Writing Well, Part 3: Origins of a Writer
When writers are asked how to write well, they often reflexively talk about their childhood and how they became writers. James Joyce did it, George Orwell did it, and Steven King did it. I thought this was a strange pattern at first, but now I understand it. Writing well is not just about clarity and omitting needless words—it goes all the way down to the core of a person, and so writers tend to tell you about who they are to explain how or why they write as they do.
Many of us had that one teacher. That one horrible teacher who either hated you, or you hated, or both. I thought long about whether I should protect the names of the guilty, but I think we should all be held accountable for our actions, good or bad, and so I’ll tell you that her name was Professor Ellen Cooney of the MIT writing department. I have encountered many people over the years who disagree with me, insult me, or stand in my way, but never before or since Professor Cooney did I actually think to myself, “At least she will probably be dead before me because she’s older.”
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| Mr. Spock will be born in the year 2230 at Shi'Kahr, Vulcan. |
Before we get to her, I’ll tell you about what happened eight years earlier, in 7th grade. I was in Algebra I, an advanced math class for a 7th grader, because my 6th grade teacher said I was good at math. I had no idea I was good at math before that as I wasn’t particularly good at arithmetic. (Just as writing isn’t spelling—math isn’t arithmetic, so I’d be ok in that class.) After the first test in that class, my friend got a perfect score and I didn’t do very well. I thought back to all the episodes of Star Trek I watched every weeknight at midnight during the summer, and about how Mr. Spock would have gotten a perfect score, too. And how could anyone not get a perfect score? You just follow things through to their logical conclusion and you get the right answer. From that day on, I was good at math and I liked it (and science, too). That’s where my head was.
Except for a girl, that is. Her name was Jenny Sime. I said I’d mention the names of the guilty, so it’s only fair that I mention the names of the innocent, too. (Dear Jenny: did you notice the ironic double meaning of the word “innocent,” as applied to you?) Jenny and I loved ironic double meanings. I talked to her on the phone often, for hours. She was there when the wet cement of my personality was hardening, and I can still feel her impression. We each delighted in the use of language, always saying things without saying them. We understood each other, and even if our classmates could have listened in, they would not have grasped our subtlety. I learned to choose my words carefully with Jenny Sime, and to give them just the right shade of meaning. She gave me plenty of practice, too. I don’t know how much of language ability comes from nature and how much comes from nurture, but it’s probably no coincidence that I had so much practice with language at that young age, and that I’m so adept with it now.
I got an A on every essay in every English class all four years of high school. I was not “one of them,” though, the literature kids I mean. I wasn’t into poetry or literature or reading any of that squishy stuff. I was the math and science kid who stopped by English class to get his A, usually causing a lot of trouble and debate. English teachers and I never had much regard for each other, and I knew some of them absolutely cringed at giving me those A’s, but what else could they do? I remember thinking at one point in high school that it would be an ultimate joke of the universe after all my hating of English classes if I would somehow end up a writer instead of a mathematician or physicist. (Note to the universe: nice one.)
By the time I encountered Ellen Cooney, I knew how to write and I knew how to get an A on a writing assignment. I started her class by writing a short story in the style of Jack London (my choice) about a man and his dog. I thought it was pretty good. She hated it. The narrator actively judged the man in the first and last sentence of the story, on purpose. She hated that even more.
I didn’t know exactly why she hated it, and I wasn’t used to that kind of reaction. She kept saying, “It’s not literature! We write literature here.” It took me the whole semester to even get an inkling of what literature meant to her. It seemed mostly to mean, “boring stuff written by the students who I personally like talking to in class.” She said my story was too fake and she wouldn’t even accept it, much less grade it. She said I had to write another story instead.
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| This is what writing feels like most of the time. |
I may have some ability at writing, but writing takes me a very long time. What’s worse is that I can’t compartmentalize it from the rest of my life. When I write something, the actual time I spend typing is between 1% and 5% of the total time investment. The rest is spent day dreaming about it, thinking of how the ideas will go together, about this sentence that should appear halfway through, about things I might need to research first, and so on. And when all that’s sorted out, I still have to wait around for the moment when I’m not tired, hungry, or distracted. Then I have to keep waiting even more until I’m also inspired. I believe at least three of the planets must be aligned, too, or two plus a moon at the least. The point is, writing another story was a major time investment.
I don’t remember what happened with that second story, but I bet she hated it too. On the assignment after that, I wrote a story about a man who took a long journey to find a magic coin, but there was some kind of trick about how the guy who told him about the coin was not who he seemed. Yeah, she hated that one even more. I spent a very time long on that one making sure it was well-written, too. She said it was “genre writing,” not literature, and that it could appear alongside any other fantasy writing on a store shelf and blend right in. (Is that an insult or a compliment?) Apparently literature couldn’t contain magic. It also couldn’t be a mystery, have too much action, or much violence, I would later learn. Meanwhile, we read a story about two girls who lived in an isolated country-side and used to play together as children, then they tried to keep in touch as adults but their lives had diverged too much to make the same kind of connection. Now that was literature, she said. I have to admit, even though it had no apparent point, it did feel real when I read it.
She made me write two stories for every one that anyone else wrote in that class. It was an incredible amount of time and work and she hated all of it. I wondered why she made me do all that if I was so terrible, yet none of the other students had to.
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| I wonder if Mr. Spock ever went to any 3D Chess tournaments. Remember that one where he programmed the computer to play Chess and it beat him? |
For my final assignment in that class, I decided to write something I knew enough about to bring to life. I wrote about a young man who was entering his first Chess tournament and the various personalities he encountered at the event. The antagonist was a tricky jerk who had enough experience with how the events were run to mess with the main character’s mind. They would face each other in the tournament, and I even went through the trouble of coming up with a real chess situation that was interesting in itself, and that illustrated the mental sparring between the characters. And I took great care describing this so it wouldn’t be boring or overly technical for non-Chess players.
