Content
About writing for content, blogging, reaching out.
Myths We Learn in Grade-School English: Never Write Sentence Fragments
Although it is a good general rule to follow, the rule that good writers should never write sentence fragments is a myth. In fact, the best writers use occasional fragments in their writi
ng, deliberately. Be careful though. In ninety-nine percent (or more) of your prose, you should write with complete sentences. In short, knowing when to use a stylistic fragment is an advanced writing technique. While there are no hard-and-fast rules that determine when a fragment is stylistically appropriate, I will try to share some general guidelines and examples.
What is a Sentence Fragment?
A sentence fragment (or fragment, for short) is a non-sentence written as a sentence. A fragment can be a word, a phrase, or a clause. Think of a fragment simply as a group of words that does not express a complete statement or claim, but that is written as one, in that it begins with a capital letter and ends with end punctuation.
Here are some examples of fragments. Notice that if you read them aloud, they make no sense as sentences. They do not express a full statement or claim, but are just spoken words.
Example Fragments:
- Room. (one-word fragment)
- Into the room. (phrase fragment)
- Because the teacher walked into the room. (clause fragment)
Clause fragments are the most difficult fragments to spot, because they are long enough to appear to be sentences. For this reason, most of the fragment errors I encounter in student writing are clause fragments. I recall a rule I teach my students: Length—or its lack—is not an indicator of a fragment. Many fragments are quite long, while many complete sentences are quite short.
Look at that third sentence fragment, “Because the teacher walked into the room.” Notice that this is not complete in itself, but that I can make it complete by adding a sentence (or independent clause) to that dependent clause:
Because the teacher walked into the room, the students suddenly stopped chatting.
Or, I can reverse the order:
The students suddenly stopped chatting because the teacher walked into the room.
This clause fragment needed a completing clause to form a complete sentence. Here are other examples. Notice that the clause fragment gains its completion when it is attached to a complete sentence. I have underlined the complete sentence (or independent clause) parts, for visual emphasis.
Fragment 1: When I write about composition.
Sentence 1: I am at my best when I write about composition.
Fragment 2: Balancing with perfect finesse.
Sentence 2: Balancing with perfect finesse, the cat walked along the top of the fence.
Fragment 3: Although you should generally avoid fragments.
Sentence 3: Although you should generally avoid fragments, occasional stylistic fragments are allowable, since they add spice and spontaneity to otherwise dull, predictable writing.
Do you see how that works? To fix most fragments, simply adding a complete-sentence part to the incomplete clause fragment is the key. Oftentimes, you can add the completing sentence before the clause, and sometimes you can add it after the clause. Once a fragment is written as part of a sentence, it is no longer an error. Think about the word, fragment. It simply means part or piece. With that in mind, make sure to write a fragment as that—a fragment, a part or piece of a larger sentence. Do not write it as a complete sentence in itself.
Well, that is true for ninety-nine percent of cases. But what if you sense that a fragment serves the purpose of style? Or, what if you intend a conversational, everyday tone, and a fragment achieves that effect? These uses of fragments are called stylistic fragments or deliberate fragments.
Stylistic Fragments: Why Most Teachers Don’t Discuss Them
A stylistic fragment (also called a deliberate fragment), is the deliberate use of a fragment to achieve a stylistic purpose. The best rule for knowing when to use stylistic fragments is to develop a sense of your audience(s) and your reader(s). Very formal writing is often directed at a professional or academic audience, and that writing serves the purpose of transmitting information to that audience. Considering your reading audience and your purpose in such cases, I suggest sticking with full statements and avoiding stylistic fragments. There is a time to sound official and to tone down the conversational or everyday style.
However, many teachers—especially those trying to introduce students to formal academic writing—advise their students never to aim for a conversational style. Yet, we know that those same teachers do not go home and read only formal writing, and that they surely write in the conversational tone when they compose e-mails to their friends and write letters to their lovers. What is going on, then? Why would educators teach one thing, yet practice the opposite?
Simple: They are trying to break inexperienced writers from writing exclusively in conversational styles. Getting that practice across to people who tend to write in conversational styles often requires imposing some tight rules for classroom writing. Although I think many teachers should include a small disclaimer that there are cases in which conversational styles are appropriate and even preferable, they are right to require formal writing of their students.
Also, such teachers are trying to teach their students to write with clarity. Most grade-school students do not write fragments to achieve stylistic effects. No, such young writers use fragments because they don’t yet understand what a sentence is. As an educator, I have a rule of thumb that I follow when teaching students the rules of grammar and basic mechanics: First, teach the rule and make students follow it, and only after a student has internalized that rule and its purpose, then teach the student how to break the rule for style. Think about it: to best break the rules, the writer must first know the rules.
A Close Look at Stylistic Fragments—Example: E.B. White
Now that we have discussed the hard-and-fast rules behind sentence fragments, it’s time to look at ways writers break the rules by using stylistic fragments. Consider the passage below, taken from E.B. White’s classic essay, “Once More to the Lake.” Here, the celebrated American author reflects on the passage of time and its powerlessness to diminish the permanence of memory. (You may know E.B. White from his most popularly known children’s story, Charlotte’s Web, which was later adapted into an animated film. Not coincidentally, “Once More to the Lake” and Charlotte’s Web both touch on the themes of death and the passing of identity and values from one generation to the next.) Notice that White begins the paragraph with neatly ordered complete sentences, but goes on to write the second half of the paragraph exclusively in fragments:
One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene, still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar, the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In midafternoon (it was all the same) a curious darkening of the sky, and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter, and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum, then the snare, then the bass drum and cymbals, then crackling light against the dark, and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.
Did you notice the fragments? You may have missed some of them, due to their length. Contrary to popular perceptions, many fragments are long—just as long as complete sentences. Notice what sets these fragments apart from sentences: these fragments do not form complete statements—at least, not in a grammatical sense.
For your convenience, here is the passage, with stylistic fragments underlined. Also, I have marked every other stylistic fragment in bold, so each stands out from the adjacent fragments:
One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene, still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar, the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In midafternoon (it was all the same) a curious darkening of the sky, and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter, and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum, then the snare, then the bass drum and cymbals, then crackling light against the dark, and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.
Look at each underlined fragment. If you isolate any one of those fragments, and read it aloud, out of the context of White’s narrative, it makes no sense as a statement.
By the way, this is the same author who, in his handbook on writing, The Elements of Style, advises:
Do not break sentences in two.
In other words, do not use periods for commas.
I met them on a Cunard liner many years ago. Coming home from Liverpool to New York.
He was an interesting talker. A man who had traveled all over the world and lived in half a dozen countries.
In both these examples, the first period should be replaced by a comma and the following word begun with a small letter.
What is going on here? Why does White violate his own rule?
Let’s read on. White continues:
It is permissible to make an emphatic word or expression serve the purpose of a sentence and to punctuate it accordingly:
Again and again he called out. No reply.
The writer must, however, be certain that the emphasis is warranted, lest his clipped sentence seem merely a blunder in syntax or in punctuation. Generally speaking, the place for broken sentences is in dialogue, when a character happens to speak in a clipped or fragmentary way.
So, do the fragments in White’s thunderstorm narrative “make an emphatic word or expression serve the purpose of a sentence”? I think so. Notice how the sentence fragments create a fitting sense of urgency, followed by an equally fitting sense of relief, as White relates his memories of the thunderstorm. Notice as well that there is a parallel structure at work within these fragments—which makes them seem to be part of a natural, flowing continuum. The fragments begin with phrases containing the article, the, accompanied by transition words like and, then, and afterward:
“and then the way the boats . . .”
“Then the kettle drum . . .”
“Afterward the calm . . .”
“And the comedian . . .”
