Katherine Frances's Blog, page 325
August 25, 2015
"It is not fair to treat people as if they are finished beings. Everyone is always becoming and..."
- Kathleen Winter
(via creatingaquietmind)
August 24, 2015
so passive voice is only a concern when it has to verbs right? for example, "I was still disappointed," isn't considered passive voice bc disappointed isn't a verb.
For your question, in this particular example “disappointed” is a past participle used as an adjective. So no, it’s not passive voice, but it is still telling, rather than showing.
I think there’s a bit of an issue with writing advice that doesn’t explain exactly what’s wrong with passive voice because it leads to people just thinking passive voice = bad and that’s just inaccurate. So let’s talk about that too.
Passive voice slows down the narrative because it turns the subject of an action into an object.
The cellardoor rattled with barely a sound, almost softly. Elisabeth spared it a glance, but nothing more. She let the thumping of her knife against the chopping board guide her into her trance. The chopped herbs were gathered with a swish of the blade and she was gone.
This is the opening of a tidbit I started on a prompt Legit gave me. It’s just a first draft, but it uses some passive voice, so I’m gonna use it as an imperfect example. The character, Elisabeth, is a witch and she’s preparing herbs. The piece starts in active voice, but as Elisabeth chops her herbs, it moves into passive voice. I chose to do this on purpose to accompany the feeling of Elisabeth falling into her trance. The chopping sound “guides” her into it and then as the trance starts, she is no longer a fully conscious and active subject and I switched to passive voice.
Now, I haven’t decided yet if it works in this particular passage, but the principle is evident: sometimes you need your subject to become an object and you need your narrative to slow down to change the atmosphere. Passive voice is there to help you do this.
This is the same thing for all “don’t use X” writing advice. It’s not “never use X”, but a “be purposeful in how and when you use it and don’t abuse it.”
"Paris
buddy, a god’s on my shoulder with his hand on the bow;
I was born fine-boned racing the..."
Paris
buddy, a god’s on my shoulder with his hand on the bow;
I was born fine-boned racing the knitted fates home
find me in the South Mountain wild where through
the veil of the trees there’s a heavenly city glowing
brilliant and green walled in by its rivers and I’m struck
skyline blind- there’s a world out there waiting for
cursed children to find the fathers that bore them
that left them to rot that tempted the street-corner
prophets burning smoke through their guts to see
the asphalt hallucinations- my father’s a king and when you
got power bolted to blood you’ll believe anything.
pretty-faced princess of the Ironbound lord
he’s got the breadth of a bull and enough to
afford all his broken city princes, his brother’s
unsmiling mouth he won the hand of a beauty
though he’s no beauty himself- no favorite of the
goddesses with their high-laced-up boots they like
the way that I smile when I trace out their routes they
promise me gold and all that heaven can touch but in
mutters they whisper how it won’t ever be enough and
now the Ironbound princess is my runaway bride
and my father sits in his penthouse-
he’s wishing I’d died.
but life don’t come easy, it comes hungry and fast and their
road-rage boys sharpen their claws for the clash their
strongmen who hold all the factory lands their glowing
river princes with chemical hands their wise councilors
from the south, from their dirt and their pines and the
Airport King of them all gathering his boys to his side
(they say he fights for his brother, for the Ironbound lord
and his pretty lost wife though he’s always ignore all the
sentiment spoken- he don’t know love through his planes
he’s the king of the sky and he wants all that remains-)
the greatest among them now facing me down
from the dust bled out by my brothers all strangers
unwound to the cruel knitting fingers, those old
Brooklyn ladies spinning out the gold fleece of dreams
that choke kings with their crowns- aristos achaion
with his half-broken eyes stares up in a dare and a whisper
a prayer for the death I could give him and the god’s right
where he stands; a god on my shoulder and from the wilds
I came to this blood-brittle moment the streets all torn
up beneath the riverine warfare the blessing of grief the
wild lights flickered moonsong the tires shred to ash
the bright god of the sun is on my shoulder at last and
he’s whispering quick, pull the string taut I’m the king
of these arrows they’ll do what I want and they banished
me out to the darkness to rot and now the best of
my enemies is standing unarmed and he’s pleading
and broken and we’re all melted by war, sugar-spun statues
of what came before and we’re gods and we’re kings and
we’re pretty and dead and I let the arrow sing out
and the god keeps to the tread of the highways that
bind us that choke us that render us mute-
he dies with a smile and a faint
thankful salute.
- L. Maruska (via whenthedarkisoldandworn)
