Writing Excercise: Travel

[McKenna]

For one of my classes I'm supposed to write a nonfiction essay with the theme of "travel." I've chosen to write about my travels in Scotland, and interweave it with places I visited that have connections to famous authors, i.e. Robert Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson.

I thought since the AH lacks many writing threads at the moment, I'd toss this out there for any who want to participate: Write a short essay (???-1000 words or so) or maybe just a few paragraphs on somewhere you've traveled, or your experiences there, or your experiences with traveling in general.

Let's see if we can't get our collective creative juices going!

I'll post an excerpt or two from my Scotland essay a little later.

Enjoy, and have fun!

 

[CharleyH]

well, I just wanted to post that I have seen this thread, and I might just participate, but will revisit it tomorrow. I will see what I can come up with - bumping for now.

 

[McKenna]

well, I just wanted to post that I have seen this thread, and I might just participate, but will revisit it tomorrow. I will see what I can come up with - bumping for now.

Thanks Charley! I look forward to reading what you have to write.

Meanwhile, here's what I've got so far on my Scotland essay. It needs polishing, and I'm not sure which sentence should be my lead, but it's a start:




Scotland Essay (working title)

Ardnamurchan Point in the western Highlands of Scotland holds a certain sense of magic and romance –the same thread of romance which threads through the entire country of Scotland. Ardnamurchan Point is characterized by windswept landscapes, rocky shores and ceaseless wind. It’s the kind of landscape that is lonely, but utterly beautiful. If you stand at the base of Ardnamurchan Lighthouse –which adorns Ardnamurchan Point– three isles are visible to the north with names as evocative as the landscape: Muck, Eigg and Rhum. The view from the lighthouse will make the unbeliever believe in the powers of enchantment inherent throughout the land.

The wind at Ardnamurchan point blows hard and constant. Its strength is enough to hold a person as if suspended in mid-air while she leans her weight into its force. The sea at this most westerly point of the British mainland is no less powerful; it’s wild and unkempt, and roils as if angry, or possessed, or protective of those who would dare to wander forth from the enchanted isle. It crashes against the rock beneath the feet of Ardnamurchan Lighthouse in a display of awesome power, spitting forth sea-spray some twenty to fifty feet high. Where there is an inlet, the water creeps with no less power to caress the shore with its frothy fingers; and then, reassured that all is well, the mysterious hand retreats backwards, only to return again and again as a worrisome lover seeking an embrace.


(comments and constructive criticism welcome)

 

[Joe Wordsworth]

I was ten when Mom let me go. She said I was "drowning the other three", that I couldn't stay with my siblings. That I couldn't stay. I was put on a plane, told to get to a destination I didn't know much about, aside from a map... problem children aren't given a lot of options.

The layover in Phoenix was long, about fourteen hours. I set my Casio watch and slept under a bench for most of the time, having spent the twenty bucks I'd been given on some pizza out of Terminal C and a locker to put my bags in. Airports aren't cheap, they aren't warm, and it was the beginning of a long week of flying.

I got to see it all. Dallas/Ft. Worth on Tuesday and Wednesday. I stole some candybars from the convienient store located in the main terminal next to the bar that I was too afraid to go into. I remember I was wearing my suit, that day, having changed in the bathroom and slicked my hair back--trying to look older.

I took my first cigarette from a guy outside of Kansas City on Thursday, we talked about him going to see his kids. I lied and said I was on my way to LA to see my family. Not knowing anything else, it seemed like the best substantiated tale to tell. We had a cigarette (I claimed I was older, but whether he believed me or not, I can't say), we talked, and after a few minutes, he left.

Airport friends.

Friday had me in Memphis, TN. The international airport was smaller than I'd thought it would be, by this time I had grown to understand the layouts a little better. Long hours in airports, lots of walking around, lots of minor shoplifting to eat. Wiching I hadn't spent money on pizza. I saw lots of things, read lots of newspapers, and furiously guarded myself from everything that walked or sat by.

I touched down in Jackson, MS on Saturday. I was tired. I was dirty. My collar was dingy and my tie wasn't straight. I waited outside the airport, contemplating what I was going to do next. I was told to call him when I touched down in Jackson. I was told that this was how it had to be. Ten year olds do what they're told, especially in my family.

