We received an extremely strong selection for our fiction debut! All of these authors have a strong case for their craft to be highlighted, and it was impossible to choose just one, but it still had to be done.

We ended up selecting “What the River Knows” by Lynne Curry for the sentence pacing. It was the connective tissue tying the narrative’s intentional lack of closure together. The hole is seamlessly felt as part of the fabric.

To highlight this, terms will be defined with sentences from the story’s opening, followed by a breakdown of the opening itself.

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“My hands ache. My jaw locks.”

These are both simple sentences: each only has one independent clause.

A clause is a group of words with a subject and a verb, while an independent clause has both a subject and a predicate that can be its own sentence.

A predicate is the part of the sentence containing the verb (feeling pain) relating to the subject (a body part). A subject acts, and the predicate is the action.

Beyond definitions, simple sentences also have the slowest pacing of any sentence type. They are short. They stop fast. Periods have long pauses.

Compound sentences combine two or more independent clauses. With a conjunction, two simple sentences can become one: “My hands ache, and my jaw locks.”

The comma replacing the period quickens the pacing. The cost is a decreased emphasis on the ache and lock.

If someone says their hands hurt, the focus is solely on those hands. If the same person says pain is in their hands and jaw, the focus is between these two body parts. Compound sentences inherently split attention like this.

A period between the hands and jaw allows both to have their own space. The audience fully processes “my hands ache” before moving on to “my jaw locks.” The same message can impact differently depending on pacing, and a complex sentence can go even faster than both of these types:

“I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line until my fingers burn.”

Complex sentences have an independent clause paired with at least one dependent clause.

A dependent clause consists of a subject and verb that can’t be their own sentence if separated from one. It can’t stand by itself without an independent clause’s context, much like how “until my fingers burn” — fingers, the subject; burning, the verb — is unable to be its own sentence. The subordinating conjunction (“until”) requires knowing why their fingers burn.

“I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line” is a single independent clause despite consisting of two actions. These two actions (the predicate) are coming from a single first-person narrator (the subject). This is otherwise known as a compound predicate: a single subject performing at least two verbs connected by a coordinating conjunction (“and”).

As a complex sentence, this format communicates the most information, most concisely. There are notable differences between simple and compound versions.

A simple sentence adaptation could be “my grip burns.” This loses a ton of information. Alternatively, there can be a string of simple sentences (“I jam my feet under the thwart. I grip the grab line. My fingers burn”). Still, the story’s pacing can become too stilted with disproportionate emphasis.

A compound sentence adaptation could replace the subordinating conjunction (“until”) with another coordinating conjunction (“and”): “I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line, and my fingers burn.” This is an example of polysyndeton: the repetition of coordinating conjunctions in an intentionally overbearing manner.

Polysyndeton functions as a faster version of a string of simple sentences. There are no periods that require strictly slowing down. At the same time, it attracts more attention to itself by defying conventional grammar, verging on becoming a run-on sentence, or simply being one. The drawback of this is that it can only be used very sparingly. To a general degree, this applies to everything.

Unless the intention is to lean into a specific style for thematic purposes, any pacing inevitably becomes white noise without variety. Simple sentences become static in isolated succession. Compound sentences become stream-of-consciousness. Complex sentences become overly academic. And compound-complex sentences become completely overwhelming.

A compound-complex sentence is a conjunction combining two or more independent clauses with at least one dependent clause.

A compound-complex version of “I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line until my fingers burn” could combine the sentence that came before it:

“The river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick—teeth set, tail thrashing spray.”

This is a simple sentence with an absolute phrase.

An absolute phrase is a noun phrase modifying an entire sentence (“teeth” and “tail” further detailing the dog simile). This falls under the category of a modifying phrase: a group of words expanding or limiting the meaning of other words within a sentence.

At certain costs (discussed later), if we remove the absolute phrase of this sentence, it can be smoothly recontextualized as a dependent clause to the independent clause in the previous sentence.

“I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line until my fingers burn.”

Into…

“I jam my feet under the thwart as the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick, and I grip the grab line until my fingers burn.”

This is a direct breakdown of the relevant grammar:

“I jam my feet under the thwart (independent clause) as the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick (dependent clause), andIgrip the grab line (independent clause)until my fingers burn (dependent clause).”

The first dependent clause modifies the first independent clause’s “jam” through the subordinating conjunction “as.”

Following the coordinating conjunction (“and”), the second dependent clause modifies the second independent clause’s “grip” through the subordinating conjunction “until.”

There is also an inclusion of another first-person pronoun (“I”) with “and I grip the grab line” versus “and grip the grab line.” This reiteration of the subject cements the compound aspect of the compound-complex sentence.

