying not on how it’s spelled. Verb and adverbs – a quick refresher A verb is a doing word; it describes a physical or mental action or state of being.
An adverb is a word that describes a verb (just as an adjective describes a noun).
An adverbial phrase behaves in the same way but uses two or more words to describe the verb (or verb phrase).
Clunk: Telling us what we already know from dialogue Here are four examples where the adverb (in bold) attached to the speech tag is redundant because the information in the dialogue does the same job:
These aren’t rules but guidelines. Test it. Remove the adverb and read the sentence aloud. Is the intention still clear from the dialogue you’ve written? If so, great – you can lose the adverb. If it’s not, can you recast the dialogue? Consider the following:
In (1), dialogue and supporting speech tag seem a little flat. In (2), the adverb helps us to understand John’s mood. In (3), we lose the adverb but the mood intention is supplied by the additional dialogue. In (4), the adverb repeats the mood intention. None of above four examples is grammatically incorrect, but (1) is possibly underwritten and (4) is definitely overwritten. Context is everything though. If you’re writing a high-octane crime-thriller scene in which the pace is fast and furious, (1) might just be perfect, (2) and (3) would slow the reader down, and (4) would still be a non-starter. Clunk: Telling us what we already know from the speech tag Here are three examples where the adverb (in bold) is redundant because the verb (in italic) provides the same information:
Beginner writers sometimes trip up with double tells in speech tags because they’re trying not to overuse ‘said’. A replacement verb is introduced but the clarifying adverb (which served to give intention to ‘said’) is left intact even though it’s no longer needed.
‘Said’ is a rather delicious speech tag because it’s almost invisible. (For an examination of tagging, read: ‘Dialogue tags and how to use them in fiction writing’.) Readers are so used to seeing ‘said’ that they slide over it without a glance. And that means they stay immersed in the conversation on the page, which if you’re writing dialogue is exactly where you want them. Clunk: Telling us what we already know from the verb Here are three examples where the adverb or adverbial phrase (in bold) is redundant because the verb (in italic) provides similar information in the narrative:
Slips like these can occur because the writer is still learning to trust their reader. They fear there are too few words or that the description isn’t rich enough. And sometimes writers just run away with themselves, so deeply are they immersed in the world they’ve created and what their characters are experiencing. This is why drafting and redrafting are so important, and why a fresh set of professional eyes can give the writer courage. I hire people to check most of my own writing because I know that even when I’m writing educational non-fiction I’m so desperate to get my point across that I can sometimes end up in a right old tangle! Self-editing is hard – professional editors know this. Don’t beat yourself up if you’re prone to double tells – you’re only human. Instead, cross-check your adverbs against your verbs to make sure you’re not repeating yourself. Clunk: Dragging us away from immediacy Some adverbs like suddenly, immediately and instantly can do the opposite of what's intended. Overuse can make the action less sudden, less instant. I cover this in detail in Why ‘suddenly’ can spoil your crime fiction: Advice for new writers. In brief, these adverbs can act like taps on the shoulder that prevent the reader from moving through a story at the same pace as the character. The suddenness of the action is told to us first instead of being experienced by us. Compare these examples. They demonstrate how removing the adverbs can leave the immediacy of events intact.
WITH:
A damp mist had settled but he was snug enough. The parka would keep the edge off until the sun rose. Suddenly, the phone trilled in his pocket, jolting him. WITHOUT: A damp mist had settled but he was snug enough. The parka would keep the edge off until the sun rose. The phone trilled in his pocket, jolting him. WITH: Jimmy immediately slammed on the brake, fighting with the wheel as the car careened around the corner. WITHOUT: Jimmy slammed on the brake, fighting with the wheel as the car careened around the corner. Purposeful adverbs Adverbs, used well, can show motivation, indicate mood, and enrich our imagining of a scene. I love books that tell it straight because every word pushes me forward. David Rosenfelt is a writer who never disappoints. His Andy Carpenter series features a tenacious lawyer with a dry wit. The author’s prose is sharp as a knife. Does he use adverbs? Absolutely, though sparingly and they’re always purpose-filled.
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