Avoiding Contractions: A Developmental Step for Young Writers

In this latest addition to Myths We Learn in Grade-School English, I am attempting to debunk the grade-school English myth, “Do not use contractions (like can’t, don’t, and others) in serious writing.” To begin debunking that myth, I explored how canonical essayists like E.B. White and contemporary writers like Barbara Ehrenreich place contractions freely in their writing. (Click here to read that article.)

At this point, an obvious question arises: Why do grade-school and even high-school teachers so often forbid their students from using contractions in their essays? Is there any truth to be found in this myth of grade-school English?

Sure there is. Let’s revisit our friend from past Myths articles, little Bobby, a grade-school student writer. Think about the following sentence, which Bobby composes as part of his essay on his summer trip to Disney World:

My friend Katie says she don’t think she will ever get to go to Disney world. That makes me sad.

Do you see the problem? Some readers—perhaps raised using don’t in this way—might not see it. If we separate don’t into its two component words (do and not) the problem is easy to see:

My friend Katie says she do not think she will ever get to go to Disney World. That makes me sad.

As it is now surely obvious, we see that Bobby should use the phrase, does not—or its contracted form, doesn’t. Bobby’s contraction confusion begins with the fact that he doesn’t think of contractions in terms of the words that make up those contractions. Most likely, he bases his contractions purely on what he has heard from friends, family members, and others in his immediate community, including adults.

And, quite often, adults misuse don’t in spoken conversation. The same people who might say, “Ed don’t have a job” would never say, “Ed do not have a job”—although both represent the same two words, do and not. Those who misuse don’t in spoken conversation do so without thinking about the component words that it represents. When writing, they continue to operate by a usage conditioned by years of spoken conversation.

To address this issue, grade-school educators ask students like Bobby not to use contractions in their writing. This forces students to break down the contraction to its parts. After years of being limited to do not, Bobby will understand that when he writes don’t, he is really writing do not in a contracted form. He will not mistake it for doesn’t, and he will likewise understand that doesn’t breaks down to does not. Little Bobby’s teachers are one-hundred-percent right to forbid contractions at this early point in his development.

Excuses, Excuses!

While grade-school teachers are right to ban contractions from student writing, a problem arises when high-school and college-level instructors forbid the use of contractions. They have their excuses. I recall my freshman-English instructor’s explanation, “Contractions don’t really save space anyway; they are about the same length as the non-contracted expression.”

This is true. The contraction, don’t, after all, is only one space shorter than do not, and the writer might even end up spending more time reaching over to tap the apostrophe key than she would by hitting the space bar between do and not. I would agree with my old Freshman English instructor (and now fellow English educator) in forbidding contractions, if the purpose of placing contractions is efficiency.

The problem, though, is that written contractions have nothing to do with efficiency. They have everything to do with (1) achieving an everyday conversational tone and (2) creating flow and continuity in our writing. Contractions create these human moments in the writing—those moments when even the most eloquent and educated essayist can come down off her high horse to talk heart-to-heart with the reader—to be honest, and not to care about “maintaining a formal tone.” Sometimes, “maintaining a formal tone” is the very opposite of what is needed in persuasive writing. Sometimes, we should drop our defenses and let the reader in. In these moments, we should create the sense that we have stopped breaking down every word into clean, separated parts of speech, and we should let those words flow together, as we express our dreams, burdens, and beliefs.

The passage below, from Maya Angelou’s essay, “Graduation,” is an example of such informal, honest moments. Here, Angelou recalls the story of her graduation: an event that should have been a positive milestone in her life–but one that turned out to be a shocking lesson in segregation for the young Angelou and for the other black graduates. When penning these words, Angelou was right to employ contractions. As you read, you might also consider other ways that Angelou creates an honest, passionate tone:

There was shuffling and rustling around me, then Henry Reed was giving his valedictory address, “To Be or Not to Be.” Hadn’t he heard the whitefolks? We couldn’t be, so the question was a waste of time. Henry’s voice came out clear and strong. I feared to look at him. Hadn’t he got the message? There was no “nobler in the mind” for Negroes because the world didn’t think we had minds, and they let us know it. “Outrageous fortune”? Now, that was a joke. When the ceremony was over I had to tell Henry Reed some things. That is, if I still cared. Not “rub,” Henry, “erase.” “Ah, there’s the erase.” Us.

Imagine how much force the passage above would lose if Angelou wrote, “Had he not heard the whitefolks?” or “Had he not gotten the message?” We would not buy into the honesty of this writing, and the sheer desperation of the words would be erased. Using contractions in this way sends a message to our readers. It says, “I don’t really care about maintaining a formal tone at the moment. I’m expressing my passion and outrage just as I would express them if speaking (or shouting) in the heat of that moment. I’m being honest with you, dear reader, and what I’m saying here is very close to my heart. Pay attention.”

And, yes, these informal moments cause readers to pay attention. When we normally maintain a formal tone, these moments of informality emphasize key points—and, more specifically, points that the writer feels strongly about. These points let the reader know where the writer is invested–emotionally as well as intellectually.

Sometimes, a writer can create this tone consciously, but in my experience good writers simply follow their feelings. When they feel themselves slip into a passionate rant or lament, they just let it happen, and the contractions and other informal writing elements just flow naturally. For the experienced writer, the computer keyboard becomes a piano, and like the trained pianist, the writer just flows and writes. The piece will contain soft melodies, where the pianist’s fingers pitter-patter playfully across the keys; it will showcase high classical grandioso movements, where the pianist exhibits mastery over classical conventions; and the piece will thunder with crashing crescendos to create surprise, shock, and emotion. Like a trained pianist, the experienced writer crafts each part accordingly—but she lets some parts craft themselves. In the same way that a great pianist can simply let go and create a thunderstorm of sounds, so too can a writer let go of that formal, defensive tone and unleash a thunderstorm of assertions, exclamations, and lamentations for her readers.

“But my students aren’t Maya Angelou,” some instructors might say.

