On the Care and Feeding of Participial Phrases

December 29, 2021| cometary| 0 Comment | 6:27 am

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In some critique circles, shooting down misplaced modifiers has become a sporting activity. It’s fun, because they’re easy to spot and can be really funny. “The robber drove the getaway car in a batman costume” should make you smile at the image of a car cosplaying as The Batman. It’s logical that a modifier works best when it’s placed as close as possible to the thing it’s describing. For example, the descriptor “in a batman costume” should be next to “robber” and not “car.”

Unfortunately, a valuable writing tool—the participial phrase—is taking collateral damage.

An image of a 19th-century postcard showing three people "flying" with stiff airplane-like wings justting from ther sides, as they shoot at ducks in the sky. — *An 1899 postcard by Jean-Marc Côté*
(public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

A participial phrase is a specialized modifier that conveys movement or change, often incorporating visual imagery and other details, while performing the duties of an adjective. This tool has its own grammar and punctuation rules. Like any modifier, it can be misplaced, but the writer has flexibility in its placement, supported by the unsung hero of grammar: the comma.

To be sure we’re all on the same page, let’s start with participles. A participle is what you get when you take a verb and use it as an adjective: drowned trees, running water, flying pigs, grown woman, billowing clouds. Look for the past- and present-tense endings.

A simple participle works just like an ordinary adjective and is placed exactly as you would expect. For example, “drowned trees” could be a more dramatic way to say “dead trees.” It’s not unique to English, but repurposing words is relatively common in our language. Apparently, we English-speakers are determined to keep turning one part of speech into another, as if we haven’t got enough words already. Verbing nouns is one of my pet peeves.

(Yes, I know. You saw what I did there.)

A participial phrase is both

a phrase with a participle in it, and
a phrase acting as an adjective, intended to describe the subject of a sentence.

For example, “acting as an adjective” is a participial phrase. So is, “intended to describe the subject of a sentence.”

To get a participial phrase, you build upon the participle:

Trees … drowned in the flood from the broken dam

Water … running over rocks and rills

Pigs … flying like eagles

Woman … grown wise in the ways of the world

Clouds … billowing like windblown sheets of satin (note the participle within this participial phrase)

Brilliant clouds sail high over the plains towards distant mountaints

Participles and participial phrases add flavor and texture to our sentences, and because they come from verbs, they help create a feeling of action. Questions arise when we go to put our nicely-constructed phrase into its sentence, because … where do we put the darned thing? You have three choices:

Leading: Billowing like windblown sheets of satin, the clouds sailed over the plains of Endor.

Subject-adjacent: The clouds, billowing like windblown sheets of satin, sailed over the plains of Endor.

Trailing: The clouds sailed over the plains of Endor, billowing like windblown sheets of satin.

Photo Credit: Jonathan C. Wheeler, CC BY SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

(Note: these are my own terms. Reliable texts will say “at the beginning/in the middle/at the end.” yawn. Also, do not rail at me about the forests of Endor. This one is about the plains. Where, possibly, it rains. Like in Spain.)

Now … wait for it … here it comes:

If (and only if) you fail to properly punctuate a participial phrase, it becomes a misplaced modifier.

Technically, it’s a mispunctuated modifier, but to the reader, it’s confusing, and that’s why we care about misplaced modifiers. It occurs most often when the participial phrase is trailing. The separating comma before the phrase signals the reader that what follows describes the subject, in our example: clouds. Without the comma, you get:

The clouds sailed over the plains of Endor billowing like windblown sheets of satin.

Here, the reader is cast adrift and must grab for the nearest noun. While it may be possible that the plains of Endor billow, without other information, the reader will snicker, backtrack, guess what you mean, and move on, now somewhat annoyed by your absent comma.

Participial phrases bow to the humble comma or risk being misunderstood. For leading ones, you need a comma to close off the modifying phrase and move into the sentence proper. For subject-adjacent placement, commas—or their absence—are used intentionally to create subtle distinctions in meaning, distinguishing between essential description and nonessential elaboration.

A participial phrase placed next to the subject but without commas makes that descriptor an essential one. Consider:

The clouds billowing like windblown sheets of satin sailed over the plains of Endor.

