Eliminate weak, wasted, and wrong words

Fire up your word processor, open your manuscript, key in ctrl+f, and get ready to type the following words in the Find what: box. You're going hunting for opportunities to make your narrative stronger and sharper.

ing

Let's start with half a word. Inging, over-use of the present participle, frequently slows pace and mushes meaning. More often than not, "ings" should be "eds" for crisp writing.

For example, "She was polishing her glasses as she searched for the right words." I think this is passive and slow to create a picture in the reader's mind.

How much more to the point and quicker to create a picture is "She polished her glasses as she searched for the right words."

Examples from samples I've received:

The rain was turning into snow as they drove. (turned)
Dylan was circling the cabin. (circled)
Joanne was hoping that she would get to see her family skiing. (hoped, ski)
Bob was getting more and more nervous. (grew)
"No," the heavy woman said, rummaging through the shopping bag she was carrying. (carried)
Lulu was feeling tipsy. (felt)

There are times, though, when "ing" (for me) helps convey an ongoing process. For example, consider "Thinking of his face, she hesitated." versus "She thought of his face and hesitated." For me the first version puts a thoughtful look on the character's face and creates a pause in whatever she's doing, and the second version is just action.

some

A waste word, a verbal habit something like the "uh" many people use in speech. A few examples (I almost said "some," but that was so vague); see how cutting the "somes" costs nothing yet makes the sentence crisper.

Married women always wore some bangles around both their wrists.
Do you have some pressing business?
He had been transferred to some menial department post for some (a bad) decision he had made.
My big band attained some modest local fame and national press.
There was some movement as the crocodiles attempted to steer clear.
She had some packing to do.
Some tantalizing smells were wafting towards them from across the river. (and let's  change were wafting to wafted)
He had to have some new tires installed.

very

Another waste word (interestingly, some samples never had this word while others had multiple usage).

William was one of very (the) few who knew. (not needed)
I want the very best students. (redundant-best is best)
Mr. Simpson has been very eager to meet you. (there are no degrees of eagerness -- redundant)
. . .in the very coldest part of winter. (redundant-coldest is coldest)
They were very hungry. (starving or famished are more specific, more effective)
During lunch she becomes very quiet. (redundant-quiet is quiet)

started and began

Usually associated with ings, these words lead to flabby verbs. More examples from samples:

Billy started snickering. (snickered)
Students shot from their seats and started to move to the rhythm. (moved, danced)
Slowly, she started unzipping the front of her graduation gown. (unzipped)
Her mini-dog started yapping at them. (yapped)
He started swaying to and fro and humming his rendition of Silent Night. (swayed, hummed)
Sheila started walking toward their waiting vehicle. (walked)
Arnold returned to his computer and began fiddling with the mouse. (fiddled)
Roger began to scream. (screamed)
His thoughts began to grow less precise. (grew)

of

In my first novel a reader picked up on a habit I had of overusing "of" as in, "He emptied his pot of coffee." I used Search to hunt for "of" and found many that I could change to either a possessive or use an adjective, i.e. "He emptied his coffee pot." This may seem mindlessly simple to you, but I found lots of places to tighten my narrative, which helped with pace and clarity.

eyes

This is an example of improper usage. Many writers use "eyes" when what they really mean is gaze, or glance, or stare. Some examples in which I take the usage to the next logical step.

Her eyes were on the floor. (Luckily, no one stepped on them.)
His blue eyes bored into her. (And then blood gushed from the two holes in her belly.)
She felt the woman's eyes searching for her. (It tickled when they slid across her face.)
His tired eyes land on me as he glances around the room. (Then they drop to the floor and bounce across the room.)
My eyes follow the headlights. (I ignore the wrenching pain when they leave their sockets.)
Roger kept his eyes on the road. (He realized his mistake when the ice cream truck ran over them.)

Okay, now having reminded myself of these, I have to go searching my own stuff.

RR

If I can help with a question about writing, email me and I'll apply a beady eye. Tell me if I can share it in a post or if you want a private consultation.

