My favourite writing rule is the one that says you shouldn’t use the verb “to be.”
EVER.
Got that? Go through your whole book and circle them all, then restructure the sentences in a convoluted fashion, OK? Being is just existing. It’s boring and passive. Your verbs as well as your characters should take charge of their own destiny. “Was” and “were” are particularly nefarious. You have to strike them out, otherwise you’re not A Proper Writer.
When I started writing seriously I spent many an hour zapping was-es and weres, chopping up adverbs and making characters just “say” things rather than hiss, interpolate or opine them. But… (oh yeah, you’re not supposed to start a sentence with but either)… there came a point where every time I read a book I thought: Hang on a minute, this Famous Author doesn’t stick to these rules. Is it the case that really good writers can do what they like and scum-sucking wannabes like me have to do as they’re told?
I don’t think there’s one rule for Famous Authors and another for first-timers. I think what’s really going on with The Rules is that the writers of how-to books (and presumably creative writing tutors too, though I’ve never done a course) see the same heart-sink problems over and over again and want to warn others against them. That’s admirable and helpful. Often, however, there’s nothing to catch the writer before she tips too far in the other direction. I’ve tried to make sense of The Rules in my own mind by equating them with something I actually have a clue about – riding.
When first learning to ride, many people subconsciously feel safer if they hunch their shoulders forward. The ground seems comfortingly nearer. It happens that the act of tipping forward makes the rider point their toes downwards without realising. This whole posture looks ugly, but more pertinently than that, it’s not safe at all. Shifting the centre of gravity over the horse’s neck messes up your balance and it only takes a wobble and a little help from Newton before you’re breathing up a noseful of dirt.
That’s why anyone who had riding lessons as a kid will remember some demotivated, weathered fag-ash-Lil of an instructor bawling “HEELS DOWN!” every five seconds. So you concentrate hard on keeping your heels down, and then she bawls “HANDS DOWN!”, and when you start thinking about the hands, you don’t notice the heels creeping upwards again.
I’m not a “natural” rider, so any ability I have is down to nothing more than 30 years of trial and error – mainly getting bolted with, falling off and for some reason feeling compelled to get back on. As a pony-mad but very nervous child, I was a prime target for the “HEELS DOWN!” shouts. Eventually, I started remembering not to let my toes point at the ground – hooray! I’d got the hang of it! Or so I thought.
I pushed my heels so far down that I ended up leaning back like a water-skier, with my feet sticking out next to the pony’s shoulders. Just as off-balance as I’d ever been, but in a different direction.
Some years later, I had a light-bulb moment when a new instructor told me: “The soles of your feet should be parallel to the ground.”
So that was it! Pretty simple, eh? Why hadn’t anyone just said that in the first place? They didn’t mean “Heels down,” they meant “Heels not so far up!”
I think the same is true for The Rules of writing. They are there for a reason – going against them altogether makes your work ugly and ineffective. But blind adherence to instructions is just as likely to send you toppling into the dirt. In riding, recognising your centre of gravity becomes instinctive. It’s more difficult to achieve that with writing – maybe because it’s not literally a matter of life and death – but I think it gradually becomes possible to recognise when The Rules have a point, and when they’re tipping you off balance.