Here the phrase is “essential” because it’s telling us that only those clouds that are billowing (yes, like satin) sail over the plains. Perhaps other clouds lie high in the stratosphere, unaffected by the winds below. If we put the commas back in, then we know the descriptor is colorful but nonessential. That is, we understand that all the clouds are sailing, though we pause in the middle of the sentence to enjoy the charming detail of their movement and sheen.

Placement at the beginning versus the end of a sentence allows us to create a sense of sequence, the order in which the storyteller wants the reader to experience each element. With the leading version of our Endorian sentence, the author wants you to take in the image of the shape and movement and texture of the clouds first, then imagine them sailing over the plains. It’s like when a child runs up to you with a remote-control toy and says “Look! Godzilla is driving this robot car! Isn’t it cool? Now watch what it can do!”

In contrast, with a trailing placement, the author nudges you to first realize that the clouds are sailing over the plains—maybe it’s important, because a party of adventurers must cross the stormy plain—and then lets you enjoy the clouds’ beauty. In our child’s-play example, first you are startled by a remote-control car zipping across the playground, and then a child is calling out “Wow! Cool! A robot car with Godzilla driving it!”

And now, don’t you want a robot car?

Me, too!

Were the plains of Endor too much? Let’s review, using a simpler situation. Imagine a romance in which a young woman has just learned her true love is about to sail away on a ship, and she’s hurried to the docks. She spots him boarding a vessel, but it’s way down on the pier. She has to run. She wants him to see her, but he’s too far away.

Here’s a mispunctuated participial phrase: Mun-Su ran down the dock waving to her departing lover.

We know the dock isn’t saying farewell to its lover, we know it’s Mun-Su, but as readers we don’t like to have to stop and think about it. Add the comma demanded by a trailing participial phrase, and all becomes clear as we yank out our hankies: Mun-Su ran down the dock, waving to her departing lover.

Of course, you could stick the participial phrase at the front: Waving to her departing lover, Mun-Su ran down the dock. Grammatically, this is correct, but we’ve defined a situation in which Mun-Su needs to get a move on first; her running is the critical action, because the lover won’t see her waving until she gets closer.

Further, what if you want to make the situation more complex? This is an important beat in the story. Surely, you want to share the character’s innermost feelings, her physical sensations at that moment: Her heart hammered like a steam piston as Mun-Su ran down the dock, waving to her departing lover.

Those unaware of the functionality of the participial phrase will point and cry, “You must place the phrase next to the subject.” Oh, my, but then you get: Her heart hammered like a steam piston as Mun-Su, waving to her departing lover, ran down the dock.

Poor Mun-Su is awkwardly waving, in a nonessential way, as she runs down the dock. Sadly, I’m not seeing a happily-ever-after now. Pass me the tissues.

I do hope you have enjoyed this little missive from the Grammar Police. We protect and serve … the text.

Further reading:

Clean examples and a bonus round on dangling modifiers from Grammar Monster: https://www.grammar-monster.com/glossary/participle_phrases.htm

Purdue University’s online writing lab explicating plenty of complexities in participles and their phrases: https://owl.purdue.edu/owl/general_writing/mechanics/gerunds_participles_and_infinitives/participles.html

Don’t worry, Ha Mun-Su does get her happy ending eventually, and Won Jin-Ah won an award for her portrayal, too! https://www.imdb.com/title/tt7521898/

Lessons of a BayCon Gofer: There Is No DogLessons of a BayCon Gofer: There Is No Dog

The final day of a convention can be a downer: games are ending, there are no parties pending, the con suite is running short on the good stuff, some people you just got to know are leaving early, and—not the least of it—you’re really, really tired.

The Signs Are Coming Off The Walls, Now

I wasn’t due for “work” until afternoon, but I roused myself earlier, for the last DIY project—Make A Parasol (see Firefly). Alas, I’d missed a program schedule update & the project was over. Long over—it had happened the day before! Won’t happen this year—I’ve finally joined the Smartphone Universe & so have access to the online schedule for BayCon 2015.