© Ray Rhamey 2004

Comments

[Tish]

Another great post, Ray. Also, I enjoyed your last one about voice changing with point of view, something I was thrilled to hear you cheering, because I've done that with my recent manuscript, just because it seemed right, but was secretly wondering if I'd done something "bad."
Thanks again!
Tish

[Anita]

Wow! It really feels like Christmas to me today now that I've found this blog. What a fantastic resource for writers (and those of us who wish to be . . .)!

[Nick Scott]

Question? Would you make this first little bit (ie 1st page that makes you think this is a western - it isn't) a prologue? Or perhaps the whole first chapt. ? Maybe the second as well? Thanks.

He came down out of the mountains riding a painted pony. He was hunched over to ward off the big flakes. The only sounds echoing off the canyon walls were the rhythmic crunching of horse hooves on new fallen snow. It was Christmas Eve and it was a silent night. He began to hum his favorite carol.
He looked back over his shoulder to check the goods. At the other end of his lariat a fat jack pine followed obediently. He smiled briefly, from under a sloped front Stetson at the merry times ahead. He, his wife and their two sons would gather around the tree stringing popcorn and decorations while singing carols. The thought of that happy moment sort of put a lump in his throat and he stopped humming.
Under his leg, in a scabbard of worn leather, was a shiny Winchester saddle gun. He hadn't used the weapon much; carried it for show mostly. He'd lost the last one; dropped it actually, after a gunfight. Over his trousers he wore a fine pair of woolly chaps. They were warm and kept the wind and cold out. Both the chaps and the coat were fashioned from a buffalo he had killed on the Kansas plains. They had cost him but his wife hadn't said a word. Uncharacteristic of her, he thought. Thinking of her caused him to glance down into the valley. If he squinted he could detect the faint orange glow of the ranch. He was home.
Home was the Sweetwater Ranch. The mountain range bearing that name branched off of the Sierra Nevada's separating Nevada from California. Up high there was a lot of snow this time of year. Linda, his wife, had urged him not to try it, too dangerous and he agreed that dying in an avalanche for a danged Christmas tree would be an ironic end. He breathed the fresh sent of pine and sage, he loved this ranch; all his life he had dreamed of owning a place like this, a place where wild rainbow trout could still be found and where, at this altitude, the lodgepole pines were the only things scraping the sky.
He watched as headlights pulled off the highway and into his drive. Now who the hell could that be on Christmas Eve, he wondered, knowing in his heart that it was nothing good.
The Sweetwater Ranch started as a stagecoach station because, as the name implied, there was plenty of good water, year round. In the nation’s most arid state, water was then, and still is, the lifeblood of a going concern. He glanced at the remnants of an old stove as he passed. Some settler had used it to bake bread long ago when the walls of the big white ranch house still stood. That flat spot all around still told of the place where weary travelers once stopped to find shelter from the relentless sun. Logan Van Hoehn III looked toward the house to see who was visiting, then glanced back at the tree, still following dutifully.
Logan came across the sage covered valley on a road that had been cut more than a century ago by miners on their way up to the Kentuck, Monte Cristo or Frederick. Ruins of once famous gold and silver mines dotted the region. Only the scars now remained, scattered remnants of a people whose bones were dust. Now this whole area was part of a working cattle ranch that, when not relegated to other diversions, Logan attempted to run, though not very well. He knew that he was a gentleman rancher at best. Were it not for his ranch foreman and good cattle prices he would be in serious trouble.
His day job was that of airline pilot. He was a 737 copilot based in Oakland for Southwest. They were the only outfit hiring when the Senate had failed to consider his promotion to Lieutenant Commander, effectively ending his military career. Of course, that unfortunate incident - the infamous Tailhook convention of 1991 - had precipitated the Senate’s procrastination. His uncanny knack for finding trouble had also led to his part time job.
His horse was breathing hard, as evidenced by the steam being propelled with force from its nostrils. It had picked up the pace some few hundred yards back when it smelled the other horses and recognized that it was heading home.
It got there quickly enough. Logan unsaddled the fine beast in the barn. He hung his tack, then brushed the sweaty paint down and turned her loose. She would have run of the coral and the other horses. After a few reacquainting sniffs they gave her wide berth. That was because, even though she only stood fifteen two (hands), she was the herd’s lead mare. None of the others bothered her, as they were apt to lose a chunk of hide for their trouble.
After a few oats for his horse, Logan returned to the tack room and pulled his rifle from its scabbard. It had taken him twenty minutes to take care of his mount, but it was time well spent. She had carried him safely nearly twenty miles, none of it flat, in treacherous conditions and for payment all she got was a brush-down, a feedbag and twenty minutes of Logan’s time. At the front entrance of the barn he took hold of the end of his lariat and sauntered back toward the house dragging a pine tree and dreading his guest. It was 24 December 2001.

