Editing Unnecessary Words

Actually, it's not OK to write garbage, but the point here is well-said. Last night, I critiqued a blog post for a member of my writers group. She had a lot of good things to say about her subject matter, but the piece needed editing. It was a first draft which she asked others to read and suggest changes.

She used many unnecessary words, mainly because she wrote in the way we think or speak on a daily basis. We chatter, adding all kinds of phrases and words that contribute little to the main theme of what we're trying to say. My friend is not alone in doing this. It's a common failing and one writers need to address in every story or article they write. Our writing needs to be far more concise than our conversation skills. 

If we add needless words like salt and pepper on a fried egg, the reader can lose subject matter. They have to dig through those additions to find the meat of the story. Some may give up and quit reading.

1.  What are some unnecessary words that can be eliminated? Check the short list below:

• practically
• actually
• sort of
• kind of
• particular
• generally
• really

2.  One more way to eliminate an unneeded word: If you write a sentence using that before a noun, your sentence loses nothing by cutting it. Example below:

OK:  This is the hotel that Donald Trump built.

Better:  This is the hotel Donald Trump built.

OK:  I loved the dress that you wore to the prom

Better:  I love the dress you wore to the prom.

3.  Don't try for long descriptive sentences when a short one will get the idea across. Yes, there are times we all like to write prose like a poet, but too much of it becomes fodder for those unnecessary word critiques.

In the early days of my writing, I claimed the title of Queen of Unnecessary Words. Thanks to some good critiquers, I soon learned to tighten my writing by eliminating words that had no bearing on the subject. Doing this resulted in a more professional piece that proved easier to read and understand.  Guess what? When I edited this post, I removed a good many of those words that were not needed.

What I've listed above is only a partial list of the unnecessary word syndrome. There are many others. Google 'unnecessary words in writing' to find more detailed articles. When you edit your work, train yourself to look for those words that can be cut. It will take some time but you'll find it easier with practice.

Where and How We Write

Isn't this the perfect spot to sit with your morning newspaper or a book? Sip a cup of tea or savor your first cup of coffee of the day. That's what I'd do in this spot.

There are writers who would sit in that chair with pencil and pad on their lap and create a story, essay, poem or even a feature article. Some will tell you that they do their best thinking with that pad and pencil and in a comfy spot.

There are others, like me, who compose at the keyboard. I think that those of us who long ago used a manual or electric typewriter are the ones who now write initially from the keyboard. It feels right to us. Besides that, it saves time. If you write in longhand, then you have to eventually transpose it to your computer.

Occasionally, I try to write longhand in the car while Ken is driving. Only when we're on a lengthy road trip, not just out running an errand. I find it difficult to write this way and I can't say that I'm often successful in getting a story done right or the way I'd like to.

I do, however, find that the pad and pencil method is great for jotting down ideas or those wonderful phrases that come to mind when you are away from your writing area. Today, when I put in my 40 minutes of walking time, I started planning a new essay. As the birdsong surrounded me on an otherwise quiet morning, I thought of a descriptive phrase that was good enough that I didn't want to lose it. I didn't have anything with me to write it down, but I did make a few notes when I got home.

What's your favorite place to write? An easy chair? At the kitchen table? In a home office? Where are you the most comfortable? And which method do you prefer? Longhand first or write on a keyboard? There is no one right way or one right place. The important thing is to write!

A Book Is More Than A Flat Object

We talked yesterday about this being Children's Book Week so let's continue with the book theme.  The poster above talks about the physical make-up of a book, that it's made from a tree, has flexible parts and is a flat object. If that was all a book gave us, they'd gather dust on a table as we ignored this 'object.'

But inside this flat object is the treasure. Actually, one might conisder a book to be a treasure chest like the pirates of old sought on many voyages. In those thousands of words printed inside that flat object we often find the gold. Not every book will offer something so valuable, but many, many of them will.

Part of it is up to the reader to discern which books are treasures and which ones bring nothing new or valuable into their life. I don't like all books in the same way but it's a very few that I ever tossed down in disgust  because I truly hated the book. No matter whether the book appeals in a big way or miniscule, I can reap something from those pages, or moveable parts stated in the poster above.

When I read a book, I am entertained, educated and happy. Yes, those flat objects make me happy. I've written many times about how the library feels like a second home to me, the place where I am most comfortable. When I hold a book in my hands and spend time reading, I feel totally at peace. I can block out any other cares in my life. Reading a book is definitely an escape mechanism in some respects.

