Phrases to Avoid: "Walked Leisurely"

I see the phrase “walked leisurely” with surprising frequency. It falls under more than one category of poor word choice: it uses an unnecessary adverb and uses two words where one would do.  Instead of “walked leisurely,” any of these words would work better:

     Stroll: to walk in a leisurely or idle manner.

     Amble: to walk slowly in a free and relaxed way (generally carries a more aimless and leisurely connotation than stroll).

     Saunter: to walk along in a slow and relaxed manner (implies a cockier attitude than stroll or amble).

     Meander: to walk slowly without a specific goal, purpose, or direction.

     Ramble: to move aimlessly from place to place or to explore idly (usually indicates a more widespread area of movement than meander—for instance, you might meander around a store or maybe a town, but ramble around a country).

This seems to be a common phenomenon with verbs of motion—rather than finding one word that fits a character’s movement best, writers use a common verb with an adverb. Here’s some other examples that I’ve seen:

     “Ran hard”—usually better as sprinted

     “Jumped up and down repeatedly”—bounced or hopped.

     “Quickly moved out of the way”—dodged, evaded, or sidestepped.

Punctuation Problems: Misplaced Commas

As we’ve discussed before, commas can be tricky. Even expert writers often forget to place commas where they’re needed or place an extra comma where it wasn’t needed. One of the most common comma mistakes is when one is inserted in a sentence to separate two actions being performed by one subject. For example:

     Incorrect: Boris picked up his knife, and finally began to carve.

     Correct: Boris picked up his knife and finally began to carve.

Good for you, Boris.

I see this all the time. I think these commas often occur because writers mentally narrate to themselves as they write and feel like they need a comma wherever their mental narration pauses or hesitates. After all, when people read out loud, they often pause slightly on commas. Read that last sentence out loud—you instinctively pause on the commas, don’t you? It’s just a slight hesitation, but it’s there.

But not every hesitation requires a comma. In the case of our example sentence, we have one subject—Boris—performing two sequential actions, and the actions are separated by “and.” In this sort of situation, you do not need to use a comma. Not ever. When you’re writing dialog, it may be tempting to include a comma to indicate a hesitation, but I recommend against it. How important is that brief hesitation, anyway? If it’s not pronounced enough to justify using ellipses, then it’s not important enough to require a comma.

Now, some people like to say that you should never use a comma when the word and is used to combine to actions or phrases. That’s not true. But when both actions are performed by the same subject, this will generally be the case.

Redundant Phrases: "[Category] Of [Part of Category]"

In regards to writing, Kurt Vonnegut is often quoted as saying, “Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.” It’s good advice, and is one of the reasons that I persistently caution writers to avoid redundancy in their prose. When you repeat yourself unnecessarily, you are wasting the time of your audience and insulting their intelligence. Redundant writing is weak writing.

With that in mind, I’d like to point out a particular word arrangement that often leads to redundancy in writing. It is this: “[blank] of [blank].”

Now, there is nothing inherently wrong with this particular construction—it is a very basic and useful pattern that we all use every day. “A cup of milk.” “The Tree of Life.” “The fifth of November.” Even Vonnegut used it in his advice above: “the time of a total stranger.”

This construction can become redundant, however, when the first blank is filled with some sort of category and the second blank is filled with a specific word from within that category: “[category] of [part of category].” 

Here are some examples:

     As Opal walked past the window, she heard the sound of a clatter outside.

     Quinn was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of happiness.

     Edik slumped to the floor, an expression of sorrow etched upon his face.

A clatter is a type of sound, a rattling series of noises. Therefore, to label it as a sound in your writing is unnecessary. It’s like saying “he wrote a sentence of words.”

Here’s those examples with the redundancy removed:

     As Opal walked past the window, she heard a clatter outside.

     Quinn was suddenly overwhelmed with happiness.

     Edik slumped to the floor, sorrow etched upon his face.

P.S.

