Parallel Constructs

Repeating grammatical patterns (i.e.: using the same sentence
122 The Art & Craft of Writing structure) is called parallel constructs. Not only can this create effective
rhythm, but it helps readers absorb ideas better because they’re already
familiar with the grammar, so interpreting it happens more quickly and
effortlessly.
Imagine yourself playing baseball. A fastball may be hard to hit, but if
the pitcher keeps throwing them one after the other, you begin to get used
to it and hit them more often. Parallel sentences can stretch beyond 150
words without getting confusing.
Read the following passages for further examples (though you may
write your own parallel constructs much more subtly):
Buried beneath the long, slow years of summers and stars, of sunrise
and tides, of haircuts and grades and lunch table friends lies the image I
call the old me. She was too shy, too skinny, too naïve. She was happy and
smart and kind.
Buried beneath quick, hasty years of obligations and accomplishments,
learning and experience, fears and denial, is the image I call the new me.
She is too busy, too stressed, too serious. She is witty and hard working
and demanding.
Buried deep in my imagination, in the hopes of my heart is the girl who
is all of the good and none of the bad. She is beautiful and calm, kind and
competent, respected, admired and loved. This image I call the real me.
Someday I hope the two of us will meet.
Read the following three examples from An American in China for
examples of repetition, parallel constructs, and other rhythm techniques:
WEEK’S END
December 7 arrived. Our Beijing Language Institute class threw a goodbye
lunch for Matthew and me at a nearby restaurant.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Dzai jian.
I rolled the word over and over inside my mouth. It was sweet but
thick on my tongue and I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t believe that fourteen
weeks had already passed. I couldn’t believe the last day had finally
arrived.
I would arrive home in only two weeks. My extended week originally
scheduled for Beijing would reach its end in a few short hours.
FINALITY
I sat next to the train window and stared out at the fading city. I felt
like a castaway straining to capture the last drops of Coca Cola from a
wrecked ship’s supplies, knowing he may never get another taste. I may
never see Beijing again.
8: Contrast 123
Inextricably intertwined with the longing and familiar ache of separation
came the calm finality and satisfaction of endings. Even if this brief
segment of my life hadn’t been lived perfectly, even if I hadn’t lived to the
fullest and always felt happy and perfectly in love with life every step of
the way, even if I hadn’t had sufficient time to make up for lost time, even
if I hadn’t calmed all the inner cravings for perfection and fulfillment, even
if I didn’t feel complete closure, even so, this chapter of life was over.
Over.
Over.
Over.
Ended. Finished. Finalized. Done.
The next chapter would begin the moment I turned the page.
LOSING TOUCH
I stared out the window as Beijing slid past the glass, feeling deeply
every jarring of the train moving slowly over its steel tracks.
I longed to stand in the open air on the back of the train and watch the
miles of rail and ties fall behind me forever.
I longed to stand in an open doorway with the cold wind blowing
through my hair.
I longed to wave one hand loosely in the wind, making one last physical
contact as I rode away forever, one last touch like a parting hug and kiss to
somehow make this goodbye feel real.
But the doors were locked shut. I sat in my seat and put on my
headphones. I turned up the music and let the bittersweet of goodbye mix
with the white-water rush of starting over, letting the familiar transition
pour through me like a cold, clear mountain stream.
Four hours later the sun disappeared, and sitting in the darkness, in the
shaking, jostling, clattering, rocking, rolling down the tracks, I finally felt
like the chapter had closed.
124 The Art & Craft of Writing
Castaway
Fifteen minutes ago,
I was hot and thirsty and dry.
Twenty miles in the desert
Can make you forget
Any comfort
You ever knew.
Fifteen minutes ago,
I was tired, aching and sore.
Thirty five pounds on your back
Can work its weight
All the way
Into your ankles and knees
And shoulders.
Fifteen minutes ago,
I found a waterfall,
One hundred fifty feet of froth,
A bright blue pool
Of cool, clear water.
A liquid sun dances above me,
Sparkles on the stained glass surface.
Holding my breath,
The waterfall’s thunder
Is a pleasant pounding
Against my brain and body.
I’m swimming invisible corridors,
Slippery wet currents
Skimming bare skin.
I’m sliding upstream,
Gliding like a fish,
Clean and naked.
Life as a castaway
Sounds so appealing
Lying in sand,
A hundred miles from anywhere.
The distance drifts away
In the cool water at my feet,
Draining from my tired body,
Dripping into the warm sandy beach,
Evaporating in a perfect
Blue sky.

I’ve long since forgotten
My dusty old pack,
Sitting on shore
Where I dropped it.
Funny the way
Life turns the tables
With one quick twist of the trail.
Let’s hope the falls lie before you,
The desert sun and sand
At your back.
Never stop walking.
Run if you like.
I’ll wait for you here
If you promise to come.