Guess what, she hated it. She said I was a failure as a writer and I’m guessing she added that I’d never amount to anything, for cliché’s sake. She said, and I quote, “You are a master of linguistic flourishes, but you ultimately have nothing to say.” Wow! Yes, she really said it, exactly like that. A master of linguistic flourishes…but ultimately with nothing to say. That was over ten years ago and I remember it exactly.
I began to wonder if she was right. She was a close-minded bitch, sure, but what was I trying to say with that story about the guy and his dog or about the magic coin? Maybe nothing. At least the Chess story had some point. The year after that in another writing class, I decided to write a comedy about depression (challenging!) and another story about someone who is trapped in his own superstitions, but ultimately realizes that he controls his own destiny in life. I was at least trying to really say something.
A few years later, I had a lot to say. I had competed in and organized numerous video game tournaments, and I kept seeing the same annoying losing attitudes. The players I hung out with didn’t have these hangups, but the ones on the periphery often had the whole concept of competition wrong. So I wrote Playing to Win, Part 1. I finally had something to say, and I never got so much attention for writing anything until then.
William Strunk, Jr. famously said to omit needless words. I’ve come to look at this in a new light, and when I see writing that doesn’t really say anything, I wish all the words were omitted. There are a lot of mechanics involved with writing well, but it doesn’t amount to much unless you have something to say. Having something to say often goes along with taking a stand on something. Research what you’re interested in, live life and accumulate experiences, stand up for what you think is right and fight against what you think is wrong. It takes a certain kind of person to do that. Writing is often about revealing a truth or exposing a lie, so it’s no wonder that so many writers are the kind of people who don’t care what people think of them—they care about the truth and saying what they have to say. I don’t mean pop novelists either, I mean Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell. Even Richard Feynman was a great writer in this regard when he wasn’t busy being one of the world’s leading physicists. He even wrote a book called What Do You Care What Other People Think?
I worked with an amazing graphic designer for a while until he quit and went to another company. In our last conversation, the day before he left, I asked him how he became so good. How is it that he’s so much better at what he does than most others who try to do it? He said in art school, there was one Korean guy in his class who really shouldn’t have been in there. The Korean guy already took these classes in his own country, but his credits didn’t transfer over for some reason. My friend said he always studied the Korean guy, how he made this line, how he made that shadow, whether he added decoration here or not, and so on. He told me that when some students presented their projects, they had some big artistic vision they were trying to communicate, but they always fell so far short. My friend never focused on that—he focused on execution instead. His reasoning was that once he had mastered the mechanics of graphic design, he would then be able to think about what artistic statements he wanted to make. I did not take such a conscious journey as my graphic designer friend, but perhaps the result is the same: first, how to put sentences together properly, then having things to say.
Many years ago, I had some things to say about game design, so I wrote them down and shared them with all of you. Then for years I wrote design documents and pitches for games. I wrote them with great care. Not only can I not show them to you, but for reasons unrelated to game design, almost none of them came to life. During this time, I have not said much to you, and maybe it was for the best. Even the horse Mr. Ed will never speak unless he has something to say.
Now I have some things to say again. A little of it will be about game design, a little about competition, and most of it about how to think and how to create. But those things are for another time, we’re talking about writing now.
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| I'm not sure what she thinks about when she sits down to write, but I'm curious. |
When I sit down to write, I don’t think about Jenny Sime and the nuances of language I practiced with her all those years ago. Caring about exact shades of meaning is second nature now. But I do sometimes think of Professor Cooney as I write. “A master of linguistic flourishes but ultimately with nothing to say?” I’ll show her, I sometimes think. I’ll prove to her that I do have something to say, and that I’ll say it no matter what the consequences or what anyone thinks. I’ve even developed her same contempt for other people’s empty writing. It was hard to take that criticism back then, but I’m almost willing to admit that she was right.
Maybe being fueled by such a negative fire is a bad thing, but being fueled by no fire is far worse. I’ll leave you with this quote from a guy who’s sold a few books.
You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair—the sense that you can never completely put on the page what’s in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.
—Stephen King
--Sirlin
This is part three of a three-part series on writing:
part 1 | part 2 | part 3
September 26th, 2007 at 8:53 pm
But is saying “You are a master of linguistic flourishes” not actually at least partially a compliment? And isn’t that teacher actually one of the best you’ve ever had since you remember her and she actually taught you something you can use at the very moment?
September 26th, 2007 at 9:11 pm
That was actually pretty inspiring. A lot of common sense. But you really put it in perspective. I think I appreciate the failures and the mistakes because they explain the successes.
I’ve got a lot to say. I feel like my prose is pretty passionless, though. And I seem to have a way of turning even the most intense moments of my life into something really dry. I was hoping I would read something in here that would help me, but I’m not sure I got it yet.
September 26th, 2007 at 9:29 pm
Oh, I like this one. Not only did it sneak up on me with the teacher twist, but it neatly filled in what I felt was missing in the first two articles. I guess you had to focus on execution first though.
Does the upcoming empty cup piece dovetail as nicely with what came before?
September 27th, 2007 at 1:07 am
*LOL* That’s why I almost never post comments here. Your articles don’t leave much to be said (in the good sense), and even when there are holes, someone’s likely already filled it.
Anyway keep it up man! I’m not sure what “life direction” you’re headed in, but I know it’s gonna be a fun ride, and good reading on this site and elsewhere.
September 27th, 2007 at 11:12 pm
Passionate language is terse and articulate. Ornamentation only smothers emotion.
