The one I'm focusing on is countersinking. This one makes me grin because I used to do it a lot in my early writing. A couple of years ago, me and a friend set about workshopping our earliest pieces to see what we could learn and track our improvements. The workshops were a riot—seeing ourselves as young, bouncy authors, full of excitement and dreadful clichés, lacking finesse and attention to detail but having so much fun writing and developing our styles. It's a bit like travelling back in time and spending an afternoon with the kid version of yourself, entertaining and not a little eye-opening. I'm way more conscious of countersinking nowadays and rarely find it slipping into my prose, but I do stumble upon it when reading other people's work—sometimes, even renowned published authors who should probably know better.
Here is an example of countersinking:
"You have to get out of here," he said, urging her to leave.
This is what's happening:
A form of expositional redundancy in which the action clearly implied in dialogue is made explicit.
Or as I like to call it, "showing and then telling". It's obvious from the dialogue that somebody is urging someone else to leave, so the explanation urging her to leave is redundant.
Newer authors tend to do this due to a lack of confidence, but like I said, some pro authors do it too. I'm quite sensitive to countersinking; it slows down a story, reads clunky, and makes the writing feel loose and flabby. When doing a round of edits that focus on dialogue, I'm always on the lookout for sneaky countersinks. And if I find any? I kill them.
It's strange how writing peeves can bring up so many nostalgic feelings. :)