Note that this is not a universal rule—sometimes, the construction [category] of [part of category] is useful or necessary. For example:

     “Which shade of blue best matches my eyes?” 

This sentence wouldn’t work well if that phrase were shortened. “Which shade best matches my eyes?” would be grammatically correct but lacks specificity, while “Which blue best matches my eyes?” feels odd because blue is an adjective but is being used as a noun. Shade of blue is the best way to go.

Phrases to Avoid: "For a Moment"

While all of the examples of flawed prose that I give on this blog are taken from manuscripts that I have edited, I generally swap out significant words and make other alterations as necessary to ensure that none of the examples could be identified as coming from a specific work. The form of the sentence (and thus its flaws) are intact and still useful, but I have no desire to single out or cast aspersions on any specific authors.

Today, however, is an exception. The examples will be unaltered from their original form and I will identify the author . . . because the author was me. Yeah. While going over a short story that I wrote a while back, I came across this persistently-repeated problem, one that I have corrected in numerous manuscripts but which still managed to crop up in my own writing.

This problem is the phrase “for a moment” and several similar words and phrases that indicate that an action or event lasted for only a brief duration. Not every instance of this phrase will be bad, but look at these examples:

     For a moment, the wolf was silent and motionless. Then it began to growl softly.

     Vanya froze, staring at the bird. After a moment, it pulled its head from beneath its wing, revealing its shining jet-black eyes and beak.

     Vanya considered the offer briefly. “All right, I’ll get you some fruit.”

     The king studied Vanya for a moment with a bushy eyebrow raised. Then he shook his head.

     The wolf seemed to consider the matter for a moment and then shrugged its shoulders slightly.

     For a moment, he thought that he saw a figure in the shadows of the draw, but it was gone when he tried to look closer.

In each of these examples, the phrase “for a moment” and its variations are redundant. They either describe an action that is normally momentary by nature or they explain that an action is momentary when the fact that the action is followed by another action already implies that. Look at each of those examples again with the “for a moment” removed.

     The wolf was silent and motionless. Then it began to growl softly.

     Vanya froze, staring at the bird. It pulled its head from beneath its wing, revealing its shining jet-black eyes and beak.

     Vanya considered the offer. “All right, I’ll get you some fruit.”

     The king studied Vanya with a bushy eyebrow raised. Then he shook his head.

     The wolf seemed to consider the matter and then shrugged its shoulders slightly.

     He thought that he saw a figure in the shadows of the draw, but it was gone when he tried to look closer.

See how much stronger those become without “for a moment”? Wherever possible, remove this and similar phrases from your writing.

Note that “for a moment” isn’t always bad—sometimes, it’s simply the best way to indicate an action’s duration. Here’s some uses of it from the same story that weren’t so bad:

     Vanya didn’t believe for a moment that the fox had magical powers of any sort.

     The firebird looked surprised and then suspicious, but after a moment it began to devour the fruit with delight.

In the first example, the use of “for a moment” is justified by it being used in a very common phrase—“he didn’t believe for a moment that . . .”

In the second example, the phrase adds a beat to the sentence, a pause between the firebird’s being suspicious and its beginning to eat the fruit, that would not remain if the phrase were removed. The pause is important because it gives a realistic pacing to the firebird’s mood shifts and actions, and so the phrase is justified.

Go ahead and search through your manuscripts for the words “moment” and “briefly.” Try removing each instance of these words; if the sentence still reads smoothly without them, then they were redundant and should probably be removed.

Cleverly Avoiding Adverbs

If you were in a high school English class in the US in the last few decades, then chances are good that you’ve been told about two of the most hated and pernicious plagues of English writing: the passive voice and overuse of adverbs. We’ll talk about the passive voice another day; today we’re going to discuss adverb abuse.

First, to all of those English teachers who have spent decades trying to hammer this concept—that adverbs weaken writing and should be avoided—into the minds of their students: good job! To be honest, I almost never have a problem with the amounts of adverbs that I find in the manuscripts I’m given. My impression is that the current crop of would-be professional writers has learned this lesson well.