How does reading one of those flat objects affect you? What are the feelings you have when you pick up a new book and settle down in a comfy chair to see what is inside?

Give A Child A Book This Week

Knowonder! kids magazine had this poster on their facebook page today, so I am sharing it with you to let you know that May 13-19 is National Children's Book Week. More than once on this blog, I've written about the importance of exposing small children to books.

Read to them even when they are infants, on into the toddler years, then preschool. Once they learn to read on their own, let them read to you and occasionally, you should also read to them. One of the ways our family  passed the time on long road trips when my children were young was that I read a book to them, chapter by chapter, as their dad drove up one highway and down another. They'd often lean their arms on the top of the front seats listening as the story unfolded.

One book I vividly remember reading on a vacation trip was Caddie Woodlawn, which had been a favorite of mine. It's a great story, but when we got to the final chapter, it had me so choked up I could barely get the words out and had to wipe the tears away. And I was not the only one in that car who had the same reaction.

I've read to my children and my grandchildren, and they all loved books when they were quite small. A book can take us places we'd never see on our own. A children's book contains a special kind of magic all its own. Years ago, when I taught third and fourth grades, I read a chapter a day to the class until we finished a book, then off we'd go on another. I chose the time immediately after lunch to get them settled down and ready to get on with classwork.

The authors of early childhood books must tell a full story in a few short pages. Believe me--it's not an easy task. It's far easier to write copious amounts of words that run into a full novel than it is to keep a story contained in only a few hundred carefully chosen words.

Libraries. schools and bookstores all over the USA will sponsor special events this week to promote Children's Book Week. Watch for them and share with the children you know.

You might purchase a children's book someday this week and give it to a child you know, or perhaps even one you don't know. Whether the child is very young, in the middle grades, junior high school, or even high school, they would probably be thrilled to receive a book that was selected just for them. Buy a classic tale or one that is brand new to you. You can spread the love of books like Johnny Appleseed scattered the seeds which grew into strong apple trees.

Write About A 5 Star Mother's Day

 Mother's Day 2013

Last week, I spent three days posting Mother's Day stories about my mother and my grandmother. But yesterday was Mother's Day 2013 and I had my own story. My daughter and her family spent the weekend with us which is a gift that doesn't need any ribbons or bows, but a gift nevertheless.

The picture is of our two youngest grandchildren and me in front of our house yesterday. Cole is 6 and Jordan 9. Grandma is...old enough. You can see in the picture that spring is definitely here now, the amazing shade of green that arrives in spring, the flowering trees and the many pots and beds that my husband keeps filled with colorful flowers. 

Cole and Jordan's other grandparents joined us for a wonderful brunch at the club we belong to. More food than any one human should consume at one time, but we made a good effort. All of us! 

Later in the day, my son called to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. He's far enough away that weekend visits are not feasible but phone calls are nice, too. Besides that nice call, I had several cards and email messages from others wishing me a Happy Mother's Day. 

The day was filled with the warmth of family and friends topped off by the beautiful spring day. 

I will give 5 stars to my Mother's Day 2013. How was yours? How about writing something about it to add to your Memory Book? Do it now while it's still fresh in your mind. That is the important thought in today's post. When you have something to write about, do as soon as possible while you remember the details, while the emotion connected is still with you. Wait a week, two or three and you lose a great deal of what made it special to you originally. 

For Those Missing Their Mothers

A friend who lost her mother this year posted this poignant poster on her facebook page. Those whose mothers are still living will honor them on Sunday. But for those of us who have lost our mothers, the day is bittersweet. I wrote a story about missing my mother on that second Sunday in May a couple of years after she had passed away.. I sent it to Chicken Soup for the Soul and they liked it well enough to publish it in a book on moms. 

So, for those who have lost their mother, whether this year, or many years ago, here is the story. I hope it will give some ease to hurting hearts. 

My mother at age 19

Missing My Mother on Mother’s Day

(The title in the book was changed to With Us In Spirit. A better title, I think)

I stopped at a Hallmark shop the other day to buy Mother’s Day cards for my daughter and daughter-in-law. The aisle where the cards for this special day rested was a long one. There were Mother’s Day cards appropriate to send to everyone from your cleaning lady to your best friend. The colors were soft and spring-like, fitting for the month of May. I moved up and down the aisle looking for cards that worked for Karen and Amy, and suddenly without any warning, an ache started deep inside. It swelled and moved upward, hit my heart and pushed a tear from my eye.