These fragments exhibit a dream-like quality that stands out from the rest of White’s prose—as if, when recalling the power of thunderstorms, White slips away from consciously crafted sentences, and into euphoric musings that cannot be contained or described as complete, controlled statements. The writer here creates the illusion that he has lost his composure in the face of nature’s overpowering scale and force. (I use the term illusion with full intention; in reality, White has not lost one iota of his composure, but has crafted these sentences with masterful precision and care.)
Notice also that White creates a subtle transition from complete sentences to stylistic fragments—yet another sign of well-handled fragments. He begins with five full sentences before launching into the series of stylistic fragments that make up the remainder of the paragraph. The fifth sentence—the last complete, non-fragment sentence—has two parts: an independent clause, followed by a dependent clause. That dependent clause establishes the the pattern seen in the fragments that follow. By crafting this two-part sentence, White eases the reader from complete, grammatical sentences to spontaneous stylistic fragments. In this way, the writing begins with controlled, conventional prose (that is, complete sentences), and progresses into a style that expresses unpredictability and spontaneity—chaos. Why?
Because that chaos and unpredictability is exactly the content White is expressing—a thunderstorm. Thunderstorms are unpredictable, and they often sneak up on us with no warning, even on the most blue-skied of summer days. The thunder and the lightening are sudden, and startling. Here is unbridled nature: an overpowering, uncontrollable force that reminds us of our minuscule place on this turning, churning, heaving planet. What better way to show our lack of control in the face of such natural phenomena than to speak in fragments—to stutter and hesitate in awe of nature’s terrible majesty? I, for one, think White considered these points when he crafted those fragments. (By the way, did you notice that this paragraph’s opening sentence is a because-clause fragment? What is my purpose in using that fragment? Is that fragment a completion to a previous sentence?)
For these reasons, and many more, White’s fragments qualify as stylistic fragments: the kinds of fragments that we can—and should—employ in our writing.
Another Example of Stylistic Fragments: Maya Angelou
In her narrative essay, “Graduation,” renowned writer, autobiographer, and poet, Maya Angelou, recalls her eighth-grade graduation from the segregated school system of her childhood. In the passage below, the black principal of the school introduces the graduation speaker—a condescending white man whose address to the black graduating class is essentially for them to know their place in society as blacks. Here is the passage, with the stylistic fragment marked in bold:
[The principal] was talking about Booker T. Washington, our “late great leader,” who said we can be as close as the fingers on the hand, etc. . . . Then he said a few vague things about friendship and the friendship of kindly people to those less fortunate than themselves. With that his voice nearly faded, thin, away. Like a river diminishing to a stream and then to a trickle. But he cleared his throat and said, “Our speaker tonight, who is also our friend, came from Texarkana to deliver the commencement address, but due to the irregularity of the train schedule, he’s going to, as they say, ‘speak and run.’” He said that we understood and wanted the man to know that we were most grateful for the time he was able to give us and then something about how we were willing always to adjust to another’s program, and without more ado—“I give you Mr. Edward Donleavy.”
Notice that the fragment—which itself is a diminishing sentence—describes how the principal’s voice is diminishing. In this way, the diminishing language of Angelou’s prose reflects the diminishing voice of the principal. Style reflects content.
Three pages later, Angelou uses another stylistic fragment:
The ugliness [the white guests] left was palpable. An uninvited guest who wouldn’t leave. The choir was summoned and sang a modern arrangement of “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” with new words pertaining to graduates seeking their place in the world. But it didn’t work. Elouise, the daughter of the Baptist minister, recited “Invictus,” and I could have cried at the impertinence of “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”
Why might Angelou want this second fragment to stand out from the rest of the passage? Think about what the fragment expresses—the notion of an outsider, and uninvited guest. The “ugliness” of what the white speaker said to the black graduating class lingers in the room, and refuses to leave. The scene is awkward, to say the least, as the audience makes feeble attempts to continue with the ceremony after being degraded and demoralized. What better language to use to express this awkward, alien feeling than to do so with an awkward, normally inappropriate sentence—a fragment? This is the stylistic fragment at its best.
A Word on Fragments, Interjections, and Questions
Sometimes, a single word can form a complete sentence. One example is an interjection—a word (or phrase) that expresses an exclamatory idea. Although interjections are not to be considered fragments, you can treat them as deliberate stylistic fragments. (That is, you should use them, when appropriate.) Interjections are usually punctuated with an exclamation point.
Here are some examples of interjections:
A student told me that effective writing can never contain fragments. Nonsense!
Enough already! Let’s move on to the articles on advanced punctuation.
Writers sometimes pose questions in fragmented form—that is, the complete question is not asked, but is completed by the context of the sentence or question that precedes it. Doing this is perfectly permissible, so long as the fragmented questions follow with the original question or sentence. Usually, these questions are tentatively proposed answers to a preceding question. I call these specialized questions “fragment questions” (although the Grammar Gods may have other names for them).
Here is an example of fragment questions:
When should writers take on a conversational tone? E-mails? Creative writing? Letters to political leaders?
I have seen many an effective writer pose fragment questions like the ones above—that is, with capital letters at the beginning of each new question. However, in The New Well-Tempered Sentence, Karen Elizabeth Gordon advises,
You may come upon a question mark in the most intimate places—midsentence, for instance, and with others of its kind, ganging up on some innocent situation and interrogating it to death. Sprinkling question marks so liberally within a sentence, with no capital letters to make you think you’ve left it, emphasizes or mimics the thought process where such a series is appropriate.
Here is one example Gordon gives to show this use of fragment questions. Notice that when beginning a new question (and not merely a tentatively proposed answer-question), the writer capitalizes the first word of that question:
Do you love me truly? madly? deeply? Can you live without me? happily? despondently? just barely? Are we engaged? enamored? crushed? acquainted? Will you go to the ends of the earth with me? to the ball? to the mall?
I have noticed one difference between Gordon’s example and mine. In my example the first suggested answer is not within the first sentence. So, each suggestive question that follows begins as a new proposal—a new sentence—to answer that first question. In Gordon’s example, the first suggestion is within the original question. The suggestions that follow are part of that original sentence, and the question marks occur mid-sentence. Do you see the difference?
With this difference in mind, choose the method that works best for your purpose and style.
The Fragment Rule of Thumb: If you’re Scared, Don’t Do It.
Are you still haunted by past teachers’ red-font comment, FRAGMENT! littering the margins of your essays and writing projects? Are you so haunted that you cannot muster the courage to write stylistic fragments when you compose, perhaps in formal writing situations like college essays or letters to influential individuals? What should you do if you still feel shaky with stylistic fragments?
Simple: stick with what feels comfortable. Just as there is no rule stating that you can never use fragments, there is also no rule stating that you must use them. The stylistic fragment is a helpful tool, but not a requirement, for good writing. With time and experience, you will grow into your own writing style, and you will also develop a stronger sense of your readers. As you develop, your confidence will grow, and you will feel more comfortable using occasional stylistic fragments. Until then, stick with what you know. The art of writing is a lifetime endeavor; there’s no need to rush it.
Further Reading: Rhetorical Grammar, by Martha Kolln
If you are interested in learning more about how the rules of grammar can be manipulated (and violated) to create stylistic effects in writing, I suggest, for further reading, Martha Kolln’s book, Rhetorical Grammar: Grammatical Choices, Rhetorical Effects. As its title implies, Rhetorical Grammar explores the rules of grammar, not as a set of arbitrary rules we learn from over-zealous grade-school teachers, but as helpful tools for effective writing. If, after reading this article, you are seeking more examples of stylistic fragments, Kolln includes a section entitled, “the Deliberate Fragment,” that explains stylistic fragments, and gives examples of writers using stylistic (deliberate) fragments. This book is a must for those interested in improving their style while learning the essential rules of clear writing. Check it out.
