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I love that cartoon where a guy is leaning on a dictionary and a thesaurus and saying to his friend, “I’ve got all the words I need to write my novel. Now it’s just a case of putting them in the right order.”
Ordering thoughts, words, sentences, paragraphs, and chapters is critical to influencing your reader’s accumulating perception of a story. Let’s explore the concept on a small scale by focusing on the order of sentences in a paragraph.
You may think you had this particular skill licked quite some time ago—follow a topic sentence with supporting points, right? But in any one paragraph fiction must juggle concerns beyond the dissemination of facts, requiring a more nuanced approach. Time and again, in my developmental editing, I must re-order my clients’ sentences within a paragraph for maximum story impact.
Let’s look at the same paragraph written four ways to see how order impacts perception.
Example 1
Thomas sat out in the orchard cradling his dog in his lap. It wasn’t the first time a migrant picker had accused him, even though the boss had trusted him to work here every summer since Thomas was eight. Thomas wouldn’t rip off apples no matter how hungry he got. He loved Mr. Burnhart. But he loved Butch, too. “Butch old boy, why couldn’t you just play ball like other dogs? Now we’re in a heap of trouble.”
Comments: Assuming that this will be a story about a boy and his dog and how they get out of trouble, I like this order the best. Micro-tension pulls us through these sentences. The first sentence sets the scene; the next sentence gives a little info but raises a question (what is he accused of?); the third indirectly answers and then deepens characterization (Thomas is hungry even though he’s been working since he was eight); the next sentences, both short, set up conflict; and the dialogue at the end suggests who the real culprit is in a way that makes the reader feel smart. We sense that Thomas needs this dog’s unconditional love, and we wonder how he’s going to solve this problem.
Example 2
“Butch old boy, why couldn’t you just play ball like other dogs? Now we’re in a heap of trouble.” Thomas sat out in the orchard cradling his dog in his lap. He wouldn’t rip off apples no matter how hungry he got. It wasn’t the first time a migrant picker had accused him, even though the boss had trusted him to work here every summer since Thomas was eight. Thomas loved Mr. Burnhart. But he loved Butch, too.
Comments: Some writers like to put dialogue first, as a hook, then circle back and set the scene. While this version highlights the conflict by placing it at the end of the paragraph, the nature of that conflict is a little less clear. It comes across as whiny, which fails to inspire our faith that Thomas is equal to the challenge of pushing this story forward. And by not extending the mystery over the course of the paragraph, this version works at a more pedestrian level. Compare the endings: whereas the ending to the first paragraph seems to set up action, this one seems to set up more dialogue.
Example 3
“Butch old boy, why couldn’t you just play ball like other dogs?” Thomas sat out in the orchard cradling his dog in his lap. He loved Butch. “Now we’re in a heap of trouble.” Thomas wouldn’t rip off apples no matter how hungry he got. He loved his boss. But even though Mr. Burnhart had trusted him to work here every summer since Thomas was eight, it wasn’t the first time a migrant picker had accused him.
Comments: Note that this paragraph no longer seems to signal a story about Thomas and Butch’s anticipated problems with the boss—by putting the accusation in that all-important final spot in the paragraph, the reader now expects the action to be between Thomas and the immigrant pickers. In addition, separating the dialogue and those two short sentences seems to drain tension from the paragraph.
Example 4
It wasn’t the first time a migrant picker had accused him, but Thomas wouldn’t rip off apples no matter how hungry he got. “Butch old boy, why couldn’t you just play ball like other dogs? Now we’re in a heap of trouble.” Thomas loved his boss, but he loved Butch, too. Thomas sat out in the orchard cradling his dog in his lap. Mr. Burnhart had trusted him to work here every summer since Thomas was eight.
Comments: This raises a question and answers it in the first sentence, creating a weak pull through the rest of the paragraph. We are less interested in the revelation about the dog, so crucial in the first version, yet now buried in the middle of the paragraph. Rather than pull us deeper into rising action, this paragraph seems to set up backstory.
It’s just a matter of flow, right?
A lot of writers trust “flow” to order their prose—but flow is a vague perception, not a writing technique. All it’s really saying is that one sentence flows into the next—and while Example 4 bounces around a bit, I think all of these examples exhibit flow.
But where are they flowing? My comments indicate that the anticipated story progression differs for each. Think of the metaphor—in a river, flow does not always take you to your desired destination. Flow can cause you to drift into eddies, snag you on downed trees, ground you on an island, or rush you past important events.
Flow is overrated. Don’t trust it. Take control of your prose by ordering your sentences purposefully, and you’ll lead the reader to your intended destination every time.
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