If you’ve never heard of this problem, here’s the breakdown: adverbs are words that modify verbs, adjectives, or other adverbs (or even entire sentences). You can usually pick them out by the –ly ending.

Modifying a verb: He stumbled awkwardly up the hill.

Modifying an adjective: Ashley was overly cautious and tended to frustrate her friends.

Modifying another adverb: The quarterback was playing very poorly.

Modifying a sentence: Fortunately, we were able to get the car started again.

The problem with adverbs is that they can be redundant, can lengthen sentences to awkward proportions, or can be a crutch for lazy writers to lean on.  However, they aren’t necessarily as evil as your English teacher (and Steven King) might have made them seem.  They’re a part of the English language for a good reason, and they can be used to good effect—you just need to learn to use them well.  Here’s some tips:

Avoid redundant adverbs: This is one of the primary ways in which adverbs weaken writing—they tend to be repetitive and redundant. Here’s some examples:

     My stomach growled hungrily.

     She smiled happily.

     He stumbled awkwardly up the hill.

We don’t need to be told that a stomach growls hungrily—hunger is what the stomach growl indicates in the first place. Look how much stronger these sentences become without the adverbs:

     My stomach growled.

     She smiled.

     He stumbled up the hill.

Remember: longer or more complex doesn’t mean better. If an adverb isn’t adding new and unique information to the sentence, it should be removed.

Ask yourself—is this adverb the focal point of the sentence?  Even if an adverb isn’t redundant, you should take a moment to consider: do I really need it? The best adverbs are the crux of the sentence, conveying the information on which the sentence turns. For instance, from earlier:

     Ashley was overly cautious and tended to frustrate her friends.

The fact that Ashley is too cautious is the point of the sentence. Without that adverb, this sentence would be uncertain. Are Ashley’s friends appropriately-cautious people who are frustrated by her extreme caution, or are they frustrated because she is responsible and they are actually incautious? The adverb distinguishes the meaning of the entire sentence, and could be worth keeping.

Weird, right?

Avoid intensifiers: Most adverbs that modify other adverbs are intensifiers—words that add intensity. Very, extremely, and really are examples of intensifiers that are over-used. More often than not (but not always), they can be dropped without hurting the sentence.

Avoid coupling adverbs with “said” in dialog: I’d guess that four times out of five, when an editor gets annoyed with a writer’s overuse of adverbs, it’s because they did this:

     “No, I don’t want to,” she said quickly.

     “You’re wrong!” he said loudly.

     “Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly.

This formula (said + adverb) should be avoided. On rare occasions (very rare occasions), it will be the best way to get information across—the rest of the time, it’s just going to annoy any editors you submit to. Get rid of it wherever possible.

Writing Spicy Description

Last time, we discussed the need to keep your descriptions to the minimum needed amount. Here are a few tips for doing so.

Determine how much description you need: Here’s some useful questions for figuring out how much description to give the reader.

What genre are you writing? If you’re writing a long epic like War and Peace or The Lord of the Rings, then you’ll be able to take a bit more time on description than you would be able to for, say, a fast-paced thriller like The Sum of All Fears or Carrie. Short stories should generally give less time to description than novels. If you’re writing romance, you’ll probably describe character appearance more than you will in, say, a murder mystery; if you’re writing fantasy or science fiction, you’ll probably spend more time describing the fantastic settings than you would in a comedy.

How familiar will the setting or character be to the reader? Some things don’t need description (if a character is buttering toast while they talk to someone, you don’t need to describe the butter knife); some things don’t have to be described but could definitely benefit from some brief description; while other things absolutely have to be described. You can’t just say “the policeman dragged a plangle into the room” without telling me what a plangle looks like.

If your scene features a police officer on the streets of New York City, then the odds are good that your reader will be able to picture the scene clearly with very little description. If the scene focuses on an alien flying a spaceship into a tear in spacetime, then you might need to give a larger amount of description.