September 27th, 2007 at 11:13 pm
I want to remove only from my last post.
September 28th, 2007 at 8:43 am
Protect the innocent my fanny! Who the heck was the graphic designer?!
I understand about your use of ‘inguistic flourishes’ though. I know I’ve written a lot using them and probably only those close to me would get them. Not that they were inside jokes, or you HAD to know me, but it just seemed that they fell away on my instructors.
I refuse to abandon them, however I am curious of your take on them. I’ve picked up on my fair share of puns in your writing, but I’d like it if you’d embellish.
September 28th, 2007 at 12:20 pm
Heh. Language without linguistic flourish is merely communication. Sounds like Mrs. Cooney knew as much about good writing as she did about how to abort cow fetus’s. That is, nothing.
September 29th, 2007 at 4:13 am
Thanks for the advice, Zerite. I’m curious what Sirlin thinks about turning language from technical to emotional. From detached to passionate. From descriptive to stirring.
September 29th, 2007 at 8:39 am
Kicks, the term “linguistic flourish” could mean several things, many of them bad. To some, it might mean flowery, embellished language, but that is not what the professor and I meant by it. We meant it as a good thing: some little nuance of showing off a connection between words and/or ideas. Here was one small flourish in the article above:
“I said I’d mention the names of the guilty, so it’s only fair that I mention the names of the innocent, too. (Dear Jenny: did you notice the ironic double meaning of the word “innocent,” as applied to you?) Jenny and I loved ironic double meanings.”
It’s not an inside joke really, because any reader can understand it. I used innocent in one sense but also meant it in another sense, then pretend to point this out to Jenny herself, then I got *double* use out of “ironic *double* meaning.” It’s not amazingly brilliant or anything like that, but it’s textured at least because there’s some links between words.
Dan: I don’t know if anyone can really answer that question. Sometimes the multiple levels of language I just talked about can reinforce each other to create something emotional. Sometimes just being surprisingly honest can do it, because extreme honesty catches people off guard and makes them feel like they’re hearing a secret. Or tapping into the emotions that people already have inside them can be effective. When Feynman’s wife died of cancer, he never cried until one day he saw a dress in a store window and thought “Arlene would like that,” but then he remembered that she’s gone, and he cried. That could very well make you cry because it taps into your own feeling of loss over someone or something.
Or then there’s Hemingway’s approach. He writes only action, not thoughts. If you see a fish jump out of the water and it’s “cute,” what ACTION made it cute? The way it pierced the surface of the water on the way up? The flop in the air? The pose it held in the air (yes)? The sparkle of the sun when it was in the air? The way it dropped back through the water surface? Hemingway was obsessed with describing the particular action that triggers an emotion and equally obsessed with writing things that felt absolutely real. So real that his goal was for the reader to have trouble distinguishing between real memories and things that happened in his books.
There’s a few different takes on making something emotional, but again, you can hardly expect little old me to truly answer that in a blog comment. ;)
–Sirlin
September 29th, 2007 at 2:18 pm
These Writing Well posts were absolutely brilliant. The word inspiring comes to mind when I think back on them, and I want to thank you for writing (and posting) them.
P.S. that Steven King quote was my favorite part of the book
September 30th, 2007 at 5:44 am
Stepen King is the McDonald’s to Clive Barker’s 4-star restaurant. The passage you quoted is one cliche another.
This is a textbook example of bad writing:
<blockquote>
Except for a girl, that is. Her name was Jenny Sime. I said I’d mention the names of the guilty, so it’s only fair that I mention the names of the innocent, too. (Dear Jenny: did you notice the ironic double meaning of the word “innocent,” as applied to you?) Jenny and I loved ironic double meanings. I talked to her on the phone often, for hours. She was there when the wet cement of my personality was hardening, and I can still feel her impression. We each delighted in the use of language, always saying things without saying them.
</blockquote>
Give your readers some credit. You and Jenny liked double-meanings and other subtle word play — you don’t have to state it three different ways. Specifically calling out your own wordplay (dear readers: see what I did there?) is weak.
One of the most basic failings of bad writings is that it refuses to trust its readers, belaboring and spelling out any possible subtlety.
September 30th, 2007 at 5:46 am
No blockquote? And of course I mean “one cliche *after* another.”
September 30th, 2007 at 7:20 am
Thanks James!
The only place I specifically call out my own word play is in a blog comment after the article that directly answers a question Kicks asked. Attempting to answer him is not such a high crime. You sound gushing with hate.
September 30th, 2007 at 10:09 am
Uh…I quoted exactly where you called out your own wordplay in the original piece. (With my improperly formed blockquote tags…”Dear Jenny: did you notice the ironic double meaning of the word “innocent,” as applied to you?” )
Criticism is hard to take, and I’m not a great writer myself. But that particular passage is as I said a textbook example, as in you can literally find exactly that sort of thing called out in a textbook.
“Self-Editing for Fiction Writers” is a good read that applies fairly well to non-fiction as well.
I’m not normally one to nit grammar or attack writing style but it seems more appropriate when that is the topic at hand. No hate intended. I enjoy reading your stuff and have recommended it to other people but your thought content is a lot more impressive than your prose. (Which is not an insult ) In a similar vein your writing on “Playing to Win” is weaker than a lot of your other work regarding design, strategy, etc.
In my opinion you have a lot of great strengths, but they aren’t what you think they are.
September 30th, 2007 at 1:50 pm
Um, James M, I’m sure someone would care about what you have to say if you had intended to provide constructive criticism. I doubt you did, given your use of backhanded compliments, and judgmental terms like “textbook example of bad writing,” “basic failings of bad writings,” and the sage advice “Criticism is hard to take.” (I’m sure you’re heartbroken about the criticism you feel compelled offer.) If you want someone to care about what you say, consider how you say it. (You probably already know that my last sentence was the whole point of Sirlin’s last three articles, so I won’t mention it lest you accuse me of belaboring the point.)
