We spent the last few weeks looking at the way different writers make their prose musical through the use of rhythm, and playing with the rhythm in our own paragraphs. I lectured these Nieman and Loeb fellows on parataxis and hypotaxis, even writing an essay on the search for rhythm to try to make some sense out of these somewhat obscure terms of lit crit.

I’ve streamlined a semester’s worth of lessons and put them into an online writing course. Try some of the exercises out! And if you’re a teacher, let me know you’re interested, and I’ll add you to a mailing list of like-minded souls trying to encourage good writing in their students.

I’ll end with a riddle: is this passage by Raymond Chandler, in Farewell, My Lovely, an example of parataxis or hypotaxis?

“I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun.”

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Caesar got ‘em. Matthew got ‘em. Bellow got ‘em. Even E. B. Farnum and my dog got ‘em.

Got what?

Verbs.

Vital, vibrant, voluptuous, and, yes, sometimes vexing verbs.

Caesar proclaimed “veni, vidi, vinci.” Matthew reminded, “And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not.” Bellow saw in every face in New York “the refinement of one particular motive or essence—I labor, I spend, I strive, I design, I love, I cling, I uphold, I give way, I envy, I long, I scorn, I die, I hide, I want.”

Deadwood’s mayor E. B. Farnum, when he saw the Widow Garret, said, “She enters,” rather than the “There she is” of lesser mortals. And my dog? Well, you’d better believe that Homer understood the commands “sit,” “stay,” “heel,” and “fetch.” (He wasn’t so good on “lie down.”)

Verbs have been called everything from “action words” to “the heartbeat of a sentence.” They have even been called The Almighty—by Buckminster Fuller:  “God, to me, it seems, is a verb, not a noun, proper or improper.” Verbs make the fulcrum of every sentence, the essence of any story. They put action in scenes, show eccentricity in characters, and convey drama in plots.

Knowing the difference between a paltry verb and a potent one, a static sentence and a dynamic one, the passive voice and the active one, means knowing how to write purposefully and powerfully. In fact, understanding the verb means understanding English itself, for in English more than in other tongues, verbs enjoy a kind of primacy. Think about it: The word itself comes from the Latin verbum, for “word.” We can’t verbalize without verbs, nor can we boast of verbal dexterity!

Yet, for all their primacy and vibrancy, verbs are mostly misunderstood and often misused. Vex, Hex, Smash, and Smooch aims to change the way we think about verbs—and about language itself.

Beginning writers often ask me: “What is the one thing that will improve my work?” Aside from the obvious answer—read more, write more—I tell them to bone up on verbs.

Vex, Hex will take writers from the basics (static and dynamic verbs) to the esoteric (the indicative, the imperative, and the oh so subjunctive). It will set writers straight on objects and why it’s easy to use who and whom correctly. It upends conventional notions of verbs, sentences, and literature itself, marching from Caesar to Sorenson, from Woolf to The Wolfman, from Dickens to Didion, from Hemingway to JFK. And we won’t forget rappers like Dr. Dre, or TV writers like David Milch (Deadwood) and David Simon (The Wire).

Vex, Hex also helps writers reinterpret the old rules for the new media landscape. The books show how verbs figure into the 140-character messages of Twitter and how they can elevate blogs into literature. (Or at least something worth reading.) This is a book for every writer trying to figure out how to rise above the digital din by crafting prose that is lean, powerful, and punchy.

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Doesn’t it sound like fun? Look for it in fall 2011. In the meantime, I’ll be creating a page here and inviting you to send in your favorite examples of writers who get verbs and how to use them to perk up their prose.

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1. The Exquisite Corpse

I’ve just started reading To the Lighthouse for the first time in about 12 years. (I’m reading it for  the class “Consciousness from Austen to Virginia Woolf,” with literary critic James Wood; we are tracking the way nineteenth- and early twentieth-century writers enter the consciousness of characters). In previous reads, I’ve marveled at the giant leap Woolf takes into stream-of-consciousness writing. I love wallowing in Woolf’s metaphors and Mrs. Ramsey’s full-blown inner monologues.

Separately, this week I’ve been thinking about what I call “melody”—the use of sound in sentences, whether alliteration, assonance, onomatopoeia, or rhyme. (See my lessons for writers for ideas on this.) I have suggested that writers sit near a window when it’s raining, or near the ocean, or near a fountain, and listen to the water, finding words that in some way echo the flow.