How dare we pass such judgments on our students! We never know when another Maya Angelou is sitting there in our classroom, waiting for that one mentor who will recognize her gifts and who will believe in her as a writer. If we are teaching at the college or high-school level, we should believe in our students by teaching them not only how to compose formal essays, but also how to be artists—to show them that there is a bigger, better world of writing beyond the undergraduate-level research paper. We teach them that these essays by Martin Luther King, Jr. and Maya Angelou represent the pinnacle of effective writing, yet we are so quick to turn around and advise, “But avoid contractions like those in your writing—those are just for great writers.” How often do we stop to think that the only way to be a great writer is to practice being a great writer? How often, after discussing an anthologized essay, do we look at our students and say, “If you practice, you might just be able to produce work like this”? Not nearly enough.

Well, there I go again: preaching writing instead of teaching it. Whether I’ve been preaching or teaching, I hope that I have shattered this myth for you. Well placed contractions are the conventions of great writers, and if we want to be great writers, we should at least know how to use them.

Next Up: The Granddaddy of All Grade-School English Myths: The Five-Paragraph Essay

As part of learning writing, many young students must learn to write a particular form of essay called the five-paragraph essay. While this five-paragraph form is a valuable stepping stone to developing true essays, its continued practice in high school and college (and beyond) hinders effective writing. Many students come away from grade-school (and even high-school!) English classes thinking that the five-paragraph essay is the only correct form of essay writing. Having been accustomed to think that all essays must end after five paragraphs, many new college students cannot even imagine an essay of five pages (a standard “short” essay length in undergraduate-level writing).

And paper length isn’t even the biggest problem I have with the five-paragraph essay. The real issue, in my experience, is that the five-paragraph essay teaches a set of conventions, and attempting to follow those conventions will destroy an otherwise effective, moving essay.

The upcoming articles in this Myths series will explore these conventions of the five-paragraph essay, committing one article to each convention. Want to see this myth busted? Stay tuned!

Works Cited

Angelou, Maya. “Graduation.” 50 Essays: A Portable Anthology. Second Edition. Ed. Samuel Cohen. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2007. 16-28. Print.

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

Myths We Learn in Grade-School English: “Don’t–Um . . . DO NOT Use Contractions in Formal Writing.”

I am teaching my morning section of English Composition I. Today we are talking about the myths of grade-school English and how they often hinder otherwise effective, moving prose.

Just as we are about to start discussing how students can–and should–feel free to begin sentences with because, Katie–a hardworking front-row student–timidly raises her hand.

“Yes, Katie,” I acknowledge, “What’s on your mind?”

“Well, I know the answer is probably ‘No’ . . . but will you let us use words like can’t or don’t in our writing?”

“Sure,” I respond, much to Katie’s surprise, “I don’t mind if you use those words–which we call contractions, by the way. In fact, you should use them; most effective writers do.”

I pause before asking a question of my own,

“Just out of curiosity, Katie, why don’t you think that you can use contractions in your writing?”

“My high-school teachers told me not to,” Katie replies.

“Why? Do you remember their reasoning?”

“Yeah, they said that it’s too informal for serious writing.”

Sigh–If only I had one dollar for every time I’ve held this conversation with students . . . I’d have . . . hmm, let me see . . . well, let’s just say I’d have enough money to retire from the teaching business in style. (Don’t worry–I wouldn’t really retire!)

If It’s Good Enough for Ehrenreich (and White, and Angelou, and Shakespeare . . .)

This conversation has led me to ask myself (and other English educators) ongoing questions about this outlandish myth of grade-school English. After all, what’s wrong with putting two words together and using the proper punctuation to show the contracted form? Spell check doesn’t seem to think it’s a problem–and neither does award-winning journalist and author, Barbara Ehrenreich, who–when describing the unfortunate situations of many working-class Americans–writes,

Managers can sit–for hours at a time if they want–but it’s their job to see that no one else ever does, even when there’s nothing to do, and this is why, for servers, slow times can be as exhausting as rushes.

Notice that Ehrenreich employs two contractions in that one sentence. I should also mention that Ehrenreich’s essay is chock-full of contractions–and for good reason. The contraction is one element, among many, that makes her writing moving and relatable.

And Ehrenreich is not alone. As I thumb through the pages of the essay anthology I use with my Freshman Composition students, I see the best essayists placing contractions regularly. Consider, for example, the writing of Judith Ortiz Cofer, who–in her essay entitled, “The Myth of the Latin Woman: I Just Met a Girl Named Maria”–writes of her experiences as a Latina growing up and living in America:

I still experience a vague sense of letdown when I’m invited to a “party” and it turns out to be a marathon conversation in hushed tones rather than a fiesta with salsa, laughter, and dancing–the kind of celebration I remember from my childhood.

Two pages later, Cofer places another contraction:

The line I first heard based on this aspect of the myth happened when the boy who took me to my first formal dance leaned over to plant a sloppy overeager kiss painfully on my mouth, and when I didn’t respond with sufficient passion said in a resentful tone: “I thought you Latin girls were supposed to mature early” –my first instance of being thought of as a fruit or vegetable–I was supposed to ripen, not just grow into womanhood like other girls.

There are other instances still where Cofer places contractions in this relatively short essay. Apparently, the best essayists feel perfectly free to use contractions.

“Then again,” some readers might argue, “using contractions in essay writing is a relatively new convention. While contemporary writers like Cofer and Ehrenreich use contractions, many of the educators who forbid contractions are doing so because the essays that they had read in school did not include contractions. Such formal educators are just sticking with what they know. If you look back–say, to 1960–you won’t find contractions in essays.”

Not true. As I continue to thumb through this same essay anthology, I see–for example–E.B. White’s classic essay, “Once More to the Lake,” published in 1941. This is the same E.B. White who co-authored The Elements of Style, now considered by many English educators to be excessively formal and proscriptive. Would E.B. White–writing in 1941, and so often accused (and I think wrongly) of being a “staunch grammarian”–employ contractions in his writing?

Apparently so. Look at this passage, drawn from “Once More to the Lake”:

But although it wasn’t wild, it was a fairly large and undisturbed lake and there were places in it that, to a child at least, seemed infinitely remote and primeval.

And then, two pages later, White writes,

This was the American family at play, escaping the city heat, wondering whether the newcomers in the camp at the head of the cove were “common” or “nice,” wondering whether it was true that the people who drove up for Sunday dinner at the farmhouse were turned away because there wasn’t enough chicken.

And again, on the next page, White “commits” yet another contraction:

Motorboats in those days didn’t have clutches, and you would make a landing by shutting off the motor at the proper time and coasting in with a dead rudder.