How important is the description to the story? If this is a brief scene in a setting that the story won’t return to with a character that won’t be important later, then it’s not that important that the reader picture everything absolutely perfectly. If the setting or character are central to the story, then you’ll want to spend more time on the description.  Again, what is important will depend on the story: if your protagonist is going to recognize a disguised character later because of a scar on their neck, then you’ll probably want to describe the scar when we first meet the character. And for all that people have complained about the nigh-excruciating detail with which Stephanie Meyer described Edward Cullen, let’s face it: those descriptions were important to her audience.

If your reason for describing something in detail is that you really like the amazing and vivid metaphor you’ve concocted, well, too bad. That is not sufficient reason for spending a whole paragraph describing a woman’s hairstyle (or whatever). Now, that doesn’t mean you have to cut the description; give it to some friends, and let them tell you if it’s too much. Try at least ten readers with different tastes; if four or more of them tell you that it’s too much, then cut it down, no matter how much it hurts. Listen to Spock:

Focus on a few strong details: Generally, I recommend focusing on two or three details that give a clear picture of whatever you’re describing. For a very expansive scene or a completely alien and unfamiliar creature, a little more could be allowed. So for an old woman, I might focus on her long white braid, the deep creases in her dark skin, and the slight hunch in her back. Bam: three details, and you’re now picturing something close to what I am. Strong, vivid details often enable the reader to fill in the rest on their own.

Use multiple senses: When writing description, most writers tend to focus on the visual elements of a scene or a character. However, describing the sounds, smells, feel, or even taste of something can often convey a setting more quickly or more vividly than visuals. Let’s say your character wakes up in a white room that smells strongly of blood and antiseptics—your mind probably immediately jumped to a hospital or operating room, right? And the smells are probably giving you a more vivid image than if I’d simply said “your character wakes up in a hospital room.”

This can be especially effective when combined with the two-or-three-strong-details rule: the protagonist is tied to a chair in a dark and windowless room. It is cold and drafty and smells of mouse droppings. That’s three things: the lighting, the feel, and the smell of the room. I could spend more time on each of them, to make things more vivid, but the bulk of the description has been accomplished.

Don’t use two words where one will suffice: I once edited a story where a character approached a sea where “along the shore was a row of several straight wooden walkways that jutted out into the ocean, held up by thick pylons sticking up out of the water.” I edited this to say, “Along the shore was a row of wooden docks.” So that you don’t have to count for yourself, that’s nineteen fewer words. Everyone does this, at some point—I’ve done it myself. Always look for the shortest, most descriptive word possible. A white dog with extremely curly hair should be shortened to a white poodle. He didn’t swing the long black bar with a curved end, he swung the crowbar.

Work in details through action: We’ve already discussed blending action and description a bit in these posts. Paragraphs of pure description can grow tedious very quickly, but purposeful action almost never does. So if your character walks into a kitchen, you might give a brief overview of what the kitchen looks like and who is in it. Then, when your character begins conversing with one of the people in the room, you can use the conversation to give more details about the person—maybe she scrunches her nose when she’s thinking, or perhaps the scar along her arm seems to pain her as she kneads dough. Maybe she tucks a strand of brown hair out of her eye, leaving a smudge of flour on her tan forehead. The protagonist can help her cut vegetables, and you can use this action as an opportunity to describe more details—the appearance of the countertop, the vegetables, or the cutlery; the lighting, the smells. Since the details are smoothly blended into action and dialog, they don’t grow tiring.

Think of description as a spice—it adds delicious flavor and depth when added to more substantial dishes, but can be overwhelming when eaten in large doses on its own.

Description: How Much Is Too Much?

Without turning your head, take a quick inventory of everything that you can see right now. Then do the same for everything you can hear, smell, taste, and feel. It’s a lot, isn’t it?

