C-c-considering Cadence: Understanding One Quality of Voice
By Jan O'Hara | August 18, 2014 |
The Oxford Dictionary defines cadence as “a modulation or inflection of the voice, a rhythmical effect in written text, a fall in pitch of the voice at the end of a phrase or sentence” or simply as “rhythm”. For purposes of discussion today, I have a brief illustration of how it can affect reader experience.
Consider the following lines:
I do not like green eggs and ham,
I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.
A classic by Dr. Seuss, yes? But take a simple stanza like that, give it to the likes of Mariah Carey, and one would expect it to be delivered in an entirely different style — one which might be represented like this:
I do not like green eggs and ha-am,
I do not like them, Saaaammm-I-Aaa-a-a-ahhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,with the Ms dragging on to infinity such that they begin to choke the airways of anyone attempting to master them. And the songstress clutches her throat as she falls to the ground, her face turning an eggplanty purple to match the quality of this prose, all while Mariah sings and sings, her eyes cast upward as if to follow her soaring voice, which conveys a rapturous purity—
Ahem. You get the idea.
So what does this have to do with writing? Well, the more I become conscious about the use of words, the more I notice that it’s cadence which lies behind my approval or disapproval of a writer’s performance, including my own words.
First Revelations
For instance, a few weeks ago I stood in a bookstore, thumbing through a bestselling book, wanting to fall in love with it, wondering why I couldn’t bring myself to spend the $15 to acquire it. Clearly money wasn’t the issue. I’d already shelled out a comparable amount on empty-calorie designer coffees for my kids.
It’s not like I expected The ToolMaster to mount an objection. After thirty years of tolerating my bibliophile ways, he’s not going to divorce me for adding one more novel to my teetering to-be-read pile.
Further, there wasn’t anything wrong with the prose. If we were to put the book through Ray Rhamey’s Flog-the-Quill process, like we did for this top-tier writer, I’m certain a healthy majority of us would feel compelled to turn the page. The writing was clear, involved high stakes, the story started in media res and it featured a sympathetic character in a genre I enjoy. I even owe the author a debt of sorts for shepherding the career of a dear friend.
But something about the voice grated. Sure enough, when I went back to take a second look at the prose, it was the author’s rhythm which felt off to my ear. The sentences were too smooth in certain places for my taste, taking on an almost oily quality, and in others they were too choppy. Taken altogether, the prose felt like a waltz melody being forced into a march’s meter.
That’s the power of cadence.
Now this may be obvious to you folks, but for me it felt like a revelation.
It’s Also a Matter of Practical Significance
For instance, when I’m critiquing, and a character says something like, “So, are you ready?”, I’ll think twice before hitting the delete button. I might feel the character would say, “Are you ready?” instead, or prefer a simple, “Ready?”, but aside from it bothering my internal metronome, does it matter or is it a question of personal taste? (Unless the content of the scene demands that words be bitten off between body blows or kinky sexual acts.)
Also, I’m willing bet that some agent rejections — particularly those that contain words like “I just wasn’t in love with this” or “I don’t feel passionate about it” — reflect this visceral reaction to cadence. Nothing wrong with that.
So what’s your experience with cadence, Unboxeders? Do you spend hours switching around perfectly adequate words because the rhythm feels unsatisfactory? Have you consciously rejected a writer’s voice because they use sixteenth notes when half-notes would do? Do cadence issues cause problems within your critique group? What say you ah-a-a-allllll?
A USA Today bestselling author, former family physician and academic, Jan O’Hara (she/her) left the world of medicine behind to follow her dreams of becoming a writer. She writes love stories that zoom from wackadoodle to heartfelt in six seconds flat: (Opposite of Frozen; Cold and Hottie; Desperate Times, Desperate Pleasures). Her latest Christmas novella, The Cowboy’s Comeback Christmas, is part of a 9-author-strong anthology (A Cowboy This Christmas: A Sweet Romance Anthology). She also contributed to Author in Progress, a Writer’s Digest Book edited by Therese Walsh.