Do we still need evidence from more essayists? Consider the following passage, from Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” which King penned in 1963:

In your statement you assert that our actions, even though peaceful, must be condemned because they precipitate violence. But is this a logical assertion? Isn’t this like condemning a robbed man because his possession of money precipitated the evil act of robbery? Isn’t this like condemning Socrates because his unswerving commitment to truth and his philosophical inquiries precipitated the act by the misguided populace in which they made him drink hemlock? Isn’t this like condemning Jesus because his unique God-consciousness and never-ceasing devotion to God’s will precipitated the evil act of crucifixion?

There we have it: three contractions in the same paragraph–and in 1963: a year when even the oldest English teachers among us would have been in high school! And there they are, for all to see: three unapologetic contractions.

One last example to consider is Maya Angelou’s essay, “Graduation,” published in 1969. Think about this passage:

There was shuffling and rustling around me, then Henry Reed was giving his valedictory address, “To Be or Not to Be.” Hadn’t he heard the whitefolks? We couldn’t be, so the question was a waste of time. Henry’s voice came out clear and strong. I feared to look at him. Hadn’t he got the message? There was no “nobler in the mind” for Negroes because the world didn’t think we had minds, and they let us know it. “Outrageous fortune”? Now, that was a joke. When the ceremony was over I had to tell Henry Reed some things. That is, if I still cared. Not “rub,” Henry, “erase.” “Ah, there’s the erase.” Us.

The paragraph above contains five contractions. Think about it: five contractions–in one paragraph!–and in an essay that seemingly countless English Educators display to their students as the pinnacle of effective essay writing, one reason that it is so often included in essay readers and anthologies. (Note: I counted 22 contractions in “Graduation”–only two of which Angelou included in quoted language.)

You might have also noticed that Angelou’s final contraction in the passage above was not originally her contraction, but that of William Shakespeare, drawn from Hamlet’s oft-quoted soliloquy:

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life; (III. i.65-69)

The Gentle Poet’s passage here “must give us pause,” when we consider whether the contraction is an acceptable convention of written English.

Next Up: Why Do English Teachers So Often Forbid Contractions in Student Writing?

So, here is a host of English teachers, who, in attempts to show students “examples of effective, convincing prose,” assign essays like “Graduation,” “Once More to the Lake,” and”Letter from Birmingham Jail” (essays that employ contractions aplenty), yet those same educators tell their students, “Do not use contractions in your essays. The contraction is not an acceptable convention of formal prose.” Are those English teachers sending a mixed message to their students? I think so.

That said, is there any truth in this myth?–Are educators right to forbid their students from employing contractions in their formal prose? My next article answers these questions.

Here’s the link:

Works Cited

Angelou, Maya. “Graduation.” 50 Essays: A Portable Anthology. Second Edition. Ed. Samuel Cohen. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2007. 16-28. Print.

Cofer, Judith Ortiz. “The Myth of the Latin Woman: I Just Met a Girl Named Maria.” 50 Essays: A Portable Anthology. Second Edition. Ed. Samuel Cohen. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2007. 112-18. Print.

Ehrenreich, Barbara. “Serving in Florida.” 50 Essays: A Portable Anthology. Second Edition. Ed. Samuel Cohen. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2007. 151-59. Print.

King, Martin Luther. “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” 50 Essays: A Portable Anthology. Second Edition. Ed. Samuel Cohen. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2007. 220-37. Print.

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Revised Edition. Eds. Hardin Craig and David Bevington. Glenview: Scott, Foresman and Company, 1973. 899-943. Print.

White, E.B. “Once More to the Lake.” 50 Essays: A Portable Anthology. Second Edition. Ed. Samuel Cohen. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2007. 450-56. Print.

Note for Further Reading: 50 Essays

I mentioned that I drew these essays from the essay anthology that I use with my freshman English students. That anthology, which appears several times in the “Works Cited” section above, is 50 Essays: A Portable Anthology. 50 Essays is an excellent collection, and I recommend it to anyone looking to explore examples of effective, moving essays.

Here is a link to the Amazon.com page for 50 Essays:

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

Fragments Myth–Conclusion: The Fragment Rule of Thumb

The Fragment Rule of Thumb: If You’re Not Sure, Don’t Do It.

Are you still haunted by past teachers’ red-font comment, FRAGMENT! littering the margins of your essays and writing projects? Are you so haunted that you cannot muster the courage to write stylistic fragments when you compose, perhaps in formal writing situations like college essays or letters to influential individuals? What should you do if you still feel shaky with stylistic fragments?

Simple: stick with what feels comfortable. Just as there is no rule stating that you can never use fragments, there is also no rule stating that you must use them. The stylistic fragment is a helpful tool, to be sure, but it is not a requirement for good writing. With time and experience, you will grow into your own writing style, and you will also develop a stronger sense of your readers. As you develop, your confidence will grow, and you will feel more comfortable using occasional stylistic fragments. Until then, stick with what you know. The art of writing is a lifetime endeavor; there’s no need to rush it.

Still, I hope that this exploration of fragments has helped you on your way.

Next Up: The Next Myth: “Don’t . . . Do Not Use Contractions In Formal Writing.”

Now that we are finished exploring the myth of the sentence fragment, we will tackle our next myth of Grade-School English. Here’s the myth: “Do not use contractions–like don’t, can’t, we’re, etc.–in formal writing.” Want to see this myth busted? Read on, dear reader, read on! Here’s the link:

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

A Word on Fragments, Interjections, and Questions

In this installment of Myths We Learn in Grade-School English, we have been exploring deliberate stylistic fragments: fragments that writers knowingly use for creating desired rhetorical effects. In exploring stylistic fragments, I am attempting to debunk the grade-school writing myth, “Never use sentence fragments in writing.”

Interjections–How Useful!

Stylistic fragments take many forms. Sometimes even a single word can hold the place of a complete sentence. One example is an interjection—a word (or phrase) that expresses an exclamatory idea. Although grammarians do not consider the interjection to be a true fragment, it is like the fragment in the sense that it does not express a full statement. With that similarity in mind, treat interjections like stylistic fragments: use them when appropriate–and don’t overuse them. (Like stylistic fragments, interjections gain force from their rarity.) Interjections are usually punctuated with an exclamation point.