There’s Planets Around Them Thar Stars

I did have a backup plan—a panel discussion on new discoveries about extrasolar planets. But I’m kind of a Kepler fanatic, so the information being shared was, well, old hat. I found myself nodding off while people were talking about one of my favorite subjects.

So off to the Gofer Hole to check in and claim my spot as the Art Show Gofer. The day wasn’t boring any more.

My Final Badge-Ribbon Set, Actually a Relatively Small Collection

I had my chance to be part of the Art Auction. That was cool—I’ve never been, because I can’t afford to bid anything near what auction items should go for. Instead, I got to set up bidder numbers for folks who did have the resources and were eager to support these wonderful artists.

Once the Auction wound down, I got to be on the giving end of the Art Show. That is, folks queued up to collect the pieces they’d won in the silent bidding and—later on—the auction. The staff took care of the official tasks of collecting payments and pacifying people who’d not won the pieces they wanted. As a Gofer, I fetched their purchases (from the stacks we’d so carefully arranged the night before) and saw those their faces light up with happiness.

Eventually, all but a few of the neat stacks were gone. A few winning bidders were late to collect their prizes. But we set those safely aside.

In the meantime, all afternoon, artists were coming by and packing up any pieces that hadn’t sold. We helped if needed—fetching supplies, finding paperwork they needed, taking down labels and hooks from the display boards—and it was cool to get to talk directly with the artists. Several artists had entrusted the convention staff to display the work on their behalf, having shipped the art with their registration forms. Most had a piece or two still unsold, and these needed to be repacked for shipping homeward. The original boxes were not necessarily available, so I made the rounds of the vendor room to scrounge empty boxes.

Gradually, one by one, the display boards were emptied, we collected all the hooks, labels, and trash, and the staff tracked down the last of the tardy winning bidders.

It was time to empty the room. Load-out time. Most of the stuff needing shifted was heavy—pegboards, frames, bins full of papers and supplies. So I called dibs on the job of getting all the art-to-be-shipped-home safely out to the Art Show director’s car. It took a few trips through a lobby full of exhausted attendees and staffers. Then I glommed onto an empty luggage cart. Plus, the Gofer King was one of the staffers in the lobby and he dispatched an idle Gofer to help on my last round. Whew.

So, most of these events end with what they call Dead Dog. That’s one of the things you hear staffers talking about near the end of a convention, but they don’t share with mere members what exactly that is. The deep dark secret is: it’s a party. It’s the staff party that happens when everything’s over, the attendees have gone, and all the clean-up work that can get done is done. Aha, it’s what theater types call a strike party.

Kris & Alison, Art Show Maestrae, at Dead Dog

Generally speaking, it’s a Staff event, but Gofers who stick it out all the way to the end are welcomed into the party. There’s food. All the leftovers from the weekend, that no-one wants to have to haul home. All the ice-cold sodas left in the Magic Charity Soda Machine. Meanwhile, the hard-core staffers take the opportunity to give thank-you speeches to each other and praise the folks who’ve stepped up to chair the event next year.

It felt a little like crashing the party at that point, but the Art Show leaders were saying nice things to me, so I felt better. And Alison asked if maybe I’d help her as staff in 2015. And finally, finally, I gathered up my own art purchases, and Went Home.

2015 Art Show Staff!

Gofer Lesson of the Day: If you stick it out to the end of everything, you can get into the fabulous Dead Dog party. There will probably not be any dogs there, just tired-out volunteers. Like you.

How to do this:

Method #1: Walk into the Gofer Hole and sign up. You do need to be 16, but there’s no upper limit. Yes, really, you, too, can be a middle-aged Gofer. For BayCon 2015, the secret lair is in Tasman. Go up the escalator, turn right and it’ll be on your right before you reach the convention center.

Method #2: Email the King of the Gofers. That’s gofers15@baycon.org. You get double credit for helping at setup on the day before the convention starts. If you’re super-eager to help & don’t get a reply, email me (cometary@cometarytales.com) and I’ll help you make contact.

Welcome to Cometary Tales!Welcome to Cometary Tales!

This is a portion of space set aside for writing from both directions, inbound and outbound.

What?