I borrowed a quarter (phone calls were only a quarter back then) and called the number written on a business card in my little wallet.

"Dad...?", I said plainly, not knowing what to expect, "I-I'm in Jackson, can you pick me up?"

Silence.

"Why are you in Jackson?"

"I don't know."

"Boy, sit tight, I'll be right there". I waited an hour, and he came walking up the steps. He had a baseball cap in his hand and looked suprised and concerned. I realized, at that point, he wasn't told I was coming. He put the ballcap on my head, it was a Brewer's cap (my favorite team), and picked up my bags.

He never spoke one word about it, after that. Never said what he was obviously thinking, "I can't believe she did that". He just gave me a ballcap and welcomed me to Mississippi. And I've been here ever since.

 

[McKenna]

Wow Joe, that's a journey and a half for anyone, but incredibly so for a 10-year old.

I liked the details about surviving in the airports, who you met, where you slept, etc.

Thanks for sharing.

 

[CharleyH]

(comments and constructive criticism welcome)

You asked for it!

Suggestion: start out with a scene, an action of something you saw or which happened – a small paragraph perhaps, completely fill the readers imagination with the romance before getting into the details: draw them there, as if they experience it with you.

This seems like a second paragraph to me
Ardnamurchan Point in the western Highlands of Scotland holds [a certain senseI’d be specific. It either does or doesn’t and if so what kind ] of magic and romance –the same thread of romance which threads too many threads, try weaves or another word choice through the entire country of Scotland. add how so, in general . . . in land, in culture etc

rearrangeCharacterized by windswept landscapes, rocky shores and ceaseless wind, Ardnamurchan Point is lonely, [buttry not to use negatives – you want people to go there. I’d use AND ] utterly beautiful. If you stand at the base of Ardnamurchan Lighthouse –which adorns Ardnamurchan Pointtoo many Ardnamurchan’s, try finding out more history or georgraphy to replace the redundancy, albeit proper names one will be enough, and since you later use the lighthouse, I'd keep that one– three isles are visible to the north with names as evocative as the landscapehow so evocative? Romantic, lonely, craggy? Perhaps something out of a fantasy/fairy tale/legend since you next speak of enchantment, therefore reference an author, preferably from the area, but if not someone famous, Scottish: Muck, Eigg and Rhum. The view from the lighthouse will make the unbeliever believe in the powers of enchantment inherent throughout the land.

The wind at Ardnamurchan point blows hard and constantat what time of the year, or is it always like this everyday of the year, which is the impression I am getting. Its strength is enough to hold a personmake it personal – YOU have been there, it’s a travel piece, you’re allowed – holds me, and do away with as if’s as if suspended in mid-air while she leans her weight into its force. The sea at this most westerly point of the British mainland is no lessavoid negatives – replace with something giving an impression of the power, or more power as the case may be powerful; it’s wild and unkempt, and roils as ifagain, as if – be precise angry, or possessed, or protective[evoke the legend/fantasy/fairytale – use the image you are trying to create by referencing something of the culture, like something[/I] of those who would dare to wander forth from the enchanted isle. It crashes against the rock beneath the feet of Ardnamurchanlighthouse is fine here, since you have already referenced it either by name, or location Lighthouse in a display of awesome power, spitting forth sea-spray [someunnecessary word twenty to fifty feet high. Where there is an inlet, the water creeps with [no less poweragain be specific ] to caress the shore with its frothy fingers; and then, reassured that all is well, the mysterious hand retreats backwards, only to return again and again as a worrisome lover seeking an embrace.

Loved a lot of your description, and what I have pointed out can only enhance what you already have

 

[McKenna]

Thank you Charley, I appreciate the time you spent commenting/criticizing on my work, and I'll certainly take your suggestions into consideration! Your insights have been helpful, and with them I'm sure I can make my writing a little tighter.




Now then, where's YOUR travel essay?

 

[CharleyH]

Thank you Charley, I appreciate the time you spent commenting/criticizing on my work, and I'll certainly take your suggestions into consideration! Your insights have been helpful, and with them I'm sure I can make my writing a little tighter.