Nice thought provoking post, Jan. Talk to enough agents and one will hear something like, “Your premise sounds interesting, but it’s all about the voice for me.” By that, I think they would include cadence as a big part of what they are seeking. Rhythm is such an integral part of life that it can go unnoticed and/or unidentified. When the cadence is off, we can feel it without being able to identify what’s wrong. You’ve brought some clarity to the issue.
Exactly, Linda. I’ve been reading for mumble-six years, yet it was only recently I understood how important cadence is to my literary experience. And it’s a personal preference I don’t believe I could alter if I wished, much like my eye prefers to land on a certain body type.
I agree that cadence is personal, but I have also found that as my critique buddies edit out “so” and “And” my writing gets crisper. More to the point. Hopefully an agent will resonate with that! Thanks for the post.
Words such as “so” or “and” are not connected to cadence, with regard to the rhythm of a writer’s voice. The overuse of “so” usually reflects the unconscious habits of the writer’s every day speech, or an idea that repeatedly using “so” will make the writing more more intimate. Cadence is both obvious and inimitable. It is not something one can learn; just as, one’s voice cannot be learned. Voice is the sum total of who we are expressed in words. Cadence also relies on a spatial awareness of how words stand next to one another, and how the letters within each word enhance or diminish the word itself and the words on either side. This is not really something that can be calculated while writing. But has a great deal to do with aesthetic, and an innate sense of one’s own rhythm; as captured through the eye. In this way, cadence, as with all aspects of writing, requires a full body experience on the part of the writer in order to share a full body experience with the reader.
“In this way, cadence, as with all aspects of writing, requires a full body experience on the part of the writer in order to share a full body experience with the reader.”
I love this, Sevigne, and this is my understanding of it. Now you have me curious if cadence becomes disproportionately important to those readers with a strong auditory or kinesthetic sensibility. If I had to guess, I bet it would.
That’s an interesting question, Jan. I am primarily an auditory learner although auditory, visual, and tactile in my approach to writing. I rarely analyse books in the way I read many writers do. Nor do I edit them in my mind. I want to be transported and the author’s voice is as important as the story’s voice and the story itself.
What I was struck by in your piece was your unconscious/subconscious? disconnect with the bestseller book because its cadence didn’t inspire you. And therefore you didn’t buy it.
I prefer spare dialogue, myself, Carol, particularly if the writing is contemporary. (Historical fiction featuring educated characters can take longer to get to the same point, yet feels elegant rather than wordy.) I like it when my critique partners show me how to strip it down. That said, what I might have been after is the extra “thump” of that “so”, meaning that I’ll rework the sentence until its aesthetic is lean but it has the same rhythm.
I suspect that those of us who are musical do cadence naturally. It rolls off our fingertips without much thought, and we relish it when we read it in the writing of others. Our writing voice is not unlike our singing voice, whether we know it or not. This post is wonderful food for thought on the all-important topic of Voice. Thanks!
Thank YOU, Mia. I have no musical talent, but I enjoy it all the same.
You said “Our writing voice is not unlike our singing voice, whether we know it or not.” That’s fascinating! I’d love to read more on the subject. If this would interest you, would you consider pitching an article to Mama T on the subject? No guarantees she’d have a spot available, but I’d love to hear more and see examples.
Astute observation, Jan, I enjoyed it very much. And it certainly opens another door on the meaning of that rather mysterious term of “voice”. Cadance, oops, I meant cadence, rythm, thumpety-thump, does make a difference!
Cadence works within a sentence and from one paragraph to the next. Long sentences had better be broken up with short ones!
Once again, thanks for reminding us what makes for good writing…
I’m glad the thumpety-thump aspect makes sense to you, Claude. A succinct way to put it. ;)
Thank you for this post, Jan – I am sharing it with my students and colleagues. I absolutely agree that cadence is as important as word choice as an element of craft. We forget sometimes that writing is simply a way to freeze spoken language, and that written literature descends from, and co-exists with, oral literature. Traditional storytellers rely in part on rhythm as a mnemonic device. I think our love of rhythm is in our DNA.