I won’t argue about whether the passage you quoted overemphasizes Sirlin’s point about wordplay, nor will I give myself extra credit for being able to read that paragraph without feeling smug about my own abilities. I won’t judge you for ignoring George Orwell’s use of the passive voice to criticize the passive voice, and instead electing to denounce only Sirlin’s writing, because maybe you think it’s helpful to advise only living people. I’ll accept the possibility that you don’t appreciate Sirlin’s delight in calling attention to the word “innocent” in three consecutive sentences, the last one by implication. Maybe that’s not fun for you, James M, so I shouldn’t judge you for disagreeing with Sirlin or me on what’s fun to write or read. And I know how much you dislike it when a writer holds your hand through an idea, so I won’t comment on any irony in this paragraph.
All I will say is that I congratulate you on your superior ability to detect good writing. Maybe you should have a blog, so people who think they can learn from you will come read it.
October 1st, 2007 at 12:00 am
Criticism that points out exact problems and how to fix them is constructive. And criticism is always judgemental, that’s the point.
“I’ll accept the possibility that you don’t appreciate Sirlin’s delight in calling attention to the word “innocent” in three consecutive sentences, the last one by implication.”
It has nothing to do with my personal prediliction. You will see that sort of problem called out in virtually every book on writing. At some point obviously writing is personal taste but if you are going to accept that there are standard ways to write better then trusting your readers and not calling out your own devices is one of the prominent ones. There are entire chapters in writing books devoted to that and trusting the readers is one of the fundamental things that separates good writing from bad. That is not my personal opinion, that is a well-understood rule of the trade.
If you want to claim that good writing is entirely subjective then we don’t need any articles on how to write well.
Could I have phrased my complaints nicer? Yes. That doesn’t invalidate them. I didn’t say that Sirlin is a horrilble person or even a bad writer, I merely accused him of specific bad writing in this piece, and I’m sure the vast majority of editors would agree with me and pick out that exact same spot independently. (In fact I would bet money on it)
Remember how Sirlin reviewed a book on writing for game journalism recently which he took to task? It’s the same thing here. Personally I don’t care how great his prose is in general but in a piece *specifically on writing* those criticisms are very fair.
October 1st, 2007 at 12:46 am
The last rule of art, after you’ve learned all the other rules, is that there are no real rules. Or that the rules are made to be broken. Not that they should be ignored, but defied with deliberation and intent. I see nothing wrong with Sirlin pointing out an example in the way he did. It’s a choice he made, and it suits the medium of blogging just fine. Of course, I wouldn’t do it left right and center, and certainly not in a history book or novel.
Sirlin,
Thanks for trying to help me out with improving the passion in my writing. The Hemmingway example was particularly edifying. I know you said this would be a three part series, but I’d love to see a part four on trying to expand this topic.
If you don’t have the time, though, I hope you can point me in the direction of some resources that might help me. I’d pay good money if someone could teach me to make the crazy events of my life to sound less detached and technical.
October 1st, 2007 at 6:15 am
James M: I know how to offer criticism without judging. You wouldn’t know that, based on what you’ve seen from me. I didn’t know it, either, until my boss started asking me to train my colleagues precisely because I can criticize without judging (at least, when it suits me). If you find that people tend to ignore you, please re-read my first sentence and consider a new approach to offering your opinion.
Your purportedly non-critical judgment of Sirlin’s use of the word “innocent” has everything to do with your personal prediliction. No one else has complained about this paragraph that offends you. Me, I don’t think the paragraph would be the same without the parenthetical, although I might have just written “Dear Jenny: See what I did there?” Even then, it doesn’t look right. Maybe you think I don’t know how to appreciate writing, or feel sorry for me that I am willing to tolerate sub-standard prose for the sake of finishing an article that interests me. I’m sorry you feel sorry for me (again, I won’t comment on irony, or on how meta this sentence is). Please read the first sentence of Dan’s post (#18) and re-think why Sirlin should care that you didn’t like his paragraph on innocence. Please also read the first article in this series and consider whether your complaint came two articles too late.
Regardless of how you phrased your complaints, I thought we’d already gone over my point. Maybe I gave you too much credit by trusting that you would understand the first paragraph of my last post, and my punishment is that now I must repeat it. If you want anyone to care about you, you really should think about how you complain. It’s not about the validity of your comments. It’s about being heard at all. Have you not read these articles?
October 1st, 2007 at 7:10 am
I’m just going to ignore Juergen because his points are only vaguely related to what I wrote.
Dan:
” I see nothing wrong with Sirlin pointing out an example in the way he did. “
I’ll belabor the point a little:
“Except for a girl, that is. Her name was Jenny Sime. I said I’d mention the names of the guilty, so it’s only fair that I mention the names of the innocent, too. (Dear Jenny: did you notice the ironic double meaning of the word “innocent,” as applied to you?) Jenny and I loved ironic double meanings.
…
We each delighted in the use of language, always saying things without saying them. We understood each other, and even if our classmates could have listened in, they would not have grasped our subtlety.”
–
So Sirlin and Jenny can say things without saying them and understand each other. If that is true, why does Sirlin need a parenthetical comment addressed to Jenny asking her if she understood him?
The parenthetical undercuts his point. If she truly understands him then he shouldn’t need to explain himself. Nor is “see what I did there” or any equilvalent subtlety, it is the exact opposite of subtlety.
Not only is calling out your own wordplay generally a bad idea but given the main thrust of those paragraphs here it actively detracts from the point being made. And I think “don’t detract from your own point” is a pretty good rule that shouldn’t be broken very often.