At this moment, I can see myself—my shirt, my jeans, the brim of my hat, my hair hanging into my eyes, my nose, my hands, and my wedding ring. I can see my computer tower and monitors, keyboard, mouse, a mess of cables, my desk phone, cell phone, notepad, water bottle, and headphones. There’s a sticky note, a plastic cup, and a paper bowl with a plastic spoon on my desk. Beside the desk on my right is a set of shelves and drawers with my satchel on top. Beyond my desk, I can see my trashcan, three walls, a window with raised blinds, a thermostat, fire alarm, lightswitch, and a doorway into another room. For now, I won’t bother describing the other room and its contents, or the yet third room and its contents which I can see beyond that, or the group of people that just walked past me.

You get the point—that was already a lot of information, and I didn’t even go into color or visible textures of any of those things, let alone any of what I can hear, smell, feel, or taste. Plus, I’m already noticing things I didn’t think to mention in my list—the carpeted floor or the ceiling and ceiling lights, among other things.

Describing Scenes

If I were describing this scene in a story—a character sitting at a desk writing—I obviously could not describe every sight, sound, and other sense of the scene. There’s just too much. Our job as writers is to narrow down that vast list of information into just enough description for the reader to picture the scene. How much description is that? The answer depends on the scene, the genre, and your personal preferences. But the general rule of thumb is this: the proper amount of scene description is the absolute minimum amount that you can get away with.

Most writers instinctively put far more description into their story than is needed. Always try to remember: no matter how beautiful, breathtaking, or mind-blowing the scene is, description tends to be boring. Small amounts can be interesting, but any more and it becomes tedious or even purple prose. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that your powers of description are so mesmerizing that you are an exception to the rule. 

Pare down your descriptions and then ask some friends to read it. If they still have a clear description of the scene, then cut it down again. Ask some new friends to read it, and keep doing this until people start to say that they can’t picture the scene. Then take it back to the last version and leave it there.

If you’re one of those somewhat rarer writers that tend to put too little description into your story, then do the reverse—add a bit of description here and there until your readers say they can picture the scene, and then go no further.

Next time, we’ll discuss some tips for fitting maximum amounts of description into the fewest possible sentences.

Phrases to Avoid: "Causing Them To"

We've discussed the need to avoid redundant or excessive words a few times before. Over the next little while, we'll identify specific phrases and sentence constructions that add unneeded bulk to writing. The first is the phrase causing them to and all its possible variations. (Causing him to, her to, me to, etc.)

Here's a sample sentence based off of many that I've seen over the years:

     Bullets zipped around them, causing them to veer off the path.

The problem with the phrase causing them to is that it insults the audience—it assumes that they cannot understand something as simple as cause and effect without having it explicitly explained to them. Give your audience some credit. If you first tell them that someone is shooting at the characters, and you then tell them that the characters veered out of the way, they will understand that the one caused the other.

     Bullets zipped around them. They veered off the path.

See? Simple, perfectly understandable cause and effect. Removing causing them to turned a weak, awkward sentence into two strong sentences. In an actual story, of course, it wouldn't hurt to be a little more descriptive:

     Bullets zipped around the car. Dave swerved onto a side street without thinking.

     Bullets zipped around them. Shouting, Raisa dove off of the path into the bushes. The others immediately followed her.

    Bullets zipped around them. In near unison, the posse veered their horses off of the path into the river.

There is almost no situation in a story that would justify using causing them to. You might use it in the text of a police report or the dialog of a witness in a trial as they describe what they saw—situations where the objective is to simply explain a past event in a plain and even boring manner. But in your prose, in the moment when bullets are zipping around your characters—when their lives are in danger—the last thing you want is to be weak and boring. 

Go, right now, to your current work-in-progress. Pull up the find window, and search for every place that you've used the word causing. If it's an instance of causing them to or one of its variations, then get rid of it. I promise you your work will improve.

"Looking With Eyes"—Avoiding Redundant Description

Here are some sample sentences from works I've edited:

1. Derek surveyed their surroundings with his cloudy gray eyes.
2. She kissed the envelope with her full lips, leaving a bright red lipstick mark behind.
3. He grasped the sword hilt in his shaking hands.