Here are some examples of interjections:

A student told me that effective writing cannot contain fragments. Nonsense!

Enough already! Let’s move on to the comma articles!

Questions, Anyone?

Writers sometimes pose questions in fragmented form: the complete question is not asked, but is completed by the context of the sentence or question that precedes it. Doing this is perfectly permissible, so long as the fragmented questions follow with the original question or sentence. Usually, these questions are tentatively proposed answers to a preceding question. I call these specialized questions “fragment questions” (although the Grammar Gods may have other names for them).

Still confused? Here is an example of fragment questions:

When should writers take on a conversational tone? E-mails? Essays? Letters to political leaders?

I have seen many an effective writer pose fragment questions like the ones above—that is, with capital letters at the beginning of each new question. However, in The New Well-Tempered Sentence, Karen Elizabeth Gordon advises,

You may come upon a question mark in the most intimate places—midsentence, for instance, and with others of its kind, ganging up on some innocent situation and interrogating it to death. Sprinkling question marks so liberally within a sentence, with no capital letters to make you think you’ve left it, emphasizes or mimics the thought process where such a series is appropriate.

Here is one example Gordon gives to show this use of fragment questions. Notice that, when beginning a new question, the writer capitalizes the first word of that full question. However, she does not capitalize the suggested questions that follow the original question:

Do you love me truly? madly? deeply? Can you live without me? happily? despondently? just barely? Are we engaged? enamored? crushed? acquainted? Will you go to the ends of the earth with me? to the ball? to the mall?

I have noticed one difference between Gordon’s example and mine. In my example the first suggested answer is not within the first sentence. So, each suggestive question that follows begins as a new proposal—a new sentence—to answer that first question. In Gordon’s example, the first suggestion (“truly”) is within the original question. The suggestions that follow are part of that original sentence, so the question marks actually occur mid-sentence. (You might think of them as replacing the commas that normally separate items in a list.) Do you see the difference? Does it help you? inspire you? confuse you? annoy you?

With this difference in mind, choose the method that works best for your purpose and style.

Next Up: Fragment Myth, Concluded

Well, it’s time to conclude our exploration of the sentence fragment myth. In doing so, I have one more point to make about the placement of deliberate stylistic fragments. Want to know what it is? (Of course you do!) Click the link below to find out:

Works Cited

Gordon, Karen Elizabeth. The New Well-Tempered Sentence: A Punctuation Handbook for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed. New York: Mariner Books, 1993.

Gordon’s book (cited above) is a great resource for writers to reference for punctuation techniques. Here’s a link to the Amazon.com page for The New Well-Tempered Sentence:

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

Stylistic Fragments at Their Best: Maya Angelou

In the previous article on Myths We Learn in Grade-School English, we looked at how American writer E.B. White used stylistic fragments in his prose. Now let’s look to the work of a contemporary writer to see other ways that stylistic fragments serve the purposes of effective writing. (Note: A contemporary writer is one who is alive and writing today.) I present to you the work of celebrated writer, poet, civil rights leader, and educator–Maya Angelou.

(To see her seemingly endless list of accomplishments as a writer and intellectual, click here to visit Maya Angelou’s official website.)

In her autobiographical essay, “Graduation” (from her autobiography, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings), Angelou recalls her graduation from the segregated school system of her childhood. In the passage below, the black principal of the school introduces the graduation speaker—a condescending white man whose address to the black graduating class is essentially for them to know their place in society as blacks. Here is the passage, with the stylistic fragment marked in bold:

[The principal] was talking about Booker T. Washington, our “late great leader,” who said we can be as close as the fingers on the hand, etc. . . . Then he said a few vague things about friendship and the friendship of kindly people to those less fortunate than themselves. With that his voice nearly faded, thin, away. Like a river diminishing to a stream and then to a trickle. But he cleared his throat and said, “Our speaker tonight, who is also our friend, came from Texarkana to deliver the commencement address, but due to the irregularity of the train schedule, he’s going to, as they say, ‘speak and run.’” He said that we understood and wanted the man to know that we were most grateful for the time he was able to give us and then something about how we were willing always to adjust to another’s program, and without more ado—“I give you Mr. Edward Donleavy.”

Angelou’s fragment describes how the principal’s voice is “diminishing to a stream and then to a trickle.” Consider how the fragment, itself, “diminish[es] to a stream and then to a trickle.” Angelou’s sentence structure reflects its content: the diminishing language of Angelou’s fragment reflects the diminishing voice of the principal. As we saw in E.B. White’s work–and now in Angelou’s prose–great writers know how to make their content (what they say) and style (how they say it) align as one.

Three pages later, Angelou places another stylistic fragment:

The ugliness [the white guests] left was palpable. An uninvited guest who wouldn’t leave. The choir was summoned and sang a modern arrangement of “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” with new words pertaining to graduates seeking their place in the world. But it didn’t work. Elouise, the daughter of the Baptist minister, recited “Invictus,” and I could have cried at the impertinence of “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”

Why might this second fragment stand out from the rest of the passage? Think about what the fragment expresses: the notion of an outsider–an uninvited guest. The “ugliness” of the white speaker’s words to the black graduating class lingers on, refusing to leave. The scene is awkward, to say the least, as the audience makes feeble attempts to continue with the ceremony after being degraded and demoralized. What better language to express this awkward, alien feeling than an awkward, normally inappropriate sentence—a fragment? This is the stylistic fragment at its best.

Next Up: Other Forms of the Stylistic Fragment

There are yet more ways to employ stylistic fragments in our writing. The next article explores those options by looking at fragments, interjections, and questions. Want to add more tools to your writer’s toolbox? Read on by clicking the link below.

Works Cited

Angelou, Maya. “Graduation.” The Blair Reader. Eds. Laurie G. Kirszner and Stephen R. Mandell. 3rd ed. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1999. 90-100.

(Note: Although commonly anthologized as a stand-alone essay, “Graduation” is part of Angelou’s larger autobiography, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.) Here is a link to the book’s Amazon.com page:

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

How Writers Use Stylistic Fragments–Example: E.B. White

Now that we have discussed the hard-and-fast rules behind sentence fragments, it’s time to look at ways writers break the rules by using stylistic fragments. Consider the passage below, taken from E.B. White’s classic essay, “Once More to the Lake.” In the passage below, the celebrated American author reflects on the passage of time and its powerlessness to diminish the permanence of memory. (You may know E.B. White from his popular children’s book, Charlotte’s Web, which was later adapted into an animated film. Not coincidentally, “Once More to the Lake” and Charlotte’s Web both touch on the themes of death and the passing of identity and values from one generation to the next.)

