Stamp out vague catchalls in your writing

Here’s a near-ironclad maxim that’s worth taping above your laptop:

You’re a more confusing writer than you think you are.

You know exactly what your words mean. You can visualize every scene you write in vivid detail no matter how scant your physical description may be.

Writers inevitably project details onto the page that aren’t there. You fail to see vagueness, and fill in all the necessary gaps for passages to make sense and to make scenes vivid.

This is why precision is such a cardinal virtue in writing. It’s so important to precisely articulate what you mean when you write, possibly to the point of feeling like you’re being pedantic. Err on the side of clarity.

One key way to do this? Avoid vague catchalls that stand in for things that only exist in your head and aren’t finding their way onto the page.

Watch out for “this,” “it,” and “that”

When I’m editing manuscripts, I’ll sometimes see a laundry list of a character’s thoughts about a particular issue, followed by a vague catchall like “this,” “it,” or “that” where it’s unclear what’s being referred to. It invariably makes the subsequent thoughts and actions extremely confusing. (All examples in this post are made up by me). For instance:

The space monkeys were running rampant in Brooklyn, I didn’t have enough laundry detergent on the space capsule, and I didn’t like the way the moon was looking at me.

This is why I had to blow up the world.

Huh?? I think. What’s the “this?”

Is it just the space monkeys? Just the space monkeys and the moon? Is it all those things combined? Including the laundry detergent?? And how do any of those things result in an imperative to destroy the world???

If the “this” were unpacked with more specificity, such as “I feared [VERY SPECIFIC CONSEQUENCE], so I had to blow up the world,” we’d have way more clarity around why the character is doing what they’re doing, which helps build a sense of anticipation.

You know what you’re referring to when you use a shorthand like “this,” “it,” or “that.” The reader probably doesn’t.

Avoid vague diagnoses and universal emotions

By their nature, psychological diagnoses and universal emotions are catchalls for a wide range of symptoms and manifestations.

“Anxiety” can mean a racing heart, spinning thoughts, fearfulness, obsession, you name it. It can encompass everything from temporary nervousness to a full blown psychological disorder.

“Happiness” can mean anything from a temporary giggle to deep satisfaction.

So when you say a character is “anxious” or “happy,” it doesn’t really tell us very much. It could mean almost anything.

Not only are terms like these vague, their specific manifestation within every individual is completely different. We all have unique ways nerves and happiness affect our physiology, thoughts, and actions, and those unique reactions to universal emotions are what differentiate us as individuals. One person might cower when they’re feeling anxious, another might blunder straight into danger.

So if you’re trying to craft unique characters on the page, throw out the catchall diagnoses and universal emotions and focus on the symptoms. Avoid the catchall, and be precise.

Spell out characters’ thoughts and questions

One of the most crucial craft elements to master when you’re writing a novel is utilizing the narrative voice to help us understand characters’ motivations, hopes and fears, how they’re processing new information, and how they’re sifting through their options to arrive at a decision.

When the reader understands what a character wants and why it matters to them and their broader world, it’s almost like an hourglass tips over and we feel a great deal of anticipation to see if they’re going to get what they want before the sand runs out.

In order for that effect to work, we need to understand motivations and rewards/consequences (i.e. “the stakes“) with a great deal of clarity and specificity.

Phrases like these in the narrative voice are the absolute kiss of death:

“My emotions had been building for too long. I had to tell her.”

Had to tell her what? And why? What does the character imagine happening if this goes well? What if this goes badly? How can we have a sense of anticipation if we don’t understand the plan and what might happen if things go sideways?

“He stared at the unfathomably deep chasm. Questions swirled in his head.”

What questions? Is he worried about getting across the chasm or is he just very interested in rare geological formations? Don’t tell us he has questions, show us the precise questions that are swirling!

You can’t be clear enough when it comes to motivations and fears, hopes and dreams, and rewards and consequences. Spell them out with as much clarity as you possibly can, all the way down to the glint on the magical sword the hero imagines pulling from the smoldering dragon when she saves her people.

Don’t fear repeating pronouns and names

I often see writers doing backflips to avoid repeating character names and pronouns, which ends up getting really confusing really fast.

Sometimes this comes from misguided writing advice from grade school about avoiding repeating words, other times writers are emulating 20th century science fiction and fantasy where head hopping and referring to the same characters five different ways–name, nickname, profession, the old (wo)man/the young (wo)man, relationship to other characters, some completely random moniker, repeat cycle–was all the rage in a way that now feels outmoded.

Just be clear about who you’re talking about and don’t fear repeating pronouns and names. Readers just want to know who’s doing and saying what. If you refer to a character as “Nathan,” and then suddenly start calling him “the editor,” the reader might think a new character showed up. There are no hard and fast rules here, but the current convention is toward consistency and clarity.

And when a man and woman are talking, you can just say “he” and “she” or just use their names or just say “they.” You don’t have to do backflips to avoid repeating words by using weird phrases like “the two.”

Any vague catchalls I might have missed in this post? Let me know in the comments!

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Art: Alfred Wierusz-Kowalski – The Fog