Now then, where's YOUR travel essay?

LOL - I have already published a travel piece, and was very happy to have someone interested in the fluff. I am not an expert in travel, but do know a thing or two about, well, something. I wanted to write a travel piece from, well, a non-conforming perspective. I'm WORKING on it - LOL.

I will post it when done, but that might not be til weekend as I have something on the go

 

[Lauren Hynde]

I'm working on something too. Fun exercise, McK.

 

[McKenna]

Charley, Lauren- I'm looking forward to both your essays! Now I'm off to work more on mine.

I'll post the rest of it when I have it, and maybe I can cajole Charley into another edit.

 

[dr_mabeuse]

This is about a place we used to go:

There are fireflies at the head of the stairs, and there are more down below at the beach, above the bushes that grow among the dune grass under the summer moon. It’s like walking among Chinese party lanterns, and the benign little bugs don’t seem to care much when you pluck them from the air like berries. They're totally unconcerned about your fascination or their own astonishing beauty. You can see the children’s faces in the fire flies' glow as they open their hands to see how many they’ve caught with therr last swipe, and the sound of their' cries of delight is as much a part of summer as the wind in the trees or the feel of the dune grass whipping against your bare legs.

We used to keep the bugs in jars and leave them around the cottage like mysterious lanterns. Then the kids would go to sleep and I would go around letting them go, waching them creep humbly away in the grass, all their party mood gone, probably scared out of them by their night in the slammer. Lightening bugs follow the same routine every night. They start out in the trees, and slowly drift lower flashing their love calls over the hours of evening until they end up in the grass, then they spend the next day climbing back up into the trees again. It doesn’t seem like a bad way to spend a summer. That’s pretty much the same routine we have with the beach, but with the hours reversed.

The stairs going down to the beach are rotten. Concrete at the top of the cliff, fading into a motley knocked-together collection of logs and boards spiked into the sandy earth amidst the ferns and blueberries and stands of poison ivy. The stairs at the far end near the water have to be put up new every spring. The prevailing winds are from the west on Lake Michigan, and during the winter gales the waves reach up on the east side and lick at the cliffs, batter the steps with ice and pull everything down. On the first nice days in May you can hear hammering and pounding all along the lakefront as people go out among the green shoots and repair their stairs going down to the beach. Sometimes, walking along the water in the drowsy heat of a summer day, you’ll come across whole sections of stairs washed up and half-buried in the sand: steps connecting the sand with the empty air, as if the spirits of summer were coming and going on their warm and magical business as we slept.

On the warmest days of July and August there’s a haze over the lake, and that combines with the rhythmic lap of the small waves and the distant drone of a power boat to make what to me is the ineffable sound of summer: the sound of sun on quiet water, sun on the lawns at the top of the hill, sun on the nodding wildflowers with the bees stumbling past, sun on my back as I look up from the shady page of my book to see the kids throwing wet sand at each other and screaming. Three o’clock on a July afternoon. Time to start thinking about getting back to the cottage. Time to start thinking about dinner.

The beach is the one place where I can lie and not sleep and not think that I should be doing something else. I lie on my stomach with my chin on my hands and watch the distant progress of a boat, or a bug scrambling over the sand in front of my eyes. I blow on the sand and watch the grains scatter, and think about the rocks that each one came from. I wonder whether they miss their old rock-homes, or whether they were wise-ass grains that split from the old rock without so much as a “see ya’!”, glad to be on their own, and I wonder whether they’re happier being out here in the sun or buried ten feet down in the cool water. I think about there being more stars than there are grains of sand, and I think about infinity, and then I think about how good an ice cold beer is going to taste with a grilled burger with garden tomatoes on it, or a gin and tonic with lots of lime as the sun goes down. These are summer thoughts, of about as much consequence as sunshine on a leaf, and they’re the very things that life is made of.

There’s sand everywhere. There are sandy beaches and huge dunes, ten stories high and more. Everything around Lake Michigan is built on sand, and that’s always been the color of summer to me: sand beige, water blue, and forest green. Sand follows us to the cottage, gets into the bed, sticks to the coconut-scented tanning lotion on our backs and scrapes against the sunburn, but no one cares. At the end of the week we’re all red and raw, as if our skin is brand new, as if we’ve been scoured by the sun and sand and water, and we all seem to hum with that drowsy summer sound, glowing, our eyes full of sun, our movements matched to the vagrant rhythm of the dune grass.