Notice that White begins the paragraph with neatly ordered complete sentences, but goes on to write the second half of the paragraph exclusively in fragments:

One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene, still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar, the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In midafternoon (it was all the same) a curious darkening of the sky, and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter, and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum, then the snare, then the bass drum and cymbals, then crackling light against the dark, and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.

Did you notice the fragments? You may have missed some of them, due to their length. Contrary to popular perceptions, many fragments are long—just as long as complete sentences. Notice what sets these fragments apart from sentences: these fragments do not form complete statements—at least, not in a grammatical sense.

For your convenience, here is the passage, with stylistic fragments set apart in colored font. Also, I alternate between blue and green so that each fragment stands out from the next:

One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene, still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar, the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In midafternoon (it was all the same) a curious darkening of the sky, and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter, and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum, then the snare, then the bass drum and cymbals, then crackling light against the dark, and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.

Look at each underlined fragment. If you isolate any one of those fragments and read it aloud, out of the context of White’s narrative, it makes no sense as a statement.

By the way, this is the same author who, in his handbook on writing, The Elements of Style, advises:

Do not break sentences in two.

In other words, do not use periods for commas.

I met them on a Cunard liner many years ago. Coming home from Liverpool to New York.

He was an interesting talker. A man who had traveled all over the world and lived in half a dozen countries.

In both these examples, the first period should be replaced by a comma and the following word begun with a small letter.

What is going on here? Why does White violate his own rule?

Let’s read on. White continues:

It is permissible to make an emphatic word or expression serve the purpose of a sentence and to punctuate it accordingly:

Again and again he called out. No reply.

The writer must, however, be certain that the emphasis is warranted, lest his clipped sentence seem merely a blunder in syntax or in punctuation. Generally speaking, the place for broken sentences is in dialogue, when a character happens to speak in a clipped or fragmentary way.

So, do the fragments in White’s thunderstorm narrative “make an emphatic word or expression serve the purpose of a sentence”? I think so. Notice how the sentence fragments create a fitting sense of urgency, followed by an equally fitting sense of relief, as White relates his memories of the thunderstorm. Notice as well that there is a parallel structure at work within these fragments—which makes them seem to be part of a natural, flowing continuum. The fragments begin with phrases containing the article, the, accompanied by transition words like and, then, and afterward:

“and then the way the boats . . .”

“Then the kettle drum . . .”

“Afterward the calm . . .”

“And the comedian . . .”

These fragments exhibit a dreamlike quality that stands out from the rest of White’s prose—as if, when recalling the power of thunderstorms, White slips away from consciously crafted sentences, and into euphoric musings that cannot be contained or described as complete, controlled statements. The writer here creates the illusion that he has lost his composure in the face of nature’s overpowering scale and force. (I use the term illusion with full intention; in reality, White has not lost one iota of his composure, but has crafted these sentences with masterful precision and care.)

Notice also that White creates a subtle transition from complete sentences to stylistic fragments—yet another sign of well-handled fragments. He begins with five full sentences before launching into the series of stylistic fragments that make up the remainder of the paragraph. The fifth sentence—the last complete, non-fragment sentence—has two parts: an independent clause, followed by a dependent clause. That dependent clause establishes that the pattern seen in the fragments that follow. By crafting this two-part, sentence-then-clause sentence, White eases the reader from complete, grammatical sentences to spontaneous stylistic fragments. In this way, the writing begins with controlled, conventional prose (that is, complete sentences), and progresses into a style that expresses unpredictability and spontaneity—chaos.

Why?

Because that chaos and unpredictability is exactly the content White is expressing—a thunderstorm. Thunderstorms are unpredictable, and they often sneak up on us with no warning, even on the most blue-skied summer days. The thunder and the lightening are sudden–and startling. Here is unbridled nature: an overpowering, uncontrollable force that reminds us of our minuscule place on this turning, churning, heaving planet. What better way to show our lack of control in the face of such natural phenomena than to speak in fragments—to stutter and hesitate in awe of nature’s terrible majesty? I, for one, think White considered these points when he crafted those fragments.

For these reasons, and many more, White’s fragments qualify as stylistic fragments: the kinds of fragments that we can—and should—employ in our writing.

Next Up: Maya Angelou

In analyzing E.B. White’s prose, we have examined how one canonical writer uses stylistic fragments. Still, E.B. White is only one writer among many. Just to be safe, let’s look at the writing of one more author to see how advanced writers employ stylistic fragments: fragments with a point.

The next article will explore the writing of essayist, novelist, poet, and autobiographer, Maya Angelou. Here’s the link:

Works Cited

Strunk, William and E.B. White. The Elements of Style. 3rd ed. New York: Macmillan, 1979.

White, E.B. “Once More to the Lake.” The Blair Reader. Eds. Laurie G. Kirszner and Stephen R. Mandell. 3rd ed. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1999. 23-29.

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

Myths We Learn in Grade-School English: “Never Write Sentence Fragments.”

Here is the next myth of grade-school English that I hope to bust:

“Never write sentence fragments. You must always write complete sentences.”

Although it is a good general practice, the rule that good writers should never write sentence fragments is a myth. In fact, the best writers use occasional fragments in their prose—deliberately.

Be careful though. Ninety-nine percent of your writing (or more) should take the form of complete sentences. Knowing when to use a stylistic fragment is an advanced writing technique. While there are no hard-and-fast rules that determine when a fragment is stylistically appropriate, I will share some general guidelines and examples in this latest installment of Myths We Learn in Grade-School English.

Are you curious about other myths of grade-school English? If so, you might consider linking to these previous Myths article series:

What is a Sentence Fragment?

A sentence fragment (or fragment, for short) is a non-sentence written as a sentence. A fragment can be a word, a phrase, or a clause. Fragments can even include many clauses. Think of a fragment simply as a group of words that does not express a complete statement or claim, but that is written as a sentence since it begins with a capital letter and concludes with end punctuation.