Comets are, by their nature, exciting and unpredictable, which inspires both intriguing storytelling and curious scientific observation.

For starters, comets inbound to the sun unfurl their unique and mysterious tails behind them. This is charmingly artistic and seduces our reason as we watch them sail in from the outer reaches of the solar system like kites with their tails billowing. So–some of this page is devoted to fiction, respecting science but allowing for poetic license in pursuit of insightful stories.

Outbound comets, on the other hand, demonstrate why we have to use our powers of observation if we want to understand the Universe. Before we can understand why the comet’s tail flies in front of it as it returns to the dark, we must first realize that a cometary tail is the result of the solar wind blasting particles free of the surface of the comet. So–some of the writing on this page is about science and mathematics and technology, aimed in particular at developing and applying the power of critical observation. Messy Monday Science Projects, the current work-in-progress, is a collection of hands-on, observation-based science projects for elementary- and middle-school students.

Meanwhile, throughout their lives, comets are bound by the laws of gravitation and their seemingly strange behavior is described by the science of orbital mechanics. We’ll also be writing specifically about astronomy, the latest in space discoveries, and the mathematics of objects in motion while also supporting Pixel Gravity, an accurate astronomical simulator that anyone (yes, even a scifi poet) can learn to use.

Sunday at BayCon 2013Sunday at BayCon 2013

The last full day of the convention is truly the moment when plans and results can be expected to diverge the most. One must combine shifts in plans from the ORIGINAL plan with adjustments in expectations resulting from events of the first few days. Here is how this instance worked out:

Time Frame	What the Plan was	What really happened

Sunday morning	See if there’s something different to do in the Arduino II workshop and if not, go to the Dr. Who birds-of-a-feather (BoF) get-together. Sit in on the panel discussion on how to differentiate among various dragons–if that is boring, go on to the live podcast of Poe’s “The Raven”. Trish Henry’s Butterflytastic Arduino Organ Housing And My Own Finished Project Costume Swap & Dealers’ Room finds, ready for Regency!	Actually made it to the Arduino workshop at 9:30. They were still getting things organized for the second session, so maybe that counts as being on time. It was the same projects, but with fewer participants (it being 9 a.m. on Sunday), so there was plenty of room for me. I joined a table where two others had chosen the same project–a master-crafter who put together her project in half the time I needed and an astronomer from Reno who had watched the annular eclipse not far from where I had been. In time, I got my software downloaded, wiring connections made, taking advantage of help from Arduino Labs’ Larry Burch & his friend Tim Laren & the soldering wizard whose name I failed to get. Got all my decorations done and even sort of got it working. The mapping of the connections isn’t quite right on the scale, but I can reprogram at home. Yay! The costume swap took place in the back of the DIY room while we were hot-gluing our hardware. When the swap was over, the person-in-charge called out, “Last call! If you want something, take it!” We tech DIY’rs were stalled waiting for turns to get software downloaded at the time, so several of us rummaged through the pile. I found a long dress that was part of someone’s costume for something & one of the other women encouraged me to give it a try. Hey, I could squeeze into it—so now I have a dress to wear for Regency dancing tonight! And by the time we were all done, it was after noon. I carried my prizes out to the car and ate lunch. More peanut-butter-or-jelly, but with salad today. Forgot to pack chips. Next: plenty of time for a purchasing visit to the Dealers’ Room. Found a piece of jewelry (a necklace in a vaguely steampunk style) within my budget and bought it. Sweet. Finally feel “dressed for SF”.
Sunday afternoon	Go to session on getting the “swords” right in Swords and Sorcery, then to the Cassini Mission panel–the ONLY real science panel at this con. American 1890’s belly-dancer “Little Egypt” Cassini at Titan? Missed this panel! Can you believe what youngsters don’t know about kaffeeklatsch? Remember WorldCon 2002? LMB signs my copy of her first appearance in Analog! Yesss! And Installment IV–signed, too.	Ewww. The Swords presentation turned out to be extremely in-your-face (literally) factual, with photographs of people with cuts and blood and so on. Double-icky. I exited swiftly and dashed to Mary Cordero’s belly-dance workshop. Oh, now, that was so much super-fun! Learned basic belly-dance techniques, picked up some dance history, practiced and played with movement, and had fun in a roomful of women. Well, let’s be honest, two of the drummers were guys and one brave man was trying the dance himself. Most people think belly dance is only for women, but clearly Mary is not one to put up barriers–and there’s a strong tradition of men (and not just gay men) involved in the art form. Check out “Whose dance is this anyway?” I have also since learned about Tahtib, which is stick-fighting, like Eskrima, and would be a totally cool addition to this con, as it blends boffers and belly-dance. This “women’s dance” is real exercise, so I pulled off my overjacket and scarf, to discover I’d put on my butterfly shirt backwards. Oh, well, I pulled my arms in and switched it around. We’re all “girls” here, right? Mary kept the workload light, so we ended up a little sweaty but not exhausted. She passed out random badge ribbons and encouraged us to come to her party later. Luckily, I was already prepared for my first change-in-plan, which resulted from my stumbling into signing up for the Guest of Honor Kaffeeklatsch. The deal is “bring your own coffee” so I took time to cool down from belly-dancing and then sought out a cup of tea (using my Inner Gail to persuade the store clerk to rummage in a drawer for more English Breakfast teabags). Others brought drinks, but coffee was not a popular choice. While waiting to begin, the key discussion item was whether “kaffeeklatsch” is a real thing (from which I discover I am now on the “other side” of the generation gap) and whether the activity should be renamed because no-one brings coffee. It was a pleasant group “visit” with Lois McMaster Bujold, though likely it was on the torturous side for our hostess. My suspicions that she is a member of our society of introverts was confirmed, even as she was peppered with questions about the Vorkosigans and the culture Chalion and her other novels. We were a very mixed bag of folks…but we had more in common than admiring “LMB”. One guy went to ConJose for his first SF con and he described the line I was standing in to get Bujold to sign a book for me at my first con. The “girl” across from me was also in the Arduino workshop with me–she tried to get Lois to accept her glowing Arduino badge as a gift, and succeeded in getting her to keep it for the session. Bujold had already announced that she’s rather tired of working in the “Vorkoverse” but attendees were brimming with ideas of stories they’d like to hear. Near the end of our allotted time, however, the talk ranged more freely, and the participants chatted more among themselves about television and science and child-rearing and books, so at least Bujold had a chance to not talk a little. When it looked as though the session was ending, she agreed to a photo with Ruth (my fellow Arduino-ist) and to sign my Analogs. Mysteriously, (or not-so, with Analog’s mid-month issues), I was missing an issue. But, as she puts it, I could choose to make my life mission to find that last issue and get it signed. Or not. I’d only asked her to sign one, and she offered to do them all. Like me, she regrets doing the three-name routine, as it makes her name soooo long to sign. But six o’clock rolled around and the last few deep fans were still reluctant to set her free. I made my exit hoping that would provide a route out for her. She’d taken the head-of-table chair, which left her with a difficult path to make a graceful retreat. I nearly knocked down a one-year-old who was toddling about right outside the door, but her mother was reassuringly calm for both of us. I have to mentioning this, as she’s one of the people I have kept meeting all weekend! When the rest finally emerged, I walked along with them and we exchanged some info, as we clearly have some interests in common. I met Ruth’s sister and daughter and the daughter’s friend. Oh, well, time to go get dinner and go to boffers. It’s a bit of driving, but I made it to a Subway and scored a tuna salad. I was so hungry it was a challenge to not tear into the salad box on the drive back. And then I nearly left my sword in the car!