What's the problem here? Take a moment to look again.

The problem is that each of these sentences contains an awkward, redundant phrase. In example one, the phrase "with his cloudy eyes" is unneeded—how else would someone survey their surroundings, after all? In the second example, of course she kissed "with her full lips." That's the body part that kisses. In example three, we already know that he's grasping with his hands, so telling us that is redundant and unnatural.

So why do writers do this? If you'll look at our example sentences, you'll notice that each of the named body parts is preceded by an adjective: cloudy eyes, full lips, and shaking hands. These adjectives are the reason the authors included the redundant phrase. 

In example one, for instance, Derek is being introduced to the audience for the first time. The author wanted the readers to know that his eyes were a cloudy gray, but didn't simply want to say "Derek's eyes were a cloudy gray."  And that was a good goal—this is a more interesting way to find out what the character looks like—but you can usually do better than an otherwise-redundant phrase.

Here are some examples of how these sentences could be reworked.

Make the body part the subject of the sentence: Just about every sentence needs a subject, after all, so it's unlikely to be redundant.

1. Derek's cloudy gray eyes surveyed the surroundings.
2. Her full lips kissed the envelope, leaving a bright red lipstick mark behind.
3. His shaking hands grasped the sword hilt.

Give the body part something else to do: Add a phrase or sentence that further describes the action of the original sentence.

1. Derek surveyed their surroundings; the blinding light made his cloudy gray eyes water.
2. She kissed the envelope. Her full lips left a bright red lipstick mark behind.
3. His hands shook uncontrollably as he grasped the sword hilt.

Try to work the adjective in somewhere or somehow else: This can be the trickiest solution, but also often the most subtle and graceful.

1. Derek surveyed their surroundings. Lina studied his eyes; they were intense and focused as he searched, the same cloudy grey as the water beneath the boat.
2. She kissed the envelope, leaving behind full red lipstick marks.
3. He grasped the sword, trying to keep the point from wavering. It didn't work.

P.S.

Remember that specifying that a character performed an action "with" something is fine if it wasn't clear how the action was performed. For instance:

He sliced the steak with a worn shark-tooth knife.

This is a fine way to describe the knife. It's not redundant because there is more than one tool for slicing steak, so it's natural to explain what the character is using to slice.

Using Synonyms to Avoid Repetition

Previously, we discussed the need for avoiding the too-frequent repetition of words, and mentioned that you can use synonyms and descriptive words to this end. For example:

• The manor loomed above her, at least three stories tall. The entire edifice was wreathed so thickly with crawling ivy that it was difficult for her to tell what the manor was made out of.

In this example, we've used edifice in place of manor in one spot, to avoid using the word "manor" three times in two sentences. The variety of descriptive words helps the prose to flow more smoothly.

The same thing can be done to avoid repeating a character's name too often. Take this example from Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn (emphasis added):

• "Fears?" Kelsier asked, turning to look up at Sazed. Despite Kelsier's above-average height, the Terrisman was still a good head taller. I'm not sure if he fears anything, Saze."

Notice how the author avoided repeating Sazed's name by referring to him as "the Terrisman." It is the same method of avoiding word repetition.

Some cautions:

Don't use too many synonyms

In our first example, we used edifice in place of manor. Here are a few other words we could possibly have used:

Building

Structure

Dwelling

Residency

Mansion

But if you look at that example again, you'll notice that I chose to use the word "manor" twice rather than replace it with one of these words. Why?

Too many synonyms can become confusing to the reader; it becomes difficult for them to keep track of what they all refer too.  It also calls too much attention to the fact that you're trying to avoid repeating yourself, which can pull the reader out of the story. Usually, you don't want to use more than one synonym for a given word in a section. So in the first example, I might have described the manor simply as a building when the characters were far away and still approaching it. Then, when they have drawn close and I am describing the manor's appearance, I use manor and edifice, but no more than that. 

