The Prose Writer's Challenge
A Literary Article
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    The very first thing, of course, is to disconnect your television from the wall socket. Then, calmly raise your right foot and deposit it 12 inches into and beyond the screen.  Finally, mail the pieces, without a SASE, to the government as a material donation to any cause they can identify.  The usually have a bunch and might give you tax relief.  Right!
    Now you are ready.
    Everyone knows the basic tools, vocabulary and grammar, doing a great deal of both reading and writing and having a specific, comfortable place, set time and space to write where you will be undisturbed by morons or relatives or moronic relatives.  Remove the telephone, cell phone and anything else that carries messages, even Minah birds.  Prepare to write at least 1,000 words (every day) and try to have a clear idea to get started.  There is another discipline that does not appear in many books about literature, nor will you find it championed by knowledgeable people in universities or literary clubs.
Surprising that, because we really go nowhere as authors until our particular style takes it into consideration and learns to master it.  I have seen it mentioned by Stephen King in his essay, "On Writing" in 1997, but he does little to expand on the subject. 
    Sure, there's narration, description and dialogue, but they are none of them
particularly challenging if one possesses the above literary skill set.  The sentence, I might add, is something any idiot can put together who knows the difference between a verb and a noun.  After all, there are upwards of 4 billion PCs out there now with many more people than that believing themselves capable of convincing less than 100 global publishers they know how to write.  What's missing?  What is it that everyone misses, the thing that truly defines the difference between good and bad writing?  Answer: the paragraph.
    These are the monuments of beauty, horror and intrigue that do it for the reader, that make them take a book initially glanced and sit down in a chair so they can begin turning pages.  Without full mastery of the paragraph, which sounds so simple, we cannot move a story nor do any of the things normally associated with them, like plot development,  pacing, hooks, twists nor denouement.  Yet, it is not particularly well taught and only rarely discussed, usually in technical fashion.  The book definition is simply one or more
sentences cohesively formed about a single premise.  That's not literally true because several ideas can be introduced so long as they relate to a common theme.
    William Strunk Jr. in his monumental opus, The Elements of Style, later resurrected  by E. B. White, takes care to devote one major element to the paragraph in Chapter 2, item  13.  He says, "Make the paragraph the unit of composition."  Paraphrasing, he then mentions its convenience and ability to serve all literary forms.  Strunk was an excellent teacher and goes on to demand many of the concepts I have long held necessary in writing intelligently. Such additional ideas as using the active voice and omitting needless words are the basis upon which the craft must be identified.
    No two paragraphs are alike, achieve the same purpose, propose/answer the same questions nor use similar wording.  All are separate, different entities.  How is it possible to master them?  It's easier than building a house or cooking a complicated meal, though the analogy is the same.  It is the paragraph itself that defines what is needed, its language, truth and logic, how it is preceded and what is intended afterward, its importance in the scheme of the story, its timeliness and ability to captivate the reader.  They can be short or long, if effective.  We always know when we read a bad one because they turn us off and make us want to put a book down.  On the other hand, when we are compelled on and on, we know the writer is doing well, crafting each paragraph in ways to lead us further.  There can be no compromises.  Either the story has us in its clutches or not. 
    Consider this paragraph. Illustrating rising development, from my story, "Grandfather Leng's Big Catch."
    No one had as yet missed Tzu-Chan and the mist clung to the lake's glassy surface.  A discovery was made on the north shore and brought to Leng with excitement.  It was a large, square-like shell, six inches on a side and it was colored with rainbow hues, not unlike nacre.  It did not have the appearance of rock and did not approximate any substance or shape ever found along the river or lakeshore.  He stared at the find for a long time.  There was little in the neighborhood that could surprise him, but he had never seen anything like that shell.  He was still undecided about it at supper, when it was
revealed that his son was missing, having gone fishing in direct contradiction
to his father.  Now his concern elevated to real worry and he knew he had to
do something.