As far as resources, I reccommend:
1. Self-Editing for Fiction Writers
2. The First Five Pages
Both of these pertain to fiction writing but much of them pertains to non-fiction as well. In your case, these might be especially appropriate if you want to avoid an overly technical, dry style. Compelling non-fiction is often very similar to fiction in form.
October 1st, 2007 at 7:38 am
James M, you’re being a gigantic unappreciative jackass and you don’t even realize it. The way you see it, you’re really doing us all a favor.
You’re going on and on about this one point, as if it were poorly written so let’s look at it yet again. In the three sentences in question, sentence 1 alone does not have a double meaning. It pairs innocent against guilty in the regular sense. If you remove sentence 2 (the one that offends you so much) then there is nothing left. There is not even the implication that Jenny was not innocent. There is only a single meaning of innocent left. Sentence 2 is clearly needed for there to be a double meaning *at all*. Sentence 3 is just a segue so the paragraph can move on. If anything, you should wish the 3rd sentence gone, not the 2nd, because at least then the point is still made. I don’t think dropping sentence 3 helps either though, because it’s pretty central to the whole point.
To review, sentence 1 has a meaning. Sentence 2 gives sentence 1 a double meaning. Sentence 3 says that we liked double meanings. It’s painful to deconstruct this, and I’m very surprised it was necessary, but apparently it is. This 1,2,3 sequence is perfectly fine. If we remove the part you think is so heavy-handed, the result is totally flat:
“I said I’d mention the names of the guilty, so it’s only fair that I mention the names of the innocent, too. Jenny and I loved ironic double meanings.”
In the interest of going on even more endlessly, you might agree that the above construction is much worse, but you have some other brilliant way of doing it. That’s great and all, but the original way is fine.
I know you’re better than all of us (and better than Stephen King, the “McDonnalds writer” as you say), but I kindly ask you to please move on and let some other people comment. We’ve heard your opinion. It’s noted. Maybe the dozens of people who specifically asked me to write something about writing will manage to find something valuable here anyway.
–Sirlin
October 1st, 2007 at 7:41 am
That last complaint makes no sense at all, James M. You said:
So Sirlin and Jenny can say things without saying them and understand each other. If that is true, why does Sirlin need a parenthetical comment addressed to Jenny asking her if she understood him?
Yet your complaing seems to be only valid in hindsight. The parenthetical was in fact, aimed at us, the readers, despite his use of Jenny’s name. Whether she would have understood him is completely irrelevant. I’m certainly not convinced I would have realized a double meaning was possible there had he not pointed it out, given he had not, at that point, told us anything more than a name.
Furthermore, the explanation about their ability to communicate without directly saying things comes after the parenthetical. It’s more a supporting statement, and it was perhaps unnecessary. But, the parenthetical contained, in and of itself, the point sirlin was making to us. Accusing it of being the statement which “undercuts his point” seems wholly misinformed.
Also, I would urge you not to ignore Juergen. Your first statement did seem to bring up a worthwhile criticism of the article, but to quote sirlin, it truly did sound “gushing with hate”. Since then you seem to have become even more emotional, and lost your handle on the valid point you originally had. Perhaps some of Juergen’s advice would have aided you.
October 1st, 2007 at 9:17 am
I’m posting only because James M craves attention so desperately that that he’ll be happy to see his name here. I doubt anyone takes him seriously in real life; it must be sad to be that irrelevant. Despite his claim that he is ignoring me, I suspect he’s afraid of being shown up by someone so willing to publicly and gleefully expose him for the douchebag he is. And now he can’t win, because not posting means concession, but posting will further expose his tenuous grasp on reality.
With that out of my system, I’ll move on. James, if you want people to take your criticisms seriously, consider not making the same word choices you’ve made in your other posts, or that I made in the preceding paragraph. See how my word choices have made you disinclined to engage in a reasonable discussion with me? Can you imagine why people would feel the same way when you “constructively” criticize them? Unless you are a sloppy writer, you chose words designed to insult both Sirlin, and those of us who didn’t see anything wrong with The Paragraph. Your kind of writing has consequences. If you really don’t see that, then I understand why life is so hard for you.
I’m starting to think you’re either an immature teenager or someone who’s not very good at his writing job; either way, I’m pretty sure you just don’t get it. I’ve enjoyed making fun of you, James, and I’ll do it again. But I kind of feel sorry that you don’t realize how silly you and your superiority complex look to the rest of us. And that you think I read your posts for their academic value. Aw, who am I kidding, I don’t think you’re a teenager.
October 1st, 2007 at 12:03 pm
Submit your piece to a professional editor, I’ll pay and I’ll bet you 2-to-1 (in your favor) that they’ll pick out that exact problem. (As long as we bet enough to properly cover the up front costs) You have my email address.
By the way, it was King himself who said “I am the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and Fries.”
The comment was a tongue-in-cheek reference to that. And no, I did not claim that I am a better writer than Stephen King, I claimed that Clive Barker is. (At least from a prose standpoint; King is far better at characterization and sustained dialogue)
That’s my last comment, I return the floor to Juergen and his fascinating psychoanalysis.
October 1st, 2007 at 10:00 pm
I have decided: I would rather be criticized by James M than by Juergen.
Criticism without tact is rude and often falls on unlistening ears, but criticism without judgment is not worth listening to.
James M read the article, used his judgment, came up with a point, and made his case. I believe I understood his argument clearly, although I disagreed and found his manner abrasive.
But what is Juergen even saying? He makes one solid point in his first paragraph: “If you want someone to care about what you say, consider how you say it.” Bravo, good sir.
