Block Writer’s Block

Writing is just like driving.  It takes practice, you need a license, no one else is good at it (except you, of course), and you’ll eventually have to find ways to bypass roadblocks.

Unlike writing, roadblocks in the driving experience are inevitable. Daytime construction. Collisions. Road closures. Entitled pedestrians. People who forget how to drive in the rain/snow/sun.

In the driving world, yanking the emergency brake in the middle of the highway and forgetting where you’re going would be insensible and unexplainable. That’s not a legitimate roadblock. That’s not even rational. I wouldn’t know what to call that.

But do you know what we call that in the writing world? Writer’s block.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I’m sure you’ve gotten this question before, but I’m hoping you’ll take the time to answer this for me. How do you overcome writer’s block?

—Ellen London, Hebron, Ill. 

There’s no such thing as writer’s block. Unless you’ve got legitimate issues with the frontal lobe of your cerebrum (rare) or have a telepath psionically impeding your creative abilities (also rare), then there’s no excuse. And if you do have brain issues, consult a specialist. And if you do have a telepath doing that psionic impediment deal, politely ask them to stop, or get a special kind of helmet for that.

Writer’s block is what you get when you stop thinking, stop writing, and forget how to cope with inaction. Perhaps it’s not finding the right words, losing a thread in a story, or losing interest in the endeavor. Regardless, it’s avoidable. Here are some parlor tricks that should help you skirt this inevitable roadblock that’s neither inevitable nor a roadblock.

1: Read a book.

Sure, you’re thinking “That’s not a solution!” It is a solution. To create, one must study creation.

2: Re-read what you’ve written.

Look at writer’s block as a way of backtracking and getting a feel for where you’ve come so far. Lost anything before in your real life? Retrace your steps. Same applies to writing. You find the way forward by moving backward.

3: Edit what you’ve already written.

The force of Nature could no further go, it said, “You need to go back and fix this mess.” (If you get the reference, maybe you shouldn’t be reading this blog.) There’s nothing like a natural inhibitor to continued creation when you’ve probably done it wrong for the past fifty pages or so. Inspiration has its checks, but you’re responsible for the balances.

4: Work on a new scene (part, section, whatever).

Your story should have more than one thread or at least a strand or two hanging around. Those ideas, sub-plots, and novelties you’d wanted to get to later on in the narrative? Might want to work on them at this point, as they’ll fire up the creative faculties. Consider it a detour, but don’t derail your work with these. You’ve not been given license to fool around for the sake of impetus.

5: Work on a side project.

What? Abandon the main endeavor? You bet. You’d be surprised how many ancillary works you can add to your portfolio in your detours. If you’re a writer worthy of writing, you’ll write something. If you have to re-focus that energy into something completely different, then do it. Anything’s better than slamming one’s forehead on a blank template.

6: Write a new story.

Why not? You’ve probably had another story on the back-burner or side-burner anyway. Get that one off the ground, mire yourself within, hit another impasse, and come on back to the work you left behind. Finish the task. Complete the cycle. Put aside the Ranger. Become who you were born to be.

7: Read bad writing.

Nothing motivates hidden greatness more than exposure to unhidden lameness. When you can’t bring yourself to write, remember that many other writers somehow managed to do it. Not only did they manage to write, they managed to write poorly. Not only did they write poorly, they managed success with their poor writing. There are thousands of authors making a decent living by writing worse than you write right now. The difference? They’re writing, and you’re not. Also, they’re making more than you right now. Get to work.

8: Start over.

If you can’t bring yourself to finish it, just give it the ol’ Command+A (Control+A, if you’re still using Windows in the Age of Enlightenment), then hit that Delete key. Don’t look back. Put your failure in the past. Start something you plan to see to its completion next time.

9: Stop writing altogether.

Yes, this may be the cosmos telling you that this isn’t your thing. Why insist on persisting if writing just wasn’t what you were put on Earth for? It’s not writer’s block. It’s a guard, pleading with you to turn away from a path not meant for you. Not everyone was meant to golf like Tiger Woods, play basketball like Michael Jordan, or breathe underwater like Aquaman. There’s a reason Tiger doesn’t shoot hoops, Jordan doesn’t golf (professionally), and Aquaman doesn’t fly. They were good at what they do from the outset. They never failed. They never encountered obstacles that kept them from success. If you’re not immediately successful with this writing ordeal, it may be time to hang it up. Your destiny will thank you.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and paired with a ’59 Mouton-Rothschild. 

