Words Fail Me (14 page)

But just how warm did it get?The phrase
from 5 to 10
could be read in two ways. It might mean the temperature started at 5 degrees and rose to 10. Or it might mean the increase was between 5 and 10 degrees, so the temperature might have ended up at 40, for example, after beginning somewhere in the 30's.

It's easy to get around this problem. Just put the
to
ahead of the
from: As El Niño arrived, the temperature rose to 10 degrees
from
5.
Or if you do want to describe an approximate increase, make it:
As El Niño arrived, the temperature rose
between
5 and 10 degrees.

If you keep
to
in front, your readers will know where you're coming
from.

I can't promise this problem will be on the SAT's, but it sure comes up a lot: If one in every ten boys starts school early, and three in ten girls, does that mean four out of ten children start school early?

No. If you got it wrong, here's a little remedial math.

First of all, you can't mix the proportions unless there are equal numbers of boys and girls. Assuming that's the case, you don't add the statistics; you average them. If one in ten boys and three in ten girls start school early, then two in every ten children start early.

The principle is the same with percentages. If 8 percent of American men and 12 percent of American women are overweight, that doesn't mean 20 percent of all
American adults are overweight. The answer is 10 percent, again if we assume there are equal numbers of men and women. You don't add the two percentages; you average them. (Remember that if the groups aren't the same size, averaging won't work.)

As with so many other things, the truth lies in between.

A lot of us can't tell our ups from our downs. If we're comparatively impaired, we might call something a "decrease" when in fact it's an increase—but an increase that's smaller than average, or smaller than last year's, or smaller than expected, or whatever. A lesser increase is still an increase, not a decrease.

Journalists are often guilty of this mistake, especially when they write about budgets. A story on school spending might refer to a "decrease" in maintenance costs when the amount in fact increased—but the increase was smaller than the one expected. As a result, we get a story about "budget cuts" when the budget has actually grown. Sometimes less really
is
more.

I'll bet the average person doesn't know the difference between
average
and
mean, median
and
norm
, or any of the combinations thereof. The average dictionary may not be of much help, either. Not all dictionaries give precise mathematical meanings.

Imagine you're taking a seminar in desktop publishing. The five students in the class get these scores on their midterm exams: 60, 84, 87, 94, 100. (All right, you're the
one who gets 100.) Here's how to find the
average, mean, median,
and
norm.

•The
average
is 85: the sum of the scores (425) divided by the number of students (5).

• The
mean
, also known as the
arithmetic mean
, is 85: same as
average.
(Some dictionaries and usage guides define
mean
in a looser sense, as the mid-point between extremes.)

• The
median
is 87: the score that falls in the middle when the numbers are arranged by size. If there's an even number of scores, add up the two in the middle and divide by two.

•The
norm
is in the 80 's: a less precise term, it's sometimes used to indicate average or median or just "normal"; avoid it when you want to be exact.

If you can remember all that, you're way above average.

Writers who are careless with figures are on thin ice. What's the weak spot here?
Hundreds of ice fishermen aren't licensed in Minnesota.

If you don't see what's wrong, here's a clue. Not all ice fishermen are in Minnesota. No doubt there are many thousands, from Maine to Siberia, who aren't licensed to fish in Minnesota. Here's a better way to say it:
Hundreds of ice fishermen in Minnesota aren't licensed.

When you write with numbers, be sure your wording isn't misleading. Readers may guess what you mean, but why should they have to? If there's any ambiguity, rearrange the words, as in the example above, or add any information that may be missing. Something's missing here: S
even out of ten people are robbed by someone they know.

I doubt it. Most people are never robbed by anyone, strangers or otherwise. Say it this way: S
even out of ten people robbed are victims of someone they know.

Statistics can be treacherous. As Disraeli supposedly said: "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics."

From where I sit, it's easy to look up from my writing and glance out the window. Much too easy. A short glance can turn into a long, lingering gaze. A reverie, even. That's why I draw the curtains when I start to write. I'm more likely to stay focused on my work if I can't look away.

I want my readers to stay focused, too. I want them to look where I want them to look, to see what I want them to see. To control what and how a reader sees, a writer controls the point of view, or perspective.

If you're writing a job résumé, for instance, you'll want to mention your award for community service, but not the time you got busted for disorderly conduct. That's
using perspective. As you can see, point of view is more than just the voice a writer uses to address readers—personal or impersonal or somewhere in between. By limiting what readers know, point of view influences what they think.

In simple, straightforward writing, like a thank-you note or a quick e-mail, we don't need to worry much about perspective. But when the writing is more complicated—a long article, a story or a novel, a piece on a sensitive subject, anything intended to persuade—the point of view becomes more of an issue.

Whether you realize it or not, everything you write has a perspective. And you change perspective all the time, perhaps without even knowing it. For starters, your point of view shifts whenever you use an anecdote or a funny story at the beginning of an essay, a speech, a short story, or any other kind of writing. When you begin with something specific or personal and then move to a wider topic, you've changed perspective.

Remember that readers can go only where you take them. If your point of view is jerky or inconsistent, if it's not clear or convincing, they'll lose their way. No matter what you're writing and no matter who your readers are, they need to know where they are and why: Whose voice is this? Whose opinions are these? Whose shoes am I standing in? Where am I supposed to be looking? These are questions about point of view.

We've all been fooled by card tricks. The hand may not be quicker than the eye, but when the cards are moved around
often enough, it certainly seems that way. If you don't want your readers to get lost in the shuffle, don't move your cards around too quickly.

