o over on Jacqueline Barbour’s blog, Jacqueline’s been talking about one-sentence book descriptions. Of course, nobody can write a book in one sentence. That’s why we call them “books” and not “sentences.” But after playing around with what she’d thrown up there, and realizing that I was writing in my voice rather than hers (the huge problem with critiquing other people’s stuff), I figured I should try to get a one-sentence description myself. I can do it in one sentence, but I think I catch the flavor better with two:
Claire Cunningham was supposed to fall for a wealthy, titled gentleman, not an ornithologist with an ink-stained cravat. Oops.

Personally, I think there’s something delicious about absurdly short sentences. “Oops” is perfect here. Longer sentences, no matter what the subject matter, can never be quite as funny. For instance, here’s how some dialogue originally started:

“I have two pounds and ten shillings. What sort of man do you suppose I can afford?”
“I think that depends on whether men are sold by the ounce or as a piece.”
“Well,” Claire said, “I suppose if I give up ribbons, I’ll be able to afford a merchant’s little finger in a few years.”

The problem with this, of course, is that (a) it puts the punchline before the joke (twice!), and (b) the sentences are too long. The exchange works much better like this:

“Be serious. What sort of man do you suppose I could purchase?”

“That depends. How much have you got?”

“Two pounds, ten shillings.”

“You can probably get a merchant’s little finger with that. If you’re willing to haggle.”

“Now that,” she said, “would be crass.”

He hesitated, somewhat affronted. “The merchant? Or the purchase?”

“Lud, neither. Haggling.”