Then I read this passage in To the Lighthouse:

The monotonous fall of waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, “I am guarding you, and am your support,” but at other times, suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all ephemeral as a rainbow—this sound which had been obscured and concealed under the other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror.”

Notice how Woolf uses “monotonous,” “soothing tattoo,” “repeat over and over again,” and “murmured” when she’s referring to the “kindly meaning” of waves on the beach (and, in turn, to calm or calming thoughts) and then “ghostly roll,” “remorselessly beat,” “thundered hollow,” and “impulse of terror” when she’s referring to more ominous forces of nature and of consciousness. The first set of words murmur with soft syllables, soft consonants, soft vowels. The second set gives us an “uh-oh” with ghostly roll,” followed by the syllables that register like the warning beats of a tympanum.

Subtle, but masterful.

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Both books are examples of masterful war reporting, but they also make a study in contrasts about the role of the narrator in nonfiction storytelling. Finkel choses the third person, zooming on his soldier protagonists. (See this Washington Post excerpt.) Filkins, on the other hand, uses his book to write in a way that is impossible in his New York Times stories, as he explains in “Up Close and Personal in Iraq,” an article by Ankush Khardori in The American Prospect. Just read the first few pages of each, and you’ll notice the difference in point of view.

How will books like these fare in the future, as traditional publishing adapts to new technology? You may have seen the host of recent news articles about e-books, and you may even be considering buying a brand-new iPad. In the Sin and Syntax Salon, Sarah Baker gives you the lowdown on what she calls the “chaotic bazaar” of book publishing.

Motoko Rich also had an interesting (if oddly written—did anyone else think it went in circles?) article about how e-readers kill the fun of looking at what others are reading. Is the Kindle a conversation killer? I once sat next to a handsome guy on a plane who was reading The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love. My asking how he liked the book kicked off a conversation that took us to Frankfurt. And it gave me a cool connection in Washington, D.C. (He was a staffer for Congressman John Conyers.)

OK, now back to our conversation about writing. I wanted to share some suggestions from my California colleague Nora Isaacs, who is a terrific journalist as well as a freelance editor.

Nora is good on tips. I appreciated the ones in her book Women in Overdrive. And taking some of those tips to heart, I will stop writing and start assembling some literal bits and pieces for a dinner party tonight.

Related posts:

1. Try a Little Frisson with Your Nonfiction
2. Demystifying Books
3. E-books, twit wit, and Susan Orlean

The poet registered, physically, with a jolt. He looked barely different from the homeless men who, now that spring flirts with us, commandeer the steel benches in Central Square. His face was purplish red, as were his hands, where large bruises bloom. His thinning gray hair, grown four or five inches, scythed in every direction: an exuberant J on the right side of his head, a backward J on the left, preposterous spikes on top. His ankles were thick beneath cream-colored socks; the ties of his black cross-training shoes barely reined in the swollen mounds of his feet.

His pronouncements were as fierce and unruly as his hair: The paramount thing in a poem is the way it sounds, or rather the way it engages the parts of the mouth—tongue, roof, lips. The unfortunate use of “the barn dies” in one of his own poems, because that’s a dead metaphor—a barn can “rot” and it can “fall down” but it can’t “die.” His having no truck with contemporary poets; as one ages, he said (and he is truly aged), one can’t comprehend poets 50 years younger. Instead he reads—he relishes—poets from the seventeeth century. (But he does look forward to Louise Glück’s next book.)

And he devours Thomas Hardy. “The novels are good, but the poems are GREAT,” he says, allowing that last adjective to come out as a growl.

To Hardy we owe the haunting title of this post, the closing lines of “During the Wind and Rain,” with its internal half-rhymes (name and rain), its unruly pentameter, its concentration of hard consonants rolling like stones along the tongue.

In a world that often seems to reward the tamed, the socially gracious, the kempt, the professional, this poet was a reminder of a sensibility that carves deeper meanings.

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I recently cracked a very famous novel and was confounded by this first sentence, which seems to break every rule in my book—and in every other book on writing:

“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”

I ask you, why did the writer launch his novel this way? Please submit your answers in the Comments, below. In fact, let’s make it a contest! The first person to 1) correctly name the writer and the work of literature from which this passage comes, and 2) explain how and why the passage contradicts the rules of good writing as they are taught today, and then 3) suggest why the author chose to write in such a style, will receive a free, signed copy of Sin and Syntax.