2011
07/18
CATEGORY
Harshly Critical
1 comment

The Mail Never Fails

I’ve debated the longer-form answer format, and in this round, it lost out to bullet style answering. It’s about time I clear out my question backlog anyway. Inquiring minds want answers. Good thing I’ve got those on hand.

[Insert common writing mistake here]

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Is it possible to really use too many adverbs? 

—Greg Simpson, Albany, N.Y. 

Absolutely positively yes. For every adverb, there’s a remarkably stronger verb or adjective. Use those instead. Seriously.

I’ve got a great story in the works; it’s a mystery with a twist ending. Should I make it a short story, a novella, or a novel?

—JoAnn Hendersen, Kirkland, Wash. 

Doesn’t a mystery end with a twist anyway? Go write it as a mystery novel where the twist is that it’s actually a short story. Let me know how that works out.

Hi, I hope you can answer my question. I’m thinking of entering the chick-lit genre, but I need to know whether a first-person or third-person narrative is the most appropriate. Thanks!

—Ruth Hambrick, Columbia, S.C. 

Appropriateness is irrelevant. Aesthetics are everything.

First person: “I was lonely.” Pedestrian.

Third person: “Cinthya was lonely.” Bland.

Use the fourth-person instead: “One could be lonely.” Ambiguous, intriguing, effective.

You seem in the know when it comes to literary trends. In this age of communication, do you think there’d be a market for text-message based epistolary novels?

—Robbie Bryant, Redding, CA.

y not? r u 4 rl? not that i h8 on new forms of lit, but rly? cant c this gettin off the grnd. u can try 2 rite 1, sure, but its not going ne where, not even in todays age of communication. can u imagin readin this thing? i dont thin [SEND]

Shucks. Reached my character limit.

I’ve read that Shakespear [sic] knew or used about 3,000 [definitely sic] words in his writing. since he’s pretty much the best there is, even though there’s no one better, how many words on average should a writer know?

—Casey Cruz, Edgewood, N.M.

On average, a writer needs to know about one million, three hundred fifty-six thousand, seven hundred eighty-one words, give or take. You can get by with an even million, but the more words you know, the better. Some writers knew upwards of a billion words, like William Shakespeare. When it comes to vocabulary, you need to know where you stand. The best way to figure out your vocabulary is to write out all of the words you know.

Here’s a handy chart to go by:

50-100 words: I don’t know if you’re trolling or just being stupid.

100-250 words: (see above)

500-1000 words: Finish preschool first before considering a career in writing.

1000-10,000 words: Below average, just like everyone one.

10,000-30,000 words: You might be qualified to write a letter to the editor of a small town newspaper. I’m talking small, population in the dozens.

30,000-75,000 words: Good work in maximizing the use of “your,” “you’re,” and “ur.”

75,000-500,000 words: If you break the 75,000-word barrier, then you could be mistaken for a literate human being.

500,000-1,000,000 words: You are capable of constructing a Flesch-Kincaid sentence with a reading level of 10.

1,000,000-1,500,000 words: Congratulations! As long as you have a decent idea, you can probably write a story (even if it’s a crappy one).

1,500,000-5,000,000 words: Most good writers find themselves well within this range.

5,000,000-500,000,000 words: Most of the best writers stop here, only because they have better things to write.

500,000,000-1,000,000,000 (that’s one billion): John Milton. Ain’t no one touchin’ him.

1,000,000,000+: William Shakespeare, because he’s the boss. And he could so take on John Milton in a fight.

1,967,677,323.98: Dictionary bot? DISQUALIFIED.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and entered as a racehorse, since it doesn’t exceed the 15-character limit.


2011
07/11
CATEGORY
Critical
Leave a comment

In the Beginning

So it begins.