What interesting thoughts, Sheila! Wouldn’t you love to fire up a functional MRI and watch people’s brains light up as you read passages with the same meaning but which use a different cadence? No? That’s only me?
Still, I think it would be fascinating to determine how much of what we call great storytelling relies upon the rhythm of the words rather than their meaning. Does it only amplify the message, or is it intrinsic?
I wish someone would talk to marketing departments about this topic.
A friend and I just had this conversation about changed titles, (in my instance, I was told the change was specifically the work of the marketing department).
When you lose rhythm and meter, you have nothing left. If your writing doesn’t sing, you need more practice.
Among my writing friends, as we brainstorm appropriate titles or character names, the sound and rhythm of the choices is as important as the meanings. That’s a top-of-mind consideration, actually. Would marketing take that into account in choosing a title? I have no idea. I’d presume they’d have data on comparable titles and factor that in along with the sound of the words, but it’s a good question.
Personally, I think this is one place where a focus group would be helpful.
I would agree that focus groups would be helpful.
But there is a certain rhythm that pervades the work which should be carried through the title.
When the rhythm of the title reflects the rhythm of the work, the casual book browser will be more apt to purchase the work. At least that’s my theory.
It would be an interesting study, if someone more expert than I could come up with the parameters.
Yes, it’s important to me as a reader that the voice of the writing be carried over into the title. I’m amazed how my expectations can be shaped by so few words.
For a while, it seemed as though all titles were one-word long, though. Not much room to play. Since that trend is reversing, maybe we’ll see an enhanced congruity.
I love this, Jan. There is so much that goes into writing voice, cadence included, and I’m not sure it can be taught. It’s a gut feel different for everyone. Important to note it though, and learn what you can from the writers who do it well.
Thanks!
Denise Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
Denise, I once had a conversation with Barbara O’Neal about cadence. She said that Natalie Goldberg noticed she wrote to a certain cadence and discovered it was that of the bells in the church near her childhood home. (Apologies to Ms. Goldberg and Barbara if I’m mangling the details.)
Have you heard of rhythmic entrainment? It’s the physics principle which says that systems in close proximity to one another trend towards rhythmic alignment. This is why music therapy works: play a piece with 60 beats per minute and watch as your racing heartbeat slows.
What this implies to me is that a) preference for cadence is visceral and unconscious b) it might be malleable. For instance, I find I write differently depending upon my mood, my preceding thoughts, but also how active I’ve been, what kind of music I’ve been listening to. I suspect there is a baseline Jan-rhythm that I’d return to in a sensory deprivation tank, but for short-term pieces, that cadence could be temporarily overwritten by moving or listening to a different beat. Just don’t listen to a fugue before editing a piece you wrote to death metal, though. A recipe for frustration. ;)
I gotta admit, Boss, this is one of those issues that makes me feel like curling up in a dark room each day and napping until the thought of attempting to write fiction fades from memory. This along with adding micro-tension (which I’ve often said makes me macro-tense), and selecting the right form of lay/lie/laid/lain/laying (for which I usually just shake my fist and rewrite the sentence until I need none of them).
I can hear it when prose “sings.” I hear it in Mama T’s work, among others. But I’m not sure I’ve ever stopped reading due to a lack of singing. And, alas, I do not know if my work sings, And dread the thought of judging brings; I guess I’ll read my work aloud, and hope someday it draws a crowd; If not I’ll deem my cadence crap, And then head off to take a nap.
Dear Vaughn,
You can’t not have cadence. That’s like saying you don’t have breath. Get out of the nap time corner and get your book(s) done!
Love,
S.
Oh, and throw away the craft books, including the one that talks about micro-tension. I think Don Maass would agree that if they’re making you too jittery to write, jettison the pack and free fall.
Yes ma’am. Thanks for the nudge into free-fall, Sevigne. ;-)
I hate the whole lay/laid/lain conundrum, too, V, and on that subject, I would never lie.