But then he goes on and on and on with no further point. Maybe he should re-read this very article, which is about having something to say.
I wanted to root for him because he’s speaking in Sirlin’s defense here, but just look at what happens when he runs out of things to say but keeps talking — his posts become littered with lies:
“I won’t argue about” (yes you will)
“I won’t judge you for” (yes you will)
“All I will say is” (no, that is not all you will say… believe me)
“I won’t comment on” (didn’t you just?)
and of course:
“I’m posting only because James M craves attention.”
I’m sure. What a slippery fish this fellow is! Who wants to listen to someone who denies the things they say, even as they say them? Not me.
Look, criticism not backed by good judgment has nothing to say, and criticism not presented with tact will fall on unlistening ears. You need BOTH.
You might say I’ve ignored my own advice and been tactless in this post, but that’s why I’d rather listen to James M than Juergen — tact is optional, but having something to say should be mandatory… particularly for any long post.
However, James, I do believe that you should opt for tact in cases like this. Juergen blabbed out some lie-infested garble that should have been reduced to a single quality sentence, and that’s why I don’t need to be tactful.
But Sirlin spent a lot of effort crafting this series of articles, and that effort demands that you show a little respect by taking the effort to use tact… if you want to get your point across.
Since you’re recommending books, perhaps you would consider reading “How to Win Friends and Influence People” by Dale Carnegie. He deals a lot with the importance of tact. It’s actually a pretty interesting read.
Of course, if your goal is to stir up the hornets nest, tact may be counter-productive.
October 1st, 2007 at 11:31 pm
Ricefrog:
I think you misread Juergen’s posts. In about half his paragraphs, he’s clearly going out of his way to write tactless attacks on James M, to prove his point. The remaining paragraphs serve to explain what he just did, and in a very tactful manner comment on how to avoid such things in general writing.
Perhaps he was too subtle, I admit it didn’t immediately leap off the page until I reread his comments.
October 1st, 2007 at 11:48 pm
This has been resolved via personal email, a much better way to work out differences than message-board posturing.
ricefrog:
“Since you’re recommending books, perhaps you would consider reading “How to Win Friends and Influence People” by Dale Carnegie”
Funny you should mention that, in my email to Sirlin I made exactly the following joke:
“I’m never going to write a book on how to win friends and influence people.”
My posting style often comes off as much more abrasive than intended. It is something I am aware of but in a hurry I often don’t moderate it as well as I should.
Group hug!
October 2nd, 2007 at 1:29 am
I commented favorably on the first two parts of Writing Well, and this part is no exception.
However, this time I have something more to say other than a simple compliment.
I, too, never really sought to write. In fact, I took a computer management course in college and worked as a tech support rep for almost four years after that. Writing was something I did on the side, but something that I was very good at. I had, and still don’t have, any professional writing degrees or certificates, but I don’t need any.
A little under a year ago, I started a career as a technical writer for a software development company. I was fortunate that this company chose to look at strength of my writing samples, as opposed to simply dismissing me because of my lack of formal writing education. This new job was a godsend, a chance for me to do something I love doing professionally.
And yet, over the last year, I’ve encountered periods of time where I am absolutely unmotivated. I still manage to complete my work during those times, but I lack that “spark,” that drive a writer gets where all the words come out perfectly, despite knowing exactly how it should go in my head. It was starting to depress me, making me think that no matter what I do for a living, I’ll never be completely happy with it.
But I do manage to find the motivation again every time. Whether it’s to prove myself to my colleagues, or to show that I’m worth more money, or even to further my skills in the hopes of moving on to other writing careers in the future, I find the will to continue. And it’s then that writing becomes second-nature once more.
So I empathize with your situation, and can understand completely why thinking about writing is soooooooooo much easier than actually writing. Thanks for a great set of articles!
October 2nd, 2007 at 12:07 pm
Mr. Sirlin openned up the topic to criticizing bad writing- but somehow, his writing is above being criticized, and anyone that dares is an ungrateful jackass? Look I’m still a fan, I’ll still read all of these articles, and I don’t mean to sound so harsh, but what if I said, “You know almost nothing about writing, but you fake it very well”? Do you think that is a fair thing to say? Is that tactful?
I don’t think James should feel the need to apologize for anything “abrasive” he’s written here in any case- every sentence reads like it came out of some textbook on writing well.
Dan, I’d recommend the book Writers INC for some inspiration on writing well. If you liked these articles on obfuscatory language, just browse over sections 552-557 (p254 in my edition- the one I kept from high school) the next time you’re in a bookshop. That and reading as much as possible from diverse sources of material.
Dear Stephen King, some of your novels are mostly exposition, with a little story thrown in at the end. In any case sales alone does not a good writer make, especially for the nitpicky kind of “good” under debate here. If that were true then you must think Paris Hilton is a good writer, after all she has a NY Times Best Seller. And the Spice Girls are the best band ever, just look at their Billboard sales.
October 2nd, 2007 at 12:38 pm
Mr. Boudreau, you’ve made a crazy generalization there. Because I reject one specific criticism about three sentences that are fine the way they are (you don’t seem to even dispute that), I would also necessarily reject all other criticism? You’re only saying that to be sensational. You don’t actually believe that I believe that. You’re criticizing for criticism’s sake, rather than actually contributing anything. (Yes, the answer to Dan was contributing something, but not the drive-by insults to me.)
You often show up here with an antagonistic attitude so I’ll have to invite you to leave. Now you’re going to claim it’s because I disagree with you, but save us the trouble because there is no actual point vs. counterpoint here at all. Thanks in advance for letting it go.
