Learning from Cambor

His is a serious and solemn face, and he looks so much like Paul when he was young—the curve of his ear, the light thin bangs, that look of worried waiting—that every time I see that photograph I have to look away.

From The Book of Mercy by Kathleen Cambor, this is a good example of a sentence that does more than one thing at once. The first three phrases of the sentence are direct statements of description of two characters; after that, the reaction of a third character implies questions that will encourage readers to continue reading.

“His is a serious and solemn face” describes one character with alliterative abstractions. Those abstractions have implications and characterize.
The next phrase, “he looks so much like Paul when he was young” suggests a familial relationship (probably) and the passage of time.
Dashes add specifics to “young,” “the curve of his ear, the light thin bangs, that look of worried waiting,” without separating those specifics from the rest of the sentence in the way parenthesis would have. “Worried waiting” gives readers alliteration again, echoing the first phrase.
“Every time I see that photograph I have to look away,” is a reaction to the similar appearances that characterizes the third character in the sentence. That reaction is almost certainly the result of a relationship (Who has photographs of strangers they have to look away from?) and a complicated one, one full of emotions. What makes the relationship this way? What’s the history implied here? You’ll have to read on to see.

I can’t help but think of the Donald Barthelme exercise I’ve mentioned here before, though I don’t know if this sentence was written in response.

Consider drafting a sentence like this one as an exercise of your own.

Learning from Bisson

First, a little context: the characters must fix a flat tire at night on an isolated road. Flashlights sputter. Then we read,

There was a flood of dim orange flickery light. But when I turned to find the lug nuts, I was surprised to see that the flashlight the boy was holding was dead. The light was coming from two bears at the edge of the trees, holding torches. They were big, three hundred pounders, standing about five feet tall. Wallace Jr. and his father had seen them and were standing perfectly still. It’s best not to alarm bears.

The character finishes fixing the flat in simple, direct statements, most starting with “I” and a verb: “I fished,” “I reached,” “I was relieved,” and “I put,” for example. And then these sentences,

All this time, the bears never made a move. They just held the torches, whether out of curiosity or helpfulness, there was no way of knowing. It looked like there may have been more bears behind them, in the trees.

Opening three doors at once, we got into the car and drove off. Wallace was the first to speak. “Looks like bears have discovered fire,” he said.

I’m quoting this story, Terry Bisson’s “Bears Discover Fire,” out of plane old admiration. It’s a surprising premise. Characters in an extreme situation cope methodically, calmly, without violence. Such calm is admirable and can be sort of funny in an understated way. The story is a kind of magical realism but without magic, using the (I’m not sure what to call it) “vastly unlikely” instead; “Bears Discover Fire” was originally published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine. (It’s been reprinted in Lightspeed and Peter S Beagle’s The Secret History of Fantasy.)

Also, the premise isn’t hidden, not at all, but stated directly in the title. Discovering fire has all kinds of mythic implications. What else might? Hiding something or someone? Consider generating twelve three-word titles. Which imply interesting questions in simple, direct language? Pick one or two titles to develop into stories.

Learning from Davis

I’m reading Essays One by Lydia Davis. Some of the essays include her thinking about her own drafting, which I found fascinating. My thinking about my revision isn’t as interesting as hers, but here it is. Footnoting these sorts of changes is a great exercise.

The number after the title is either a word count or endnote.

You think you know someone. 139[1]

My snooty boss asked me to help her move. Now, we’ve worked together a long time and we’ve been social, but she lives in a big house and she has money. She’s downsizing and can pay for this sort of thing. But I go. Job security, you know. I did not know but for room after room she has butterflies, all the colors, pinned and displayed in flat glass cases. A hundred of them at least. Not something I wanted to trust to movers, she said. And the big stuff, beds, tables, books was gone. We filled each others cars, my teammates and I, with her butterfly collection. It took time, but the lifting was light. And it was me; after we placed the last case in her new place, I said, Karaoke? and she took us all dancing.

