Avoiding Syntax Errors
By Sarah Callender | November 2, 2023 |
October has never been my favorite month. It seems to stick around much longer than necessary, certainly much longer than the other eleven. It wears steel-toe boots and one of those oilskin raincoats worn by Australian cowboys (and, for some reason, my not-Australian high school boyfriend). October is surly and obstinate. It thinks it’s handsome, and in some lights it is. But it’s mean-handsome. Cruel handsome. Plus, costume’d strangers scare me, especially when they pound on my door after dark and demand things. And candy, even fun- and mini-size, does no one any good.
But this October felt especially ponderous and steel-toed. Terrifying, uncertain, overwhelming. A bad surprise in my family’s health hit hard. And of course, there were (and are) the front pages of the Times or the Chronicle or the Journal plastered with words and images so violent and absurd that I had to work very, very hard to remind myself that Love still has a foothold in the world.
So this October I went in search of aloe for my soul, and found myself returning to one of my most favorite love stories. I first read Their Eyes Were Watching God in 1988 as an 11th grader, then again in a college course, then again in the late 90s as a high school ELA teacher. But this October, instead of reading Zora Neale Hurston’s words on paper, I listened to the late Ruby Dee’s stunning performance of the story. I was reminded of the power of imagery, of character, of Hurston’s prescience. Most of all though, I was struck by Hurston’s syntax.
Syntax is a weird word. A cold word. But in writing, syntax simply refers to the way a sentence is built, constructed, and architected. And isn’t a perfectly constructed sentence a work of art?
Most likely none of you was in my 9th grade English class with Mrs. Stark, the woman responsible for my ability to speak in front of people without anxiety, my understanding of why a teacher must always use breath mints before conferencing with a student, and my love of sentence diagramming.
From my love of sentence diagramming came my love of sentence construction. Mrs. Stark taught me to appreciate the visual beauty of a diagrammed sentence. She also taught me that specific situations require specific sentence structures. So we writers must appreciate and understand the power of syntax.
First, syntax has the power to move readers’ eyeballs.
Of course a reader keeps reading because of the content of each sentence. A reader also keeps reading because the writer propels the reader from sentence to sentence via varied syntax. And that’s important. We need the reader’s eyeballs to move effortlessly, eagerly, efficiently from the upper left to the lower right corner of the page.
Check out Gary Provost’s words from 100 Ways to Improve Your Writing (and feel free to read it aloud):
“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals–sounds that say listen to this, it is important.”
Now, let me show you the last paragraph of Their Eyes Were Watching God. Read this aloud too; you’ll be better able to hear the repetition and alliteration, but most important, the variety in the syntax, the properly placed punctuation, the rise and fall of the collection of sentences, but also the rise and fall within the sentences. It feels majestic to me. Sacred.
The day of the gun, and the bloody body, and the courthouse came and commenced to sing a sobbing sigh out of every corner in the room; out of each and every chair and thing. Commenced to sing, commenced to sob and sigh, singing and sobbing. Then Tea Cake came prancing around her where she was and the song of the sigh flew out of the window and lit in the top of the pine trees. Tea Cake, with the sun for a shawl. Of course he wasn’t dead. He could never be dead until she herself had finished feeling and thinking. The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall. Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.
Everything in that paragraph builds to that last sentence: She called in her soul to come and see. That sentence is one of the most satisfying last lines of any book I have read. Not because the last sentence is perfection, but because of the construction of each sentence in that paragraph. Zora Neale Hurston’s syntax carries us from one sentence to the next, and we are joyfully unable to stop reading. It’s impossible to stop our eyeballs from moving from one sentence to the next.
Second, syntax has the power to construct and reveal character.
Take a look at the first lines of Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief, a novel narrated by Death.
*** HERE IS A SMALL FACT ***
You are going to die.
I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that’s only the A’s. Just don’t ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
Not only does the varied syntax make it easy for the reader to leap frog from sentence to sentence. The syntax reveals Death’s narrative voice. Its snark. Its impatience and sarcasm. The side-by-side repetition of “nice” reminds us that Death is anything but.
Now look at how the syntax in this passage from Toni Cade Bombara’s story, “Raymond’s Run” reveals the character of Squeaky, the narrator.