The story’s there in the mind, nowhere on the paper. There’s a great tale somewhere within your grand idea, but getting into it remains the dilemma. The beginning is your builder of momentum. Get the right push, and the narrative carries itself. Start by languishing in the mud, forgo your impetus, and we have a story that’s fighting the doldrums when it should be developing.

Describe your setting, too pedestrian. Set the stage, whisk us away. Talk about your character, invite us to ignore them. Have us tag along with that character’s goings-on, we’re in. Tell us, and we won’t listen. Show us, and we might glance. Take us, and we’ll go. Anything less, and there’s nothing but a journey not taken.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

how do i begin my story. do I start by descirbing [sic] the scenety [sic] or should I tell a little bit more about my character? Its pioneer romance with a feel-good feel and i dont kow [sic] whether or not i should start with the pioneer setting or whether or not I should start with my pioneer heroin [sic, I think]. 

—Gabey Meeks, Hagerstown, Md.

Well.

The short answers: 1) I don’t think you should begin this story. At all. 2) If you’re faced with a choice of “descirbing scenety” and telling more about a character, I’d go with what makes actual sense. 3) Maybe you can tell me more about this “feel-good feel.” 4) Be careful with that pioneer heroin. I’m assuming it’s a touch more potent.

The long answers: Depends entirely on where you’re taking this story. You could start with a standard intro, bringing the protagonist’s struggle to the forefront right away:

“Across the dusty thoroughfare, she could hear the doctor cursing about his missing needles and syringes. She hoped the apothecary wouldn’t also notice anything missing from his reserves. Her desperation led to constant fear.”

You could also lunge into your character, as you tried to suggest:

“Martha sobbed, tears tracing through dusty cheeks. She winced after tightening the bandana on her arm, battered from self-infliction and addiction. The remnant strands of her pale hair fell prey to gusts of sand and wind.”

Perhaps the setting then? Not going to offer much in that vein, other than mentioning that you’ll see this often. Narrative absorption is predicated on some mode of mental/spatial transportation, hence the prevalence of setting first, then story. It sets the mood, the tone, with the place making space.

But for a pioneer heroin romance with a feel-good feel? I recommend beginning another story altogether.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and begun with the letter W.


2011
07/05
CATEGORY
Brutal
Leave a comment

Endgame

The end. It fails or succeeds. It completes or leaves hanging. It fulfills the promise or cheats the premise.

Reaching the end and closing with brilliance takes a wholly different set of masterstrokes. Anyone can begin a work, and most anyone can keep it going. Bringing it full circle is the provence of the devoted.

When you’re at the end of your cliff, do you give the hero wings? Do you paint his next adventure? Do you let him fall? Do you leave the chasm in the void? There’s no right answer, but an answer that doesn’t live up the journey leading to the cliff’s edge undermines the effort in getting there. In these cases, Occam’s Razor cuts backwards; the simplest answer is not always best.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Hi Writing All Wrong, I hope you can help me out here. Im halfway through my first fantasy novel and its going great. While I think I’ve mastered the meat of the story, I’d like to try to end it in a significant way. Since it’s about two warring kings who don’t know they’re brothers, I’m curious whether I should make more of a surprise ending (where one finds the other’s family heirloom on the other), or if I should go for a more triumphal sort of victory to end it? What do you think? Thanks.

—Josiah Sparks, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.

Remember, you can pick however you want to end this story. It doesn’t have to be anything worth reading. You’re shooting yourself in one foot already, while keeping the other in a bear trap. I think we can salvage the rest here.

Let’s list the predictable endings. Don’t use any of these.

1: King finds revelatory clue on the other king during battle, ends the war.

2: King finds revelatory clue on the other king during battle, kills him anyway, suspects fraud.

3: King finds revelatory clue on the other king during battle, gets killed by maniacal lieutenant.

4: King finds revelatory clue on the other king during battle, later kills his own “adopted” father for engineering war.

5: Yeah, I’m not discovering anything grand in the revelation sweep here.

6: The triumphal sort of victory. You can do better than this.

Now for the worthwhile endings, if you really want to craft something that you don’t want as a dust magnet on the shelf. That is, the shelf of your own house where you keep all the unsold copies of the book.