You think you know someone. 117

My snooty boss asked me to help her move. Now,[2] we’ve been social, but she has money. She can pay for this sort of thing. But I go. Job security, you know.[3] For room after room she has butterflies, all the colors, pinned and displayed in flat glass cases.[4] A hundred of them at least.[5] “Not something I wanted to trust to movers,” she said. The big stuff, beds and desks, was gone.[6] We filled each other’s cars, my teammates and I,[7] with her butterfly collection.[8] It took time, but the lifting was light. And it was me; after we set the last case in her new condo, I said, Karaoke? and she took us all dancing.[9]

You Think You Know Someone[10]

My snooty boss asked me to help her move. Now, we chat occasionally, but she has money. She can afford professionals.[11] But I went. Job security, you know. The fridge and mattress were gone. She said, “These are not things I trust to movers.”[12] She had butterflies, every color, pinned and displayed in flat glass cases, ninety-three of them.[13] My teammates and I filled each other’s cars with her butterfly collection. It took time, but the lifting was light. I confess[14] after we set the last case in her new condo, I said, “Karaoke?” and she took us all dancing.[15]

[1] This is the first draft, written after a throw of a set of Story Cubes. I used three of the nine cubes. One of my favorite places to try and publish is 100WordStory, so my first revision goal in this case is condensing. Cutting is usually a good revision technique. Footnoting additions (also a way to revise) could be interesting, but isn’t my project this time.

[2] I cut “we’ve worked together a long time and,” “lives in a big house and she,” and “’s downsizing and” because they are implied or common/cliched first-draft language. Leaving “She can pay for this sort of thing” characterizes as the narrator doubles-down.

[3] “But I go,” is a short sentence after longer ones. “Go” and “know” rhyme too much. I may change them yet. “Job security, you know” provides a motivation most people can probably relate to. It’s also colloquial, characterizes, and addresses the reader directly. The direct address is probably a small surprise which is likely to keep readers reading. “I did not know” is a rhyme too far and implied by the story itself.

[4] The butterflies are intended as another surprise. I’m tempted to add more details like sizes and Latin names, in cursive handwriting on cards next to each insect.

[5] A shorter fragment after a longer sentence adds variety, but do I do it too much?

[6] I left this sentence for this draft, but it could be cut and traded for more details about the collection.

[7] Here is an action that shows community, at least a little, in contrast with the isolation and transactional relationships early in the story.

[8] This phrase is also a candidate for cutting. Maybe. It provides a nice summary, but is that needed in something this short? It does clarify what is filling the cars.

[9] “And it was me” implies a confession, which could be surprising, and the question of what will be confessed might maintain reader engagement. “Placed” becomes “set” and “place” becomes “condo” because the rhymes were too heavy. What is being confessed is a call for karaoke (probably anticlimactic, but not too serious), implying a desire for continuing unity with the team and the boss, though that is is “confessed” adds a layer of complicated feelings about it. The sentence also continues to suggest a change in how the narrator thinks of the boss, probably no longer “snooty.” The final phrase confirms the new understanding of the boss and may contain another surprise.

Although the draft has gone from 139 to 117 words, more needs to be cut. “Bosses” are presented very favorably. Could “boss” become “supervisor” or “manager” or “union rep”? “Subordinates”? Or if the narrator explicitly sees the call for help to move as a cry for companionship?

[10] The title is both a cliche and gives gives too much away. It tells the story or sums it up too completely.

[11] “Afford professionals” seems abstract but less abstract than “pay for this sort of thing.” It’s also fewer words.

[12] Moving sentences to earlier in the story increases clarity. It makes trimming more words possible.

[13] A shorter fragment after a longer sentence adds variety but I do it too much? I’ll combine it with the sentence before.

[14] Making the confession hidden in “And it was me” explicit allows for an implied question. What the narrator confesses becomes more interesting at the same time?

[15] I made other cuts to reach the 100-word formal constraint. Now I’ll let it sit for a while, then reread, hoping it feels finished and good. The class issues and title still bother me.

Learning from Pratchett

Consider these sentences from Monstrous Regiment:

She’d never prayed since the day the bird burned, not even when her mother was dying. A god that burned painted birds would not save a mother. A god like that was not worth a prayer.

But Wazzer prayed for everyone. Wazzer prayed like a child, eyes screwed up and hands clenched until they were white. The reedy little voice trembled with such belief that Polly felt embarrassed, and then ashamed, and, finally, after the ringing “amen,” amazed that the world appeared no different than before. For a minute or two, it had
been a better place…

Polly’s complicated reaction to the way Wazzer prays characterizes her. It lets readers know why she reacts the way she does. Pratchett creates this contrast between the characters to reveal more about each of them, though because readers have access to Polly’s inner life they learn more about her. These seven sentences give two characters each a distinct way of looking at the world, a cosmology, and hint at the possibility that Polly might be changed by Wazzer’s, or that she is at least surprised by the power of it. The question of whether this contrast will lead to conflict or change is implied, and readers might read on wondering if this question will be answered. The different ways these characters look at the world is theological here but could be economic, sociological, etc.