Vaughn:
Love the poem at the end
And, alas, I do not know if my work sings,
And dread the thought of judging brings;
I guess I’ll read my work aloud,
and hope someday it draws a crowd;
If not I’ll deem my cadence crap,
And then head off to take a nap.
You don’t hear the song in your writing because it sounds ordinary to you. You live with it.
“You don’t hear the song in your writing because it sounds ordinary to you. You live with it.”
Amen! Thanks, Judith.
I believe that, just like a great musical composition, all great writing has it’s cadence. It stems, in part from the heart of the artist. And within each work, characters have their own cadence, like the variation of musical movements within a composition. Sometimes cadence has to be honed – when details get in the way – to reveal the diamond beneath the noise. And sometimes it has to swell or to be “broken” when movements within the story call for it.
I had an editor voluntarily rewrite sections of my text to show me what they meant regarding changes–and it was AWFUL!! Totally blew the cadence of the piece. I needed a “breather” from the story to clear my head to be able to fix it. (Still shuddering.)
Cadence is vital.
Confession: I writing epic fantasy about a spaceship that travels the galaxy by “song,” so cadence is part of my job description. lol…
Write on, everyone. Embrace your song.
It would be challenging to edit a piece and keep both the intent and the musicality intact! That skillset requires so much more than an eye for punctuation, clarity, pacing, etc.
Jan, hoping your shudders will soon cease
Good Sir V, look two notes above for my (too-lengthy) comment to Denise. I suspect one can temporarily change their innate cadence if required, but this is all an educated guess on my part.
Then cast your eye downward to Don’s comment, which contains a bunch of fancy names for the other sound-qualities of voice. Cadence, or rhythm, is only one of these.
To my ear, T’s voice has a lyrical quality which is shaped by her word choice and her poetic and hope-focused sensibility, among other things. I tend to have a more clinical voice, I believe, and have yet to have anyone describe it as lyrical. However, it would be theoretically possible for T and me to write to the same cadence. Does that make sense? Two entirely different voices, one rhythm.
YOU have a cadence, a worldview and all the attributes which Don will hopefully explain that go into making your unique voice. From what I have read of your writing, your you-ness fits well with the genre you write. IMHO, that’s more important than whether we can change our underlying preference for a rhythm. Also important: that we find the genre or niche which suits our voice; that we allow the audience which appreciates it to find us; that we do our best to convey a good story with well-developed characters in clear language. And along the way, when we encounter someone who’s doing all these things but has a cadence we find jarring, that we don’t shut THEM down because of our innate preference for a different rhythm.
Does that make sense? Are you out of the fetal position? (I apologize for making it sound that this was imposing another expectation upon you rather than this being me, indulging in a slightly technical discussion of prose structure.)
Thanks for your kind words, Boss. And thanks to Judith and Mike, as well. Lots to think about here, but not to fret about. Not today. I’m on a roll with my current rewrite, so I’m not questioning anything. Just roll with it. (Just stay in cadence? ;-)
Great post and conversation here today, Jan!
Oh I do like this post, Jan. There’s no real trick to this, though, is there? I mean cadence is almost organic to the character or narrative voice. I can sometimes “hear” the rhythms as I’m writing on the page but other times I don’t hear it. Then I try reading it aloud. Hearing yourself speak the words makes things much clearer when you’re struggling for just the right pitch or pace.
Paula–
You beat me to the punch, and hit the button sooner. We are in full agreement: reading out loud really does work.
Paula, yes! Thank you for mentioning a clear omission in my piece: for those of us who are driven to write to a particular cadence, reading aloud is your friend.
Jan–
I couldn’t agree more, and thank you for bringing up a topic of real importance. It’s one that is often mistakenly thought to apply only to poems. But when prose tangles itself up for the reader, something has gone wrong. A clever plot and arresting characters are quickly cancelled by what you call a failure of cadence. I think of it as sonic clumsiness.
