Ann Voskamp remembers when she watched her sister die. It was a delivery truck. The driver sat at their kitchen table afterward and cried and said he didn't see her, he didn't see her. She remembers how her parents held the body in a blanket, how they prayed she would wake up, how the blood seeped through the blanket.
Thus begins Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts
And, by the way, Voskamp is a poet.
Later, she writes about her home and says, “A child tromps in, boots still on, with a chestful of mail.” Can you think of a more effective word than tromps to describe a child with boots on? I can see him perfectly.
Cut Your ‘The's
About a quarter of the way through the book I stopped reading. Did she really just do that? I thought. Here is the paragraph that struck me:
The crusted pan that baked the chocolate-melt bars slides off the tower of bowls crashes to the floor. Pick it up and watch it sink into sink.
I found that last part, “sink into sink,” open-your-mouth-and-furrow-your-brow fascinating. Not because she plays with the double meaning of sink, but because she drops her article.
I am by no means a grammar snob, unlike our esteemed copy editor Liz Bureman, but an article, as I understand it, is the “a,” “an,” or “the” before a noun.
Voskamp should have said, “Watch it sink into the sink,” but she doesn't. She cuts out the ‘the' altogether and, by doing so, gives the sentence a wonderful rhythm.
Here is another example:
To have the time to grab the jacket off the hook and time to go out to all air and sky and green and time to wonder at all of them in all this light, this time refracting in prism.
It should be, “…and time to go out to all the air and sky and green… this time refracting in a prism.”
But she drops the “the” and the “a.”
Why? What purpose does it serve?
Three Reasons to Drop Your Articles
I don't know for sure, but I have three different theories as to why Ms. Voskamp dropped those articles:
1. Surprise
First of all, it surprises the reader. You expect articles, and if they're absent, it makes you pay more attention. You have to pay more attention.
2. To Lend Her Prose Childlike Energy
Also, it reminds me of how a child talks, and by imitating a child, she colors her writing with joy and energy.
3. To Be Like Plato
This might be a stretch, but by dropping the article it almost makes the sink, the sky, and the prism a proper noun, as in I am Joe. I don't have to say I am the Joe. I don't need an article in front of my name because it's a proper noun.
And there is something Platonic about making a regular sink into a proper noun. It is almost as if she is turning her ordinary sink into Sink, the Sink Form in heaven that all other sinks are fashioned after.
PRACTICE
So, in honor of Mr. Plato and Ms. Voskamp, today let's drop all our articles. For fifteen minutes, write about the following prompt. Cut out all your “the”s and “a”s and “an”s. See if it turns your everyday ingredients into something slightly more extraordinary.
PROMPT: Write about the last meal you cooked, starting with the shopping experience. Write about buying the ingredients, chopping the onions, sautéing the chicken, and stirring the broth (and don't forget to drop your articles).
Post your practice in the comments.
Good luck!
I prefer the term grammar enthusiast, thank you very much.
Of course, Liz. Whatever you prefer 😉
I prefer the term grammar enthusiast, thank you very much.
Of course, Liz. Whatever you prefer 😉
Wow. What a post. She is a poet.
I’ll come back later and try an exercise. This one scares me — like working with volatile compounds.
Thanks Mark. Yes, she certainly is.
Wow. What a post. She is a poet.
I’ll come back later and try an exercise. This one scares me — like working with volatile compounds.
Thanks Mark. Yes, she certainly is.
God, this is like winter. A set-back, death. Questions, not answers. Divisions, not love. Emptiness, not fruit. Mourning, not celebration. I am Old Farmer, sitting by the window, eating shriveled harvest of past bounty, seeing snow that has gripped landscape, hoping for but not seeing change.
Seed has long fallen from mother. It is buried beneath the snow. Has it made good contact? Yes, of course it has. But has it?
Barren trees reach toward heaven. They ask, implore, and then finally, they sleep.
Only wind moves.
When will you bring the thaw, Lord? When will you bring the life? When will you bring the spring?
Damn Mark.
Ok, this needs to be submitted to a poetry magazine.
I spotted a few uses of “the.” Disqualified. 😉
Got me, Jeff!
God, this is like winter. A set-back, death. Questions, not answers. Divisions, not love. Emptiness, not fruit. Mourning, not celebration. I am Old Farmer, sitting by the window, eating shriveled harvest of past bounty, seeing snow that has gripped landscape, hoping for but not seeing change.
Seed has long fallen from mother. It is buried beneath the snow. Has it made good contact? Yes, of course it has. But has it?
Barren trees reach toward heaven. They ask, implore, and then finally, they sleep.
Only wind moves.