Here are some examples of fragments. Notice that if you read them aloud, they make no sense as sentences. They do not express a full statement or claim; they are just word constructions.

Example Fragments:

  1. Room. (one-word fragment)
  2. Into the room. (phrase fragment)
  3. Because the teacher walked into the room. (clause fragment)

Clause fragments are the most difficult fragments to spot because they are long enough to look like sentences. For this reason, most of the fragment errors I encounter in student writing are clause fragments. I recall a rule that I share with my students: Length—or, more precisely, its lack—does not indicate a fragment. Many fragments are quite long, while many complete sentences are quite short. All we can do, then, is to read the would-be sentence and to see if it makes sense as a complete utterance or statement.

Notice the third sentence fragment in the list above: “Because the teacher walked into the room.” This clause is not complete in itself, but that I can make it complete by adding a sentence (or independent clause) to that dependent clause:

Because the teacher walked into the room, the students suddenly stopped chatting.

I can also reverse the order:

The students suddenly stopped chatting because the teacher walked into the room.

Whatever order we choose, this clause fragment needed a completing clause to form a complete sentence. Whether it comes before or after the clause, a full sentence part is necessary for the would-be sentence to be a true sentence.

Here are other examples. Notice that each clause fragment below gains its completion only when attached to a complete sentence. I have underlined the complete sentence (or independent clause) parts, for visual emphasis.

Fragment 1: When I write about composition.

Sentence 1: I am at my best when I write about composition.

Fragment 2: Balancing with perfect finesse.

Sentence 2: Balancing with perfect finesse, the cat slinked along the top of the fence.

Fragment 3: Although you should generally avoid fragments.

Sentence 3: Although you should generally avoid fragments, occasional stylistic fragments are allowable, since they add spice and spontaneity to otherwise dull, predictable writing.

Do you see how that works? To fix most fragments, simply add a complete-sentence part to the incomplete clause fragment. Oftentimes, you can add the completing sentence before the clause, but you can also add the sentence after the clause. Once a fragment is written as part of a sentence, it is no longer an error. Think about the word, fragment. It simply means part or piece. With that in mind, make sure to write a fragment as that—a fragment, a part or piece of a larger sentence. Do not write it as a complete sentence in itself. It is an “add-on” for a complete sentence.

Well, that is true for most cases. But what if you sense that a fragment serves the purpose of style? Or, what if you intend a conversational, everyday tone, and a fragment achieves that effect? What if you are tying to mimic human thought—which often occurs not in sentences, but in fragments? These special fragments are called stylistic fragments or deliberate fragments, and they are irreplaceable writing techniques.

Stylistic Fragments: Why Most Teachers Don’t Discuss Them

A stylistic fragment (also called a deliberate fragment), is the deliberate use of a fragment to achieve a stylistic purpose. The best rule for knowing when to use stylistic fragments is to develop a sense of your audience. Extremely formal writing (like a lab report or a statistics research paper) is often directed at a professional or academic audience, and the writing serves the purpose of transmitting information to that specialized, no-nonsense audience. Given the audience and purpose in such cases, I suggest sticking with full statements and avoiding stylistic fragments. There is a time to sound official and to tone down the conversational or everyday style.

That said, other formal-writing forms (like persuasive essays or personal response papers) still aim to achieve a natural or conversational tone, even as they maintain a (mostly) formal tone. These are formal essays, yes, but they are not so formal that they cannot have these personal, human moments–moments that move the reader emotionally as well as intellectually. In these writing situations, we should still hold to the general practice of writing fully expressed sentences, but the occasional stylistic fragment–when placed with taste and intention–enhances the effects of the writing.

Still, many teachers—especially those trying to introduce students to formal academic writing—advise their students never to aim for a conversational style. Yet we know that those very same teachers do not go home and read only formal writing, and that they must surely write in the conversational tone when they compose e-mails to their friends and pen letters to their loved ones. What is going on, then? Why would educators teach one thing, yet practice the opposite?

Simple: They are pushing new, inexperienced writers to break the habit of writing exclusively in conversational styles. Getting that practice across to students who tend to write in conversational styles often requires imposing some tight rules for classroom writing. Although I think many teachers should include a brief disclaimer that there are cases in which conversational styles are appropriate (and even preferable), such educators are right to require formal writing of their students.

Such teachers are also encouraging their students to write with clarity. Most grade-school and middle-school students do not write fragments to achieve stylistic effects. No, such young writers use fragments because they don’t yet understand what a sentence is. As an educator, I have a rule of thumb that I follow when teaching students the rules of grammar and basic mechanics: First, teach the rule and make students follow it, and only after a student has internalized that rule and its purpose, then teach the student how to break the rule for the sake of style. Think about it: to best break the rules, the writer must first know the rules.

Next Up: How Advanced Writers Use Stylistic Fragments—Example: E.B. White

If stylistic fragments are useful writing techniques, how do advanced writers use these fragments in their prose? In the next article, we will look to the writing of E.B. White to see how advanced writers employ stylistic fragments in their craft.

A widely read American essayist, White also authored the renowned children’s novel Charlotte’s Web (later adapted into the equally popular animated film). White edited and effectively co-authored a guide to grammar and style entitled, The Elements of Style—a manual that many composition instructors today consider outdated for its hard-nosed adherence to grammatical do’s and don’ts.

At this point, you might be wondering, “So E.B. White—this hard-nosed grammarian—wrote stylistic fragments?” That’s right—and he wrote quite a few of them, too. . . .

Want to learn more? Read on! Here’s the link:

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

Are There Times to Avoid “You” Completely?

We have looked at how the generalized you can hurt our writing, and how in many writing situations the literal you is unavoidable–and even preferred. There’s no way around it: sometimes we just have to talk to our readers.

But are there times when we should not address readers directly? Are there writing forms or situations where addressing the reader as you should always be avoided?

Well, I do not like thinking in terms of always. That said, we should avoid addressing the reader directly when doing so is unnecessary or excessive. One example is scientific writing, where the purpose is to express the data and findings from research, and not to speak to the reader directly. When writers address their readers as you, they are seeking to pull their readers into the discussion—perhaps inviting readers to access their own memories and to use those life experiences as touchstones for understanding the points made in the writing. This is effective when trying to convince an audience of a position on a controversy or debate. (That’s called “persuasive writing.”) It’s also productive, as I mentioned earlier, in expository or explanatory writing, where the goal is to make the reader understand some concept, process, or practice. These are reader-focused forms of writing, so addressing the reader within those forms is helpful and necessary.