About a mile down the shore to the south is the buried ghost town of Piers Cove. There’s nothing there now but a state park, but a hundred years ago there was a bustling little village concerned with lake shipping and floating Michigan logs across the lake to Milwaukee and Chicago. They built too close to the shore though, and one year the entire town began to sink as the Lake rose. People moved inland and they tried for a while to save what they could, but after one disastrous summer storm the entire town was buried under tons of sand and abandoned. My friend tells me that sometimes you can still find pieces of pipe thrusting up from the buried structures below, or some water-worn chimney bricks. The place doesn’t feel like a ghost town though. There’s that same lazy and benign feel of high summer over the dunes now as there is all along the Michigan shore. All of the east side of the lake feels like that: fat and lazy in the summer sun, and too drowsy to care...

---dr.M.

 

[fogbank]

Thoughts on the essays thus far, then I'll share my own:

McKenna: some good imagery, and nice word choice. A phrase like 'utterly beautiful' is good, in that 'utterly' is an intensifier generally used for negatives, 'utterly devastating, utterly miserable', and it's a nice little juxtaposition the way you use it. I agree strongly with what Charley said about making it a little more personal. Put yourself there, and your readers will follow. I'm always a fan of travel-writing where the author describes what s/he saw, rather than what I would see were I there.

Joe: I like the situation, the sense of movement, but you never really get a sense of place. Which is maybe part of your point; obviously the sort of language in McKenna's wouldn't be appropriate for yours, but I'd try to insert specific details that either emphasize place, or emphasize a lack of place (things that are the same in every airport, for example). At the same time, you have a nice Keroucesque punchiness in the story as it exists now, and you don't want to bog it down at all.


edit: oops, missed Dr.M's. Very nice stuff, some absolutely fanastic imagery, and a nice beginning and end; a definite sense of containment. My only comment would be the way you use 'we', 'I', and 'you' sometimes. Sometimes you're drawing the reader in, sometimes you're telling the reader your own experience and memories; both methods are good, but I'd almost rather you stuck to one or the other.

 

[fogbank]

This is about the first day of a trip that I did when I was 21. I've written up a few passages about the trip, but this is the first time I've tried writing about the this particular day.

Comments/criticisms greatly appreciated!!



"What hostel should I stay at?" I asked a fellow traveller who had just returned for Beijing.
"I don't know what it's called. The one by the stinky river."
Well, this was the right place then, unless there were multiple rivers running through Beijing. It was really more of a canal than a river: lined by concrete on either side, and disappearing beneath the roadway, and not appearing on the other side, not appearing until a couple blocks away, and turned, at that point, so that I almost wasn't sure it was the same canal. But it stunk. It smelled of rotting garbage, a smell all too prevalent throughout the city. It had been an unusually hot summer, I was told. I tried to nap in the morning, but it was too hot to leave the window closed, and if I opened the window, that awful smell would be too much to allow me to sleep.

The hostel had a courtyard with a pool, the water of which was only slightly cleaner than that of the river. Nobody actually swam in it. And a little cantina--a Spanish word, I know, but somehow this just 'felt' more like a cantina than anywhere I had been in my life. I drank five-star beer and boasted in my subtle way about how I was doing the trans-Siberian railroad; doing the railroad, not a regular railroad one can merely ride, something that one must do. The mention of this trip had impressed everyone--especially women--back home. Girls bought me drinks at bars as I told them about this around-the-world solo trip that I was about to embark upon. But here, my boast was generally dismissed by a shrug, and a comment such as 'yeah, I did that back a few years ago, this time I wanted more of an adventure so I'm doing the silk-route,' or 'what, from Beijing? It's not really worth doing unless you start out in Vladivostok.'
But that long Zhivago haul across Russia, swimming with rare Nerpa seals in Lake Baikal, that was still a couple weeks away. For the time being, Beijing would seem like a good introduction to travelling. I tucked a map into my pocket and began walking north, toward city centre.