When will you bring the thaw, Lord? When will you bring the life? When will you bring the spring?
Damn Mark.
Ok, this needs to be submitted to a poetry magazine.
I spotted a few uses of “the.” Disqualified. 😉
Got me, Jeff!
It’s too late to be grilling out, I think. I should’ve started earlier.
Coals are on, steaks prepared. Our kitchen welcomes sound of raw potatoes being chopped. I never get tired of home-made fries. It’s part of my Irish roots, I tell myself.
Grill is hot and ready, but I am not. Still chopping. Still preparing. Coals turn chalky white, and finally I drop sticky, raw meat on grate. It sizzles.
Neighborhood dogs bark somewhere. Who knows where.
The meat is done sooner than I expect. Frantically, I crank up heat on boiling corn, and froth almost immediately appears.
I step outside again to flip meat. I stop, sniff, listen. And in this moment, I feel perfect. It’s not me, of course, but something about this moment feels sacred. Maybe because I am still — detached from email, phone calls, meetings.
Whatever it is, I whisper a quiet prayer of thanks. Dinner is served.
It has a vitality to it.
I expected to see an article here,
“Finally I drop sticky, raw meat on grate.”
And here:
“I step outside again to flip meat.”
But without them, it works. It’s better. Faster with more punch. Very cool
Thanks, dude. It was a fun exercise!
It’s too late to be grilling out, I think. I should’ve started earlier.
Coals are on, steaks prepared. Our kitchen welcomes sound of raw potatoes being chopped. I never get tired of home-made fries. It’s part of my Irish roots, I tell myself.
Grill is hot and ready, but I am not. Still chopping. Still preparing. Coals turn chalky white, and finally I drop sticky, raw meat on grate. It sizzles.
Neighborhood dogs bark somewhere. Who knows where.
The meat is done sooner than I expect. Frantically, I crank up heat on boiling corn, and froth almost immediately appears.
I step outside again to flip meat. I stop, sniff, listen. And in this moment, I feel perfect. It’s not me, of course, but something about this moment feels sacred. Maybe because I am still — detached from email, phone calls, meetings.
Whatever it is, I whisper a quiet prayer of thanks. Dinner is served.
It has a vitality to it.
I expected to see an article here,
“Finally I drop sticky, raw meat on grate.”
And here:
“I step outside again to flip meat.”
But without them, it works. It’s better. Faster with more punch. Very cool
Thanks, dude. It was a fun exercise!
It was stormy outside so we decided we needed something warm, but not soup, because soup is for wusses. I chopped up onion, trying not to cry. Sauted onion in olive oil, added spices such as garlic, basil, oregano, and “Italian” seasoning. Oh, it smelt so good. Made sure water was boiling. Added spaghetti noodles into boiling water; added diced tomatoes to my sauteeing onions; added in some tomato sauce and more spices. Almost didn’t need to eat, could feast on aroma itself. Checked that noodles were done; put some on plate; added the sauce; topped it off with parmesian cheese. Not bad if I do say myself.
Nice Tim. Seems like you had fun on this one.
It’s so funny, even when I knew you weren’t going to be using articles, it still caught me off guard–in a good way, too. I love this technique.
I noticed you cheated by using “some” in front of tomato sauce. Some isn’t an article, but of course, it can do the same thing.
“could feast on aroma itself.” I like that.
It was stormy outside so we decided we needed something warm, but not soup, because soup is for wusses. I chopped up onion, trying not to cry. Sauted onion in olive oil, added spices such as garlic, basil, oregano, and “Italian” seasoning. Oh, it smelt so good. Made sure water was boiling. Added spaghetti noodles into boiling water; added diced tomatoes to my sauteeing onions; added in some tomato sauce and more spices. Almost didn’t need to eat, could feast on aroma itself. Checked that noodles were done; put some on plate; added the sauce; topped it off with parmesian cheese. Not bad if I do say myself.
Nice Tim. Seems like you had fun on this one.
It’s so funny, even when I knew you weren’t going to be using articles, it still caught me off guard–in a good way, too. I love this technique.
I noticed you cheated by using “some” in front of tomato sauce. Some isn’t an article, but of course, it can do the same thing.
“could feast on aroma itself.” I like that.
Awesome post Joe…I love Ann’s writing and this was really fun to think about one of the reasons why I liked it so much. It is very unique and surprising, and I agree with all of your theories. Fantastic thought…sometimes breaking the rules is a great way to stick out.
Thanks Brandon! Sometimes, it’s the only way to stick out.