Here is a link to the Amazon.com entry for Rhetorical Grammar:
Coming Soon—“Punctuation Toolbox: Advanced Punctuation and Style”
We have reached the end of our discussions of “Myths We Learn in Grade-School English.” Now it is time to move on to another subject, one that is critical to writing: advanced punctuation. What do I mean by “advanced punctuation”? Well, simply put, I define advanced punctuation as learning to use punctuation other than the period, the comma, and the question mark. Many new writers fail to achieve a natural, readable style, not because they lack the right words and phrases, but because they lack specific tools for expressing the absences between words and phrases—the pauses, hesitations, and linguistic lurches. These effects are accomplished through having a full toolbox of punctuation techniques such as colons, dashes, hyphens, semicolons, and (of course) parentheses. The next series of articles, entitled, “Punctuation Toolbox: Advanced Punctuation and Style,” will cover these forms of punctuation, and others.
Here is the link to the advanced punctuation introduction:
Works Cited
Angelou, Maya. “Graduation.” The Blair Reader. Eds. Laurie G. Kirszner and Stephen R. Mandell. 3rd ed. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1999. 90-100.
Gordon, Karen Elizabeth. The New Well-Tempered Sentence: A Punctuation Handbook for the Innocent, the Eager, and the Doomed. New York: Mariner Books, 1993.
Kolln, Martha. Rhetorical Grammar: Grammatical Choices, Rhetorical Effects. 5th ed. New York: Pearson Education, 2007.
Strunk, William and E.B. White. The Elements of Style. 3rd ed. New York: Macmillan, 1979.
White, E.B. “Once More to the Lake.” The Blair Reader. Eds. Laurie G. Kirszner and Stephen R. Mandell. 3rd ed. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1999. 23-29.
Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writ
ing to average, everyday Americans. He has published work in the field of medieval literature, and has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertisers Manipulate the English Language. Mr. Altman is an assistant professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, New York.
Myths We Learn in Grade-School English: Never Use the Pronoun “You” in Serious Writing
to use "you" in your writing.
to use "you" in your writing.
The Issue: The Generalized You vs. the Literal You
Here is a grade-school English myth that plagues the process of many adult writers:
Never use the pronoun you in your writing, especially in formal or serious writing.
Are you ready to see this one busted?
This absolute rule—enforced by many an educator—stems from the fact that there are essentially two ways to use the pronoun you in writing: (1) to address the reader and (2) to refer to the notion of people in general. The first function is useful and often unavoidable, but the second function—which I call “the generalized you“—is vague and often leads to false statements.
The first use of you is straightforward and quite literal: you means the person reading the writing. This is what I call “the literal you” or “the reader you.” This usage is useful, and often necessary if you (yes, you—the person reading this article) are writing a letter, or if you want your writing to speak to your reader(s). The pronoun, you, here is accurate and correct. The generalized you, on the other hand, is inaccurate. More often than not, it imposes assumptions on the reader.
What do I mean when I say the generalized you “imposes assumptions on the reader”? Consider the following statement, which I recall from a past student paper:
When you are pregnant, every aspect of life changes.
Now, there is an understanding here that you means any woman who becomes pregnant. Still, the reader—especially if male—does a double-take, if only for a moment. The reader sees you there, which of course makes him think, “Oh, that’s me.” And then, right there is the notion of the person known as you—in this case, the male reader—becoming pregnant. Unless we are talking about the protagonist in the Governator’s movie, Junior, I am pretty sure that the male reader knows that this sentence does not—and cannot—apply to him. The reader, just for a moment, is left confused. For that brief moment, his thoughts turn against the writer, since he wonders if the sentence could have been better written with him in mind. The writer may win him back in the sentences that follow, but she definitely loses a point or two in the rhetorical game simply through making the reader slip.
Those are the kinds of instances writers want to avoid. Admittedly, writers cannot control readers’ negative reactions completely, although writers do try to minimize it. With that goal in mind, good writers proofread carefully—and multiple times—to avoid typos in their finished product. They work hard to make sure that their arguments or explanations never contradict themselves. They make sure not to use words incorrectly. Such compositional pitfalls inhibit the flow of the writer’s ideas into the reader’s mind. We want to keep things smooth for our readers, and the generalized you—unless used with extreme care and appropriateness—disrupts the reader’s flow, just as typos or misspellings do.
Still, if negative reader reaction from being misidentified was the only issue with the generalized you, then I expect English teachers would consider letting it be. But there’s more to it than that. The use of the pronoun you to mean “people in general” is vague, and more often than not, it’s the result of lazy writing—and lazy thinking. Let’s return to the sample sentence. The student was writing a paper on effective methods by which social programs can assist single mothers. This particular paragraph was dealing with young, single mothers, who had become pregnant for the first time. That’s pretty specific—a far cry from you.
Many English teachers suggest a generic, cure-all solution to the generalized you: just replace it with the noun, one. That approach would leave us with this:
When one is pregnant, every aspect of life changes.
"One" is not the noun you are looking for.
Ugh. While one here is a step up from the generalized you in the sense that the sentence no longer imposes the prospect of pregnancy on the reader, it is unnatural and comes across as fabricated and pretentious. When teaching this concept to students, I jokingly refer to this use of the noun one as “Jedi-talk.” I mean, really!—Do we speak with sentences like, “One must learn the ways of the Force, young Padawan,” or, “The Force is strong with this one”? Of course not. (And, if you ever encounter a man who speaks that way, do not let him make funny, mystical gestures with his fingers as he speaks to you.) So, if overusing one represents an unrealistic, fabricated style, why write this way? Most readers won’t identify with such stodgy, pretentious diction.
Still, avoiding unnatural writing is not the main reason for avoiding one as a replacement for the generalized you. The most substantial reason for avoiding the overuse of one in writing is that one is vague—just as vague, in fact, as the generalized you. The writer can be a great deal more specific by expressing what kind of one she is discussing. With the goal of specific, pinpointed nouns in mind, how can the writer replace one or you with a better noun?
This replacement begins with a question: “Who exactly do I mean by you or one?”
Let’s consider the context of the student’s original statement. The paragraph is about young women who have become pregnant for the first time. So, why not replace you with that? If the student writes what she means, she would end up with something like this:
When a young woman becomes pregnant for the first time, every aspect of life changes.
That’s not perfect, but it is a step in the right direction. The writer could specify further by including the point that the young woman is single:
When a single young woman becomes pregnant for the first time, every aspect of her life changes.
Or, how about this one?—
When a single young woman of any income becomes pregnant for the first time, every aspect of her life changes. This is especially true of low-income single mothers.
In this last revision, the writer uses a specific noun—that is, any single young woman who becomes pregnant—to make a transition into the next part of the discussion: low-income single mothers and pregnancy. See how that works? Specific words set the writer up for even more possibilities.
The possibilities seem endless, once we move away from vague one-size-fits-all language like you or one, and begin using pinpointed, specific nouns. I have other issues with the sentence, but it is well on its way. Now we have a sentence that does not impose false assumptions on the reader. Moreover, it is more accurate than the you version, and it makes for a more interesting (and convincing) read.
I mentioned earlier that the generalized you represents lazy writing. I stand by that assertion, in the vast majority of cases. (The rare exception represents a stylized use of the generalized you, but I suggest it only for advanced writers who have a strong sense of their audience.) The generalized you is lazy writing—and thinking—in the sense that it allows the writer an easy escape from discussing specific people in sentences. Think about it. A writer who uses you in every sentence does not have to consider that one paragraph discusses a young, low-income single mother, while a later paragraph addresses the situation of a thirty-eight-year-old mother who has become pregnant for a third (and unexpected) time. It’s easier just to say you in one sentence and you in the next, but it does little to let the reader know what is going on in each sentence.