So I’m strolling down Broadway breathing out and breathing in on counts of seven, which is my lucky number, and here comes Gretchen and her sidekicks: Mary Louise, who used to be a friend of mine when she first moved to Harlem from Baltimore and got beat up by everybody till I took up for her on account of her mother and my mother used to sing in the same choir when they were young girls, but people ain’t grateful, so now she hangs out with the new girl Gretchen and talks about me like a dog; and Rosie, who is as fat as I am skinny and has a big mouth where Raymond is concerned and is too stupid to know that there is not a big deal of difference between herself and Raymond and that she can’t afford to throw stones.
The stream-of-conscious roll-out of Squeaky’s narration tells us that she is young and saucy. Perhaps a bit of a hothead. Definitely full of bravado. Starting the paragraph with “So” informs the reader that Squeaky is the boss-girl. The non-essential appositive phrases reveals Squeaky’s values, preoccupations, and youthful, snark-filled idealism.
The reader knows who Squeaky is, simply through syntax.
Do you need some soul aloe right about now? See if it helps to pick up a novel–one you’ve read many times, or one that has not had it’s spine broken. When an author is a master builder, when she can build sentences that are constructed to carry a reader from Once upon a time to The End with seemingly little effort from the reader, we can bathe in the balm of beautifully-constructed sentences and, perhaps, propel ourselves from darker days to ones where we see more evidence of love, hope, and peace. And chocolate.
Will you share an example of how syntax propels a reader or reveals character? Or, feel free to share other ways that syntax–word order, punctuation, juxtaposition–affect a reader’s experience.
In whose sentences are you seeking solace right now?
Thanks as always, WU’ers, for reading and for sharing your wisdom.
Beautiful post! I’m printing this one out and stapling it to my forehead.
Good idea! That way you can remind everyone who looks at you … you clearly don’t need the reminder yourself! Thanks, Anne, for making me laugh!
I’m making this mandatory reading every morning! Thanks!
Sarah, thank you for this. My husband makes fun of me for having fallen in love with sentence-diagramming in fifth grade (“you are the only person I know…blah blah..) Recently on NPR, I heard a clip of Alan Ginsburg reading Howl . The rhythm, the movement, brought me to tears within five lines. Ditto to what Anne said. Delightful and informative post.
We should start a Sentence Diagrammers support club. Diagram-anon? No one seems too understand or appreciate the power we possess. Tell your husband that you and I just started a very cool club, and he’s not invited. Neither is mine! ;)
Hello Sarah. Thanks for your post. I admire comic writers, and the best of them combine mastery of syntax with clever word choice, sound effects and pacing. My example is taken from a long-ago TV review column written by Clive James for the London Sunday Observer newspaper. He is commenting on a televised dance competition, specifically on disco:
“There is no syncopation, just the steady thump of a giant moron knocking in an endless nail. But with that proviso, this was still an event from which it was difficult to prise loose your attention. Which dancer would have the first hernia of the contest? Would Thomas Brown of Bermuda . . . manage to pull his toes out of his ears before he hit the floor?”
The syntax, pacing, sound effects and turn of phrase all work to capture both the music, and the loony excesses of the contestants. I doubt I could be chums with someone who doesn’t think this is hilarious.
Ha! I love this, Barry, and I agree the musicality of the syntax and diction is a delight! Thanks so much for sharing this with us all.
I cannot sit still. Brain longing to type—to try.
But eyes heavy under a warm coverlet say the rain, the rain, stay in bed, you see.
November rain is the ice of yesteryear. Even mammoths rise. Reindeer cross the tundra.
But a spate of Writer Unboxeders just as well herd toward the warmth of craft before the next real new moon … and the promise of everything not yet fulfilled.
I cannot sit still. Brain longing to type—to try.
But eyes heavy under a warm coverlet say the rain, the rain, stay in bed, you see.
November rain is the ice of yesteryear. Even mammoths rise. Reindeer cross the tundra.
Just as a spate of Writer Unboxeders herd toward the warmth of craft under the next new moon and the promise of everything not yet fulfilled.
I think the second time it was better.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! I love that mammoths and WUers are mentioned just a few heartbeats apart. Thank you, Susan!
This is wonderful. Thank you!
Ah Sarah, how could I share a sentence, after the brilliance of your post, which is a keeper and is awakening me to writing skills I may have forgotten about. Yet there was Sister Agnes Clare. Seventh grade, hailed from Washington D.C., loved patriotic songs. And every uniformed and often frightened kid would learn grammar, she standing before us, her right hand often supporting her chin. And the diagramming. Yes, over and over, so that sentences became, as we learned, works of art. Each one with its alluring sound, or it poetic arrangement. Again, Sarah, it is early and cold, but your post is a work of art. Thank you.
