Behold, the writer’s natural habitat: somewhere between a strong sentence and this shrub.
I'll admit I did this one a fair amount for a certain character when writing The Malpais Bride. It's also due out this October!
Hedging is one of those sneaky little writing habits that can slip into your manuscript so quietly that you don't even notice it.
In writing, simply put, hedging is language that softens, qualifies, or creates distance from a statement instead of making it directly.
Words and phrases such as maybe, perhaps, seemed, almost, somehow, I think, and I suppose are some common examples. You might say, She seemed angry instead of She was angry, or I thought perhaps he was lying instead of I knew he was lying.
Sometimes that uncertainty is what a scene needs. Other times the hedging sneaks in because we're reluctant to commit fully to what the character is saying.
But there is another type of hedging that can be much more interesting. Sometimes it isn't the writer that's hedging but the character is.
But there is another kind of hedging I find much more interesting.
Sometimes the writer isn’t hedging.
The character is.
While working on Samuel’s point of view in The Malpais Bride, I noticed that he has a habit of doing something very specific. When a thought becomes too personal, Samuel's voice would stop saying I. He would say things like " a man..." and use third person tone.
On the surface, this sounds like a general observation. Especially for the time period. Doing this allowed Samuel to notice things and say things without getting emotionally involved.
Except, story wise, Samuel is thinking about his new wife.
What he really means is:
I noticed her.
More specifically:
I noticed she was beautiful.
And suddenly the sentence becomes much more personal than Samuel is comfortable admitting.
That makes the hedge useful.
The Difference Between Weakness and Distance
When editing, it can be tempting to make a list of weak words and remove every instance of them. That can be rather helpful but it can also flatten your character's voice if you're not careful.
There's a big difference between a writer weakening a sentence and a character protecting themselves from one.
Let's take:
I’m lonely.
It's direct, vulnerable, and rather difficult to misunderstand.
Now let's take Samuel thinking:
A man gets lonely after enough years by himself.
The meaning is almost identical.
Emotionally, however, the sentences are worlds apart.
In the second version, Samuel has managed to discuss his loneliness without technically admitting that he is lonely.
This is emotional hedging: language that allows a character to approach a truth without quite touching it.
And it can tell us an enormous amount about them.
When I come across hedging during revision, I find it useful to ask what kind I am looking at.
This is the variety most writing advice warns against.
Let's take:
She seemed to be angry.
If the viewpoint character can clearly see that she is angry, seemed to be may be weakening the sentence.
Let's compare with:
She was angry.
Or depending on the scene:
She slammed the cup onto the table.
Likewise:
I somehow managed to climb the fence.
Depending on the situation, does somehow actually contribute? On occasion, it doesn't help.
These may be places where the writer may simply be nervous about committing to the sentence.
Not every hedge is bad.
If the narrator does not know something, the uncertainty belongs there.
Someone seemed to be standing beyond the trees.
That sentence creates a very different situation from:
Someone was standing beyond the trees.
The first tells us the narrator can't quite see what they are looking at.
That uncertainty has a purpose.
In that case, the hedge is doing work.
Here's where it gets fun. It's when the character knows exactly what they mean but they don't want to say it.
Let's take Samuel saying:
A man might miss having somebody around.
Translation:
I miss having somebody around.
~*~
A fellow could get used to this.
Translation:
I like this.
~*~
A man notices when a pretty woman walks into a room.
Translation:
I noticed her immediately and I will not be taking any follow-up questions.
This kind of hedging can reveal embarrassment, grief, fear, pride, repression, cultural expectations, or simply a personality that has never learned how to speak directly about emotion.
First-person narration can feel inherently intimate because everything passes through I.
I saw, I heard, I remembered, I wanted.
But it doesn't mean every first person narrator is emotionally honest.
A character might describe every detail of a room rather than acknowledge why they entered it. They might explain another person’s behavior instead of admitting how it affected them.
They might turn personal feelings into universal observations.
People get tired of being alone.
A woman ought to know better.
A man can only take so much.
Sometimes those sentences really mean:
I’m tired.
I’m ashamed.
I’m hurt.
The narrator didn't lie.
But they have stepped sideways around the truth.
When I find hedging now, I try not to immediately delete it.
Instead, I ask:
Who is hedging here, the writer or the character?
If I am hedging because I haven't committed to what is happening, the sentence probably needs strengthening.
If the character is hedging because admitting the truth would frighten, embarrass, or expose them, I may want to leave it exactly where it is.
Sometimes I may even lean into it.
Because eventually, if the character changes, their language can change too.
Early in the story:
A man could grow fond of having her around.
Later:
I didn’t want her to leave.
That shift from a man to I can quietly mark emotional growth without the narrative ever announcing it.
The character has stopped hiding behind the hypothetical fellow who has apparently been experiencing all his emotions for him.
Like most writing advice, “avoid hedging” is useful until we treat it as a law.
The goal isn't to purge every perhaps, seemed, almost, I suppose, or a man from a manuscript.
The goal should be intention.
If a hedge weakens the prose, cut it.
If it creates necessary uncertainty, keep it.
And if your emotionally constipated nineteenth-century widower would rather wrestle a bear than say, I am lonely and I think my wife is beautiful?
Let him have his a man.
For now.
The poor fellow is doing his best.
No comments:
Post a Comment