Taking this further, if we allow this compound-complex sentence to be complex, we can also use a fronted adverbial: words or phrases modifying actions that are placed at the beginning of the sentence.

In other words, “as the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick” can be fronted to the beginning of the sentence:

“As the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick (dependent clause), I jam my feet under the thwart (independent clause) and grip the grab line until my fingers burn (dependent clause).”

Or…

“As the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick (dependent clause)— teeth set, tail thrashing spray (absolute phrase)— I jam my feet under the thwart (independent clause) and grip the grab line until my fingers burn (dependent clause).”

These both resemble the original two sentences being back-to-back. The main addition and difference are starting “the river seizes us” with a subordinating conjunction (“as”).

The reason these kinds of modifications were not done lies in the context of the story’s first paragraph.

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“The river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick—teeth set, tail thrashing spray.

I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line until my fingers burn.

The current jerks us sideways, icy water biting at my wrists.

The glare off the water blinds; the wind cuts sharp.

My hands ache.

My jaw locks.”

The tempo is as follows:

1)    Simple (with an absolute phrase)

2)    Complex

3)    Simple (with a participial phrase)

4)    Compound

5)    Simple

6)    Simple

The intrinsic emphasis of simple sentences becomes accented in contrast to complex and compound sentences. There is no risk of stamina loss with the latter either. The simple sentences provide pacing relief with just enough variety, despite being two-thirds of the first paragraph. This is due in part to the first two simple sentences having additional phrases. They act as a sort of space between simple and complex, which the last two simple sentences contrast by only having an independent clause.

It is worth noting that there is no compound-complex sentence present in the first paragraph. With simple sentences being one end of the spectrum and compound-complex sentences on the other, “What the River Knows” gravitates much closer to the former in general. The presentation is akin to a story told around a campfire; sentences that avoid going on for too long, preferring to linger with charred silence in the air.

Delving into the play-by-play, the first sentence is simple (with an absolute phrase) because it opens the story curtly. The narrator is in a group either floating on a river or being swallowed by one. There is a brief pause before the absolute phrase kicks in: the river is a dog, and the group is the stick. Even in the best-case scenario, everyone is still in danger. The sentence ends there, giving the audience time to process before moving on.

Although it only has one clause, the first sentence’s absolute phrase makes it the longest in the paragraph. The pacing also resembles riding on rapid water. The em dash and comma after the independent clause contribute to a sense of a raft lifting into the air. There is a pause before hitting the water on the way back down, followed by a second (smaller) impact as the raft settles back in.

The second sentence is complex because it provides a fluid context. “I jam my feet under the thwart” indicates the narrator is on a boat of some kind, and “grip the grab line until my fingers burn” confirms that, while giving us a point of reference for the narrator’s durability. The lack of punctuation allows for smooth communication. The transition from a simple to a complex sentence adds distinct pacing variety.

This all simulates a moment of relative calm on the water. There is no friction through punctuation. It is a moment to catch breath and steel nerves. It is also a total of sixteen words, which still ends up as a slightly shorter length than the previous sentence’s fifteen words (within the parameters of the English language, at least).

This all simulates a moment of relative calm on the water. There is no friction through punctuation. It is sixteen words to catch breath and steel nerves, which still ends up as a slightly shorter length than the previous sentence’s fifteen words (within the parameters of the English language, at least).

It is also worth noting that the period between these two sentences can be removed for even faster pacing (at the cost of diverted emphasis).

While this hypothetical sentence…

“As the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick — teeth set, tail thrashing spray — I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line until my fingers burn”

… communicates the same information as these two sentences (word-for-word, except the first one), the lack of a pause with no period in between only results in emphasis on the absolute phrase.

When removing the absolute phrase…

“As the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick, I jam my feet under the thwart and grip the grab line until my fingers burn”

… the partial answer (e.g., the narrator is firmly on a boat) immediately follows the implicit questions posed (e.g., how much danger the narrator is in with the river), rather than letting the audience briefly sit with the latter first. This is mainly due to the subordinating conjunction starting the fronted adverbial.

When reversing the fronted adverbial…

“I jam my feet under the thwart as the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick and grip the grab line until my fingers burn”

… the dog simile interjects awkwardly. To improve pacing, another first-person pronoun would be needed to recontextualize the second dependent clause as a second independent one.

When converting this to a compound-complex sentence…

“I jam my feet under the thwart as the river seizes us like a dog shaking a stick, and I grip the grab line until my fingers burn”

… the partial answer is given before the implicit question is asked. This is especially important to consider since the first paragraph does not provide all of the initial answers. The audience is meant to have questions gradually answered, so emphasis on these questions that set the scene is prioritized in the original text.