1: King kills king, only to have dying king claim to be his brother all along. (Wait for it…) In grief, king murders his “adopted” father and mother for pitting him against his brother (wait for it…), only to find that the dead king’s parents are the “real” “adopted” parents, who then claim (wait for it…) that his real brother wasn’t the dead king at all, but rather another king of a stronger rival kingdom that they feared would alliance with the “adopted” son’s “adopted” brother’s kingdom.

Then again, I’m not so sure about that one.

2: King reaches truce with rival king, as they discover they both came from a noble family of a third kingdom, which they once had mutually loathed, despised, and eventually eliminated. The animus turns to the respective sets of parents for their deception. Each king kills his own, thus fulfilling some sort of obscure prophecy that the third kingdom would rise from its death to engulf its tormentors. It is later revealed that the deception was a mind-altering curse of some sort, leaving the kings unknowingly guilty of wrongful patricide/matricide.

3: Kings battle with more fervency, driven to rage at the knowledge of their lost brotherhood. The revelation doesn’t halt the warfare. Kind of an anti-twist, left ambiguous. Pick your winner.

If I commandeered your novel, I’d go with this ending. It cannot be surpassed.

4: Each king finds that they cannot kill the other, no matter how fiercely they wound one another. This confirms what they both suspected to be true: they are in fact separate parts of a bifurcated soul. After performing an obscure ritual based on a lullaby sung by their respective parents, they fuse into one entity: the Overlord of the Realm. Taking a sober look back at their past, they (or he) begin(s) to realize that their (his) combined efforts were part of a larger plot to destroy the weaker kingdoms of the realm and eventually turn on one another’s kingdom. They soon discover the architect of the grand scheme: the Dragon Mage, Explausibius. He summons a dragon kingdom from another dimension, irrupting into the human kingdom universe to keep this newfound alliance from forming against him. Since his grand design failed, the Dragon Mage takes it upon himself to destroy the remaining armies sooner than expected. As the Overlord of the Realm and the Dragon Mage rage their war, they soon realize (again), that they’re unable to mortally wound the other. This confirms what neither of them suspected to be true: they are in fact two additional parts of higher bifurcated soul. By reciting forward and backward an obscure prophecy of dragons and men, they form into a unified OverMage of the Dragon Realm, Expossiblissimus. This transformation summons an even grander architect of evil, a Dark Celestial Mage, who—

Nevermind. This is going nowhere. Now that’s an ending for you.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and fused into a celestial being if you sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” to the tune of “Greensleeves.”

2011
06/27
CATEGORY
Harshly Critical
Leave a comment

The Good, the Bad, and the Protagonist

The agony of protagonists. Imperfections. Perceptions. Heroics. Do our characters exist as gems of virtue, only mildly flawed? Or are they hewn from the quarry of reality unashamed?

Too real, and nothing compels. Anyone defying believability unhinges that delicate suspension of disbelief. Not knowing the finer points of this tightrope walk dooms our protagonists to an indiscriminate fall to failure.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I’ve been wanting to write a book for a long time but I feel like my main character is too bad of a person to be the good guy. It’s a good story, don’t get me wrong, but the more I think about my main character, the more I wish he had good guy standards, like not drinking, swearing, and smoking. It’s a Western, so it comes with the territory. Is there a such thing as a good guy who can truly be good? Thanks!

—Ava Gonzalez, Houston, Tex.

In lousy fiction, make your good guys as good as you want. We don’t care. And by ‘we,’ I mean ‘we.’ In good fiction, there are none good. I’m not advocating the raw, gritty, hardboiled route. Overcompensating is an endless loop, an inefficient parlor trick. Pare down the excess, whether it be toning down raunchy curses that would curl Satan’s ears or de-glorifying exaggerated acts of saintliness and kindliness that would make Jesus puke.

On to the meandering philosophical question: What makes and breaks the good of a good guy? I’ll present two protagonists and let you be the judge of the goodness of each.

Buford O. Brokelahoma

Buford strode into the bar, chest puffed out so far that it arrived a good five seconds before the rest of him did. He clenched his belt buckle, using it as a shield to ward off the sin and temptation floating around in the sordid establishment. With one hand, he supported his hefty frame while situating the uneven barstool beneath him, making sure he sat in just the right spot, avoiding any need to readjust. Couldn’t look weak here. Not in front of similar rabble, not much unlike the many foul souls he’d locked up the week prior.

