One syntactic pattern running rampant through scenes in American fiction, particularly literary fiction, is the independent clause + comma + present participle (-ing word). A paragraph in a typical literary novel might read something like this:
She went down to the beach, hauling a towel and suntan lotion and an assortment of other items necessary for proper relaxation. She unfolded her towel on a flat strip of sand, listening to the rhythmic crashing of waves. She walked to the water’s edge, squishing her toes through the wet sand and letting the cool water wash over her feet. She inhaled the salt air, enjoying this beautiful day.
This paragraph is obviously an exaggeration, but you get the idea. Independent clause, comma, present participle phrase. If this paragraph appeared in a workshop, a reader would no doubt circle the “She” — “She” — “She” — “She” and maybe jot a note about not starting every sentence the same way. A workshop reader may also circle all those participle phrases and say, “Mix up your syntax.”
Why are writers drawn to this particular syntax? And more importantly, what’s wrong with it?
Stopping Time With Lyric Prose
The intended effect of this sentence structure seems to be a kind of impressionism. It’s a turn from narrative action to lyric description, which we expect in literary fiction. Time stops when you shift from past tense (“She unfolded her towel”) to the ongoing, present participle (“listening to the rhythmic crashing of waves”).
It seems instinctive for authors, when they want to write something beautiful, to reach for the nearest present participle and offer a few token lines about the setting—even better if the natural world can be described. Water, trees, the moon, the wind. Literary fiction is supposed to be about reflection, rather than action, after all. Literary fiction that stops time with a present participle is an easy way to slow down and “show” a scene.
The literary critic James Wood cites Flaubert as responsible for a type of stylized prose driven by visuals. Flaubert is the godfather of the modern realist novel, yet Wood argues in The Broken Estate:
The failings of contemporary writers reveal certain weaknesses in Flaubert’s greatness. Flaubert, for better or worse, established for us our idea of realism: a pressure of detail, a poised, deliberate chosenness … It is the idea of paint, of depiction rather than thought or commentary: the very speck of the real. Contemporary writing … takes Flaubert’s controlled visual sweep, shaves off some of its richness, and merely cinematizes it.
In other words, Flaubert is responsible for our mantra of show, don’t tell. Paint a scene and let the meaning simmer below the surface. Wood seems to be out of fashion among today’s mainstream book people, or at least among the irony-laced writers and critics in my Twitter feed. If you’ve not read him, Wood’s general theory of fiction, which he lays out in How Fiction Works, is that creating rich characters creates life on the page, which is the function of narrative art. His objection to post-Flaubert painterly prose, then, is that it skims the surface of life. It keeps the character at arm’s length.
My complaint about the failed lyric syntax (the comma -ing thing) is that while the author is striving for beautiful lyricism, the result too often is a dreary stasis. Time stops for no apparent reason other than to linger over external details. The character’s inner depths are held at arm’s length. You could make the case for subtext (bobbing in a warm sea could evoke the protection of the womb, perhaps), but this metaphorical resonance has to be earned through precise observation and rigorous prose.
The syntactical structure I’m arguing against is perfunctory, not rigorous—lazy, rather than lyric. It shows, but it shows imprecisely.
This syntax isn’t always bad, and I’m a little more forgiving of it with dialogue: “‘Blah blah blah,’ she said, setting her coffee mug on the table.” Sometimes, you just need to have two things happen at once, and the present participle is a way to accomplish that effect. But, given the prevalence of this syntax in American fiction, I would suggest those moments of static, repetitive prose are good doorways for revision.
If you find yourself sliding into several sentences in a row that make use of present participles, one solution is simply to rewrite them. Try a longer cumulative sentence or two interspersed with shorter declarative sentences. For instance, the beach example I started with could be rewritten:
She hauled her towel and suntan lotion and other accouterments down to the beach, where she set herself up on a flat strip of sand not far from the water’s edge. The waves crashed rhythmically. The beach was deserted. After unfolding her blanket and stowing her belongings, she walked toward the water and squished her toes through the wet sand, inhaling the salt air as the waves washed cool water over her feet and up to her shins.
This revision is better than the original, I suppose, because at least there’s some syntactical variety, but it doesn’t really solve the philosophical problem of meaning. What’s the point of describing some woman by the beach? Why should we care about her? What is she thinking? Therein lies Wood’s objection. She doesn’t have any spark of life.
Writing With Confidence
The comma -ing thing has its place. When you flip through the best novels, you see all the pros at the top of their game use this syntax, and it’s fine. What I’m suggesting here is to be wary of overusing it. It’s an easy technique to reach for when you need to keep your first draft moving, but overuse of the pattern suggests a lack of confidence in what you’re writing.
When you can’t see the scene yourself, if you don’t know what the world looks like or where the character is going next, you may add excessive details to try to “show” the world you’re creating. Passages like the paragraph I made up above read as though the author has stopped time to re-ground themselves and figure out where the story should go. The result is often a static reflection, indecisive syntax that suggests you don’t believe what you’re writing. And when the author doesn’t believe, the reader won’t either.
Rewriting the comma -ing syntax might be all you need to do, but you might want to consider why you employed the syntax to begin with. Don DeLillo once said, “Writing is a concentrated form of thinking.” If your prose is imprecise, perhaps your thinking is imprecise. Why were you aiming for quiet lyricism? Why did you stay on the surface rather than diving into the character? Could you dive deeper into the character?
It might be too mystical to suggest your prose is trying to tell you something, but the comma -ing syntax is a clue that you can go deeper. In revision it’s worth interrogating your sentences to figure out what exactly you’re trying to say, and to say it more confidently.