//////

Dr. Uri Organikov searched the barren, windswept plains that lay beyond the building’s only window. He waited in the deserted cafeteria for his wife, Dr. Pepka Organikov. He smiled when he thought of Cairo. Wouldn’t it be nice to let the desert sun splash over their naked bodies writhing with pleasure on some secluded dune? To be warm, warm without vodka, that would be so nice. First, they must escape this prison, Russia. He looked around the empty cafeteria. It was nearly lunchtime, but there was no food.
To think he was among the elite. A doctor, an esteemed microbiologist, both he and his wife were renowned for their accomplishments, at least among their fellow mad scientists. Yet, on this day, he and his wife had nothing to eat. They would die of starvation if they waited for relief from their comrades in Moscow. In most parts of the world they would be highly paid. Not here. Since the collapse of the regime their craft had fallen from grace. Russia could not afford to feed them, much less pay them what they were worth. Their only chance was to ply their trade elsewhere.
He could hear the echo of his wife’s high-heeled shoes coming down the empty hall. Less than one year ago this place had been a den of activity. People were scurrying about trying to see pet projects advanced.
Then it was Vector, the Siberian Institute, one of the largest and most sophisticated facilities of its kind in the world. Back then, before the collapse of the Soviet Empire, this was the place where they had proven recombinant gene technology viable. Here they had spliced Smallpox and Ebola. Back then, for a very short time, they had been Prince and Princess. Now they were both paupers.
By now Pepka had drawn near and, though she was certain that no one was watching, her eyes darted left then right before she dutifully bent down and kissed her husband’s bearded cheek. It was force of habit, but public displays of affection in the workplace diminished the importance of what they did, even now. She took a seat on the bench.
“Any progress?” She asked, realizing that she hadn’t clarified the meaning of her question. “With the Chimera weapon,” she added. He gave her a grim scowl that said, careful, others may be listening.
“None as yet. Maybe you’ll have better luck than me when you take over this afternoon.” The two were attempting to establish some sort of medium in which the newly engineered virus could grow and replicate itself. Not long ago they had been part of a team of hundreds of scientists working to turn two perfectly horrible viruses into one.
If this could be accomplished the Former Soviet Union would have a doomsday device of unimagined proportions. Or would they? The matter of a viable delivery system was in the works when the Soviet Union ceased to exist. Work on a modified ICBM was halted.
If the Organikov’s had their say, Russia would never even have control of a bonafide Chimera organism. At present they represented fully half the team and Dr. Uri Organikov was the head of that team.
Uri pulled a small transistor radio from his lab coat and set it on the table. It was an old model — Russian made — not like the newer Sony’s that were now available if you knew the right people. This one had rabbit-ear antennae that he now meticulously adjusted to get the best reception of the only radio station within reach. Once the station had been properly tuned in and the volume of Mozart’s Piano Concerto # 21 in C was sufficient, the Organikovs could begin their clandestine rendezvous.
“Any word?” Pepka whispered.”
“Tonight’s the night. We deliver Smallpox, Ebola Zaire, and Spanish Flu virus to our contact and he moves us out of the country, first to Tel Aviv, then to Cairo and finally to Johannesburg. He gives us ten thousand U.S. in travel money tonight and one million dollars for each virus once we arrive in Cairo. We stay in Egypt for two weeks. That’s three million, Pepka.”
“Yes, Uri, I can add. That is all well and good, but first we must get out of Siberia, how does he propose to do that?”
“Faith, Pepka, faith.”
Dr. Pepka Organikov was not satisfied with her husband’s newfound faith. She was too pragmatic to rely on such an ethereal concept. She instead preferred Comrade Brezhnev’s maxim of “Trust but Verify.” Of course, the fact that it had not been Comrade Brezhnev but Ronald Reagan who’d uttered these words mattered little in the world of Soviet propaganda.
In classical Greek mythology Chimera is a fire-breathing female monster with a lion’s head, a goat’s body, and a snake’s tail. In modern times the term is often used to describe genetically manipulated organisms as defined by one of Uri’s learned instructors at the famed Moscow Institute when Uri was but a boy. In those days the possibility was merely theoretical. Now it existed. Like its mythological predecessor any new organism or structure that contained two or more genetically distinct tissues is, by definition, a chimera.
The notion of genetically combining an organism, spawned from the materials that the Organikovs now contrived to steal — thus buying their passage to freedom and luxury — led directly to a little known third definition: A fantastic, often horrible, idea or image produced by the mind.
If ever released, such an organism would exact a great toll on humanity and would surely be a horrible image for any mind to ponder. It was the spring of 1992.