Bonne chance!

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Last Friday I hosted a gathering of two editors, four agents, and about 30 midcareer writers at the Nieman Foundation for Journalism at Harvard. The session set out to demystify book publishing and was intended to help journalists understand what role books might play in our careers.

The speakers came from small and large agencies, and small and large publishers, in Boston and New York. The journalists, at Harvard for a year of study and reflection, are considering what part books play in those careers, especially as newspapers shrink, staff jobs disappear, unpaid bloggers proliferate, and book publishing is buffeted by forces as disparate as Apple, Barnes & Noble, and the recession.

Here’s a random sampling of ideas that surfaced:

Editors and agents (at least these ones!) love working with journalists, because they are able to write on deadline and because their areas of knowledge and insight are so diverse.  But, as Helene Atwan of Beacon Press pointed out, journalists need to unlearn the art of the short paragraph and even the gift of quick study. Books, in other words, are a place to go deep, write richly, take the time to be thoughtful, and see the complexities in subjects.

Editors and agents think simultaneously about the quality of the idea and the existence of a market for it. This is why in developing a book proposals it’s important to research and write about the competition—the existence of other successful books in an area shows that people will be willing to plop down $25 for a book on the subject. As Wendy Strothman explained, if she’s going to spend months with an author developing a worthy idea, she wants to make sure that there will be a payoff in eventual sales.

Agent Jill Kneerim described helping authors take an angle that are too narrow and too focused (on, say, a particular event in 1915) and broadening it to encompass a larger sweep of history (a particular country in 1915, for example). This allows the author to tell a more epic story and enlarges the market for the book.

The panelists expressed mixed views on Twitter. (Is it really worth an author’s time? Does it enable one to develop and express strong and interesting ideas?). Agent David Patterson reminded the crowd that an intense focus on writing the book should trump online omnipresence. But all agreed that Web sites are now de rigueur for authors. Laurie Liss pointed out that it’s important for writers to have a place where people can find their work if they do a Google search.

Editor and publicity guru Lissa Warren noted that when a proposal comes before an editorial board, she and others are looking for a reason to say “no.” If an author doesn’t have a platform—i.e. a built-in audience that has already been developed through a career of covering a certain subject, a Web site, or a Twitter following—it may be hard to have faith that word on the book may get out.

Want to learn more? Read Jill Kneerim’s memo on “How to Find an Agent.” Check out Wendy Strothman’s “Suggestions for Writing a Non-Fiction Proposal.” San Francisco agent Ted Weinstein teaches a “Book Proposal Bootcamp,” offering a free audio version of the workshop on his Web site.

Another helpful resource for proposals is Michael Larsen’s book on the subject. Finally, my own primer on advances and royalties is in the Sin and Syntax Salon.

If you have found other useful resources for writers dreaming of publishing a book, please add them in the Comments, below.

Related posts:

1. Jill Kneerim on How to Find an Agent
2. Sarah Baker with an E to Z on e-books
3. A-lists, e-books, and the iPad

I soon learned that she is no more immune than the rest of us from the ins and outs of starting and stopping, trying and failing, hoping and despairing. She was just curious about my opinion.

Of course I offered it.

The easiest kind of writer’s block to define is just that—a block. That moment of sitting down to page or screen without a shred of an idea about where to start or what to say. The block makes its presence known in front of a deadline, when you have no choice but to sit. The “block” soon turns to agony. I’m not good enough to write this article, goes the voice in the head, or my editor will hate whatever I do, I’m going to be fired (or my article rejected), I am a fraud! I am headed for disaster and humiliation.

Some forms of writer’s block, though, mask themselves. Like procrastination. It sounds like just a bad habit—“I could write if I just put my mind to it, but I let myself wait till the last minute.” The thing is, if procrastination is motivated by fear—if it is the agony of writer’s block that you are putting off—it is writer’s block.

The worst kind of writer’s block is even more specious. This is the kind I suffer from. I often take on minor projects instead of the major ones I really want to do. Or I pitch safe stories over those that excite me but expose me to some risk. Or I write another language book—the book my editor wants—instead of the historical narrative that really makes my heart jump.