This beautiful comment is a work of art! I can just imagine Sister Agnes Clare. Did she wear calf-length pleated, plaid wool skirts? And did she smell faintly of mothballs? Just wondering. Thank you, Beth, for every word and image you offered us here.
Awesome post, Sarah! You know I was already a fan of yours, now I’m hooked. LOL.
My go-to book for syntax is The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, and the best way to FEEL syntax is to read out loud. Every once and a while I can be found pacing my library/dining room reading Audrey’s pages out loud while taking notes. Food for the soul.
Hugs,
Dee
Yes, Denise! Gosh, thanks for the reminder of that book. I loved that one too … and isn’t it amazing how reading a favorite author’s work can inspire us? A few weeks ago, at the middle school where I teach, we had the University of Washington marching band come for an assembly. Walking into the theater for the assembly, I felt heavy and weary. Frankly, I was not excited about the sensory overload I knew was in store. But within moments, I was standing, dancing, clapping, hooting. Reading TTTW aloud does something similar. Words stir us to write just as notes stir us to stand up and dance. Thanks for sharing here … and for being you!
Sarah, if you moved to Charleston, you’d love October… it’s summer without the mosquitos (not completely true, as I still have bites on my ankles) but oh so pleasant for long leisurely walks. Even my ancient dog agrees.
Right now, the aloe for my soul (love that phrase) is the Requiem Mass. All those dead and dying. The compositions of Verdi, Mozart, Faure makes me think of syntax. It’s about voice, isn’t it? Yet, the simplest one, the Gregorian chant, is achingly beautiful. It’s what I will ask for when I die. I’ve just begun Deena Metzger’s Writing for Your Life and it is a reminder that the stories we tell matter, that stories have the power to heal, and it’s already happening. Thank you, Sarah, for your lovely voice. Memento mori.
Yes! My daughter started college in Memphis in August, and she says the same thing about her October. More sun, more warmth, more light than a Seattle October for sure.
Thank you, as always, for your beautiful, encouraging words. And I’m with you on the Gregorian chant! Thanks also for the book suggestion. I will check it out! xo!
I love this essay! Thank you for bringing your love of language and sentences alive in a way that brings my love of language and sentences alive too.
So nice, Laura. We are often told that good writers must also be good/willing/enthusiastic/hungry readers. I think when we read others’ stories–many hundreds or thousands of them–we are better able to internalize story structure. And when we read others’ sentences, we internalize a variety of syntax. But I also find that reading others’ work jiggles loose whatever writerly constipation I might be experiencing. Thank YOU for your kind words.
Sarah, your examples are captivating; I can hear their skips and staggers without reading them aloud. Conversely, you’ve reminded me that sentences sometimes need breath mints. But never yours.
I must take exception to you panning October though. October does have many dying sighs, but mooning swoons too. (My birth month = owl-eyed defense.)
Skips and staggers … mooning swoons. That such beautiful diction and word play, Tom.
And I am sorry to be so critical of the month of your birth. You are the exception to the rule. To be honest, I’d feel better about October if October didn’t have Halloween. Halloween makes me feel sad. And as a teacher, I have no choice but to experience the resulting sugar high that runs until Thanksgiving. This doesn’t help.
This is my birth month and you can feel free to tear November to shreds (even though it’s the BEST month). ;) Thanks for being here!
Excellent post. I’ve seen (and probably committed) a lot of boring writing, but I never thought to check for repetition. Provost’s paragraph is a real eye-opener. I work very hard to break my phrases into something resembling drama, but I remember clearly how *bored* I was with sentence diagramming in school. I was already a voracious reader, and I couldn’t see what all these predicates and objects and boxes and lines had to do with anything. I probably should have waited until now to take ninth-grade English.
I laughed out loud at this, Michael. So true.
Perhaps there is one or two 15-year-old boys who has loved sentence diagramming, but I never met any of them. I often remind myself that my middle school students have the brains of prehistorical reptiles (that reminder keeps me patient) and from my time teaching high school, I know that the brain of the typical 15-year-old is not that different. My point? I bet prehistoric reptiles didn’t see much point in putting sentences on horizontal lines then using stubby vertical and 45-degree angled lines to give a visual representation of that sentence. So don’t feel bad.
Thank you for the laugh!
We all take different paths in learning to write but I did enjoy diagramming sentences. It taught me how words cooperate together to create meaning.
Yes! I love the image of words cooperating with one another. And perhaps holding hands. Thank you, Frances!