The one card I really wanted to buy was one for my own mother, but she passed away more than two years ago. I could buy the card, write a special note, sign it with love, then seal and stamp it. But where would I send it? Heaven has no post office. A curtain of sadness dropped down and covered me like a shroud for a moment or two. My hand reached out to a card that I knew she’d love. It was lavender and purple, her favorite colors. I read the verse and smiled. This was the one I’d buy her if I could only send it to her. I slipped it back in the rack, picked it up and read it again, then replaced it.

I’m a mother and a grandmother of four, but I still miss my mom. I miss our long talks. She had little formal education, but she possessed a marvelous instinct and insight into human behavior. I learned so much listening to her observations. I miss the stories she told about her childhood in a coal mining town. She made me appreciate the differences in people’s lives. I miss the wonderful pies and cakes she made. I miss her terrific sense of humor and hearty laughter. I miss her hugs.

But as I look around my home, I see her in many places. I see her warm smile in photos carefully arranged in several different rooms. I see her every time I sift through my recipe box and finger the many cards with her handwriting, all so precious now.  I see her when I use my rolling pin, once hers, now mine. Whenever I use it, I’m reminded of the day she taught me how to put just the right pressure on a pie crust with the heavy wooden rolling pin. I see her when I show visitors to our guest room, for the bed is covered with a quilt she made by hand.

On Mother’s Day I will be with my daughter and her family at a Mother’s Day Brunch. To spend the day with a child I love and her husband and children will give me great pleasure. It wouldn’t surprise me if we sense another presence that day, for my mother will be with us in spirit, spreading her love once more.

© 2007                                        Mom at age 83

A Story About My Mother's Mother

Thinking about Mother's Day reminded me that we also consider grandmothers at this time. After all, they are the mother's of our mothers (and our fathers!). So today I'm going to pay tribute to my maternal grandmother, Elizabeth Doonan Studham. And perhaps you will write about your own.

Born on a farm in Minnesota to Irish immigrants, she married a coal miner from Iowa. How I wish that I knew the story of where they met. They had five children, two of whom died of diptheria around age 4. In 1929, my grandmother did the unthinkable. 

She left Iowa with my mother, her youngest child, and went to Chicago where her two sons lived.. She and my grandfather lived separated but never divorced until he died. She had no means of income, just enough money to rent a tiny apartment for her and my mother who was 11 at the time. 

Then, she proceeded to build her own business, baking cakes and pies and rolls that she sold to the neighbors. No Health Department inspectors and rigid rules then. Her tiny at-home business grew to the point that she rented space to begin a neighborhood bakery in Oak Park, the Chicago suburb where she and my mother lived. She built it into a good business, adding catering as a sideline. She worked hard, putting in long hours. 

My mother quit high school after one year and helped in the bakery. It was the Depression years and work for teens came above education in many families. I leaned many good life lessons from my grandmother, and more than a few in the hours I spent with my mother at the bakery in my early years. I've written a story about it which you can read below, one that I've posted on the blog in the past but it seemed appropriate to do so again.

Elizabeth Doonan Studham

Lessons In Grandma’s Bakery

 My mother and I spent our mornings in the working area of my grandmother’s bakery during my early years, from 1939 to 1943. I picked up some good habits and learned a few things in a painless way. I watched and I listened. There was no need for a formal lecture.

One of those good habits concerned drinking tea. A long, narrow table, covered with a soft-green oilcloth sat parallel to the north wall in the workroom of the small neighborhood bakery. The table offered a resting place when Grandma, my mother and my Uncle Paul took breaks from the hours spent on their feet. Thick white cups on matching saucers were set before each of us and a plate of some fresh-baked delicacy graced the center of the table.

Grandma brewed the tea in a large brown pot. “You can only make good tea in a brown pot,” she often said as she tipped it enough to pour the steaming brown liquid into our cups. She filled my cup half-full, then added milk and a bit of sugar. “English tea for you,” she’d say before she sank onto the bench that ran the length of the table. She added some sugar to her tea and passed the plate of sweet rolls or cookies or whatever it happened to be that day. She conditioned me to crave a little something sweet when having a cup of tea.