If the focus is the information itself, there is often a specialized audience. If a biologist writes a paper on the formation of DNA from RNA, the audience will be made up largely of other biologists. The writer, in a sense, knows who the you is (a circle of specialists within the scientific community), so the people understood to be you never need to be mentioned. The goal is to express as much of the data as possible, as efficiently as possible. Simply put, scientific writing is not about you; it’s about the findings. The same is true for statistical research, mathematical research, and any writing in which new research is presented to a specialized academic audience.¹

Still, I would like to see even this change. Writers—before they are columnists, political writers, scientists, or mathematicians—are people, with all the everyday tendencies and practices that most humans share within a given culture. I think that the best writers are those who can stay on point, while infusing their prose with passion and personality. Very few people–scholars and scientists included–enjoy reading streams of data in the form of sentences. They may enjoy the ideas transmitted by the writing, but that doesn’t mean that they enjoy the writing. At the end of the day, all of us prefer to read writing that keeps it real.

My point in writing these articles is not to have you use the pronoun you in every sentence or essay that you compose. My goal, dear reader, is to counter the pseudo-rule that we should never use the pronoun you in serious writing. Those who try to follow that rule will struggle to write, and even after that struggle, their writing will be unnatural and pretentious—and consequently, ineffective.

Still, You Know What They Say about Too Much of a Good Thing. . . .

One final warning: Although I do hope that you feel free to use the literal you in your writing, dear reader, be careful not to overuse it. (Remember what they say about too much of a good thing?) There comes a point where addressing the reader excessively shifts too much focus onto the reader and away from the subject matter.

But how much is too much? As much as I’d like to do so, I cannot give you any clear-cut maximum frequency for addressing the reader with the pronoun, you. It varies according to the writing situation, the audience, and the discipline in which the writer composes. Some forms, like letters and e-mails, will involve many instances of the pronoun, you. Others, like college essays on Shakespeare’s sonnets, will involve very few (if any) cases where the writer needs to address the reader. The frequency of you will also vary according to your own personality as a writer. There are many considerations in deciding these word choices.

The best advice I can give you is to be aware of your purpose for the writing. Does addressing the reader help achieve that purpose? If so, you will probably end up using you with some frequency. If using you does not lend itself to the purpose of your writing, then why use it? I think that this is a good rule of thumb for knowing when (and when not) to address the reader.

Next up: Sentence Fragments

Next up in our exploration of grade-school English myths: “Never write sentence fragments.” Here is a link to that article:

Notes:

Neil deGrasse Tyson: a scientific writer who wins readers over with a passionate, readable style

  1. Some writing—like that of celebrated astrophysicist and spokesperson for science, Neil deGrasse Tyson—is intended to share the worlds of science with the general public. Such writers address their readers quite frequently. Although it concerns science in a general sense, this form of writing is not what I mean when I say, “scientific writing.” (If you need an example of an effective writer, look no further than Neil deGrasse Tyson’s essays and books. While a book on astrophysics may not be the first place you go for an entertaining read, trust me when I say that Tyson’s writing will change that perspective. He is an equally effective public speaker, and you can access many of his talks on sites like YouTube.)

Click here to visit Neil deGrasse Tyson’s website.

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

The Pronoun, “We”: A Useful Alternative to “You”

There is one other replacement for the generalized or literal you that works well: the pronoun, we. I like this pronoun because it does not impose on the reader, but at the same time, it invites the reader to join in—to be part of the we.

Here’s an example from spoken conversation. Imagine that my friend Dave and I are going to eat some Korean food. (Yum!) I call my friend Justin to see if he would care to join us.

I say to Justin, “Hey, we are going to get some Korean food.”

Now, am I saying that Dave and I are going to get Korean food, or am I saying that all three of us are going? It depends on how Justin interprets the pronoun, we. It is both inclusive and exclusive. Justin might choose to be part of the we, but if Justin chooses not to join us, Dave and I act as the only representatives of the pronoun, we.

The writing situation is the same. Using the pronoun we invites readers without forcing them to join. If I write, “We should aim to achieve desired effects in our prose,” I am not saying that the reader must be part of that we group. At the same time, I am not excluding the reader from that group. When I say we, I am referring to myself–but also to others who follow these practices. I invite the reader to join us.

Now, if I write the sentence with the generalized you or even the literal you, I am forcing the reader’s participation, since the pronoun you points only to the reader. Here’s the sentence, rewritten with the pronoun you; note the change in tone: “When you write, you should aim to achieve desired effects on your readers.” In some cases, this forceful tone might be my intention, especially if I am writing for those who value me as an authority on writing and rhetoric—or if I am writing for students. I know that it is my place to be a bit pushy at times, just in the same way that my mechanic (a trusted authority on cars) might look at me and say, “You need to have your brakes changed—now!” Still, as a rule, I like to avoid being forceful, and I aim instead to be inviting.

Next Up: A Concluding Point: Can We Overuse the Literal You?

In discussing this writing myth that we can never use the pronoun you, we have seen that there are actually two different usages of you: the generalized you (which often weakens the precision of writing) and the literal you (which serves an irreplaceable function in our writing). So long as we intend to address the reader directly (via the literal you), then using you is acceptable–and even preferable.

That said, can we still use the pronoun you too often? And are there forms of writing where even the literal you is inappropriate? The next article answers those questions.

Interested? Here’s the link:

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.

Removing the Generalized “You”: Two Working Methods

Does the generalized you plague your writing? Have English teachers told you time and again to avoid it, but have yet to provide you with a working method? Are you struggling?

Worry no more, dear reader. Here is a method that works, but it will still require some effort on your part. Trust me: it’s worth every effort you put into it.

Here is the method:

Step 1: Write as you normally write. Don’t worry a bit about the generalized you. If that’s what ends up on the paper, fine. It’s not the end of the world—and certainly not the end of your paper. This is a process, and you are only on the first step.