    Clearly, an action scenario is demanded.  One is not going to next write passively,  digress with a flashback, spout poetry, describe a nearby beautiful garden, insert dialogue about a thing not pertaining to the issue or do anything that does not lead the reader to visualize the something Leng requires.  Common sense, the logic of the rising development, the quest by all for action (including the reader,) the basic truth of the problem and the simplistic language of the previous paragraph all define what should be included in the next. 
    Of course, there are thousands of variables, not the least of which is imagination,  but the parameters are clear, we know what is needed, we know where we should not go and we can decide whether more tension will fill the bill to reach a climax, then diminish.  We can also insert dialogue between this and the next paragraph, so long as the tension rises.   
    Now consider this paragraph from my story, "Verdant Passage," in which the boredom of a long drive is being compensated.
         Before achieving Texarkana's route 30 East, we began to find ways to stimulate our minds, bored with the dulling of southern aesthetics. The flatness tended to clamp our appreciation of repetition.  Word games were tried and exhausted.  Houstonian and Aggie jokes also soured as the miles accumulated. Settling on road-kill comparisons, we crossed into Arkansas. The 'dillas' had the possums beat half way to Little Rock. There were several other types, including 'urks', our word for indescribable flashbys, but we learned to limit our counts.  Then Sandra saw the first creeper.
    Look at those words, bored, dulling, flatness, clamp, repetition, exhausted and soured.  What do you think the next paragraph should achieve?  Is there a set up for it?  Clearly, something dramatic or provocative is required to relieve the boredom.  Seeing the first of the implied other or future and coming creepers is a clear signal.  You are being told what to write and why.  That was your job in the first place, to create a paragraph filled with a description of boredom to induce more action out of the next one.  This paragraph, from "Token of Esteem," leaves the writer with some decisions.
    He looked all over for the bullet.  The medicos did a pretty decent job of cleaning up the mess.  Maybe they took the bullet without knowing it, he thought.  He followed all the possible paths from Mully's last sitting position.  The bullet had to have passed through the chair and hit one of three wall panels.  The chair did not cooperate nor did the panels.  None of them showed a hole of any kind and Pook gave up chasing the phantom projectile.  The room was simply too small for any hiding place. 
    Obviously, Pook can keep looking or move onto something else, which means that a previous paragraph would dictate his action.   You could introduce something entirely new, but some things alluded to in previous paragraphs should find their way into the next by allusion.  That is the point.  Everything must lead to something and be based upon a firm foundation, the essence of writing good paragraphs.
    Authors can imagine the opposite situations, the kinds of things a falling
development might require, or how the end of a dialogue sequence might foreshadow some necessary new description or narrative.  Everything proceeds directly from your first paragraph's hook to the denouement in a carefully crafted arrangement of these blocks of words.   Think of them as railroad ties, each necessary to stabilize the train.  Stray too much and risk losing the reader.  Yes, you can introduce side-issues and flashbacks to
revive a dull scene and separate them with asterisks.  But, you will have to pick up where you left off or leave your story in la-la-land.  The most important thing to remember is that every paragraph dictates the next one, no matter how much ornamentation you apply along the way.
    It should also be clear that good writers tend to mix sentence lengths, seek
uncommon phrases and avoid run-on sentences and repeated words.  They never commence sentences beginning with identical terms, always seek the best description for the application (sometimes left for the rewrite) and eliminate any articulation that does not contribute to the paragraph's theme.   Reduce identifiers to only those absolutely needed to avoid confusion about the person or thing being described, especially in dialogue.   
    Sometimes, a verb and a noun is all the situation requires.  Blanch spat!  No need to say more if minimizing says it all.  On the other hand, Blanche, by spitting with such venom and demonstrated anger, doubled over in pain after pulling a rib muscle.  This adds new information if it's going to be referred to elsewhere.  It's all dictated by the needs of the tale.
    Always check your paragraphs when rewriting to see that they stay on track and do not get thrown for a loop into an area not related by the subject at hand.  Each is a micro-drama, leading to another 

W. A. Rieser