It’s chapter editing time. I’m coloring pages with pen-marks and throwing out verbal clutter like Marie Kondo in a hoarder’s house.
Editing is about communicating well—and we all communicate. We talk about the weather and the news, our memories and fears, our hopes. We communicate to disclose ourselves, to know others, to create shared worlds.
William Zinsser’s On Writing Well (1976; 2016) is a superb guide toward lucid writing. I encountered the book in work, but it has a universal message. We all write—whether texts and emails or blog posts and books. Why not embrace it?
Zinsser, a longtime journalist, claimed that “good writing” didn’t just happen. In On Writing Well, he acknowledged:
Writing is hard work. A clear sentence is no accident. Very few sentences come out right the first time . . . Remember this in the moments of despair. If you find that writing is hard, it’s because it is hard.
Writing is difficult! Communicating is tricky, not least on complex or polarizing topics. Today, often goaded by Twitter & Co., we assemble 250 characters and strike conversations with a speedy (if sloppy and unsolicited) two cents. We add to the noise because we can. We grasp at personal catharsis in hitting “send” (with gusto) without considering the true quality or impact of our message.
So how should we communicate? According to Zinsser, effective communicators embrace clarity. In his mind, clear writers:
“clear [their] heads of clutter”
know their audiences
delete often
“care deeply about words”
and “constantly ask: what am I trying to say?”
These habits, he argued, simplified the writing process. Rather than worrying about a personal voice or online engagement, writers just need simplicity.
It sounds easy enough, but is it?
What does it mean to declutter your mind? Like, to really clean house in there?
How well do you know your audience? Are you writing to dialogue with them or are you exasperated and railing about what you wish they’d accept?
Do you delete often? Like, an entire paragraph—or post—delete?
How’s your relationship with words? Do you throw them out there, hoping for reactions, or do you select them carefully for each use?
And finally, are you honest with yourself about your message? Is it clear to you? Do you understand? I think writing is often a process of finding out what we want to say, but we can’t figure that out unless we’re transparent with ourselves in the meantime.
They’re simple rules, just brutally difficult to implement.
I think Zinsser is good for me to think with because, well, writing has been hard lately.
Some days words flow into coherent, sublime pages. Other days they’re just stuck. In mud. Trying. To. Get. Out.
Most of the past week or two was the latter. Zinsser’s right: “Writing is hard work.”
I do think there are reasons for hope, though.
For starters, whatever we write will always be broken. The French philosopher Jacques Derrida once said that anything we write about reality is, in a sense, a farce. We will never capture endless realities in little words. Naming something already puts that thing-out-there in an unfair box. But, however limited our vocabulary and syntax, we communicate anyways. We are impelled to speak. We must write. It’s the human thing to do.
It’s also good to remember that writing isn’t about writers. Sure, Zinsser admits, there’s a bit of ego involved. You should be confident that you have something to say! But honest writing is about a relationship between writer and reader, a conversation between someone-typing-words-now and someone-else-reading-words-later.
But what if we go even further beyond the self? What if we proclaim, with St. Paul, that “it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives in me” (Galatians 2:20)? No longer I who write, but Christ? Or what if we pray with the Psalmist, that we must “make a joyful noise to the Lord” (Psalm 100:1), that we write to reveal His joy? And, by extension, what true story does Christ want me to tell today? What part of His world, that He loves, can I share?
There’s not always a clear answer, but I hope it’s a helpful set of questions. Because we do have choices to make in writing. We can choose to tell true stories. And any true story can be an act of love. Any true story can be woven into creation’s tapestry of praise.
So, on those days when the words don’t seem to work, I think we should try anyways. And try again tomorrow. And start back on Monday. And then, perhaps if it’s still not going well, take a break! If writing is damaging our well-being or stealing our peace, then we need to step back, recover, reassess, and re-engage when able.
But in the meantime, let’s tell stories.
Embrace your words.
Enjoy the ride.
Welcome back to Ascending Bookstacks.
See you tomorrow.