The blocks were huge. Every block seemed like it took up a square kilometer--a cubic kilometer really, a solid mass of concrete stretching up into the sky. Every corner had bicycle repair kiosks--guys sitting out on a stool with a pump and a patch-kit. There was a sameness to the city. Each of these massive cubic blocks was a complete, self-contained community. It had penthouses, middle-class apartments, and muddy little slums tucked into corners beside passes--it was a sort of urban planning that immediately appealed to me: all ranges of life, the entire human experience condensed together as though it had been put through one of those scrap-yard car-presses, you know the kind that make a solid cube out of a BMW.

It was a heady dose of life, and I was glad to be here, on my own.
Occasionally I would stop at a kiosk and get something to eat. Pointing sufficed. No sense in butchering their language more than necessary, and I ate lots of things that to this day I am still uncertain about. I passed by temples, through beautiful little parks, and found a nice place to take out my sketchbook and draw a very patriotic statue, an idealization of the Chinese working-class. I took in the western culture; McDonalds, Burger King, and KFC. KFC everywhere, actually, more than any other western restaurant. I guessed that was because fried chicken is already a staple of the Chinese diet--there's no attempt to introduce a new food product, simply a new marketing idea. I made a note of that thought in my journal. And then it occured to me, as I stood there in front of the KFC, that I had no idea where I was. And that it was already starting to get dark.

I took out my map, and tried to calculate my position: Had I gone so far north as to cross the train tracks? I hadn't seen any. Had I encountered that big garden east of Tiananmen Square? Yes. Maybe. I had a good guess about where I was. The next question was which direction I was currently facing? I usually pride myself on my navigational ability; I always know where north is. I can read stars reasonably well. I know how to look for signs like the moss on trees. But here through the thick smog, the sky did not fade in the east while remaining light in the west: the whole sky faded as one, like it was the sky itself that was slowly turning off. I took a guess, and began walking. I occasionally tried to ask questions to people, but the encounters were so time-consuming and unsuccessful that I decided it would be best to just keep walking and hope that I guessed right. I didn't want to be stuck out here in the dark on the streets of Beijing.

But a strange thing happened as the sky went dark: people came outside. I was later told that this is because in many parts of Beijing, residential electricity is turned off in the summer, after a certain time in the evening. So people came out and sat upon their front steps; men drinking beer, their t-shirts pulled up above their bellies to cool in the still-warm night, some families drinking tea. Old men played Chinese chess or go on homemade wooden boards. Children played soccer in the dirt streets. An errant ball came toward me, and I kicked it back, engaged for a brief moment, in this wonderful family life. In this same trip, I would later be robbed in Mongolia. I would be mobbed by gypsy boys in St.Petersburg. I narrowly escaped a mugging on-board a train in Romania. In retrospect, I never felt as safe as being completely lost in the Beijing night. Every now and then I would pass into a dark section of street and I would see shadows in the distance, moving quickly, suspiciously, but then the shadows would turn into girls riding their bikes, long skirts somehow not getting caught in the gears, not noticing me and then nearly hitting me and then giggling and calling out some sort of apology over their shoulders.

I was still lost, though. I was definitely not where I had initially thought I was and my map was now completely useless to me. I changed direction and began walking through a market area, which took me away from the friendly, warm residential areas, into long, shadowy stretches. I was beginning to contemplate finding a quiet corner and sleeping there. It was warm enough, it didn't feel that dangerous. In the morning, maybe I could find some sort of landmark and find my way back.

And then I smelled something. It wasn't just the smell of garbage; it was the smell of wet garbage, of stagnant water. I couldn't tell what direction the smell came from, but it was enough to encourage me to keep walking. And as I walked, the smell got stronger. Until, at last, I came to the edge of a concrete canal, dark within, and with a footpath along one side. In my mind, I was certain. This was the same stinky river near the hostel--all I had to do was follow it, and I'd be back. I guessed that I would most likely be northwest of the hostel; I turned left along the path, the thick, stagnant smell now welcome, guiding me back into a relative familiarity.

 

[McKenna]

Doc, I've long been a fan of yours, been now I'm positively smitten.


