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Keep your paragraphs from crashing into one another — write good transitions

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Imagine that you’re driving along on Interstate 40, minding your own business, and you hit one of those terrible patches of pavement where the top layer has been scraped off in preparation for re-paving.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!

You know what I’m talking about. The sound of your tires on the grooved sublayer creates a sound akin to an approaching tornado. After a few seconds of torture, you see the newly paved section approaching, but the road crew has failed to create a nice little pavement slope from the sublayer to the new layer. What happens? The front tires bang into the new layer with a jolt that rattles your fillings, wakes the baby, and likely loosens every screw, bolt, and rivet in your once-pristine vehicle.

Ouch.

A similar thing happens when you fail to write a transition between paragraphs. Whether consciously or subconsciously, the reader’s mind bangs into the next paragraph with an unappealing jolt.

Good transitions are what make your story an easy read. They create a smooth, glossy, playground slide for the reader’s figurative backside, with the top of the slide being the story lead, and the bottom of the slide, the ending. Without good transitions, it’s a bumpy ride down for the reader, and they will likely jump off before the end.

Here’s an example of poor transition:

Harvey Manfrengensen grows 5,000 acres of soybeans, cotton, and corn on his farm in Pawnee, Indiana. In addition to his row crops, Manfrengensen also raises 11,000 turkeys and some 75 head of water buffalo.

“I really enjoy shooting skeet with my son-in-law, Jean-Ralphio,” Manfrengensen says. “Those clay targets don’t stand a chance.”

Quite a jolt, right? We needed a transition. How about…

Harvey Manfrengensen grows 5,000 acres of soybeans, cotton, and corn on his farm in Pawnee, Indiana. In addition to his row crops, Manfrengensen also raises 11,000 turkeys and some 75 head of water buffalo. With this extremely odd pairing of crops and livestock, the Indianan says shotgun sports have become his “outdoor therapy session” and one he enjoys sharing with family.

“I really love shooting skeet with my son-in-law, Jean-Ralphio,” Manfrengensen says. “Those clay targets don’t stand a chance.”

Sure, that’s an extreme example, but you get my drift. If your paragraphs are slipping seamlessly from one to another rather than colliding with jarring thuds, you’re doing it right.

~ Mark Johnson

First draft? Banish the editor

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I write “instructional” articles as much for myself as for the intended audience.

The fact is, it’s often easier to recommend and even teach certain techniques than it is to put them into action. I need to be reminded. A lot.

That’s certainly the case with this article’s subject: banishing your internal editor.

I’ll be the first to admit it: I have a tendency to try to write things perfectly in the first draft. (I can feel myself doing it right now.) When I finish a story to my satisfaction, I like the idea that I can submit it immediately without much revision at all.

This is stupid. Don’t do this. (I’m speaking to myself here.)

In its best, most creative form, writing is a sloppy business. Sentence construction is suspect, paragraphs are too long, spelling is atrocious, and grammar is unforgivable.

But that’s OK. In fact, it’s perfect.

Writing the first draft of anything should have nothing to do with proper grammar, sentence construction, or anything else that your Freshman Composition instructor would be happy with. A first draft is about creativity. It’s about letting the romper room of overly-caffeinated thoughts in your brain rush down your neck, divert out your arms, and explode from your fingertips until the pounding of the computer keys sounds like the cadence of the natives’ drums in some bad Tarzan movie. The faster, the better. Don’t spend a bunch of time agonizing over each sentence.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. Lean closer to your computer so you can hear me.

We all suck.

It’s true. As creative writers, all of us are operating at varying degrees of suckiness. (It’s a word because I just made it up.)

Don’t get me wrong. The world is full of insanely talented writers, but none of us are the Hemingways we think we are as we spend two hours trying to choose between the words “voluminous” and “copious.” However, the more we write, the less we suck, so our goal should be to write more.

Trying to write perfectly — especially in the first draft — results in only one thing: your frustration. Instead of rushing toward a satisfying conclusion to your story — one that can be tweaked, polished, and spiffed up in the editing process — you find yourself wearing lead shoes in one of those dream tunnels that keeps getting longer and longer. The story wants to be written and is straining at the leash, but as the author, you keep yanking it back in pursuit of perfection right out of the gate.

Banish your internal editor. Rudely show him the door and fling out his impertinent red markers as well. The first draft is supposed to be an epic party, and your internal editor is a boorish, high-school chaperone. Invite all your craziest, most reckless thoughts to the first draft. You know, the ones who initiate drunk Twister and end up passed out in the bathtub wearing a lopsided Sharpie mustache. These are the guys you want because they’re not trying to impress anyone.

There should never be a filter between an idea and the process of its expression.

Once you have exhausted your creativity and that party in your brain has resulted in the deranged and unexpected pairings of known elements to create new ideas, you can welcome back your editor with open arms. He will roll up his sleeves, survey the room with mock disgust, and have at it.

And you, my reckless friend, will have a better byline than you expected.

~Mark