Our tea breaks weren’t long for there was always a new task waiting for these three members of my family. When we’d eaten every crumb on the treat plate and drained our cups, Grandma and Uncle Paul went back to the baking, and my mother relieved the girl who worked in the front room serving customers. I’d kneel on the bench and wait for Adeline to come to the table and pour her own cup of tea. Grandma brought her a small plate with a treat on it, and I chattered while Adeline savored both her tea and a rest.. She was young and pretty with golden curls and always smiling or laughing.

I heard Grandma say one day that Adeline was a good worker despite being so young. “Those Czech girls know how to work. I’d hire another one to help her if I could afford it.” The bakery served as Grandma’s only income, and she watched her pennies carefully. Adeline never complained about low pay. When she finished her tea, she’d give me a hug and hurry back to the front room to continue selling bakery goods from the case and taking orders for later. I peeked around the edge of the doorway and watched as she wrapped the purchases carefully and handed them to the customers along with her warm smile. “There you go,” she’d say. “Come back soon.”

I wanted to go into that front room and spend my time with Adeline. I wanted to talk to the customers, too, but it was forbidden territory. My grandmother told me I must never go through that doorway. My mother told me. My Uncle Paul told me. The lure of that front room with people coming and going proved to be my undoing now and then. Once I started peeking around the doorway, I inched my way through it, quiet as the proverbial church mouse. I tried to stand behind the bakery cases and watch, but it never lasted long. I’d feel a strong hand grasp my skinny upper arm, and I got pulled, none too gently, into the work room. Two things happened next. First came the scolding followed by me being marched to the side of a large refrigerator. “Now you stand there and think about what you did,” Uncle Paul said. He turned me so that my back was against the fridge, and my face far away from that doorway that lured me like a siren of the sea so many times.

Years later, when he had his own children, I overheard him tell my mother how sorry he was that he’d made me stand by myself as punishment for so long. “She was just a little girl,” he said, “and the time must have been an eternity for her.”  I spent the half-hour watching all the activity around me--Grandma and my mother rolling dough or slicing apples for pies, and Uncle Paul hoisting huge tins of flour and sugar for them, and then he’d punch down the bread dough and begin shaping it into loaves. I loved the yeasty aroma that drifted into every corner of that big workroom. Sometimes I’d be able to see deliverymen come through the back door toting everything from lard to flour to butter to sugar, milk and eggs. Grandma got extra rations for her business during those WWII years. I learned that making a business successful meant hard work and being careful with money.

Occasionally, Adeline came to the workroom to get more baked goods for the cases. She didn’t dare talk to me during punishment time, nor could I speak to her. But as she walked by, arms loaded with bread and cinnamon rolls, she’d make a funny face and wink at me. I clapped my hands over my mouth so I wouldn’t giggle. I learned that punishment was serious business, but it didn’t mean the end of the world. Life would go on when I’d served my sentence.

When Uncle Paul gave me the signal, I dragged a flour tin close to Grandma and climbed onto it so I could watch at the high table where she worked. If she had nuts ready to use, I asked her, “Just one nut for me, Grandma?” and she’d hand me one beautiful, big pecan. I had my one pecan every day of the week. If she was making fancy tea sandwiches for a catering order, I’d ask, “Just one for me, Grandma?” and she’d hand me one without a word. I learned that even a little bit of something you crave is satisfying.

The mornings in Grandma’s bakery during the early 1940’s remain a clear memory. I can see my grandma in her Mother Hubbard apron, hair braided and wrapped atop her head like a crown. Her rimless glasses steamed often from the heat of the ovens and hot water in the deep sink. I can see my mother, young with a colored ribbon woven into her curls, apron wrapped around her cotton dress darting me warning looks if I ventured near the doorway to the front room. I see my Uncle Paul with his thick, blond hair swept straight back from his forehead, a large flour sack towel tied around his waist for an apron. At night, he performed as a magician wearing a tuxedo, but I never got see him except in photos. I see Adeline running back and forth from the front to the workroom, curls bouncing, with always a word or a pat for me.

It’s when I have a cup of tea now that these memories come floating back to me. Once again, I am at the oil-cloth covered table with Grandma pouring my English tea and handing me a sweet roll which smells of yeast and cinnamon.