"...steps connecting the sand with the empty air, as if the spirits of summer were coming and going on their warm and magical business as we slept.

I love the imagery here, and I love how it sneaks up on me as the reader. I think something good might be coming, but I'm not certain. You deliver well; my expectations were adequately met.

As I was reading in my textbook for this class, (On Writing Well by Zinsser,) he mentions how a good travel essay will do more than just describe a place or take you from point A to point B; it will encompass a broader meaning than travel. I think you accomplished that very well with your bit about the sand:

"I blow on the sand and watch the grains scatter, and think about the rocks that each one came from. I wonder whether they miss their old rock-homes, or whether they were wise-ass grains that split from the old rock without so much as a “see ya’!”, glad to be on their own, and I wonder whether they’re happier being out here in the sun or buried ten feet down in the cool water."

Nicely done Doc, nicely done.

 

[McKenna]

McKenna: some good imagery, and nice word choice. A phrase like 'utterly beautiful' is good, in that 'utterly' is an intensifier generally used for negatives, 'utterly devastating, utterly miserable', and it's a nice little juxtaposition the way you use it. I agree strongly with what Charley said about making it a little more personal. Put yourself there, and your readers will follow. I'm always a fan of travel-writing where the author describes what s/he saw, rather than what I would see were I there.

Eeeeesh. Travel essays end up being the hardest for me to write -mostly because I slip into "travel guide mode" and end up sounding like a textbook.

I started to re-write the essay and work a different angle, a more personal one. I'll post bits of it here; please let me know what you think if you have the time.

P.S. Haven't read yours yet, will do so a.s.a.p. Unfortunately, must run off again!

 

[McKenna]

RE: Fogbank

OK fogbank, take a deep breath and read all of this with a grain of salt.

First, there are a few technical errors: Sentences following a colon, for example, must be complete and start with a capital letter. Also there was a little verb tense confusion:

"It was really more of a canal than a river: lined by concrete on either side, and disappearing beneath the roadway, and not appearing on the other side, not appearing until a couple blocks away, and turned, at that point, so that I almost wasn't sure it was the same canal."

Verb tenses should agree. For example, I would re-write the sentence above to something like this:

"It was more of a canal than a river. It was lined by concrete on either side and had tendency to disappear beneath the roadway and not appear again until a couple of blocks away, where, at that point, it turned; because of this I wasn't sure it was the same canal at all."

"...boasted in my subtle way..." -This phrase caught my eye; is boasting ever subtle?! Interesting choice of words. In that same paragraph you have a "flash forward" that I found hard to follow; first the reader in immersed in the hostel and the bar, then all of a sudden we're getting a peak in to the future. Confusing.

"But that long Zhivago haul across Russia...." I like this reference to Doctor Zhivago. Nicely done. It's Hemingway-esque.

The paragraph that contains a view into residential Beijing life and being robbed could (and should) be split into two; I didn't see a connection between the residential scene and theft.

I liked that you returned to the river literally, and within the story. It provides a nice "wrap up" to our piece. I also like that the river was an "unlikely hero." Nicely done.

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Re: RE: Fogbank

First, there are a few technical errors: Sentences following a colon, for example, must be complete and start with a capital letter.

That's not right. Complete sentences following a colon should start with a capital letter. Not quite the same thing.

As a rule, whatever comes after a colon shouldn't be capitalised, with some exceptions:

- if it's an independent clause coming after the colon and it's a formal quote;
- if it's an explanatory statement coming after a colon and it consists of more than one sentence;
- if it's an introductory phrase preceding the colon, very brief, and the clause following the colon represents the real business of the sentence.

I agree about the verb confusion, but I would simply retouch that first sentence:

"It was really more of a canal than a river: lined by concrete on either side, disappearing beneath the roadway, and not appearing on the other side, not appearing until a couple blocks away. At that point, it turned, so that I almost wasn't sure it was still the same canal."

 

[McKenna]

Re: Re: RE: Fogbank

That's not right. Complete sentences following a colon should start with a capital letter. Not quite the same thing.