The problem doesn’t lend itself to quick solution. Fortunately, though, a simple way of detecting it is always available:
Kick all the eavesdroppers out of the house (so you won’t feel self-conscious), then read what you’ve written out loud. When you come to a passage that you can’t read in a natural, un-clumsy way, bracket it with red pencil. I used to advise composition students to do this with their essays. Those who bothered invariably said it helped. Maybe they were just trying to get on my good side, but I don’t think so.
barry, don’t look now, but your poetic side is showing. ;) “Sonic clumsiness”? I love it!
Thank you for the practical tip, too.
What a great topic! An immersive book for me is one that takes on a voice I can hear as I read the words, like a fireside tale-teller crouched nearby. Reading becomes effortless. There is power in voice when it is conjured as music, and I think the discovery of this power separates apprentice writers who are still playing with words from writers who wield their words like magic weapons. (I’m not one of those singers who would be turning green for the Seuss accolade – but I would be watching what Mariah did then I’d practice later in an environment where ticket-buyers would not demand their money back.)
Ah, yes, John. It’s wise to practice in a sound-proof studio or in front of the deaf. Don’t forget to put away the priceless crystal in advance. ;)
As I work on being more concise, I find my writing voice gets stronger. I cut unnecessary words and rearrange sentences to sound better, leading to a more free-flowing prose.
It’s like clearing debris from a stream, isn’t it, Brianna? Satisfying work and pleasing to the eye and ear simultaneously.
I absolutely hear where you’re coming from, Jan. I always read my work out loud to hear the rhythm and cadence of the words; to feel the way the sounds roll off my tongue. It does make me look like an escapee from Arkham Asylum when I’m writing in coffee shops, but it’s more helpful than any other writing tool at my disposal.
Jo, I put my elbows on the table and use my hands to cover my mouth as I mumble to myself. I’m probably not fooling anyone, but it makes me feel invisible.
One of the hardest things I do with the WIP is switch from one character’s pov to the next: I have three principal characters, and they take turns (many novels are written like this). I write in third person for each of them, and the final click when I seat into the character’s pov comes when I regain that character’s rhythm.
If I don’t have a scene in that cadence (great word!), the character feels ‘off,’ and my brain keeps niggling at me until it ‘sounds’ like that character.
Humans are good at identifying that something is off – it can be something small like knowing a painting isn’t hanging straight on the wall, or more important like knowing a situation is dangerous. I listen to that voice that tells me I’m not there yet – even though I’m not using sound, but the memory of sound, most of the time.
I’ve gotten fairly good at doing it mentally, but reading something out loud – or even acting it out – is always there as a backup.
Two great points there, Alicia.
1. If we’ve differentiated our characters’ voices, they will employ a unique cadence.
2. Like the aligned picture, we don’t have to THINK about this so much as listen for it, then trust our ear.
Oh absolutely. Some people just don’t have an ear for cadence and it’s really hard to explain. It’s not like there’s a rule you can point to. And sometimes, getting the cadence right in a sentence means breaking a “rule,” like sticking in one of those useless words like “just.” Heehee. Yes, I can justify anything inside my own head!
I’m not sure it’s justification if it’s truuuuueeeee, Marlene? ;)
If I wanted to get rid of the “just”, I’d have to rework the sentence to carry the rhythm and sound I was after.
Such an important novel attribute! Whether I’m the writer or the reader the cadence is lulling rhythm that keeps me in the readerly groove. If it jumps the track, I’m as jarred as though I hit a speed bump; if it shifts in a constant jerky motion, I am unsettled.
I wonder if writerly rhythm works like body where you either have it or you don’t? Or if fear keeps one from relaxing into what one knows is right?
Lots of food for thought there, D.
Have you read any Lee Child? The voice is unique and the cadence unlike any other author I’ve read. It’s not one which naturally appeals to me, yet it suits his character and is consistent throughout–so consistent, that by the end of the first novel, I felt like I moved and breathed to that meter, could have written my own prose, Reacher-style.
