Editing is a mixed bag among writers. For some, it’s the most daunting part of the process, something to be dodged and feared. For others it’s the best part, where they can finally fix their draft, perfecting their work into what they envisioned all along. Ideally, we look at all aspects of a piece when we edit: correct grammar and spelling; check facts; appraise the style; and if it’s fiction, evaluate the plot. There is one important element that is easy to overlook, however, and that element is flow.
The ballroom has captured our imaginations for centuries.
Today, the tradition of ballroom dance has largely died, but our fascination for it still clings. Swords and gowns, gentlemen and ladies—from glittering fairy tales like Cinderella to the glories of classic Hollywood cinema, the idea still delights us.
History of Ballroom Dance
The traditions of the ballroom began when European courts started adapting folk dances into something more sophisticated and posh.⁽¹⁾ These intricate adaptations became something to learn and practice—often under the instruction of a relative or dance master. The exact date ballroom dance came into existence is difficult to peg—likely around the late 1600s to early 1700s.⁽²⁾ From then on, it gained steadily in both popularity and importance. The ballroom became a stage to show off grace, style, and social prowess: not just a pastime, but an integrated part of upper-class life and an essential subject in any well-to-do child’s education.⁽³⁾
The kits rampaged through the room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling, tallons taking chunks out of anything softer than stone. The bard made a mental note to thank the man who had removed all the furniture. The broods' mother was turning flustered circles in the middle of the room, snarling and barking at the pack with little effect. She was putting dents in the stone and looked ready to put the whole place up in flames if it would only get the young ones' attention. She kept looking at the bard with an exasperated expression he didn't understand. It was making him uncomfortable.
The old war bird was quite ready for retirement by the time it went down. It had almost considered going down on purpose already, but it cared too much for its crew for that. They had taken care of him for a long time after all—custom paint jobs, constant tune up, even came up with a team logo to slap on his side. Dropping out of the air on a whim seemed like a rude way to go after all of that. So he had held out, waiting for the day when something would inevitably go wrong and he would be scrapped. Only then would he start his long anticipated retirement—hopefully as a household refrigerator. He had heard good things about household refrigerators.
As it turned out, though, things didn't go that way. His career ended quite suddenly one night somewhere off the coast of Australia.
Terrible turbulence, rain, then a pop from the engines—down he went into the water and that had been that. He wasn't sure what had happened to his masters, swam away hopefully, and there he was left to get along as best as he may.
Now there are fish in the cargo bay—live ones, not rations—and crabs living under the seats. Every day at three o'clock sharp an octopus turns nobs on the dashboard because it can, and fluorescent snails crawl over his cracked batteries because it makes them feel jittery. It turned out to be quite a fair place for an old war bird to retire. The perfect place to rust in peace.
So, I’ve shared my two cents on descriptions. Don’t just slap some adjectives on a noun and call it good; take the concept in your mind—a character, an object, a scene, anything—and craft a string of words that impresses on the audience what you see.
Now let’s expand our focus: what exactly counts as description?
When people say “description” they usually mean one of those time-stop moments where you take something and tell the audience all about it. I love those moments. When used properly, they do wonders for timing and flow (more on that later), bridge moments that need bridging, and add so much depth to the story. But they aren’t the only way things get described.
Let’s use another example:
"The boy ran down the street.”
This sentence conveys an action. It does the job well enough, but doesn’t provide much imagery. You could add an “ly” word:
“The boy ran quickly down the street.”
But be careful with those. They can make perfectly good sentences feel stale, or worse, forced. No description at all is better than that. So how can we make this sentence say more without pin-on words or phrases?
Synonyms.
Almost every word in the English language has synonyms, from common replacements to ten-dollar words we rarely hear. And though they’re similar, few synonyms truly mean the same thing. Words have their own reputations—a feel they carry in addition to their technical meaning. Writers can take serious advantage of this.
Going back to the example, dozens of words could replace run, each of them adding their own flavor to the sentence. Use “jogged”, and it takes the punch away, making it feel more easy and casual. Say “dashed” and the energy increases. “Carrened” implies panic or loss of control, and “charged” suggests aggression, or maybe childishness.
Taking it even further, hardly a word in this sentence can’t be replaced.
“The boy ran down the street.”
child dashed along road
lad careened parallel cement
urchin tumbled
scamp launched
We have a huge language at our disposal. It’s a pity to leave all these lovely words unused.
I admit that you can get some… unfortunate results using this method. weighing down your work with big words will sink it. This isn’t about choosing different words, it’s about choosing the right ones. Sometimes “run” truly is best, but you need to choose it on purpose.
Paper is valuable real estate. If something doesn’t pull its weight—add depth, meaning, or interest—replace or remove it. That goes for characters, that goes for paragraphs, and it goes for every word on the page.
Nora awoke in a black closet, her foot in a mop bucket and the bristles of a broom digging into her back.
The first thought to cross her mind was: 'you have got to be kidding me'. The second: 'I don't think that bucket is all the way empty.'
She squirmed in the confined space, trying to get her sodden boot out of the bucket. All she managed to do, though, was dump its contains all over the floor and knock the corresponding mop on top of herself. She gave up on that and fumbled for the handle of the door instead, only to find it was locked from the outside.
Anybody who writes fiction knows a bit about building characters.
Every writer has their own flare to the process: some start with a name, others with appearances; I tend to start with occupation, or role in the story, myself.
Whatever you choose to start with, though, the process of development is more or less the same. You take your new creation, you name them, you get attached to them. You poke them and prod them and ask them all manner of funny questions until they finally grow a personality. Once you're done with the preliminaries you turn your new friend (or enemy as the case may be) lose on a story, and you watch them.
No amount of boardroom chatting can really round out a character. They have their place, and a very important one, but if you really want your character to turn into a someone you have to let them lose. You need to see how they do things; how they interact with other characters and handle situations that get thrown at them. Actual 'in world' experience is the best way to make a character feel like a real, living thing.
My dear Anna-Marie, I have been quite indecisive on what to do about your wedding gift. If you were any other girl, I would have bought a fine dress. I myself am quite fond of lace and intricate embroidery, but knowing you my dear, you would most likely take the gift of a dress as an insult. My second thought was to cater to your love of flowers, only to learn that Simon has already gathered an exquisite array of orchids and other such exotic blooms that would shame any botanical gift I could ever hope to secure. As for your interest in arms, I do not even need to ask to know Markul has already claimed that area of gifts.
I heavily considered giving you the cabinet with the secret panel, where you have so perfectly constructed a home for any fea who happen to wander into our house, but as selfish as this my sound, I could not bear to part with it for that very reason.
Caddlin tossed another handful of spices into the simmering cauldron and gave it a stir with her ridiculously oversized spoon. Savory steam flooded the kitchen, it smelled good. Caddlin scooped a bit of soup up and attempted to taste it, and nearly dropped the utensil into the fireplace as the liquid scalded her mouth. She tried again, this time blowing carefully on the contents of the spoon before sampling it. She rolled the soup around in her mouth, trying to figure out what it tasted like, which wasn't easy due to her singed taste buds. She finally decided that it was good enough, left the cauldron to its own devices, and turned her attention to other things, namely the potatoes.
They were dancing in a pot on top of the ancient three burner stove which inhabited the other side of the kitchen. Caddlin picked a roasting fork up off the counter, set down the spoon, and stabbed a few of the merry chunks. They split, but just barely.
"A few more minutes on those as well," she thought, then ran her eyes over her small workspace, looking for another way to employ herself. Then jumped as an eggplant shaped timer went off next to the spoon.