The third sentence (eleven words) is simple (with a participial phrase) because it gives the last piece of narrative information in the paragraph before focusing on sensory detail. The independent clause (“The current jerks us sideways”) provides direction for the narrator’s group, while the participial phrase (“icy water biting at my wrists”) lets the audience feel the turn. The pause after “the current jerks us sideways” directly simulates the shift of the group’s direction, too.

The fourth sentence (ten words) is compound because it flows well from the previous two simple sentences — specifically, the absolute and participial phrases. An independent clause followed by a phrase, or vice versa, acts as a one-two punch. This sentence acts as two slower, but heavier punches — lead and rear hooks instead of jabs and crosses — due to the semicolon connecting both independent clauses. It could also be two simple sentences with a period in between. This would cut into the purpose of the last two sentences, though.

The fifth and sixth sentences (three words each) are both simple because they punctuate the first paragraph as a whole. Each sentence in this paragraph is shorter than the one before, and each sentence is slower after the second one. This is not by coincidence.

Stripping down sentence length to focus on the bare essentials mirrors the narrator’s fight-or-flight perspective. The progressively slower pacing also mirrors the narrator’s adrenaline-fueled perception of time — otherwise known as tachypsychia (colloquially referred to as “The Zone” or “Flow State”): the brain processing sensory details in overdrive, dilating time so it feels longer than normal.

As the only simple sentences without an additional phrase in the paragraph, the bluntness of “my hands ache” and “my jaw locks” is emphasized, too.

If this were the story’s opening, the implied question of “why” could carry the introduction’s momentum. The cost would be the loss of context that fleshes out the weight of both descriptions. For example, “grip the grab line until my fingers burn” indicates potential rope burn, while “the wind cuts sharp” is a contributing factor to the narrator’s body tensing up, and by extension, jaw.

By appearing at the end of the first paragraph instead, the physical toll on the narrator is reinforced, and the audience sits with this in the paragraph break.

Paragraph breaks indicate a pause, and “What the River Knows” uses them a lot, resulting in slower overall pacing. In exchange, reading generally becomes easier to process since words become easier to find. This is due to white space, the unwritten sections of a page.

The less white space there is, the faster words are read. In exchange, there is a higher risk that the audience will not process what is being read. This can manifest as a compulsion to skim or briefly zone out without realizing it.

The second paragraph of the story counters these tendencies by being a single sentence fragment:

“Two rafts, ten bodies.”

A sentence fragment is an incomplete sentence missing an independent clause. They are a heightened version of simple sentences, the slowest and most emphasized form. Overuse of this results in easily sounding overdramatic, so it requires careful consideration.

After three sentences of sensory detail, “two rafts, ten bodies” works as a sentence fragment for providing essential context to the narrator’s situation (how many people are present; what is being used to traverse the river) along with correlating to the previous paragraph’s rhythm.

The exterior of this sentence fragment is slower than the first paragraph’s decreasing speed. The length is shorter than the last two sentences, and a comma is in the middle. This brings the time dilation to its slowest point.

The interior of this sentence fragment parallels the length of the previous two sentences (three words each — “my hands ache. My jaw locks”). There are two words before and after the comma. The choice to use a comma instead of a period implicitly points to these sentences while being faster than both combined. This allows the slower sentence fragment to feel faster than it is.

Meanwhile, the eighth and ninth paragraphs play with time in a reversed direction from the first and second:

“Clint. Mayer.

Three months of depositions. Evidence reports. Photos clipped to files.

Their typed signatures at the bottom of lies.

I’ve read their names a hundred times. I’d never heard their voices until last night.”

The narrator’s realization unfolds in real time. The names come first, followed by remembering the effort involved in recording their moves. Full sentences return in the final stage of the realization: no amount of preparation could have prepared the narrator to suddenly face them. Tachypsychia ends as the shock wears off and the story fully begins.

***

Everything here sets the scene and tempo for the story’s dilemma. The craft involved in doing so ultimately boils down to a trained intuition. Microscale decisions are usually unconscious, at least with an initial draft. To be fully conscious all the time is a Sisyphean task.

“What the River Knows” is proof that Lynne Curry’s internal metronome has been forged by trial and error. It is the culmination of what has been found to work and not work: the former category emerging as dominant.

“The river looks deceptively open here—wide bends, slate-green water sliding past spruce and gravel bar, but underneath it runs hard and fast, impatient with anything that hesitate