To use the generalized you—or even its weak replacement, one—is to become a one-trick pony; that is, the writer uses the same writing technique time and again to avoid close consideration of her content. In the reader’s eyes, this small three-letter word appears to be the only way the writer knows to discuss people, when she should spice up her writing with a variety of techniques. It serves the writer—by making life convenient for her—but it inconveniences her reader, who must make sense of what is meant by you in each sentence.
Why Teachers Forbid You in Student Writing: Two Reasons
If the literal you is acceptable—and even preferable in some cases—why not teach students to avoid only the generalized you? Well, at the college level, I do teach this. But why do grade-school teachers ban all uses of the pronoun you in writing? Why do they teach it as an absolute?
Once again, let’s pay a visit to little Billy and his all-knowing English teacher, Mrs. Humperdinkle. Little Billy continues writing his essay on Disney World. He is starting to understand coordinating conjunctions (especially and), and he is using them frequently in his writing.
As his new introduction, Billy writes,
Have you ever been to Disney World? I went there this summer, and it was the most fun time of my life. My uncle John told me that he does not like Disney World. I cannot understand why you would not want to go there. You get to go on fun rides and see great shows. It has a huge haunted house. It will really scare you, but it will make you laugh too.
Do you see the issue here? Billy cannot differentiate between the literal you (which he uses to pose a question to the reader in his opening sentence) and the generalized you (which he uses later in the sentence, multiple times). He uses you in the ways he hears it used in spoken conversation, and he has not yet learned to differentiate between the ways that even he uses it.
If Mrs. Humperdinkle tried to explain the notion of the generalized you to Billy, chances are, he would not get it. He would still use you both in the accurate, literal way, and he would use it the wrong way: to express the notion of people in general.
So, choosing the lesser evil, Mrs. Humperdinkle teaches Billy simply to avoid all uses of you. In the same way that she would say, “Never touch the stove,” to a child who is just as likely to start a house fire as he is to cook a pan of stir-fry, Mrs. Humperdinkle warns, “Never use you in writing.” This zero-tolerance approach solves the issue for Billy, forcing him to use precise nouns in his writing. Here is the new version of his paper, with all traces of you purged from the prose:
I went to Disney World this summer, and it was the most fun time of my life. My Uncle John told me that he does not like Disney World. I cannot understand why Uncle John would not want to go there. He would get to go on fun rides and see great shows. It has a huge haunted house. It really scares people, but it makes them laugh too.
That’s a step in the right direction, although little Billy still has a lot to learn. Mrs. Humperdinkle is correct, at this point in Billy’s development, to have him eschew all uses of you in his formal prose.
There is a second reason that Mrs. Humperdinkle tells little Billy to avoid using you in his writing: she wants to teach Billy to focus on his subject matter. Most children Billy’s age are just beginning to consider the world objectively—that is, considering the world separately from considering themselves. When Billy thinks of Disney World, he is not thinking that it is important because of its impact on American culture and consumerism. He is not even thinking it is important because of what it means to other children. Heck, in Billy’s self-oriented mind, Disney World is not important because it is big, nor because of its many rides. Disney World is important, in Billy’s view, because Billy went there and he had fun. For Billy, it’s all about Billy.
Mrs. Humperdinkle wants to encourage Billy to grow beyond this kind of thinking. With that developmental goal in mind, she encourages Billy to write in such a way that the focus is directed, not so much towards himself or his reader, but towards Disney World itself. Teachers often ask students to avoid using the personal pronoun, I, in their writing for this same reason. Writing without the pronoun you (or, in some cases without the first-person pronoun, I) forces children to focus their thoughts on the subject. How people write reflects how they think; by the same token, people’s thinking is influenced by the rules they are given for writing.
In this sense, prohibiting the use of you or I in elementary-school writing is as much a thinking exercise as it is a writing practice. Later, when Billy has learned to focus on his subject matter, he can begin to address the reader, both for stylistic and practical purposes. So long as life experience and thoughtful teachers inform his development, Billy will learn when to address his reader, and how to differentiate between the literal you and the generalized you.
Unfortunately, things do not always turn out that way. What happens if no one ever tells Billy that avoiding all uses of you is merely a temporary, developmental exercise? What happens if Billy tries to continue writing this way into adulthood? What kind of writer will he become? How will he perceive writing? We will explore such issues in the next section.
Novice Adult Writers and the Pronoun, You
Most college freshmen (and other new writers) I encounter fall into two categories, regarding their use of the pronoun you in writing:
Category One: Those in Category One use you almost everywhere they mention other people in their writing, and most instances are the generalized you. If I had to draw a number out of the air, I would say that about seven out of ten freshmen write this way.
Category Two: Students in Category Two just avoid you altogether because they have a Mrs. Humperdinkle from their past who told them never to use you. They often use the word one to discuss people. This group, in my experience, includes about two out of ten students.
The remaining one out of ten is that rare student writer who knows how to use the literal you, but to avoid the generalized you. Chances are, these students had a Mrs. Humperdinkle who told them to avoid you, but then they had a later teacher (probably in high school) who taught them some advanced writing techniques. I applaud such high-school teachers, and I always delight in hearing about them.
Taking care of the students in Category Two is easy: I just show them how to use you, and they feel liberated and eager to write.
As for those in Category One—well, things aren’t so easy for them. And I know, because when I was a freshman, I belonged to this category.
Writing with the generalized you is a terrible habit to break. Even if the student is aware of the issue, she is so accustomed to expressing the notion of any person with the pronoun you, that she defaults to that reference point. (And, if you—my reader—think about it, a great many sentences involve people. The student, then, has been thinking of people in terms of you quite frequently, and for many years.)
Although knowledge is the first step, this is not an issue I can solve simply by teaching these generalized-you writers how to replace you with a specific noun. The lesson this article teaches is the equivalent of teaching a 467-pound man how to use a home-fitness machine. He may know all the finer points of triceps-extensions and leg-curls, but the only way for him to lose weight is for him to use the machine—which requires time, effort, and a smidgen (or more) of pain. He has to undergo a degree of personal struggle and sacrifice to progress.
So it goes with writing. The 467-pound writer is the one who slides sluggishly through the prose, describing everyone as you—whether a 43-year-old male transmission mechanic or a 22-year-old female marketing student. These generalized-you writers will simply have to revise until they have replaced their many cases of you with vivid, pinpointed nouns. At first, it’s hard, but as the writer continues to work, it gets easier, in the same way that life gets easier for the 467-pound man (who will soon weigh 350 pounds, and whose body will acclimate to physical work as he continues to lose weight and progress). Whether it’s a physical workout or a compositional one, Day One is always the hardest.
The best advice from here is simple: Stick with it.
Replacing the Generalized You: A Working Method
Does the generalized you plague your writing? Have English teachers told you time and again to avoid it, but have yet to provide you with a working method? Are you struggling?
Worry no more, dear reader. Here is a method that works, but it will still require some effort on your part. Trust me: it’s worth every effort you put into it.
Here is the method:
Step 1: Write as you normally write. Don’t worry a bit about the generalized you. If that’s what ends up on the paper, fine. It’s not the end of the world—and certainly not the end of your paper. This is a process, and you are only on the first step.
Step 2: Look over your writing, and highlight all instances of the pronoun you. I suggest finding them yourself, without the use of a word processing find feature. However, after you have found all instances you can locate, you can use a find feature to double-check your search. No matter how you find the instances of you, use the highlight feature to place a color highlight over every appearance of you. (I prefer red or yellow for highlighting, since they stand out to the eye and still allow for the black-font text to remain clear.) Also, don’t forget other forms of you, like your (possessive form of you) and you’re (contraction for you + are). When I speak in these steps of the word, you, I am also speaking of these forms.