A sheriff’s life wasn’t much to envy to begin with, but Buford’s pledge to chastity and the like made it downright unbearable. Not for him, but for everyone else. He grimaced at anyone who dared swear a curse. He rudely swatted cigarettes from people in mid-smoke. He made a show of ordering a tall glass of “white milk, with none of that devil’s alcohol.” He openly polished his already polished badge, noting that he wanted to make it so shiny that its glint would scare off ne’er-do-wells from ne’er-do-welling.

Jack A. Rakescrow

Rakescrow hated drinking, so he drank more to forget how much he hated it. A crumpled piece of paper lay next to his whisky glass. Six strokes, keeping count faithfully until the seventh glass. Got a little hazy after that. He was hazy to begin with, drenched in a cloud of his own cigarette smoke before he could summon the sense to order his first round.

The insufferable Sheriff Buford Brokelahoma snapped him out of his stupor. Someone’s cigarette butt pegged him in the cheek, courtesy of the Sheriff’s well-timed flick.

“Shi—“ he started, but Buford’s agitated pug-like expression halted him. “S’watch what you aimin’ at, Sher’f. Been a long day.”

“I reckon. Bein’ a vigilante gotta takes it’s toll, I reckon.”

“Takes more doin’ the right thing than jus’ pretendin’. Chasin’ down mur’drurs ain’t worth riskin’ the pay, right? Keep t’them tax cheats and curfew brekkers in line and keep me to my real man’s work.”

That should have gotten more of a rise from Buford, but everyone’s attention swiftly turned to a raving drunk, more raving and drunk than the rest. He had a rusty firearm to the throat of an off-shift singer, the one who brought in more business from various hotel rooms than she did on the rickety stage here. Looked like a scuffle gone out of hand, something to do with theft. Apologies and begging weren’t cutting it.

Rakescrow hollered, just enough to get the assailant to stick out his head and see who yelled at him. Gave Rakescrow just enough room to thread a sudden bullet through the crowd and into his head. The woman retreated, silently sobbing, too shocked to shriek. The dead man was discreetly taken away as hushes seeped back into the bar.

“Damned fool nearly cut off my drinks for tonight.”

“Couldn’t’ve hit ‘em together, Jack?” goaded a sneering Buford. “They both of ‘em deserved it, God as my witness.”

“God ain’t yer witness.”

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and traded on NASDAQ Stock Market. 

2011
06/15
CATEGORY
Brutal
Leave a comment

Mistakes. Everybody’s Making Them

If you write, you make mistakes. If you make bad mistakes, you’re probably a bad writer. Can’t simplify it further.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

To Writing All Wrong: What are some common mistakes that I can avoid making as an aspiring author, especially when it comes to mechanics?

—Michael Alan Mitchell, Egg Harbor Township, N.J.

Easy. Just stop writing. Won’t make any mistakes that way. Oh, you mentioned mechanics? Drat.

I think I’d be more willing to lend mechanical advice to an aspiring grammarian or someone aspiring to pass English 101. Buy a grammar book. Take a class. If you’re iffy about mechanics at this stage, then I’d stop aspiring to be a writer and start getting cozy with the dashingly boring technical details of the language. Good luck.

Let’s fast forward and assume you’ve done this already. I’m sidestepping it anyway. As I conveniently ignore your inquiry into the mechanical nature of everything, I’ll be happy to address your question.

Common Bad Mistake #1: Redundant Redundancies.

This should make sense, right? Right. If it were easy, everyone would do it. And everyone does it. Whether it’s the unnecessary multiplicity of word within paragraph or unintentional lamemphasis (“They couldn’t see within the thick dark. It was so dark, it made all other forms of dark look like sunlight, such was the darkness.”), weaker craftsmen tend to drive home an idea with a dim-witted hammer. Writing isn’t made excellent by force alone. Other examples include:

“a dark night” – as apposed to a light night.

“raging tempest” – fantasy writers, raise thy hands in guilt.

“a quick bite” – never heard of a long bite, not even in my vampire fiction excursions.