Let one character observe another in a way that reveals contrasts between them and let that contrast imply big questions about their world and perhaps relationship.

See Charles Baxter’s “Counterpointed Characterization” in Burning Down the House for more about this technique.

Learning from Fowler

The first sentence of Karen Joy Fowler’s We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves is “Those who know me now will be surprised to learn that I was a great talker as a child.”

If you’ve been reading my posts, you expect me to argue that there is an implied question in the sentence and that readers read beyond it hoping for an answer. You’re right. What’s changed for this character so that they no longer speak as much as they used to? Is this a good thing (“Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and to remove all doubt” –Abraham Lincoln) or bad (Silence = Death)?

The sentence also explicitly suggests a change in a character, and it characterizes because this is a character who thinks about their life, time, and others, or their audience. This first sentence, in some ways, begins to address the themes of the novel, which can be read as asking about sentience and what sentience in others (especially animals) ethically requires of humanity.

Finally, all of this reminds me of one of Donald Barthelme’s expectations of sentences, that they have a “metaphysical dimension.” Barthelme offers this definition: “By ‘metaphysical dimension’ I mean a quality that turns the mind toward original questions, first principles, the deepest sort of search for meaning.” Ethical questions, especially when they involve how we treat our neighbors, evoke first principles.

Learning from Munoz

“If she knew this woman better, if the woman knew her better, Delfina thought, she would tell her that this was only half true, that it was hard to make a go of it alone, but that it could be just as hard to live in a house without kindness.”

–from “Anyone Can Do It” by Manuel Munoz

Relationships are crucial to characterization, and hypothetical conditions shape the relationship described in this sentence. The terms of those conditions characterize: Delfina isn’t willing to share her past because she doesn’t know the woman she is interacting with well enough. If she knew her better, then she would reveal more about herself. The “then” is implied after the two “ifs” and before “she would.”

“If/then” constructions and hypothetical conditions could lead to lots of interesting characterization. Repeating a phrase emphasizes it, doubles down on it. Descriptions of a character’s interiority can add another layer. Also, secret-keeping by characters, what they decide not to reveal or when they do reveal information, can characterize.

Here are a few example drafts that apply some of what has been mentioned above.

If she had said, “Just to be clear, I want to reschedule, not cancel,” if he had asked, “Are you saying not Thursday or not at all?” June hissed at herself, then things could have worked out, or at least worked out differently. So, differently.
If he hadn’t wanted Benny’s approval, if Benny’s opinion had mattered less, Ray knew he would have told the truth earlier, before one disaster led to another and another after that.
If he wanted to destabilize the country, if he planned to make international treaties meaningless, then, spy or not, he helped our enemies.

Learning from Evanovich and Goldberg

Consider the first paragraph of The Heist by Janet Evanovich and Lee Goldberg:

Kate O’Hara’s favorite outfit was her blue windbreaker with the letters FBI written in yellow on the back, worn over a basic black T-shirt and matching black Kevlar vest. The ensemble went well with everything, particularly when paired with jeans and accessorized with a Glock. Thirty-three-year-old Special Agent O’Hare didn’t like feeling exposed and unarmed, especially on the job. That all but ruled her out for undercover work. Fine by her. She preferred a hard-charging style of law enforcement, which was exactly what she was practicing on that 96 degree winter afternoon in Las Vegas when she marched into the St. Cosmas Medical Center in her favorite outfit with a dozen similarly dressed agents behind her.

First sentences and first paragraphs should hook readers, should give them reasons to be interested in continuing to read. This paragraph begins with the name of a character, and that character is interesting in part because the language of two distinct worlds is brought together in her: fashion and policing. Specifically, this character has a favorite outfit of police gear, an “ensemble . . . accessorized with a Glock.” The first two sentences use two characterization techniques, appearance and employment, presented using clear visual images. In the third sentence, a restated name and job title provide a transition from the previous sentence; readers are given the character’s age, and they are given access to the character’s inner life. We know already something this character does not like. The fourth and fifth sentences continue to allow access to the character’s feelings and vary sentence lengths. The change in sentence lengths provides emphasis, and the emphasis itself characterizes: “Fine by her.” Continuing attention to the character’s inner life, “she preferred,” provides a transition from the fifth sentence to the last sentence of the paragraph. That last sentence shows the character acting, another way to characterize, and acting in a specific setting. The character’s action suggests an ongoing process. If readers are hooked by nothing else, they read on to discover the results of the process. Characters and readers finish the paragraph with momentum. In other words, by the end of the first paragraph, readers know journalism’s “Five Ws”: “who” is doing “what” “where.” They can estimate “when.” To discover “why,” they read on. (The “Five Ws” have their roots in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.) Finally, readers also know fairly specifically the genre they are reading.