Step 3: Go through the highlighted instances of you, and un-highlight the cases in which you use you to address your reader. Those are cases of the literal you, and in most cases, you can keep them. This is especially true if you are writing an e-mail or letter, or if you are writing an expository essay that teaches the reader how to perform some practice or process. Using the literal you in such pieces is often necessary and preferable. (Note: These articles on writing are that kind of expository writing—that is, they explain some idea or practice, in this case, writing techniques. You will notice that I use the pronoun you quite frequently, since I am addressing you, my reader, the one with whom I share these techniques and practices.)
Step 4: Make notes on what you mean by each use of the generalized you. All that remains highlighted are cases of the generalized you. Consider each highlighted generalized-you instance in order, and don’t be afraid to spend time on each of them. Use the comment feature in your word-processing program to note the people you mean to identify with you. I’ll bet you know who they are. Just take a moment for each to write it out, in a comment bubble. (Note: This is the essential step of the process. With practice, you will be able to simply replace the generalized you in your writing with the person you intend. With further practice, even that step will disappear when you simply write the noun you intend from the start. But for now, break it down into steps.)
Step 5: Use the information in each note or comment to replace the generalized you in the sentence. This may require a few adjustments to the sentence—and to the language from the comment—so make sure to look at the whole sentence after you have replaced you with the intended person. Read it aloud to make sure it sounds natural and clear.
After you go through these steps, read your prose. Compare it to older prose, where you used the generalized you. Notice that it sounds more professional, more scholarly—more like the prose you might read in an acclaimed nonfiction book. Know that you are headed in the right direction, and that soon this level of specificity and clarity will typify your writing.
There you have it: identifying and replacing the generalized you. Now, give it a try.
Are There Times to Avoid You Completely?
We have looked at how the generalized you can hurt our writing, and how in many writing situations the literal you is not only unavoidable, but also preferred. There’s no way around it: sometimes we just have to talk to our readers.
But are there times when we should not address readers directly? Are there forms of writing or writing situations where addressing the reader as you should always be avoided?
Well, I do not like thinking in terms of always. However, as a rule, we should avoid addressing the reader directly when doing so is unnecessary or excessive. One example is scientific writing, where the purpose is to express the data and findings from research, and not to speak to the reader directly. When writers address their readers as you, they are seeking to pull their readers into the discussion—perhaps inviting readers to access their own memories and to use those life experiences as touchstones for understanding the points made in the writing. This is effective if you are trying to convince your audience of your position on a controversy or debate. (That’s what we call “persuasive writing.”) It’s also productive, as I mentioned earlier, in expository or explanatory writing, where the goal is to make the reader understand some concept, process, or practice. These are reader-focused forms of writing, so addressing the reader is helpful and necessary.
If the focus is the information itself, there is often a specialized audience. If a biologist writes a paper on the formation of DNA from RNA, chances are, the audience will be made up of other biologists. The writer, in a sense, knows who you is (a circle of specialists within the scientific community), so the people understood to be you never need to be mentioned. The goal is to express as much of the data as possible, as efficiently as possible. Simply put, scientific writing is not about you; it’s about the findings. The same is true for statistical research, mathematical research, and any writing in which new research is presented to a specialized academic audience.¹
Still, I would like to see even this change. Writers—before they are columnists, political writers, scientists, or mathematicians—are people, with all the everyday tendencies and practices that most humans share. I think that the best writers are those who can stay on point, while infusing the prose with passion and personality. Very few people, scholars and scientists included, enjoy reading streams of data in the form of sentences. They may enjoy the ideas themselves, but the writing is dry. At the end of the day, all of us prefer to read writing that keeps it real.
My point, in writing this article, is not to have you use the pronoun you in every sentence or essay that you compose. My goal, dear reader, is to counter the pseudo-rule that you should never use the pronoun you in any of your writing. Those who try to follow that rule will struggle to write, and even after that struggle, a great deal of their writing will be unnatural and pretentious—and consequently, ineffective.
One final warning: Although I do hope you feel free to use the literal you in your writing, dear reader, be careful not to overuse it. (Remember what they say about too much of a good thing?) There is a point where addressing the reader excessively shifts too much focus onto the reader, and away from the subject matter. I cannot give you any clear-cut maximum frequency for addressing the reader with the pronoun, you. It varies according to the writing situation, the audience, and the discipline in which the writer composes. Some forms, like letters and e-mails, will involve many instances of the pronoun, you. Others, like college essays on Shakespeare’s sonnets, will involve very few—if any—cases where the writer needs to address the reader.
The best rule I can give you is to be aware of your purpose for the writing. Does addressing the reader help achieve that purpose? If so, you will probably end up using you with some frequency. If using you does not lend itself to the purpose of your writing, then why use it? I think that this is a good rule of thumb for knowing when (and when not) to address the reader.
Next up: Sentence Fragments
Next up in our exploration of grade-school English myths: “Never write sentence fragments.” Here is a link to that article:
Notes:
1. Some writing—like that of the celebrated astrophysicist and spokesperson for science, Neil DeGrasse Tyson—is intended to share the worlds of science with the general public. Such writers address their readers quite frequently. Although it is about science in a general sense, this form of writing is not what I mean when I say, “scientific writing” or “academic writing.” (If you need an example of an effective writer, look no further than Neil DeGrasse Tyson’s essays and books. While a book on astrophysics may not be the first place you go for an entertaining read, trust me when I say that Tyson’s writing will change that perspective. He is an equally effective public speaker, and you can access many of his talks on sites like Youtube.)
Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to average, everyday Americans. He has published work in the field of medieval literature, and has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertisers Manipulate the English Language. Mr. Altman is an assistant professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, New York.
Myths We Learn in Grade-School English: Never Begin Sentences with Coordinating Conjunctions
The Myth
Here is Grade-School Myth #2:
Never begin sentences with coordinating conjunctions like and, but, or so.
As with the other myths we explore in this series, teachers spread this particular myth among children for good reason. Children—unless they are writing savants—do not know the appropriate times to begin sentences with conjunctions. They do not yet grasp transitions, nor do they grasp why they should use transitions. As adults, though, we can understand these concepts, so we should employ them in our writing.
A helpful way to remember the seven coordinating conjunctions
Transitions: Essential to Effective Writing
What do I mean by transitions? Transitions are words, phrases, or even sentences that allow your writing to flow from one idea to the next.
Transitions connect your sentences, your paragraphs, and your ideas. For example, notice how I ask a question at the beginning of this paragraph about a point I made in the preceding paragraph; that’s a type of transition (paragraph-to-paragraph transition). Notice how, in the last sentence you read, the phrase, “for example,” connects to the sentence that precedes it. (That is a sentence-to-sentence transition.)
So why do we need transitions? Well, it’s just good, common sense: transitions keep our readers reading. Transitions carry ideas from sentence to sentence. They keep the reader on a smooth, uninterrupted track as they experience our prose. Readers, like anyone, want to be well served. They like their reading experience to be convenient, and maybe even the slightest bit entertaining. Is that too much to ask, you think?
Well, think about it. We are asking people to take time out of their lives to read our ideas and opinions. The very least we can do is serve them with a smooth, readable style. Aside from writing clearly and having something worth saying, the chief rule for serving readers is to write with smooth transitions. As with other endeavors like cooking or show-business, bringing our readers a convenient, pleasurable experience often involves some degree of inconvenience on our part. Paradoxically, an effortless experience for the reader requires great efforts from the writer.