Make sure that it is clear what your synonym refers to

Another hazard of using synonyms is that they are not always as clear as the author thinks. We'll take the example of manor again. The Merriam-Webster dictionary lists the following words as synonyms for the word "manor":  castle, chateau, estate, hacienda, hall, manor, manor house, manse, palace, and villa.

The problem with most of these words is that most of them evoke a completely different image than the word "manor."  Take this example:

• Amy was relieved to finally leave the manor behind. As they drove away, she turned and looked out the back window as the palace vanished behind the trees.

That didn't work at all, did it? Using palace almost made it sound as though there were two buildings, as if Amy left one building and is now looking at another. Don't use synonyms unless it is clear what they're replacing.


One more caution on using synonyms as placeholders for a character's name (as in the Mistborn example above) can be found in this post.

Avoiding Repetition

Too many repetitions of the same word in a short space, such as within a single paragraph or even withing a single sentence, can be distracting to your readers and throw off the flow of your prose. Take a look at the following example:

     The wall was too tall to climb, but only just; it was short enough to seem climbable but tall enough that a fall from anywhere near the top would kill you. Raek studied the wall carefully and realized that the top of the wall was covered in a slimy-looking green moss that would make climbing impossible. But if he couldn't climb it, how would he get over the wall? The wall was between him and the chalice. He had to get past the wall.

Notice how the words "the wall" get repeated over and over again? Six times in one paragraph. Some variation of the word "climb" appears four times as well. It feels awkward and clunky. Cleaned up, that paragraph might look like this:

     The wall was too tall to climb, but only just: it was short enough to seem scalable but tall enough that a fall from anywhere near the top would kill you. Raek studied the wall carefully and realized that the top was covered in a slimy-looking green moss that would ensure that anyone clinging to the rock would lose their grip. But if he couldn't climb the wall, how would he get over? It was between him and the chalice; he had to get past.

This version is smoother, with just three uses of "the wall" and two of "climb."  Some of the repeated words were replaced with synonyms ("scalable" in place of "climbable"), some were removed by heavily re-writing the sentence, and others were simply not necessary to begin with and could be removed without changing anything else.

Now, sometimes repetition can be used to great emotional and poetic effect; but unless you're very confident in your use of it, you should avoid it as much as possible.


P.S.

This is one of the reasons I recommended that you avoid dialog tags as much as possible in this post. Dialog tags can get overly repetitive very quickly.

Using Actions to Avoid Dialog Tags

I told you here to avoid using any more dialog tags than you absolutely must. Here's another tip on how you can do that.

Often, your characters will be performing actions as they speak. For example:

"They can't have just disappeared," Jensen said. He peered at the dusty valley through his binoculars. "They're hiding out there someplace."

Having someone perform actions as they speak is natural and engaging—readers often have an easier time following dialog if they have a clear image of where the characters are and what they are doing while they speak. But having a character perform actions while they speak can serve another very useful purpose. Let's take another look at our previous example, but with the dialog tag removed:

"They can't have just disappeared." Jensen peered at the dusty valley through his binoculars. "They're hiding out there someplace."

See what just happened? Even though the text didn't explicitly state who was speaking, having Jensen perform an action in the middle of a line of dialog automatically implies that he was the one who spoke. This is one of the most useful tricks I know for avoiding dialog tags.

Look through your story for places where a dialog tag appears next to an action, and see if you can pare the text down to just the action. Sometimes you won't be able to—dialog tags can't always be avoided—but I bet you'll be able to cut out at least a few.

P.S.

As you're looking for places where you can apply this trick, keep an eye out for the words "as [he/she/they/it] spoke." New writers often use these words when they don't need to. Example:

The king took the sword and touched it to the shoulders of the knight as he spoke. “I dub thee Sir Gloudin of the Knights of the Broken Branch.”

Now, with the words "as he spoke" removed:

The king took the sword and touched it to the shoulders of the knight. “I dub thee Sir Gloudin of the Knights of the Broken Branch.”

If you place the dialogue immediately after a related action, readers will automatically fill in that the two are simultaneous. Neat!