So my experience is I might not LOVE an author’s voice while I can still find it compelling and infectious. But if the cadence kept switching around, would that be true? I’m not sure. Perhaps consistent cadence is one attribute we unconsciously look for when we say of a piece of writing that we “feel safe, know we are in the hands of a master”.
So happy to see this subject covered. I love an author who has great cadence, and I’m sure I’ve missed many a good story because I couldn’t get past the rhythm of the first few pages. A lot of writing deficiencies can be covered up with a musical beat.
“A lot of writing deficiencies can be covered up with a musical beat.”
What an interesting point, Carmel. Makes perfect sense.
Jan-
A sturdy cadence commands us to march with a story. Our feet feel it, our imaginations follow.
There is more to voice than cadence, though. There is the sound of the words. Assonance, consonance and alliteration create a cadence of their own.
The arrangement of words can sway us, too. Consider the seductive effects created by anaphora, aphorism, asyndeton, binary opposition, catachresis, chiasmus, encomium, epistrophe, euphony, and so on.
Prose writers can learn a lot from poets, not least of all the rhythm underlying any line.
I agree: a great topic, and perhaps not coincidentally one already in my thoughts today. Is Writer Unboxed a hive mind?
Don:
“Consider the seductive effects created by anaphora, aphorism, asyndeton, binary opposition, catachresis, chiasmus, encomium, epistrophe, euphony, and so on.”
Gesundheit? ;)
I love the idea of it compelling us to march, because it is exactly like an infectious beat which sets our toes and fingers to tapping even as we sit in the most inappropriate of places.
Look forward to reading your upcoming post! Buzzzz.
May I suggest a little ditty from the vaudeville era: “A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer in your pants.”
The knack for cadence is very much like ear training for musicians. You need to hear the beats, and feel the rhythm in your body. Music! Dance! Poetry! Wine! Fool around, my friends, to find that internal beat.
There once was a writer who struggled
for beauty, but more often juggled
too many advices
and publishing vices
that wrung out her words like dull day-old
LOL, Mary. A lot of energy in that reply.
This is precisely why I get bogged down in every story I write. It takes years, literally, for me to get the cadence right. I call it “music,” but same difference.
Sometimes I wish I could just pop off any old sentence like so many published authors do. I’ve tried. I failed. It’s like OCD. It’s maddening. But when I do get the music right, it’s heaven.
And then I move on to the next sentence….
Ah, Tony, I hear you and understand the frustration. And if you’re like me, shifting the sound of one sentence often means a domino affect in the paragraph surrounding it. I’m not making any claim for eloquence or beauty, by the way, but noticing my metronomic taskmaster.
The way I manage, if I can, is to persuade myself I’ll fix the rhythm when I’ve finished the first draft. Otherwise, it can destroy all writing momentum.
I’ve noticed this mostly with writers who grew up in critique groups and worked until they never, ever used passive prose, chopped every -ly adverb from teh manuscript, and ensured that not a single fiction rule was broken. Though I’m probably talking about style more than cadence, I suspect the two are close cousins. We seem to be creating an entire generation of Stepford Writers. Their prose is so perfect that I cannot tell one writer from the other. If it is cadence and voice you seek, break a rule from time to time.
Ron, sadly, in the past, I would have been one of those well-meaning CPs who worked to satisfy the rules without understanding the musicality being sought. Hopefully I’m better now! Respecting cadence is one part of respecting voice.
Jan, yes, cadence, syntax and diction, my favorite law firm. Sometimes it’s the pauses in the paragraphs that take you away, sometimes it’s the cascade of words. I love the gothic excess and the blaring organ notes in Poe almost as much as I love the spare, flinty chips in Cormac McCarthy’s lapidary shop.
The works of someone like Paul Bowles have such distinctly different cadence than those of Annie Dillard, but both seem masters to me. Some sentences are glued, some on a runaway horse, but done well, they all fly.
You made me laugh at the law-firm line, Tom.