Evanovich and Goldberg’s opening suggests several things we might try:

Using this paragraph and its sentences as a model, can you create expectations of a different genre?
How can your character bring together two disparate communities in a sentence or two?
What process begun by a main character in your first paragraph can create momentum deep into your narrative?

Similarly, Charlie Jane Anders wrote in Never Say You Can’t Survive, “I found that the more of a situation I could cram into those opening words, the greater the sense of momentum I could create, that could carry me through the rest of the story.” And also similarly, Elizabeth George in Write Away lists eight different hooks (page 70 in my edition) and many examples.

Learning from Miller

From The Land in Winter by Andrew Miller:

At the edge of the field, by the shadow-line of the hedge, a dog, or something like a dog, raised its head into the light, studied them a moment, the two women upright in the bareness of the field, then dropped out of sight again, soundlessly.

This sentence ends a chapter. The dog, or something like a dog, doesn’t reappear. It adds menace and tension to the novel, partly because of the situation (two pregnant women in a cold, snow-covered field), but also because of the word choices Miller has made: “Edge,” “shadow,” “into the light,” “studied,” “bareness,” “out of sight,” and “soundlessly,” for example. Most of all, the point of view allows readers to know something scary that the characters do not.

Two exercises, then. First, can we use the same words Miller does to create the opposite feeling for readers? We might allow ourselves to add words or see if we can change only their order. How are things different if the women watch the dog, for example? Second, how might we use the technique Miller uses? In other words, what can we let readers know that characters do not? How might this alarm readers, or how might it please them?

Learning from Kingfisher

Consider these sentences from Hemlock and Silver by T. Kingfisher: “I thought long and hard about Isobel telling me to be tactful. But Isobel was what she was, and I was what I was, and if thirty-odd years and a lot of poison hadn’t changed that, I might as well embrace it. Tact is overrated anyway. And if I started being tactful now, he’d probably die of shock.” The italics are in the original.

I think decisions characterize, but in addition to their actions, what a character refuses to do can characterize them. Melville’s Bartleby is one example of this. In the paragraph above, the main character makes a decision and refuses to change. On one level, they reject their arc. On another, they remain true to themselves against social and familial pressure.

So, what will your character decide not to do? How might that put them at odds with larger social forces around them? In what ways might it encourage conformity? (See Frank Lentricchia’s Criticism and Social Change, pages 102-107 espeically, for more.)

Learning from Ng

In the introduction to the Best American Short Stories 2025 annual, Celeste Ng writes about skipping reading the introductions when she’s read the anthology in the past. Even more interesting, she describes the criteria for good fiction she discovered in the process of making her selections. These criteria can be aspirational; they might be expectations we set for ourselves. Excerpts are below. I’ve added numbers and altered paragraphing.

[1] First and foremost, the story had to grab me. Sometimes this meant an unforgettable premise, or a propulsive plot, or characters so fully drawn that I felt I would know them if I met them on the street. Sometimes it was charm, or humor, or an unexpected twist. The stories that ended up in the Yes pile were ones I couldn’t get out of my head, that I kept thinking about days or even weeks after reading them.

[2] Second, the story had to feel complete…. I wanted a sense that the writer had considered the story holistically, that every choice had been made deliberately, and that all the pieces fit together, even if the… [whole] picture wasn’t fully revealed. And by the time I reached the last line, I needed to understand something more about the situation than I did at the start…

[3] Third, the language of this story had to be of the very highest caliber. If a piece didn’t have sentences that startled or surprised me, or images that took my breath away with their absolute rightness, they usually didn’t make the cut….

[4] And finally … stories had to have heft … They didn’t have to be serious or sad… But I had to feel that this story and these characters were deeply important to the author, not just a thought experiment or a whim…. I also tend to gravitate towards stories that are in conversation with big topics, whether that means our current moment or broad-reaching and eternal themes…. The very best stories engage with more than just the purely personal, and this is what turns a good story into a great story.