Get the Words Write: Make Your Writing Sing

As an editor, one of my top priorities is helping authors elevate the literary value of their manuscripts. Together, we collaborate to play with the construction of words, syntax, and cadence. We consider measure when writing, and we truly build a rhapsody of rapture. Our goal is to design a dance of diction and a waltz of words to sweep readers off of their feet—it's music to our readers' ears.

We’d love to help you do the same!

There’s a reason why music soothes the savage beast. We’ve all been hurt before, and music and writing are often the go-to refrains that bring harmony back to our souls.

For me, music and words have always been inextricably linked. Not necessarily because of the lyrics of the songs, or even because of the content of the novel or poem, but because of the swell of emotion they can prompt. Nothing against Mozart or Hemingway, but they just don’t cut it for me. I need the moodiness and the broodiness of Beethoven, Bronte, and Metallica. Yes, Metallica. “Nothing Else Matters.” Why? Because they often write or perform in 3/4 or 6/8 time, and it’s this powerful measure that makes my heart beat a little faster and my toes tap a little harder. And nine times out of ten, I cry. Why can’t our writing do the same? It can.

One of my most favorite compositions of all time is “Moonlight Sonata” by Beethoven. “O, Holy Night” is a ridiculously close second. Why? Their measure of time and their changes in key. Go listen to Beethoven now if you’re not familiar with his masterpiece. You should be.

So How are Music and Writing Connected, You Ask?

Let’s back up to Shakespeare’s time and why he so often employed iambic pentameter (first syllable unstressed, second syllable stressed). Put your hand over your heart. Hear that? Da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM. Your heartbeat is in iambic pentameter. Shakespeare wrote in this life-force of a measure, especially in dramatic moments, when his characters felt a proliferation of passion. Method mirrors message!

The opposite of an iamb is the trochee, and it sounds like this: DA-dum, DA-dum, DA-dum. Shakespeare used it when the weird sisters in Macbeth spoke because they were of the supernatural, and the trochee mirrors the heartbeat of the iamb. So, technically, this isn’t a good thing, but we see it a lot in lyrics. That’s okay. Just go with it.

Here’s an example of iambic pentameter from Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18.” It’s pleasant to the ear—light and airy, and the heartbeat-inspired lines literally gives life to the person he writes about. Again, method mirrors message.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Now, here’s an example of trochaic tetrameter when the weird sisters are brewing up some shenanigans in Macbeth. It’s like teenage angst.

Even if you’re not a Shakespeare fanatic, you should totally check out the Patrick Stewart version of Macbeth. In this short video, the weird sisters are portrayed as nurses during a bloody war, and here you’ll be able to watch, listen, and hopefully appreciate the diametrically opposed couplets with the dastardly thump of the trochaic tetrameter. As mirror images of one another—the eternal conflict of good vs. evil—it’s exhilarating, and yes a little disturbing, to experience.

Editing and Revising Manuscripts with Musical Measure

So back to my point. What is it about the combination of of time and words that’s so stirring? Yes, it’s about composing rhythm, but quite often it’s the key changes, too.

For example, “Hallelujah.” (The Pentatonix version.) It even mentions musical measure and key changes in its iambic lyrics as it “lifts” from minor to major. So as the heart throbs, so, too, do the key and the chords. Stunning, which is why most of us love this song. It speaks, or rather sings, to us on a visceral level

Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth

The minor fall and the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Remember, too, that measure isn't always perfect. “O, Holy Night” begins with a few stressed syllables, seemingly in contrast to the natural iambic meter. But it resolves itself and returns to a predictable beat. There's usually a reason for this, an imperfection that should be analyzed, but that's for another post. For now, here is one of my tied-for-first examples. “O, Holy Night”

O, holy night!

The stars are brightly shining.

It is the night

Of our dear savior’s birth. (Now let’s skip ahead to where the major key shift to minor.)

‘Til He appeared, and the soul felt its worth. (This is just the preview of the minor key.)

(Back to major.) A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices. For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

(Now huge shift to minor...and an intense ache begins to crescendo.) Fall on your knees. Oh, hear the angels’ voices!

(Back to major.) O night, divine. O night when Christ was born!

Feel free to keep singing if you’d like. As writers, we can create a similar experience for our readers with euphonious (pleasant) and cacophonous (harsh) sounds. Come back next time for a deeper discussion of alliteration and sound effects.

The Sounds of Writing

In my humble opinion, Edgar Allan Poe was a masterful composer of the macabre. But anyone can write something creepy, so what sets his disturbing tales apart from the rest? Their musicality. Consider the increasing tempo of his short story, “The Black Cat.” The unreliable (and psychotic) narrator explains how one night, in an alcohol-induced fury, he cuts out the cat’s eye. Freudian Oedipus complex much? The act in and of itself is discordant, but it’s the syntax, the rhythm of the poco a poco crescendo, that’s most striking to me. As a writer and editor, these are the symphonies of sound I personally strive to emulate and elicit from the authors I work with.

After the narrator’s damnable act, he states with growing urgency:

It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself—to offer violence to its own nature—to do wrong for the wrong’s sake only—that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree;—hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart;—hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence;—hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin—a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it—if such a thing were possible—even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.

Notice how the deliberate repetition of “hung it” and the em dashes work in harmony to elevate the syntax to a feverish pitch? The pulse of it rails against the adrenaline rush that so often goes with pain. Delicious, isn’t it? I wish I could be more like Poe—except the part where he marries his cousin and is found dying on the streets of Baltimore, of course.

When I coach writers, I often recommend mimicking the ebb and flow of well-constructed sentences. In this case, an author struggled with conveying the desperation of a young woman lost at sea, hovering between letting the sea wash her away and fighting to survive. Initially, he had written:

Starlight sparkled on the waves. The ocean beckoned her and called her name, seducing her to release herself from the pain and suffering inflicted upon her by the man she loved. But how could she love herself enough to let go? Didn’t he love her enough to keep her from leaving him? It was in that moment she realized her soul belonged to the unfathomable void.

The author and I discussed ways to enhance the rhythmic relinquishment the woman experiences little by little, and he wanted to convey her sense of safety in the water, even though it would lead to her inevitable demise. So we copied Poe’s syntax and created the same intense acceleration as she accepts the only way out is to let go. Revisions don’t always have to be about line and copy editing. They can—and should—be about literary value and technique. Each repetition, em dash, symbolic word choice, vivid verb, and syntactical structure magically mingle into a melodious final work of art.

Here’s his final passage:

Fathoms below, the haunting remnants of the light danced and tickled each other through the invisible currents. There, the chill of the deafening silence was warming and tender. One could easily get lost in the prismatic lure of the beast’s belly, with its enticing amniotic hum of the deep and the safety of knowing that the outside world was miles away. It was the seductive desire of her soul to release itself—to offer salvation to its own torment—to crave love for love's sake always—that beckoned her to smile and inevitably to embrace the fate she had willed upon her delicate heart. That moment, in warm waters, she wrapped her arms about herself and hugged her body with the heart of a child—hugged it with tears streaming from her eyes, and with the happiest joy in her heart—hugged it because she knew that she had loved him, and because he had given her no reason of reciprocation—hugged it because she knew that in doing so she was saving her soul —a beautiful soul that would so betray her immortal self as to place it—if such a thing were possible—even beyond the unfathomable waters of the most terrible and most wonderful man.

A Fortissimo Finale

Our skilled editors are more than grammarians or technicians. We are artists, too, and we pride ourselves on crafting right alongside our authors. Let’s write a symphony together and let your music sing.

Get the Words Write.

Written by:

Christine W.