As a rule, whatever comes after a colon shouldn't be capitalised, with some exceptions:

- if it's an independent clause coming after the colon and it's a formal quote;
- if it's an explanatory statement coming after a colon and it consists of more than one sentence;
- if it's an introductory phrase preceding the colon, very brief, and the clause following the colon represents the real business of the sentence.[/i]

Right, but I didn't say "whatever" comes after a colon, I said "sentences following a colon..."

I guess I should have been more technical. Outlined below are the proper uses of the colon. (Information taken from the text Technical Communication by MikeMarkel.


Items following a colon in a list are not capitalized, for example:

• period
• comma
• exclamation point
• question mark

If the items following the colon are phrases, (not complete sentences,) do not capitalize, and do not put a period at the end.

The new facility will offer three advantages:

• lower leasing costs
• easier commuting distance
• a larger pool of potential workers

If the items following a colon are complete sentences, CAPITALIZE and put a period at the end.

The new facility will offer three advantages:

• The leasing costs will be lower.
• The commuting distance will be shorter.
• The pool of potential workers will be larger.

1. Use a colon to introduce a word, phrase, or clase that amplifies, illustrates, or explains a general statement:

The project team lacked one crucial member: a project leader.


2. Use a colon to introduce items in a vertical list (see above).

3. Use a colon to introduce long or formal quoatations.


Writers sometimes use a colon incorrectly to separate a verb from it's complement:

INCORRECT - The tools we need are: a plane, a level, and a T-square.

CORRECT - The tools we need are a plane, a level, and a T-1square.

CORRECT - We need three tools: a plane, a level, and a T-square.




Clear as mud?


You wrote, "If it's an introductory phrase preceding the colon, very brief, and the clause following the colon represents the real business of the sentence" there should be no capitalization. I'd like to see an example of that, please.

 

[fogbank]

Thanks for the feedback, McKenna and Lauren. Definitely agree about the verb confusion. Good suggestions about how to deal with it.

I'm not sure how to fix the allusions to the trip ahead--whether I should take them out together, or introduce them in a different way. I really want to contrast the experience of the residential bejing night with things that would happen to me later on the trip, without going into details. Simply put, alluding to the past in the casual way that one alludes to the future. I'm not sure it works the way it's in there now.

The subtle boasting. Yeah, it's confusing. I think false modesty might be a better phrase.

As far as the colon goes, I think it's alright as it is. I generally use colons to imply a certain relationship between two ideas: that the second idea is a clarification or exploration of the first. As I understand it, a colon does not need to be followed by a complete clause. It can actually be followed be a clause, a fragment, or even a single word.

 

[McKenna]

As far as the colon goes, I think it's alright as it is. I generally use colons to imply a certain relationship between two ideas: that the second idea is a clarification or exploration of the first. As I understand it, a colon does not need to be followed by a complete clause. It can actually be followed be a clause, a fragment, or even a single word.

As I understand it, a semi-colon would be a better choice than the colon in the example you give above. It's like the semi-colon completes or links the two phrases on either side. Which is basically what you said above. I wonder if there is a difference in usage between British and American English?

"I generally use colons to imply a certain relationship between two ideas; the second idea is a clarification or exploration of the first."

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Re: Re: Re: RE: Fogbank

Right, but I didn't say "whatever" comes after a colon, I said "sentences following a colon..."

Ok, that's logical. If you say "sentences," you're referring to independent entities, and that's not how I read fogbank's structure.

"It was really more of a canal than a river: lined by concrete on either side, and disappearing beneath the roadway, and not appearing on the other side, not appearing until a couple blocks away..."

To me, what follows the colon could never be mistaken with a sentence. It's a list of the elements that make the object of the sentence a canal and not a river.

That is why I started by saying that "complete sentences following a colon should start with a capital letter." Not that all sentences following a colon should be complete and start with a capital letter.

You wrote, "If it's an introductory phrase preceding the colon, very brief, and the clause following the colon represents the real business of the sentence" there should be no capitalization. I'd like to see an example of that, please.

No, I said the rule should be no capitalization. Formal quotes, multiple sentences and brief introductory phrases are the exceptions.

 

[fogbank]

My Maw always told me that all that fancy punctuation would only lead to fighting...

 

[Lauren Hynde]

No one is fighting. There's nothing more subjective than punctuation. Every style publication says a different thing.