Isn’t “lapidary” a grand word in its own right? So glad this makes sense to you.
In my writing, cadence — the rhythmic flow of words — is one of my goals. To achieve this goal, I read everything I write aloud. To help develop my sense of cadence, everything I read I read aloud. (Well, I did not read aloud this article or its comments. I typically only read aloud books and ingredients labels at the grocery store.)
Some writers write words that are wonderful to read aloud. The words ebb and flow in perfect tides and eddies with a current that leads one’s thoughts on a wonderful journey. Others write harsh, cacophonous tangles that trip the tongue and muddle the mind causing one to cry out, “Please, please, make it stop.”
My plan is to have audio books of my works. Reading aloud as I write helps me create a story that sounds superb when spoken, that will sound amazing as an audio book.
Another benefit of reading my writing aloud is that when I do public readings, I am well practiced.
Lester, that’s an excellent point on purposefully crafting prose that will sound pleasing as an audiobook. Ditto for the public reading! Seems obvious now you’ve said it, but I can’t say I would have thought of it myself.
Thought provoking post Jan – as evidenced by the comments it generated.
I think following all the rules, as Ron said, eventually strips your work of its peculiar voice, and that’s where you end up with “sentences —- too smooth in certain places for my taste, taking on an almost oily quality. ” Good description.
I never understand how people can skim a book. I just love to wallow in the language, making me a slow and critical reader. If I can skim it, I probably don’t want to read it.
Thanks for this.
It’s rare for me to skim, Judy, and my reasoning is the same. If I want to gulp story down, I’ll watch a movie instead. If I dislike the texture of the prose, it’s rare that the story can pull me through.
“I got rhythm, I got music, I got my gal, who could ask for anything more?”
I know what you mean. There’s nothing more painful — not even my sciatica — than a poem that’s just a little off. Makes my eye flitter. Cadence in prose is the same way. Bad cadence feels like a rocky path, making the reader stumble along the way, sliding back, having to reread until finally, giving up altogether.
To me, a story told in an unpleasant cadence is like bad art. I may not be able to define it, but I know it when I see it.
“I got daisies in green pastures, I got my gal, who could ask for anything more?”
Now that’s some aversion to a faulty cadence, Michael! Sciatica? :)
You just made me realize why Temperance Dawes is my favorite female character name. It’s got cadence. It’s also of major importance to blurbs and tag lines. Great post!
Greetings from Greece!
Greetings from Canada, MM.
I, too, like the rhythm of that name.
I think the importance of cadence changes depending on the genre, and depending on the the mood of a particular scene.
For example, I would tend to think of literary fiction as having a slower, richer cadence (whole notes, if you will), where as thrillers might demand a faster, rhythmic pace with lots of cymbal crashes (yes, I was a marching band nerd. How could you tell?)
I think you’re absolutely correct, though, that matters of subjective taste might very well come down to this. How the cadence of the opening sentences lands against the reader’s ear.
Now, if only I could figure out a way to get this right the first time instead of after tedious rewrites, I’d REALLY be in business…
I found myself nodding for the entirety of your comment, Erika. In action scenes, we’re told to write shorter sentences, leave more white on the page. What is that other than a desire to manipulate cadence?
As for your wish to get the cadence you’re after more efficiently, I hear you. As with a musical instrument, if we’re to get there, we’ve no choice but to practice.
Interesting topic, Jan! I definitely put a lot of thought into the rhythm and timing of my words, and like you, I’m turned off when it seems a writer hasn’t put much thought into the pacing and flow of his or her words, and is simply focused on getting the basics of the story onto the page, poetry be damned.
That said, I’m baffled by your visceral reaction to the dialog example you cited. Sure, you may prefer clipped/spare language, but what if that particular character doesn’t talk that way? One of the most effective (and easiest) ways to capture a character’s personality is through their speech. If they all are using the rapidfire, spare language of a clever 40s movie, how do you show the personality differences of your characters?