Awesome post Joe…I love Ann’s writing and this was really fun to think about one of the reasons why I liked it so much. It is very unique and surprising, and I agree with all of your theories. Fantastic thought…sometimes breaking the rules is a great way to stick out.
Thanks Brandon! Sometimes, it’s the only way to stick out.
The Nashville rain darkened my day; I fought melancholy and loneliness while waiting for hour hand to reach five o’clock. My evening plans approached, Bethany’s house for Christmas decorating. My way of avoiding stillness in empty apartment. My stomach growled, knowing apartment was also void of groceries. I suggested we make dinner before decorating, and offered my only idea, my favorite dish, and ultimate comfort food: macaroni and cheese. In between red and gold ornaments, and listening for our friend’s performance on “The Sing-off”, we boiled water and noodles. Packaged dry cheese mixture smothered cooked noodles, accompanied by butter and milk. Between bites of comfort dashed with salt and pepper, we laughed and dissected life’s moments.
This is really beautiful, for some reason, Kyla. The line where you noticeably dropped your article really stood out, “My way of avoiding stillness in empty apartment.” You don’t capitalize it, but it really feels like a proper noun, like Empty Apartment. And as a proper noun it takes on this persona, as if the apartment is always empty, lonely, melancholy, still. Or as if it takes on this persona of loneliness only when it is Empty. It’s really interesting.
Thanks, Joe. I’m really encouraged by your comment, as I mentioned on twitter. I had no idea I could write like this and wasn’t sure it was any good. I decided that’s the point of your blog, to just go for it and chalk it up as practice. Thanks for the prompt – I’ll do this again!
Yeah, Kyla! That’s what it’s all about. You got it.
The Nashville rain darkened my day; I fought melancholy and loneliness while waiting for hour hand to reach five o’clock. My evening plans approached, Bethany’s house for Christmas decorating. My way of avoiding stillness in empty apartment. My stomach growled, knowing apartment was also void of groceries. I suggested we make dinner before decorating, and offered my only idea, my favorite dish, and ultimate comfort food: macaroni and cheese. In between red and gold ornaments, and listening for our friend’s performance on “The Sing-off”, we boiled water and noodles. Packaged dry cheese mixture smothered cooked noodles, accompanied by butter and milk. Between bites of comfort dashed with salt and pepper, we laughed and dissected life’s moments.
This is really beautiful, for some reason, Kyla. The line where you noticeably dropped your article really stood out, “My way of avoiding stillness in empty apartment.” You don’t capitalize it, but it really feels like a proper noun, like Empty Apartment. And as a proper noun it takes on this persona, as if the apartment is always empty, lonely, melancholy, still. Or as if it takes on this persona of loneliness only when it is Empty. It’s really interesting.
Thanks, Joe. I’m really encouraged by your comment, as I mentioned on twitter. I had no idea I could write like this and wasn’t sure it was any good. I decided that’s the point of your blog, to just go for it and chalk it up as practice. Thanks for the prompt – I’ll do this again!
Yeah, Kyla! That’s what it’s all about. You got it.
[I am Korean. so what?English itself is difficult to me.Nevertheless,]
Lunch time. My wife took out black plastic bag from refrigerator. A fast-fermented bean paste in it. What’s this? Mother-encouraging-food for kids. Why? It’s very healthful, but smells like fart. Most children run away. Mothers grab them. It takes at least 7 days to get out of house and me.
Sorry for our rooms and clothes. Diffuser and downy lost.
After lunch, I am in public library. People around me seemed to stare at me and whisper like this: ‘over there, that’s him.’ Oh, God…It’s not me. Believe me.
(I hate cooking, so here’s me venting.)
Grocery stores are havoc. I binge shop as fast as I can and everything flies by too quickly to notice. Once I’m loaded with food it’s off to home for me and I and tremble with excitement for orgies of food ahead.
Chicken. Go to oven immediately. Rather, after I’ve prepared it. Turns out I forgot to clean oven before going out.
Olives, mushrooms, celery, cheese: I’ll smash you all together now. I know, I cook terribly. But I never mind flavours, really. Unless it’s ice cream. Speaking of which…
Chopping onions: knife cuts me, hand bleeds, blood flies over sink and colours water copper. Tears of pain mix with scent of onions.
I regret buying meat now. So hard to chew. Feels strange in gullet. I take largest knife and cut nearly ready chicken into small pieces.
Vegetables fly through running water; tomatoes are chopped and placed around salad. (I hate those. Why did I buy them anyway?)
Feast’s ready. Forget flavour. I’m bad cook anyway. Just shove it down mouth, why don’t you?
Drink water, too. Wine? What, you think I’ve money? Here’s tip, friend: everything goes down well with water and ice cream.