 

[Guest]

a travel excerpt

Wien, Wien, nur du allein...

I enter a small vestibule through a high wooden double-door using an old-fashioned skeleton key. A___ shows me how to turn it two or three times to fully unlock or lock it. I will share this door with the widow J___ who has lived here over sixty years. She speaks no English and greets me cheerfully, always, “Grüss Gott”.

Inside are three more doors—to my flat, to Frau J___, and to the W.C. (It surprises me to see the English initials on doors.) Facing my door are high double-windows opening over the courtyard. The full treetops outside appear to be chestnuts with spiky pregnant pods hanging heavily from all branches. I am warned to not leave the inner hall light on overnight as the widow will become excitedly disturbed. I must also learn to work the locks as quietly as possible. I feel quick relief when it does not take long to accomplish the trick. I feel I have passed my first test of European civility.

I feel safe as a baby in its nursery.

That first day I felt as if I was walking about on a huge movie set. All was quiet at that twilit time and there were no crowds or auto traffic, very non-American. Such a juxtaposition of architecture—angles, perspectives, shapes in space—dramatic, palpable drama. Vienna as frame, mise-en-scène, back lot, page. It was exciting to have my brother as my leading man, my co-protagonist. I felt like— .

I must sleep more. I feel alive and real—happy. (So, money can buy happiness. Ha ha!)

Today A___ and I walked around the city center and Ringstrasse again for six or more hours. We made a couple rest stops at coffeehouses, looked into several churches. I was astonished at the variety of marble—great colors and patterns. In one church great spirals of columns in variegated greens with ochre bases. Of course the actual hues are impossible to describe. (How does one describe colors? Will have to look up Wittgenstein. Is he the one to read?) I found those particular spiraled columns sensual. I wanted to caress them, hug them, press against them. They seemed androgynous though only architectural forms. Columns are naturally phallic, but I found these feminine too, the spirals and curves alluring.

Sex, sex, sex. Vienna is sex—in my dreams, movies, churches—grand opera! Eroticism pervades my tourist mind. Realities persist in converging.

Otto Wagner’s architecture—magnificently intelligent, a perfect intellect of form and beauty. I have a new Wagnerian helden—Otto the architect. (“Wagnerian” Wagnerian architecture!) I have seen most of his major works here, only the facades of some, and exquisite interiors. (I will also have been introduced to Hoffman, Loos and Fischer von Erlach, but my memory concentrates on Wagner.)

I was dazzled by the Jugendstil Karlsplatz metro station, and the Imperial station designed to serve Schönbrunn Palace. Unfortunately, Franz-Joseph, having no appreciation of Wagner and holding a grudge about it, refused to use it. My brother and I enjoyed it though, even only as a museum. I peed in a Wagner toilet in the basement of the landmark Postsparkasse (Post Office Savings Bank) on the Ringstrasse, was attracted to the building like a person, an appealingly masculine type. Other of his works had more femme characteristics in their details. Interesting to look at architecture and design through gender effects and roles—butch versus femme within walls.

More profound was the delivery of calm beauty in his Kirche am Steinhof—a wonder-filled accommodation for the clients of the psychiatric hospital on the grounds, and to visitors only allowed on Saturdays. It is the church of St. Leopold, considered the most important example of church architecture in Jugendstil. In describing the location, uphill and central on the grounds, the guidebook notes perfectly, “The church dominates a point of stillness.” I am entranced by every detail and the entire space of the work. My immediate favorites are the stained glass windows by Koloman Moser, and Wagner’s exquisitely simple chandeliers of tiered circles of hanging golden rods ending in simple white globes.

Images and details of this place seem to express mercy, the building having been designed expressly for the patients of the hospital. A___ points out the unusual spaces created to accommodate patients who might unexpectedly need attention or removal during liturgical services. Wagner has rendered a remarkable “deed of mercy”. Would that I had such a place to enter at will—function in architecture elevated to the supreme height of the soul.

 

[fogbank]

No one is fighting. There's nothing more subjective than punctuation. Every style publication says a different thing.

Yeah, I know. In truth, it warms my heart to hear people discussing punctuation as something worth discussing.