The reward for these efforts is that your audience reads your work from start to finish. Also, readers are more likely to buy your ideas if they like the way you express them. And, even if they still disagree with your assertions, readers will at least give you credit for an enjoyable, easy read. We have many tools available for creating transitions. Sometimes, a well placed “also” or “in addition” creates a quick but helpful transition. Also, we have handy phrases like “for example” and “for instance” that connect an example to the ongoing discussion. These are generic, run-of-the-mill transition words and phrases, but they work. The best writers use them. Still, the best writers also make sure to use creative transitions.
What do I mean by creative transitions? Well, consider this paragraph I am writing here. Look at that first sentence—a question that references my language in the previous sentence. This is one great way to create a transition: explain what you mean by a certain phrase or word you used in the preceding sentence or paragraph. This technique creates transition—connection with the earlier sentence or paragraph—but it also shows your readers that you care about their needs; it shows that you genuinely want your readers to get your ideas, such that you will go to extra effort to get those ideas across. This attitude is important. I hope you see it in my writing.
Coordinating Conjunctions Create Transitions
So, what do coordinating conjunctions have to do with transitions?
Everything. Coordinating conjunctions are a great way to create spontaneity in your writing. They are not so stodgy and self-important as words like however, thus, or therefore. Who talks like that, anyway? Why can’t our writing and our speaking be one?
I think for the best writers, writing and speaking are one. For many academic writers, they are not. (That’s one reason that almost no one—not even academics—really enjoys reading academic prose, although they may pretend to enjoy it. Sure, they may enjoy the ideas that the writing expresses, but I doubt that anyone enjoys the style.)
But how exactly does starting sentences with coordinating conjunctions make your writing everyday or colloquial?
Well, imagine if I started the question above with however (which, by the way, is not a coordinating conjunction):
However, how exactly does starting sentences with coordinating conjunctions make your writing everyday or colloquial?
Ugh. That didn’t work. (One reason it didn’t work, aside from its excessive emphasis and formality, is the repetition of how in the adjacent words, however and how.
Let’s try the minimalist approach, by not using any transition word at all:
How exactly does starting sentences with coordinating conjunctions make your writing everyday or colloquial?
If you place that second sentence in context, it is broken from the ongoing discussion. It just drops on the reader, out of nowhere. The reader has to stop for a split-second to see the notion of but there. And that’s one thing you never want—your readers stopping because you failed to guide them. That’s work for the reader, work that is the writer’s responsibility. I think of those old ads with the scrubbing bubbles, and the motto: “We work hard so you don’t have to.” That’s a good rule for writers: writers should work hard so readers don’t have to.
Often though, it’s not even hard work. In many cases, providing helpful transitions for our readers requires minimal effort. Think of the example we explored above. All that transition took was a simple three-letter but to keep the reader on track—a very small effort for providing our readers with transition and clarity.
The Myth and Its Purpose
If sentence-starter conjunctions are such valuable tools for creating transitions, why do our grade-school teachers so often forbid this practice?
Meet little Billy, and his third-grade teacher, Mrs. Humperdinkle. Billy is writing a paragraph for an assignment entitled, “My Weekend.” Billy writes:
On Saturday I went to the mall with my mom. And we had a great time. And I ate a big pretzel. And Mom got me a shirt. And I got some toys. And I like to play with them. I like going to the mall. And I like seeing movies too.
Now, is little Billy using and to create transitions? Not really. He simply wants to show the idea of in addition to or next. A type of transition is created—sure—but Mrs. Humperdinkle wants to see Billy combine those related ideas into more substantial sentences, like this:
On Saturday I went to the mall with my Mom, and we had a great time. The best part was when I ate a big pretzel. Mom got me a shirt, but she also got me some nice toys. I like going to the mall, even more than I like seeing movies.
But Billy doesn’t use conjunctions to write this way. He is missing the connections between his sentences because he thinks purely in terms of “and” or “in addition to.” This exclusive use of and reflects the simplicity of a child’s perspective. In Billy’s mind, things simply coexist, or occur in sequence. They do not have relationships beyond coexistence and occurrence. Mrs. Humperdinkle wants Billy to think about relationships like cause-and-effect (indicated by connecting words like so, since, or because), and contradiction (but, yet, and although). There’s more to our complex, interconnected world than and, so our language should show that.
And, even if Billy learns to use advanced conjunctions like or, so, and but, Mrs. Humperdinkle knows that Billy needs to write longer sentences. And, no, she doesn’t want Billy’s sentences to be too long. (And, yes, Mrs. Humperdinkle knows not to call such sentences run-ons.) She does not want him to limit his writing to short, disconnected, chop-chop statements of fact. Mrs. Humperdinkle’s goal, then, is to force Billy to form sentences that describe realistic, complex relationships between people, actions, and events.
With that goal in mind, Mrs. Humperdinkle teaches little Billy to use conjunctions to join sentences. Since Billy has trouble thinking in terms of transitions between sentences, he must begin at the level of seeing transitions within sentences. Having assessed Billy’s level of development, Mrs. Humperdinkle orders the boy not to use conjunctions to begin sentences. She knows that using conjunctions only within sentences is not realistic for advanced writers, and that there are plenty of exceptions to the rule she is now teaching Billy. But she cannot say that to Billy! She must teach this temporary writing practice, not as something that will change with time, but as a set-in-stone absolute. Since Billy is a child, equivocal language will not get the point across to him. If Mrs. Humperdinkle says, “This rule will change later,” or even, “Try to avoid starting most sentences with conjunctions,” Billy may not stick with the program. Children think best in terms of absolutes, so Mrs. Humperdinkle must express even temporary developmental writing practices as absolutes.
While elementary-school teachers like Mrs. Humperdinkle are correct in absolutely forbidding students from beginning sentences with coordinating conjunctions, this approach has repercussions later in life, when the student attempts college-level writing. As with the myth of the run-on sentence, which we discussed in a previous article, the issue occurs when higher-level teachers do not recognize the myth and its effects on later writing. They never tell their students, “I’ll bet a lot of you learned in elementary or middle school not to begin sentences with coordinating conjunctions like and, but, or so. Well, you can do that now, but just don’t do it in every sentence. Here is how to do it. . . .” This is a conversation that must happen; otherwise Mr. Bill will continue to try to write like little Billy.
And so it goes. For us, seeing beyond these myths—and writing beyond them—is a must. So, free your mind, and experiment with those conjunctions. But don’t overuse them (as I am doing intentionally in this paragraph). And make sure not to use them so much that they lose their force (as they are in these sentences). And don’t forget that there is nothing wrong with the conventional method, as taught by Mrs. Humperdinkle. Combining ideas into complex, cohesive, fully expressed sentences is a good practice, from grade school to college—and beyond.
A Bit on Coordinating Conjunctions
Since this is a discussion of coordinating conjunctions, I should share a word or two on the seven coordinating conjunctions and how they function.
What is a coordinating conjunction? What does this fancy two-word term mean? Consider the first word of the term: coordinating. To coordinate is to manage things, such that they function in a certain way. If I coordinate a meeting, this is to say that I set up and organize the meeting, so that the events of that meeting will occur in an appropriate manner and sequence. In a similar way that people can coordinate the roles of other people, some words can coordinate other words. A coordinating conjunction, as per its name, coordinates.
Now, consider the second part of the term: conjunction. A conjunction, in general, is a joiner of two things. The same is true for language and grammar: a conjunction is a connector—a combiner. So, a coordinating conjunction joins two things.
With both parts of the term in mind, a coordinating conjunction is a word that joins two sentences, but also one that manages (or coordinates) the sentences it joins, by showing the relationship that connects those sentences. A coordinating conjunction—a conjunction that coordinates: ah-ha!
