It was the best of sentences, it was the worst of sentences - June Casagrande 2010

On breaking the “Rules”: Knowing when to can the canons

One theme has cropped up time and again in this book. You've probably noticed it. From the chapter on adverbs to my rant on parentheses, from the long Ian McEwan sentence to the even longer Cormac McCarthy sentence, we've seen over and over that writing rules are made to be broken. That is, they're not really rules at all. They're just baby steps we can take before we learn how to walk then run then jitterbug. They help us when we're struggling. But they need not weigh us down when we're soaring.

People argue about writing rules. For every teacher who tells you, "Omit needless words," another will tell you that's nonsense, citing examples of top-notch writers whose work teems with "needless words." For every peer who tells you, "Avoid adverbs," someone else will argue that manner adverbs are used extensively by many of the very best writers. For everyone who tells you to use short sentences or avoid the passive voice, someone else will argue that long sentences can be great and the passive can be an ideal choice.

Don't get entangled in these debates. Just understand the wisdom of both sides. Every one of the writing "rules" you hear is rooted in a good idea with at least some practical application. Yet none of these rules is worth a damn when stretched into an absolute. "Avoid manner adverbs" can be helpful advice for some writers and is worth noting by all writers—even those who disagree. But it's not law. The advice "Keep sentences short" can be just what the doctor ordered for less experienced writers prone to cumbersome sentences. But, clearly, it's not a real rule.

All the so-called rules are really just guidelines that can help you serve your Reader—or not. If they help you, use them. If not, disregard them entirely. You'll be in good company.

But remember: These guidelines are always there to fall back on if you get a little lost. Think of them not as rules but as safe havens. If you're getting into trouble with a long sentence, you can chop it into shorter sentences. If your adverb-laden sentence falls flat, you can just ditch the adverbs.

You're not bound by these rules. But you are subject to expectations. Depending on the Reader, the publication, the subject matter, the genre, the context, and the cachet of your byline, Readers may receive your work in different ways. Readers can have prejudices— some far more important than the rantings of a lone anti-semicolonite. A Reader who encounters a very long sentence in the Palookaville Post or in an unpublished manuscript by a new author may label it bad writing. But the Reader might consider the same sentence genius in anything with the name Philip Roth on the cover.

Perhaps that's unfair. Perhaps not. Maybe it means that Readers expect us to earn their respect before they'll give us the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps abstract painters have to deal with the same thing—they must prove they can draw a bowl of grapes before people will admire their abstract shapes or spatters. Maybe everyone deals with this stuff: stockbrokers and fashion designers and academics—everyone.

If Readers have prejudices, that's the writing world we live in. We must decide how to navigate it. We can't please all the Readers all the time and we shouldn't try. But we don't get to create our Readers in our own image, either. We don't get to tell them what to value or enjoy. We can write in a way true to our own voice and our own ideas of beauty and substance, and we can hope that some Readers appreciate it. But, even when we aim to serve the narrowest cross section of Readers, we're still working for the Readers we have. We should be grateful that we have them.

Thanks for listening.