Step 2: Look over your writing, and highlight all instances of the pronoun you. I suggest finding them yourself, without the use of a word processing find feature. However, after you have found all instances you can locate, you should use a find feature to double-check your search. No matter how you find the instances of you, use the highlight feature to place a color highlight over every appearance of you. (I prefer red or yellow for highlighting, since they stand out to the eye and still allow for the black-font text to remain clear.) Also, don’t forget other forms of you, like your (possessive form of you) and you’re (contraction for you + are). When I discuss the word you in these steps, I am also speaking of these forms.

Step 3: Go through the highlighted instances of you, and un-highlight the cases in which you use you to address your reader. Those are cases of the literal you, and in most cases, you can keep them. This is especially true if you are writing an e-mail or letter, or if you are writing an expository essay that teaches the reader how to perform some practice or process. Using the literal you in such pieces is often necessary and even preferable. (Note: The article you are reading now is that kind of expository writing—that is, a form of writing that explains some idea or practice. You will notice that I use the pronoun you quite frequently, since I am addressing you, my dear reader, the one with whom I share these techniques and practices.)

Step 4: Make notes on what you mean by each use of the generalized you. All that remains highlighted are cases of the generalized you. Consider each highlighted generalized-you instance in order, and don’t be afraid to spend time on each one. Use the comment feature in your word-processing program to note the people you mean to identify with you. I’ll bet you know who they are. Just take a moment for each to write it out in a comment bubble. (Note: This is the essential step of the process—the thinking step. With practice, you will be able to simply replace the generalized you in your writing with the person you intend. With further practice, even that step will disappear when you simply write the noun you intend from the start. But for now, break it down into steps.)

Step 5: Use the information in each note or comment to replace the generalized you in the sentence. This may require a few adjustments to the sentence, so make sure to look over the whole sentence after you have replaced you with the intended person. Read it aloud to make sure it flows clearly and naturally.

Step 6: See the difference (and gloat over it, just a little). After you go through these steps, read your prose. Compare it to older prose, where you used the generalized you. Notice that it sounds more professional, more scholarly—more like the prose you might read in an acclaimed nonfiction book. Know that you are headed in the right direction, and that soon this level of specificity and clarity will be the hallmark of your writing.

Two Methods of Removal

This section examines two methods for removing the generalized you from sentences. I call the first method “substitution,” since it involves substituting a specific noun for the vague pronoun, you. (We explored that method above as an overall approach to writing, but in this section we will apply it to specific sentences.)

The second method removes people from the discussion altogether.

Which method is best? It depends. If expressing the identities or roles of people is important to the sentence, the substitution approach is best. If the sentence emphasizes an action or situation, then the second method is best.

Let’s explore both methods. . . .

Method 1: Substitution

First, let’s apply Method 1 (substitution), which we read about in the paragraphs above. I call this method “substitution,” since it involves substituting a specific word for the generalized you. Using this method is simple: Ask yourself, “Who do I really mean here by you?” and then substitute accordingly.

For example, consider this sentence:

When you work every day, you should earn a livable wage. (generalized you, twice)

Now, is this writer necessarily talking about the reader here? Of course not! The writer is discussing a specific group of people (but more on that in a moment. . .).

Next, highlight your uses of you. (The “Find” feature in most word-processing programs can help you locate them.) Here they are in our sample sentence, underlined:

When you work every day, you should earn a livable wage. (generalized you underlined)

Now, remember that question I asked earlier? Who are we really talking about here? Who do we really mean by you? Let’s look at a few possibilities. . . .

Whitney Houston? (No; she kicked the bucket.)

J.K. Rowling? (No; she has made plenty off of her tales of muggles and Hogwarts.)

Bill Gates? (Believe me: He earns a livable wage!)

How about this one: working-class Americans? (That’s who we’re really talking about, isn’t it?)

Let’s replace you with that–”working-class Americans”:

When working-class Americans work every day, they should earn a livable wage. (Bingo!)

See how that works? Now we have a true statement, and the language is precise. After all, working-class Americans are really the people we are talking about here, aren’t they?

Method 2: Just Keep People Out of It!

Here is another, often better, approach to addressing the generalized you issue: Do not limit the discussion to people. Instead, speak of ideas and practices as agents of change and movement.

What do I mean by “ideas and practices as agents of change”? Simple: Verbs, actions, and ideas can move a sentence along just fine without the presence of some person—often written as you—performing or causing those actions.

Look at this example:

You should revise many times over to produce effective, moving prose.

Now, following Method 1 (substitution), I could just replace you with the word, writers, like this:

Writers should revise many times over to produce effective, moving prose.

Still, even this method can get old after a while, once I run out of interesting synonyms for writers. Even nouns like writers, students, and essayists can become crutch words after several repetitions. So, what should we do here?

Look:

Revising many times over produces effective, moving prose.

How did I do this? I made the verb, revise, into a noun—and more specifically, into the subject of the sentence (the doer of the action)—by giving it an -ing ending and moving it to the beginning of the sentence. (Grammarians call this verb-turned-noun a gerund. Grammarians might also say that I “nominalized the verb”—a fancy way of saying that I turned a verb into a noun.)

Why do such people-less sentences sometimes represent a better way of writing than sentences involving people? As in the sentence above, ideas and practices—like people—are agents of change and action. Think beyond people performing actions, and your writing will ascend to the realm of the abstract. This is not to say that the abstract is always better than the concrete; however, being limited to the concrete is bad. Great writers are able to traverse all levels, from the concrete to the abstract, from the mundane to the sublime—from the earth to the heavens.

Here are a few more examples of this second method at work:

If you work hard to improve, you will have better writing. (generalized you)

Working hard to improve leads to better writing. (no people; actions emphasized)

When you become pregnant, every aspect of life changes. (generalized you)

Becoming pregnant changes every aspect of life. (action is the subject: The act of “becoming” is what “changes every aspect of life.”)

Or . . .

Pregnancy changes every aspect of life. (There is more than one solution!)

 

Next Up: Well, There is One Other Word We Can Use. . . .

While reading these articles, you may have noticed that I often use the pronoun, we. I view this pronoun as a productive alternative to the pronoun, you. Still, this pronoun we serves a specific purpose in rhetoric, and many times it is a better way to speak directly to the reader than addressing the reader as you.

Want to know more? Read on! Here’s the link:

 

Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to everyday Americans. He has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertising Manipulates the English Language. Mr. Altman is a professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, NY.