Coordinating conjunctions, though, go beyond coordinating and joining just sentences. They can also coordinate and join words, phrases, and even paragraphs. Still, when English teachers speak of coordinating conjunctions, they are usually referring to their function as sentence joiners—that is, taking two complete sentences, and joining them into a single sentence.
The table below lists the seven coordinating conjunctions and their essential functions. Whether you are using conjunctions to show transitions within sentences, between sentences, or even between paragraphs, always make sure to choose the best, most fitting conjunction for the job.
Coordinating Conjunction Function
and coexistence
but contradiction
yet contradiction
so cause and effect
or choice
nor additional negation
for precedes a cause or reason
Some of these conjunctions deserve a bit more explanation than this at-a-glance table provides. Compared with conjunctions like and or but, the conjunction nor is not a frequently used word, nor is the conjunction for frequently used. Let’s look briefly at nor and for, before moving on to the other conjunctions.
Conjunction: Nor
Nor is similar to and, except that it shows negation, or not-ness. It shows that a second item or statement is also not the case. You can think of nor as meaning not + and, or even not + or. (Actually, if you look closely at the word, nor, it appears to be a type of contraction for not + or. This is also true, for example, of the pronoun, none, which I think of as an abbreviated form of not + one—one reason that most hard-nosed grammarians consider none singular, and never plural.)
Like and or but, the conjunction nor can combine short items (like nouns), as well as sentences. Oftentimes, such appearances of nor are preceded in the sentence by the word, neither. (If you like fancy words, using that neither- nor combination is called a correlative conjunction—that is, a multiple-word conjunction that contains two words that correlate to one another.) Here are some examples of nor used in sentences:
I enjoy neither ironing, nor doing laundry. (neither-nor correlative conjunction)
Bob did not write his paper on time, nor did he bother to proofread. (coordinating conjunction)
I did not give Bob an A, nor a B, nor a C. (nor to combine negated items in a series)
Note: In this final example, you can replace nor with or, particularly if you want to achieve a colloquial, everyday tone. However, I think that nor is preferable in the sentence above, in that it drives home a sense of negativity through repeating a negation. (Think about it: I want my negative tone to come across, since I am not happy about Bob’s performance. By repeating nor, I am effectively saying, “No, no, and no.” I also want to sound a bit snobby and aloof, to show that I disapprove of Bob’s work. Nor achieves both of those goals perfectly.)
For: Sometimes a Conjunction, Often a Preposition
The other conjunction I want to mention is for. This word can be confusing, for it serves another role as a preposition. Notice how in the previous sentence I used for to combine two sentences. The first sentence communicates the effect (for can be confusing), and the second sentence reveals the cause of that effect (the reason for is confusing: it serves another role as a preposition). This application of for simply means because; however, using for instead of because creates a formal tone, in a very similar way that nor is more formal than or to show additional negation.
Here is an example in which for combines two sentences. Notice the effect-cause order.
Mrs. Humperdinkle asks little Billy not to begin sentences with conjunctions, for she knows that he does not yet grasp how to start sentences with coordinating conjunctions.
Here are the roles the two sentences play, when for combines them into a single statement:
Effect/Outcome: Mrs. Humperdinkle asks little Billy not to begin sentences with conjunctions.
, for
Cause/Reason: She knows that he does not yet grasp how to start sentences with coordinating conjunctions.
Quick Note: the coordinating conjunction so reverses this effect-cause order, creating a cause-effect combination. Consider the following inversion of the example above:
Mrs. Humperdinkle knows that little Billy does not yet grasp how to start sentences with coordinating conjunctions, so she asks him not to begin sentences with conjunctions.
One point that makes for a bit complex is that it also serves the role of preposition. Consider how for serves as a preposition in the sentence below. Notice also in this example that for does not combine two sentences.
I am writing this series of articles for anyone who remains daunted by writing rules they no longer find relevant.
In this sense, for is used to mean “in the service of,” or “for the benefit of.” In other contexts it can mean, “for purposes of,” as in the sentence below:
Good writers use transitions for clarity and readability.
In this second example, the prepositional version of for is very similar to the conjunctive form—that is, both communicate effect-cause relationships. I think that this similarity leads to some reluctance to use for as a conjunction, which leads many writers (and readers) to view it as a slightly old-fashioned convention. With this popular perception in mind, I like to use for as a coordinating conjunction when expressing a statement in a stern or formal tone:
I gave Bob an F grade, for he did not complete the course requirements, nor did he put forth any substantial effort in class.
(I slipped in a nor as well.—Now, that’s some aloof, stodgy stuff, isn’t it? My goal: to sound authoritative and intimidating.)
Yet vs. But
Yet and but are generally considered interchangeable. I disagree with this perception, since I find that yet and but express very different tones and formality levels in writing. While you can replace but with yet to show contradiction, never make this replacement arbitrarily. Reserve yet for those statements or assertions you would rather express in a formal or emphatic tone. Because it is not used as often as but in spoken conversation, yet is perceived—whether consciously or subconsciously—as the more formal conjunction. Use it when you want a very strong (and ever-so-slightly old-fashioned) sense of but-ness.
So What?
I like to use the common conjunctions (and, but, so, and or) to begin sentences, and often to begin paragraphs. Just as it does within sentences, the conjunction but expresses contradiction when it opens sentences. It tells the reader, “Pay attention: I’m about to say something in this sentence that goes against what I just said in the preceding sentence.” This creates suspense in the reader’s mind, especially if the writer had expressed the preceding sentence with a strong degree of conviction.
The conjunction so is similar to but, in that its role as a sentence opener serves a very similar function to its role as a sentence combiner. Whether it acts as a sentence starter or a sentence combiner, so introduces some effect or outcome to that which precedes it. But sometimes, it takes on an additional meaning when it kicks off new sentences. Simply put, so, when introducing a sentence or paragraph, can mean, “with that in mind,” or “to sum.” It tells the reader, “Okay, now think about everything I just said and move forward into this new discussion with that in mind.” It also retains its cause-and-effect quality, in the sense that it says, “Because of all that I just said to you in the previous paragraph(s), the point I am about to make is applicable and worth consideration.” The conjunction, so—a two-letter word—says all that? You’d better believe it!
So, when considering conjunctions as sentence or paragraph starters, make sure to consider that their functions, while similar to their mid-sentence applications, can change slightly. Did you see how I used so to open this paragraph? In that context, it means, “with the preceding paragraph’s content in mind.” Also, notice how so there is followed by a comma. That comma shows a pause of emphasis. It invites the reader to pause to notice that appearance of so. This pause invites the reader to reflect, for one moment, on the previous paragraph and its implications. It sets so apart, showcasing the point that so there means, “What I just said is important to what I’m about to say; don’t drop it just yet.”
This comma after the conjunction is a frequent, but not ubiquitous, practice for using conjunctions as sentence starters. How do we know when to place a comma and when to omit it? Recalling the article on the comma rule of thumb, your best guide for deciding whether to place that comma is to listen to the sentence. Read the sentence aloud, and make sure to read it naturally, in the same way that you would speak it. If you hear yourself pause after the opening conjunction, then place a comma. If the 0pening conjunction runs into the word that follows it without any pause, do not place a comma. (Note: I find that so, when used to start sentences, is followed by a comma more often than and or but.)
Coming up: Yet More Sentence Starting Myths
Well, that’s it for this myth of grade-school English. So go forth, dear reader, and use those coordinating conjunctions for all they’re worth.
It’s time now to move on to Myth #3: “Never begin sentences with because.”
Here is the link to that article:
Christopher Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to average, everyday Americans. He has published work in the field of medieval literature, and has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertisers Manipulate the English Language. Mr. Altman is an assistant professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, New York.