Sunday night	Go to the Firefly LARP and then do Regency Dancing, and listen to concerts if any run that late. Who’s Boffer, eh? Why “Lena” is already so good–this is her dad! Mary Cordero (right), shares the fun and treats at her Belly Jam Party Tech meets Tambour at Belly Jam Regency dancers take over Representatives of PEERS turn out in the best costumes. Our Dance Master takes a turn at the waltz. Thirteen–original artists…on Amazon.	Well, the kids were at boffers. That is, Ruth’s daughter and her friend. Or their clones, anyhow. I ate furiously, anxious to get in on the action while there were still some kids around willing to teach me how to play. There was also an older tween-aged girl there with her mom, impatiently waiting for her dad or one of her dad’s friends to come and battle with her. She clearly felt not well-matched with the younger kids. So I said I’d play as soon as I finished. “Lena” gave me a basic lesson and then thrashed me soundly. So the other girls’ main battle became over who had dibs on playing the newbie next. If memory serves, I did manage to beat one of them once. Maybe twice. There was absolutely no way I could have won against my tutor. It is a very energetic game and not as violent as it might be. Here are the rules, as taught by the Kids of Boffers: 1) No trying to hurt the other person 2) No head shots, at least not on purpose 3) If you’re hit on the arm or leg, you’ve lost that limb and have to do without it, so hop if you lose a leg, kneel if you lose both, switch hands if you lose your sword arm 4) Hits to hands or feet don’t count. 5) Torso hits are deadly. I did my best performances when killed, of course, as death scenes are generally fun to do. They all knew the old Monty Python Black Night routines and a few random Shakespeare quotes were tossed about. These people were all around the age of 10-13. The first girl’s dad (aha! He’s a professional sword-fighting *instructor!) finally appeared and played a couple of rounds with her. Another of the skilled adults gave one of my smaller opponents a good lesson in using her dagger-and-shield. She was a lot fiercer after that! There were older (bigger) people there, kindly not taking me on. Two members of the Silicon Valley Screwts, the quidditch team, spent the hour bashing one another. And several were more eager to play boffer baseball. When the kids who were battling me headed out, so did I. I had intended to go to the Tucker and Tinney concert, but then remembered about the belly-dance teacher’s party. She’d be disappointed if her students didn’t come. So I found my way to the “Party Floor” (another first) and stayed a while. She had snacks and drinks and music and drumming. It was another hour of re-meetings. The professional-swordfighter family was there–their daughter is also good at drumming. Turns out the family is from the town next to mine. And the Arduino guys were there. And a writer from one of the panels I went to….whose reading I missed because I had to leave early. And another woman from the class. We all did some dancing. Mary handed out some “Bellyrina” ribbons. The swordfighter dad used me as a demo model to describe to the writer how traditional dance positions matched up with swordfighting moves and also how he and his wife would act out dramas in which the lady would join the fray and surprise the opponent. I finally slipped out with my shoes and dress and boffer, explaining that I really wanted to do some Regency dancing*, now that I even had a dress to wear. And so spent the next three hours doing country dances. The dance master would teach one set, guide us through the full dance, and then announce a brief waltz for a break. There were plenty of people to ensure we could all appropriately switch partners around each time and, given the predominance of women in the group, to allow the women to switch genders from gent to lady and vice-versa. We did a half-dozen or more dances before the dance master called “time” at 12:30 after his group’s signature piece, the Congress of Vienna waltz. There was supposed to be open filking in the main music hall, so I slipped in there just as they were starting a new song. The Bohnoff’s sang a couple of pieces, someone sang something I can’t name but which went up very high indeed while accompanied by Betsy Tinney playing “the flute part on the cello”, and someone else did the old silly song about writing a science paper and stuffing it with drivel to get published. There was a request for something within the theme, so Maya sang Vixy & Tony’s “Thirteen”. Someone’s daughter jumped up to sing one her own favorites from the same album (“Emerald Green”) and then two of the adults did their parody versions, one of which was a gentle bit of humor about the Emerald City but the other one upset the first singer as “horrible”, being a song about Soylent Green. The musicians all had their computers and tablets out, pulling up lyrics and chords. I even got to make a tiny contribution, rescuing from under a chair a small accessory the guitarist dropped under his chair. But then it was nearly 1:30 and boffers would close at 2. I ducked into a restroom on the way downstairs and swapped from dress to pants again, but the doors to the convention center were already locked–to my disappointment and the sharp dismay of one of the boffer organizers who wanted to get their stuff out of the room. I followed her back to the lobby, where she sought help from the hotel staff and I added a contribution to the Welcome To BayCon whiteboard. “Allons-y” has 2 ells in it, kids. Time to grab a Coke from the Gaming Room’s Charity Soda Machine and get home.