//////

"What the hell is going on here, Cole?" The Central Intelligence’s Director of Operations asked Cole Hines.
Hines, whose official title was Deputy Director in Charge of Special Operations — though few knew his title or his name — and his cohort, a Mr. Wilson, were assembling the heavies for a brief that was bound to prove frightening.
The look on Hines' face must have been grave; he could see it in the Director's eyes as he repeated the question. "Why in God's name do you have us all here?"
"Wilson," Hines said with a nod, "begin."
"You don't want to wait for the others?" Wilson asked.
"We can brief them later. We've got the most critical personnel here right now. Let's get the ball rolling."
Mr. Wilson, a tall man, with a somewhat translucent and pasty complexion stood as he cleared his throat, “Gentleman ...and lady ...forgive me Kathryn; I didn't see you hiding back there. One hour ago NSA intercepted a Kremlin communiqué detailing the particulars of a report that will undoubtedly find its way to our desks by sunrise tomorrow. It seems that a standard audit of chemical and biological weapons in-country — these are done semianualy by the way — has unearthed 1500cc discrepancies of Ebola, Smallpox and Spanish Influenza Virus.”
"Please tell me that somebody over there has an idea where it is?" the Director asked.
"That is precisely why I called this meeting," Hines said. “At this point neither the Russians nor the CIA have any idea where the stuff could've disappeared to, or exactly how long it’s been missing."
"Son of a bitch," someone gasped.
"Worst case we're talking about the stuff missing six or seven months?" someone asked to drive home the seemingly obvious point. The Director of Operations was a genius; a master at chess and a former professor at MIT, but he was also absentminded and sometimes tended to overlook minute but important details. Both Hines and Wilson watched him nod agreement
“You give the Russians a great deal of credit,” Wilson allowed.
“What are you suggesting? The Director asked.
“The Kremlin hasn’t exactly been keeping an eye on Vector for some time,”
Wilson responded.
“Lots of moving parts in Mother Russia,” Hines added.
“Do you mean to suggest that the stuff may have been missing longer than a week?”
“It’s possible,” Hines replied.
"We're going to have to brief the President and National Security Council...and eventually, the Intelligence committee," the Director of Operations said.
"Yes, Wilson can give you a general rundown on the way. He'll have you and the Director up to speed by the time you get to D.C." The rest of us will remain here and get as familiar with the situation as possible." It was spring 1997.