“Writer’s Toolbox” The Strategy of Writing
The Goal of Writing
In the introduction to “Writer’s Toolbox,” I mentioned that writing is like chess. Specifically, I compared writing to chess in regard to the mindset of the novice writer versus the mindset of the experienced writer. Writing is like chess also in the sense that writing involves a strategy—a larger game plan—for convincing readers. The strategy of chess is to win (specifically, by putting the opponent’s king in checkmate). What exactly is the strategy of writing? What are you trying to win when you write?
The Three Aspects of Writing: Ethos, Logos, and Pathos
Well, it depends on what you are writing.
Still, I have a pretty good definition for the goal of all writing. I should note that when I say “writing,” I mean writing that is intended for some reader, whether an English teacher or the American reading public—or both.
As much as I’d like to take credit for it, this definition is not mine. John R. Trimble, who wrote what I consider the book on writing, Writing with Style: Conversations on the Art of Writing, gives the following general definition for writing:
“Writing is the art of creating desired effects” within the reader.
I like that definition. It works for any writing, whether it’s a mystery novel (desired effects: suspense and conjectures on “who did it.”), a persuasive essay (desired effect: to convince the reader that the writer’s position is correct, or at least valid), or a romance novel (desired effect: I’d rather not say).
My desired effect for that last parenthetical phrase was to make you laugh. Did it work? My desired effect in this paragraph is to give you the sense that I’m in your head—that I’m conversing with you and responding to the thoughts that come to you as you read my prose. Is that working? (I hope so.) These are smaller desired effects, but they serve the purpose of my larger strategy: to teach as I entertain.
My discussions, for the most part, address the writing form I teach in most composition courses: persuasive writing. As its name implies, the desired effect of persuasive writing is persuasion. (I apologize for the tautology, but I am still amazed at how many people ask me what the goal of persuasive writing is—when the answer is right there in the name.)
Still, there’s more to persuasive writing than persuading. First, what do I mean by “persuasion”? The best case is that my reader—who at first disagreed with my position—enjoys my essay, agrees with me, and promptly changes positions. But, that result is not realistic, no matter how eloquent or convincing the prose. Chances are, people who hold strong worldviews will not change their positions after reading one essay. Still, I hope to convince them that my position is tenable. At the very least, I want my audience to say, “I don’t agree with his position, but he argues it well. And, I like him.”
That last part, the notion of liking a writer, is important. In the writing business, we call that concept ethos (more on that later). When I write, I try to come across as the kind of guy that anyone—even those who disagree with me—would enjoy having a beer with. (That’s one reason I ended that sentence with the preposition “with,” normally a no-no in writing. If I had said, “with whom they would enjoy having a beer,” no one would want to actually have a beer with me. Think about it.)
This level of persuasion is subtle, but powerful. The reader, after finishing the essay, still disagrees completely. However, since the arguments were strong, and since the writer came across as sincere and intelligent, the reader continues to consider the writer’s assertions over the course of the day, the year—the next five years. The memory of the argument lends itself to a body of work that affects the reader, whether he knows it or not, in moving towards the writer’s position. A few bricks fall out of the foundation upon which the reader has built his position.
The Three Aspects of Writing
So, how exactly does a writer achieve persuasion? What is the anatomy of a persuasive essay? In short, you should think of writing as involving three aspects:
1. The writer (ethos)
2. The writing itself (logos)
3. The reader (pathos)
Every writer—or at least, every writer who wants to be successful—must consider all three of these writing aspects. They are all part of the rhetorical game. The writer wants to give a sense that she is an authority on the topic, or at least that she knows her topic well enough to write with some authority. But, she does not want to come across as stodgy or inaccessible. Some personality (infused with a healthy smidgen of honesty) helps give the reader the sense that the writer is a friendly, sincere soul—but one who still knows her stuff. That’s ethos.
What about the writing itself? Is it clearly written? Does the argument make sense? Does the argument ever contradict itself? Is the research cited pertinent to the writer’s arguments or points? That’s logos.
But, even if the writer’s points are clear and well argued, who wants to read a dry, clinical list of pertinent data and formalized arguments? Writers win readers over, not only by appealing to readers’ intellects, but also by evoking emotional responses. A good writer makes people think, but she also makes them feel. This aspect of style infuses otherwise dull facts and mute statistics with humanity and purpose. Emotional responses come in many forms. Does the writer want to make the reader laugh? Does she want readers to cry? Does she want her readers to be angry about the issue she’s discussing? Is she writing to shock her readers? Maybe she wants a bit of all four responses. That’s pathos.
The goal is to balance these three aspects in your writing. Often, a writer achieves all three simultaneously.
“Simultaneously? How is that done?” you might ask.
I’ll show you. Here’s an example from Bart Ehrman, one of my favorite non-fiction writers. These passages are drawn from the introduction to Ehrman’s book, God’s Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer Our Most Important Question—Why We Suffer.
When I was young I always found the Christmas Eve service to be the most meaningful worship experience of the year. The sacred hymns and carols, the prayers and praises, the solemn readings from Scripture, the silent reflections on this most powerful of nights, when the divine Christ came into the world as a human infant…
What moved me most, however, was the congregational prayer, which did not come from the Book of Common Prayer but was written for the occasion, spoken loudly and clearly by a layperson standing in the aisle, his voice filling the vast space of the cavernous church around us. “You came into the darkness and made a difference,” he said. “Come into the darkness again.” This was the refrain of the prayer, repeated several times, in a deep and sonorous voice. And it brought tears to my eyes as I sat with bowed head, listening and thinking. But these were not tears of joy. They were tears of frustration. If God had come into the darkness with the advent of the Christ child, bringing salvation to the world, why is the world in such a state? Why doesn’t he enter into the darkness again? Where is the presence of God in this world of pain and misery? Why is the darkness so overwhelming?…
“You came into the darkness and you made a difference. Come into the darkness again.” Yes, I wanted to affirm this prayer, believe this prayer, commit myself to this prayer. But I couldn’t. The darkness is too deep, the suffering too intense, the divine absence too palpable. During the time that it took for this Christmas Eve service to conclude, more than 700 children in the world would have died of hunger; 250 others from drinking unsafe water; and nearly 300 other people from malaria. Not to mention the ones who had been raped, mutilated, tortured, dismembered, and murdered.
No matter one’s position on the existence of god, the sheer power of Ehrman’s prose is undeniable. It possesses a moving level of sincere frustration (ethos), and Ehrman presents some shocking numbers (logos/pathos) to give reasons for his frustration. In short, this writing represents a perfect fusion of all three writing aspects.
Four Simple Rules for Effective Writing
Here are John Trimble’s four essentials to winning readers. Ehrman’s writing in the passage above exhibits all four of these essentials:
1. Have something to say that’s worth their attention.
2. Be sold on its validity and importance yourself so you can pitch it with conviction.
3. Furnish strong arguments that are well supported with concrete proof.
4. Use confident language—vigorous verbs, strong nouns, and assertive phrasing.
These are the elements of any successful writing strategy.
Want to add apostrophes and commas to your writing toolbox? Follow these links:
Read, write—and enjoy!
Works Cited
Ehrman, Bart D. God’s Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer Our Most Important Question—Why We Suffer. New York: HarperCollins, 2008.
Trimble, John R. Writing with Style: Conversations on the Art of Writing. 2nd ed. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 2000.
Christophe
r Altman, a community-college composition specialist, is passionate about bringing the art of effective writing to average, everyday Americans. He has published work in the field of medieval literature, and has authored a book on advertising language entitled, Telling the Truth to Deceive: How Advertisers Manipulate the English Language. Mr. Altman is an assistant professor of English at Onondaga Community College in Syracuse, New York.