“fat loser” – self-explanatory.

“exact same” – they mean the same exact thing.

“kneel down” – tried kneeling up once, to no avail.

“poorly-written Christian fiction” – you can just say Christian fiction.

“wicked stepmother” – your readers assume they get a bad rap anyway.

You could also look up “tautologies.” If you have to look that up in a dictionary first, you’ll be forgiven.

Common Bad Mistake #2: Circumventing Redundancies.

Oh, you thought the use of “charming cottage” was clever? Not when I catch a mention of “cozy cottage” dozens of pages later. Your thinness of image betrays you. If you’re going to stick with the image, either stick with it or make your point and move on. Don’t be slick in trying to change it up to avoid “sounding” redundant. Heed Admiral Ackbar’s advice: don’t trip into this readily available pitfall. “Spacious house?” Better not call that sucker a “sprawling house.” “Bristly beard?” Stay bristly my friend, because we’ll bristle at mentions of a “prickly beard” three pages later. Skilled speaker, “silver-tongued?” Don’t turn him into a “golden-tongued” anything. That’d be weird.

Common Bad Mistake #3: Using Clichés

If it’s not wholly original, it’s a cliché. Don’t use it.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and lightly seasoned with kosher salt and rubbed sage.

2011
06/02
CATEGORY
Harshly Critical
Leave a comment

Don’t Park Here

I was hoping someone would email me about how I could improve “dinosaur fiction.” Didn’t happen. What did happen: an email about the finer points of describing a character in a novel.

Character description is a delicate art, too often clumsily handled when tried deliberately. In some instances, the work beckons that you park on the description lot. That is, if your work beckons for failure.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

My name is Cindy Kennedy. My question is about descriptions. What’s the best way to describe your main character in your novel? I’ve seen a couple of ways to do it, but I’d like to know the best way.

You’re right. I’ve only seen a couple of ways myself. The wrong way and the right way. That’s your couple.

I want to see what you think of my main character description so far, if you don’t mind:

     Lynn sighed, wiping away a lock of her platinum blonde hair. Her sad blue eyes stared back at her from within the mirror. She never liked her round face nor her chubby hands. They weren’t pretty. She held them to her ruddy cheeks, trying to press her face downward and make it thinner, but it made her plump lips look like a fish puckering up for a kiss. It wouldn’t work like that, she found, unless she got a replacement set of lips as well. A single tear coursed down her cheek and to her stubby chin. She hated that too.

Let me know what you think. Thanks!

—Cindy Kennedy, Flint, MI.

You’re cheating here, Cindy. You’ve turned what should be a travesty into a plot point. The plot may turn out to be a travesty too, but my crystal ball’s been on the blink as of late. I’ll get back to you on this.

I won’t elaborate on the wrong way to describe characters, since countless others already put that on display for their audiences. As for the right way? Simple. Tell the story. But wait, didn’t you do just that here? If you’re advancing the plot with a description, that’s not ingenuity. That’s contrivance. Don’t do that.

Weak writers will pause to describe; strong writers will forge ahead with the narrative and work the descriptions into it.

For example, instead of this:

     ”Robert had a lanky frame, something that didn’t work too well for him, being a pilot by trade. His flowering red hair made him quite a standout, and it gave him fits when he tried stuffing it into his cap.”

Go with something like this:

     ”Robert strained to cram his lanky frame into the cockpit, a feat that still took some doing, even after a decade of piloting. After getting himself situated at last, he awkwardly stuffed his flowering red hair into his cap, an ordeal that took even more doing.”

You get the drift. In the first example, nothing “happens.” We’re in descriptive stasis. While you can glean the same details from both, you’ll find more vibrancy in the second example. And you can do that sort of thing without conjuring up some contrived way to describe your character.

We could go on and on here, touching on “description through dialogue” and its cheesiness, along with how everything I just said here doesn’t apply to description of scenery and setting.

Tell the story. The description will come. Be creative and work it in there on the fly. Keep that bus moving. Don’t stall your readers by insisting they know what someone looks like all at once. Do your job the right way, and we’ll get it.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and found on your nearest baby free range.

2011
05/25
CATEGORY
Critical
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