So, what do you do when your creative juices freeze up? I like the advice Mark Morris gives, mentioned in the previous post. Just start working, thinking about why you love writing rather than the fearsome task ahead. Just do the thing that reconnects you to the passion for your art.

I have some rituals that help me get started, that get me past those moments of resistance or fear. First, I start my mornings by sweeping my studio floor, or the patio outside my door. I put on some wonderful music—I’m partial to Hawaiian slack key guitar, Mozart, or Keith Jarrett’s Köln Concert—and I putter. I give my imagination some room to roam. It needs to be awakened. When it kicks in, starting to write feels like fun rather than a chore.

For some projects I keep a journal, and I write there—some freewriting, or just random thoughts—before I formally begin the assignment at hand. Again, it’s about letting the juices start to flow. And sometimes  a few lines from the journal, or a metaphor, are so good they qualify for the finished piece.

Finally, I recognize that I can’t just be left brain all the time, focusing on projects I’ve been assigned, or work I know I can sell. I have a practice I call “risk writing” (see “Total Risk, Freedom, Discipline”). Every few pieces, I let myself write something that I want to write, and I write it the way I want to write it, and the length I want to write it in. Some of my favorite all-time pieces have emerged from the risk writing. (“Souvenirs” traces a complex of relationships between me, my mother, and Paris; “Cutouts” came when I remembered a vision from the past.)

These risky pieces allow me to develop new muscles—maybe a new voice, or the ability to handle certain kinds of material. And in writing them, I am warming up for that other book in me, the one that makes my heart jump. When the time comes to start, I’ll be more confident that I can carry it off.

Related posts:

1. The answer to writers block: big courage
2. Constance Hale on Risk, Freedom, Discipline

My ears perked up when a dance teacher asked the choreographer whether he ever feared being blocked, and what he did when he “dried up.” Morris described being creatively blocked as a kind of occupational hazard: “Successful artists always have this certain fear of being discovered to be a true charlatan,” he said.

Morris’s advice to those who find themselves blocked: “Just make up a dance a day. Change it. Then make its opposite. Then throw them both away. Watch something else. Make another dance. Read more books and learn more music.

“My courage is bigger than my fear,” Morris added. “But I have big courage.”

We can’t all have courage as big as Morris’s, but we can cultivate it. There are two other important kernels in his advice: First, don’t let your inner critic stop you from making more art. Just keep making things. Second, don’t stop reading and learning—connect with the things about your art that you love, and that set you on fire.

Related posts:

1. Unblocking writers block
2. Mozart, Morris, and strange metaphors

Just to give you a sense of the oddness of the image, these naked, floating, turning palms rose from a stage deep in the heart of Boston (in a building with crystal chandeliers, ruby damask walls, curving staircases, and gold-leaf everywhere) and deep in the heart of winter (on a night whose 17-degree cold plummeted to a wind-chill factor in the aughts).

I was watching Mozart Dances, by the Mark Morris Dance Group, and my imagination was being lifted and loosened like those imaginary glass jars.

Upstage, a backdrop was turned into a giant canvas, covered with enormous watercolor brushstrokes—one part mad child making fingerpaintings, one part mad giant making like Motherwell.

The dances were sometimes balletic, sometimes modern, always surprising: pliés, bourées, jetés, and attitudes, but all done barefoot, barelimbed, and with ironic twists: arms floating up all pretty, then squeaking into something angular and awkward; a circle dance suggesting Matisse, then flattening into the Virginia Reel; languid ballerinas freezing into Egyptian vase ornaments, a butterfly morphing into an insect, a bird into a mechanical doll, a corsair into a sailor cruising the street. The lyric vocabulary of ballet devolved into the vernacular, the poetic turned pedestrian.

What did any of this have to do with writing?

As I headed back out into the bitter cold, I thought about Mark Morris’s creative instincts. He never lets himself cross over into cliché, and he plants, plays with, and then supplants our expectations. His language is always surprising, fresh, and funny. I can’t get that one image out of my head, the palms floating up from the floor. They are terribly close to something I’ve seen before, yet remain completely unfamiliar: Sperm, propelled by wriggling tails? Lily pads, levitating out of the swamp and dancing on their stems? Lima beans, sprouting up into the air rather than up through the dirt? Periscopes, pushing up through water and taking a look around?

Images organic, evocative, surreal. And entirely original.

Related posts:

1. The answer to writers block: big courage