To specs: your situation is hard. By day, you do technical writing and I would guess that makes it hard to write anything else the rest of the time. Maybe you find that your well is already dry. This is an appropriate thread for this reply, because the best remedy could be *having something to say*. If you need to say it badly enough, that is your inspiration. That said, I couldn’t imagine writing a book while having a job that involves writing all day, every day. I don’t think I could do it.
–Sirlin
October 3rd, 2007 at 2:15 am
I think these articles, while great are a tad too quote heavy(excluding this one)! Some parts of it felt less like “Sirlin tells you how to right well” and molre “Sirlin gives you assigned reading about writing well”. I exaggerate, of course, as they were very good quotes.
Still, perhaps VALID CRITICISM?
October 3rd, 2007 at 5:30 am
KayinN, that is certainly valid. I quote a ridiculous amount in my book as well. The trouble is that when I see something expressed really well, I prefer to just show you that rather than try to make my own version of it. I assume most people are not familiar with all the various quotes, so I’m acting as a gateway to those other sources for them.
But I am guilty as charged on that count. Yes I over-quote, but I don’t know how else to do it.
–Sirlin
October 3rd, 2007 at 9:10 am
“first, how to put sentences together properly, then having things to say”
Reminds me of Street Fighter. First, you need to know how to execute the basic moves, how to do quarter circles and dragon punch motions, how to block, etc. Then, you can learn how to fight with winning strategies, aggression, technique, yomi, etc.
October 3rd, 2007 at 9:00 pm
Sirlin: Indeed, I do have a difficult time writing outside of work. In fact, when I do my own writing, it tends to be during slow times at work. And, wouldn’t you know it, I’m trying to write a book too lol. But I’ll find the motivation to get it done.
Thanks for your response!
October 3rd, 2007 at 9:09 pm
I think a how-to blog is much more functional than anything else. If a few quotes plus some informal comments do the job, then there’s no need. There’s somewhat of a personal relationship between the writer and his readers here.
I don’t doubt that this would have been written differently had it been in an actual book “how to write”, or an impersonal article marketed at a more diverse audience.
October 3rd, 2007 at 11:01 pm
I don’t think you over-quote at all. I guess it all depends on where you put the bar, but for me, over-quoting starts happening when a critical mass of people start suspecting that your quotes are a substitute for your own rational thought, as opposed to an illustration or a compliment to your thought. You’re clearly not some “wise monkey” just spewing out stuff you’ve read or heard to sound smarter than you are. If you’re concerned with your “prose to quote ratio” and some other source says what you have to say that well, you either find something else to say, or you suck it up and quote your source. Given the context, Option B is the winning play here.
BTW I don’t wanna give any more weight to James M’s comments, especially since they’ve been resolved, but I have to say I put the title “professional editor” in the same category as “professional philosopher”, or “best selling artist”. I put them all in the “Whatever…” pile. :) But maybe I’m the ignorant one.
Cheers!
October 4th, 2007 at 4:02 am
“I spent a very time long on that one making sure it was well-written, too.”
Throughout all this arguing back and forth about writing well, I’m surprised no one brought up the one sentence that is unarguably not written well. ;)
October 4th, 2007 at 11:09 am
“I put the title “professional editor” in the same category as “professional philosopher”, or “best selling artist”. I put them all in the “Whatever…” pile. But maybe I’m the ignorant one.”
I don’t get your meaning. Writing is fairly creative and personal but editing is very much a craft rather than an art. While some of editing is opinion, a lot of it is basic technical stuff that 95% of editors will agree on. Editing is mostly a very technical job.
October 5th, 2007 at 3:18 am
Meh. I’m not gonna get into a debate over the nuances between arts and crafts (ever wonder why those two words are often close to one another? (that was a rhetorical question you don’t have to answer)), so I’ll just concede. I don’t know any editors, but if you say the top editors on the planet agree on most things I’ll take your word for it. All I know is that intuitively it’s a job anyone can do, even though most might not do it well.
October 5th, 2007 at 5:22 am
Editing is probably not really how you picture it, Rock.
Professional editing is not like when your mom reviewed your school paper and told you what parts stunk. It’s not even like when your teacher read it and marked your mistakes in red.
Most people don’t have a clue about even the basic stuff like how to use a semicolon. Meanwhile editors learn a staggering number of nit-picky rules involving stuff you’ve never even heard of, like the distinction between the hyphen, the dash, the en dash, and the em dash. Huh? I don’t even know what that stuff is, never mind how to use it!
October 5th, 2007 at 5:26 am
*LOL* I stand even MORE corrected.
October 5th, 2007 at 12:48 pm
James your day to day activities must consist of stunning wonder beyond the limits of mine, otherwise I cannot begin to comprehend how you can be so sincerely condescending.
October 11th, 2007 at 7:38 am
James M – Good writing is objective for poor writers like me, or maybe decent writers like you. My gripe with your comment is judging Stephen King as poor writing. Stephen King is well above anybody “How to Write” authors. King is able to manipulate the English language and express ideas in a way that make millions of people interested, even when they are not learning anything.
Some authors may know thousands of rules, and follow them at every paragraph of every sentence. They may sell a few thousand copies and become gurus for prospect writers and all kinds of people. Those authors deserve some props but, no matter how you fell about it, it is an undeniable fact that they can’t do what Stephen King, Agatha Christie, Dan Brown, Sidney Sheldon or even J. K. Rowlings do. Those people have a talent that far surpasses those writing “rules”, that can be very useful for all of us but have little to no use to real writers. You may not like a few of them (I don’t) and you probably don’t like any of them, but the market gave them the win. Every one of your idols pales in comparison to Stephen King. Stephen King makes more money and more movie titles. Unless you and your idols think that allowing readers to understand and motivating them to read your stuff is a bad thing, you should recognize who the masters are. I guess most people are not smart enough to understand good writing, so they buy bad stuff. The best writing would be so good that no one in the world would be able to understand it, right? It would be actually composed of some enigmatic drawings or something…
Stephen King can tell any Professional Editor to fuck off and be fine with it, BTW. The Editor would probably shut up and comply with anything in hopes of making some money.