When a writer switches point of view for no good reason, readers become disoriented. A case in point:
As Leo gazed longingly into her blue-gray eyes, Molly realized he was standing on her foot.

Sentences like that remind me of an old record album,
How Can You Be in Two Places at Once When You're Not Anywhere at All?
There's no reason to jump from Leo's point of view to Molly's. The result is a yo-yo quality. Make it:
As Leo gazed longingly into Molly's blue-gray eyes, he didn't realize he was standing on her foot
. That way Molly is the only one who's uncomfortable.

I learned to drive on a stick shift, and the car protested loudly until I got the hang of it. Shifting smoothly takes practice, in writing as well as in driving. A clumsy shift in perspective can be as grating as the sound of grinding gears.

Even when there are many things to describe, it's possible to move from one to another smoothly. Say we're writing about a busy harbor town in a piece for a travel magazine. We start out small, with a particular red fishing boat bobbing at anchor. Then we pull back, describing the pattern all the brightly colored boats make on the blue water. We pull back farther still, to include some gulls overhead, then the wharves at the foot of the village, then the bustling dockside street, then the houses extending up the hill and thinning out as they get farther from the
water. Notice how the perspective shifts smoothly, moving from small to large, from particular to general, like a zoom lens on a camera.

Then let's say we add the fact that the red fishing boat has nets spread on its deck, dryingin the sun. Crash! There we were, hovering somewhere in the sky above the village, when the bottom dropped out.

Be kind to readers. Let them down gently.

Once you're aware of how perspective works, you can use it in a special way. You can organize a long piece of writing, even an unwieldy one, by alternating the points of view.

Suppose you have to prepare an article about the discovery of some primitive cave paintings. You have piles of material, falling roughly into two categories. On the one hand you have your own observations about the site, the scientists involved, and the details of the discovery. On the other you have more general information about the history of the region and its people, the evolution of ancient art, and other background material.

You might organize your article by alternating the two points of view. You could begin by describing the site as you saw it, then pull back to fill in some history, zoom in on the scientists as you witness their big find, zoom out again to include something about the artistic development of primitive people, then back in to the scene and efforts to preserve the paintings.

This method of switching perspectives—from near to far, general to specific, personal to impersonal—has long been used by fiction writers, not only to change the point
of view from character to character, but also to alternate scenes in the present with flashbacks to the past.

The technique has become popular with nonfiction writers, too. It works so well as a means of organization that you'll find it in books and articles of every conceivable kind. It's popular because it works. But it works only if the shifts in perspective are graceful.

An effective way to shift smoothly from one perspective to another is to bridge the points of view with a common element. If you're writing a profile of a present-day farm family, for instance, you might change your subject and your perspective by ending one paragraph and beginning the next like this:

Gunnar Bjornstrand surveyed his parched field one last time, then idly picked up a fistful of earth and let it run through his fingers.

It was the rich, black soil of Potawatomi County that had drawn Scandinavian immigrants to the area 150 years earlier.

That shift is a big one in viewpoint and in time, but it doesn't jar the reader. In this case, the gap between the parts has been bridged by a common image, the soil.

You don't have to use a common element to move smoothly from one perspective to another. What matters is that the shift makes some sort of sense. A reader who can't see why the perspective has changed will feel like a tennis ball being whacked from court to court.

In a piece of fiction, the change in perspective is often un-intrusive, especially when the writer wants to interrupt the
action as little as possible. There's a neat shift in Hemingway's story "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber." The setting is an African safari, and we join it in mid-paragraph. In this passage, we see the hunt first through the eyes of a wounded lion as he's shot a second time, and later through the eyes of the hunter:

"Then it crashed again and he felt the blow as it hit his lower ribs and ripped on through, blood sudden hot and frothy in his mouth, and he galloped toward the high grass where he could crouch and not be seen and make them bring the crashing thing close enough so he could make a rush and get the man that held it.

"Macomber had not thought how the lion felt as he got out of the car. He only knew his hands were shaking and as he walked away from the car it was almost impossible for him to make his legs move."

Maybe we can't write like Hemingway, but we can try to shift gently so readers won't hear the gears grinding.

You're watching a horror movie, maybe
Friday the 13th, Part VIII,
but with the sound track from
Mary Poppins.
Should you scream, or laugh?

If a writer's tone doesn't match the point of view, readers won't know what to think. You wouldn't begin a funeral oration with a vaudeville joke, unless you were burying Henny Youngman, or write about what a bummer life is when you're trying to cheer up a depressed friend.

You can't maintain a clear point of view without a consistent tone. If your attitude is inappropriate, or if it veers around for no good reason—from tragic to flippant,
sympathetic to hostile, optimistic to despairing—the perspective gets confused, and so does the reader. I think that's one reason we seldom read convincing fiction with a deranged person as the narrator.

Since your tone is part of your point of view, don't change one without changing the other. And when you do change your tone, be clear about it. This is another case where you have to put yourself in the readers minds. What will they think? How will they feel? Is that what you want them to be thinking or feeling?

Your choice of words can make a tremendous difference in tone. Say you have to write a campaign ad criticizing one politician and praising another, though the two hardly differ (it's been known to happen). Your mission, obviously, is to send out good vibes for your guy and bad vibes for the competition. Here's how minor differences in wording can convey an approving tone for Tweedledum and a disapproving tone for Tweedledee.