The Perfect Sentence
There are no pretty-good sentences. They are either perfect or incredibly awful.
Silence filled the dark stillness with a frigid air that bit my skin, and I shivered despite the weighty cloak I bore.
Icy sweat trickled down my back as I struggled to breathe.
Can you tell which of those sentences is perfect and which is incredibly awful? You may be able to guess. But you won't be able to know in the way that I know. I can tell you are simply quaking with anticipation, so I will tell you which sentence is which, and I will do my best to explain why.
The first sentence is perfect because the room was silent, because the room wasn't full of emptiness but of silence, and because the room was terribly dark, and terribly still. The air was frigid, and it was the silence that filled the room with the frigid air. The air didn't brush my skin, and it didn't tickle my skin. It bit my skin. The cloak I wore wasn't heavy, but it was weighty. In fact, I didn't wear it at all, I bore it.
The second sentence is incredibly awful because the sweat was not icy, and sweat will never be icy. I didn't struggle to breathe, I simply didn't breathe in that moment; the fear prevented breathing entirely.
One may object with the comment that the second sentence isn't incredibly awful; that it is simply mediocre, or okay, or good enough. This is not so. To be alone with the knowledge of how it feels to be alive is isolating in an especially horrifying way. If the sentence does not help the reader understand the author, it has failed. Failed sentences are incredibly awful because they keep humans apart much more effectively than physical space.
When a sentence is perfect, the right reader won't ask any wrong questions. She will know which questions, if any, she is supposed to ask. And, she will know how the author, or character, felt at one moment in time. When a sentence is perfect, it tells the truth perfectly.
Success, for me, looks like a perfect sentence. Success looks like a story with more perfect sentences than incredibly awful sentences. I messed with the story I have referenced above 19 times after the first draft before it had more perfect sentences than incredibly awful sentences. For those of you who doubt me, no, I don't know if it was exactly 19 times. But, when I put my story under the glaring light of my scrutiny, my very core feels as if the story has been changed exactly 19 times, and that 19 is exactly the number of times it should have been changed to have enough perfect sentences, and to be a successful story.
This blog post is full of incredibly awful sentences. I imagine someday I will return to it and make more of them perfect, so we can get to know each other better.
Silence filled the dark stillness with a frigid air that bit my skin, and I shivered despite the weighty cloak I bore.
Icy sweat trickled down my back as I struggled to breathe.
Can you tell which of those sentences is perfect and which is incredibly awful? You may be able to guess. But you won't be able to know in the way that I know. I can tell you are simply quaking with anticipation, so I will tell you which sentence is which, and I will do my best to explain why.
The first sentence is perfect because the room was silent, because the room wasn't full of emptiness but of silence, and because the room was terribly dark, and terribly still. The air was frigid, and it was the silence that filled the room with the frigid air. The air didn't brush my skin, and it didn't tickle my skin. It bit my skin. The cloak I wore wasn't heavy, but it was weighty. In fact, I didn't wear it at all, I bore it.
The second sentence is incredibly awful because the sweat was not icy, and sweat will never be icy. I didn't struggle to breathe, I simply didn't breathe in that moment; the fear prevented breathing entirely.
One may object with the comment that the second sentence isn't incredibly awful; that it is simply mediocre, or okay, or good enough. This is not so. To be alone with the knowledge of how it feels to be alive is isolating in an especially horrifying way. If the sentence does not help the reader understand the author, it has failed. Failed sentences are incredibly awful because they keep humans apart much more effectively than physical space.
When a sentence is perfect, the right reader won't ask any wrong questions. She will know which questions, if any, she is supposed to ask. And, she will know how the author, or character, felt at one moment in time. When a sentence is perfect, it tells the truth perfectly.
Success, for me, looks like a perfect sentence. Success looks like a story with more perfect sentences than incredibly awful sentences. I messed with the story I have referenced above 19 times after the first draft before it had more perfect sentences than incredibly awful sentences. For those of you who doubt me, no, I don't know if it was exactly 19 times. But, when I put my story under the glaring light of my scrutiny, my very core feels as if the story has been changed exactly 19 times, and that 19 is exactly the number of times it should have been changed to have enough perfect sentences, and to be a successful story.
This blog post is full of incredibly awful sentences. I imagine someday I will return to it and make more of them perfect, so we can get to know each other better.
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