Imagine the movie Annie Hall with the title character actually able to express herself in concise, AP-approved declarative sentences. You’d lose so much of her charm.
So I guess I’m asking that you “give peace a chance” when it comes to differing speech patterns expressed in written dialog. Otherwise, you risk a homogenization of speaking styles that is potentially as bad as the artless prose of a cadence-deaf writer.
I was hoping you’d chime in, Keith. (Heh. “Chime”. Get it?)
I actually agree with your give-peace-a-chance proposal and I’m sorry I wasn’t clearer about the the need for characterization trumping my personal preference for leanness.
You’ve read Georgette Heyer, yes? Her novels must be 50% dialogue, and she seldom uses dialogue tags, yet her characters’ speech is well-differentiated so that I’m never confused about who’s speaking. Each book contains fussy, bombastic characters with overly-embroidered sentences. Rather than frustrate me, they make me chuckle. One thing I notice, though, is that she doesn’t give them empty words. They might use two sentences when one would do, but within each sentence, each word does its duty.
Also, the chatty characters form a striking contrast to the heroes and heroines, who tend to be direct.
What do you think? Is my analysis faulty?
What a wonderful post! I agree that sometimes the rhythm of the language or the cadence of the sentences lead me to either love or leave a story. But I do love it when authors get the cadence of the every day speech right, like Sophie Littlefield does in her Bad Day books. Stella and company put me right there in the sewing shop, down at Broderson’s bar or at the Popeyes with the old ladies just with the way they talk to each other. Love it!
Thanks again for shining a light on this :)
I’m sorry to say I don’t know the specific example you’re using, Pamela, but I do appreciate the sentiment! Thank YOU for reading and taking the time to leave a comment.
This is one of my favorite posts. Ever.
I’ve returned several times to catch both the additional comments and your replies and every time I hear something new.
No matter what I read–a novel, an article, or simple email–I find myself rearranging words in my head and rewriting sentences to create that flow and tempo I seem to crave or require for the message to get through.
Though cadence and rhythm won’t carry me to the end, it’ll be more than enough to wire me to the story (your ears burning, Lisa Cron?) and get me home.
It’s a fascinating art, and I love finding myself ten pages in, wondering how I got there.
Such a lovely, heartening comment to read this sunny morning, Terry. Thank you so much!
As for the discussion, yes, I’ve enjoyed it. Perhaps it’s a relatively fresh topic and we all had a lot to say on the matter.
I do the rewriting, myself, though that stops when I’m pulled into the story and the words disappear. Here’s hoping we will learn to please our own cadence-keen readers.
Like you, I find cadence important. I’ve brought it up in critique sessions with other writers and found it led to lively discussions. A number of others commented about music. I certainly think of prose sounding like music to my reading ears.
I’ve found the classic tip to read your work aloud to yourself to be beneficial in this area. Often, sentences and especially dialogue, which look good on paper and are grammatically correct, jangle in my ears. These get reworked until they sound right.
Thanks for a thought provoking post.
Dax, I just caught that you’d left a comment. Pardon me for the slow response!
As a group, it would seem writers hold passionate feelings about musicality. When I wrote this post, I anticipated hearing crickets in the comment section. Didn’t quite work out that way. ;)
Your critique group sounds fab.
In the process of updating my blog, I stumbled across an old post where I mentioned this topic. I wrote:
“…I’ll switch to instrumental music, especially when writing dialog, where I need to “hear” the cadence of the conversation.”
That’s a cool idea, Dax. Did you do that, and did it help?
Thanks for this post, Jan! Love the ideas here.
Therese, I do this every time I write. I have an iTunes playlist named “Music to Write By” (I know, bad grammar!) that contains about 800 songs.
However, when I first sit down to write, I have a different playlist filled with powerful songs, like Let’s Get It Started by The Black Eyed Peas, that I crank up loud to help get me rolling.
My pleasure, Therese!
Dax, I can use music to evoke a mood consistent with the scene, but I can’t write with it on in the background at all for the same reason you can’t listen to vocals.