And don’t try to twist your words, please. When you call King a McDonald’s writer you’re trying to offend him. When he does that comparison he is of course bringing up popularity. I know I’m not smart enought to recognize your weird idea of what good writing should be, but I’m also not a complete idiot.
PS: I like “undeniable fact” and some other expressions like this because it gives extra emphasis to the idea. You have no place to discredit a fact but, in case you try, I already conveyed the redundant and yet more powerful way of saying that facts are of course undeniable. In the same way I believe that many, many hours conveys a much different idea that “many hours”
David Boudreau - Sales are the measurement of a good writer. Paris Hilton managed to entertain more than most writers you like. It is a fallacy that you chose on purpose because Paris’s sales come from her exposition as a celebrity.
Stephen King was no celebrity. He just wrote in a way that touched more people than your bad-selling idols. Maybe for you the best writing is something that only a few selected superior beings can understand. Nice opinion, but Stephen King has a couple hundred million dollars that don’t exactly agree with you. “I’m so good that nobody reads me” is nota great argument, and even somebody dumb as myself can pick that up.
October 11th, 2007 at 10:44 am
“Good” is of course relative, but I think most people who care enough to discuss what makes writing “good” would not dare equate it with success.
Successful writing is writing which provides $10 of value to the most people possible.
I would consider good writing to be writing which provides the most total value to all people. Really great writing not infrequently changes people and occasionally does its part to change the world, even if only a thousand people are willing to buy it.
I think in this context we mean the capacity of writing to convey information to the reader, to carry on intellectual discourse, and to persuade. In particular, while Stephen King’s writing is entertaining to many it is probably neither causing them to learn nor to change in any way (at least the volume of escapist fiction of which I am thinking). In any case, the quote in question is by a recognized author and summarizes appropriately the message of the article so including it seems fair enough.
October 12th, 2007 at 11:16 am
The idea that “good” correlates directly to sales is not even worth considering, it’s just absurd on its face and easily disproven by example after example.
No matter how well it sells “South Beach Diet” is not one of the best books of all time, sorry.
October 14th, 2007 at 7:30 am
Nice to see some new articles. I’ve been regularly printing and reading your writings as it’s much easier on my eyes than reading too much on the PC screen. Anyhow, I’ve really enjoyed your insightful commentaries on video games and now I’m off to read this 3-part feature on writing I’ve just printed. Keep up the great work Sirlin.
October 14th, 2007 at 5:34 pm
Well I’m done reading the 3-part article about writing.
My thoughts? I found the article(s) both entertaining and insightful.
More than that, I’m prompted to look at my own ‘lack or writing’ skills.
I write some things for a website and a blog, but I don’t consider myself to be a ‘writer’. The writing I do is more a hobby than anything, but I am making the effort to learn how to effectively communicate ideas through writing.
One of the reasons I started writing a blog was to practice writing, make as many mistakes as possible and learn from them. (this ‘mistakes’ business might sound like nonsense, but it’s an important life lesson I learned from several years of martial arts training).
I actively make an effort to improve and study ‘how to write’ because at present my skills are pretty abysmal, and it’s something I kind of fell into and never planned on doing on a regular basis.
Reading your article(s) Sirlin, the one thing that matters to me more than anything else, is that you MOTIVATE your reader not just to think, but to act. I hope you don’t take this as a criticism (it’s not my intention) but that is what all the best self-growth type of authors have done so well such as Napoleon Hill or Dale Carnegie.
That is also where non-fiction can have so much potential to influence peoples lives, leading them to new ideas that challenge how they live, think and act; be it a book, essay or whatever.
Reading some of the comments here, I ask anyone who has read this far, is there room in your mind for new ideas? Writing can be whatever you want it to be. Everyone can be your teacher, why waste valuable time arguing when you could be learning from them?
October 17th, 2007 at 6:38 pm
This series of articles is invaluable. Thank you very much.
October 23rd, 2007 at 9:56 am
“The idea that “good” correlates directly to sales is not even worth considering, it’s just absurd on its face and easily disproven by example after example.
No matter how well it sells “South Beach Diet” is not one of the best books of all time, sorry. “
I agree with most of what you’ve said, but I don’t think “good” correlating to sales is absurd. Most of those authors intended to write to sell, and so they were “good” writers in that sense. You write for an audience. How else would you measure “good” with that kind of audience?
November 14th, 2007 at 3:50 am
Haha. The fruit of maturity was bitter in your mouth, I see.
Ah well, at least you matured.
Good article. All 3 parts of it.
December 25th, 2007 at 1:51 am
I’m a pretty terrible writer but there is a lot of truth to what is written here. Essentially, my specialized intelligence (in SSBM) allows me to make points others simply cannot because they lack the experience and insight. If there was someone else with the time, dedication, and experience that I have they would probably be a better writer than me. Sadly there are no such people and I get to continue my 2+ years with MLG. My writing is very bland, full of mistakes, but usually has a point and is written with heart.
January 14th, 2008 at 12:33 am
Thanks for this series; muchly appreciated.
September 14th, 2008 at 8:17 pm
I definately learned something from your articles. Especially with the political language topic.
I’m going to be heading back to College, so it would be wise of me to pick up some of the books you recommended.
Thanks again.
September 14th, 2008 at 8:18 pm
I definately learned something from your articles. Especially the political language topic.
I’m going to be heading back to College, so it would be wise of me to pick up some of the books you recommended.
Thanks again.