Off the Wall

If I had to recommend a single work to would-be writers, then unquestionably that work would be George Orwell’s essay, “Politics and the English Language.” First published in 1946, the essay is dated now in its references, but no other work talks as clearly or succinctly about the purpose of writing, or gives such useful rules for accomplishing that purpose.

The larger context of “Politics” is the use of language in social situations. As Orwell had already suggested in works like Homage to Catalonia and Animal Farm (and would later explore in detail in Nineteen Eighty-Four), the essay explores how language is used to manipulate people and conceal thoughts in “the defense of the indefensible.” However, Orwell’s tone throughout the essay makes clear that he thinks such use of language is corrupt and disgusting, and should be opposed by any writer worthy of the name. So far as Orwell is concerned, a writer’s job is to communicate clearly and effectively – both as a matter of self-respect and as a duty to the language and public discourse.

Aside from dishonest intent, the main reason for corrupt language according to Orwell is that most writers and speakers don’t stop to think what they mean. Instead, they riffle through an assortment of clichés, choosing ones that approximately fit their meaning. Orwell lists the general categories of these clichés – dying metaphors, verb phrases, pretentious diction, and meaningless words – and, although many of his examples are dated after sixty-five years,  no one with any interest in language should have any trouble coming up with modern equivalents.

Talking about the role of the writer and giving negative examples would be enough by themselves to make “Politics” worth reading. But then, at the end, Orwell does something extraordinary: he reduces how to write clearly to six simple rules:

(i) Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.

(ii) Never use a long word where a short one will do.

(iii) If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.

(iv) Never use the passive where you can use the active.

(v) Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.

(vi) Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

In less than a hundred words, Orwell not only tells readers everything they need to know about writing clearly, but provides an example of  the type of writing he advocates. The result is a set of guidelines from which anyone can benefit. Considering the thousands of pages that people have written trying to explain how to write, this is an astonishing accomplishment.

One of the reasons why these rules are so useful is their flexibility. You’ll notice that Orwell does not say, for example, “Never use a long word when you can use a short one.” Such a rule would only be another type of pretentiousness, of a sort you sometimes find in Hemingway when he is parodying himself.

Instead, he says, “Never use a long word when a short one will do.” For example, if you just want to convey a general impression of size, then “big” is probably good enough. However, if you want a suggestion of humor, then “humongous” would be more appropriate. Similarly, if want to imply something out of the ordinary range of bigness, then “outsized” might be a more effective choice.

The same goes for a several of his other rules. In general, Orwell suggests, you want to use the active voice – but only when you “can.” If you have a reason for using the passive voice (for instance, to suggest helplessness, you might want to write “A groan issued from his lips” rather than “he groaned”), then do so. In the same way, a foreign expression is only valid if there is no English equivalent; use a Latin or French phrase for any other reason, and you are probably trying to sound impressive when you should be thinking of what you want to say.  Then, just to emphasize the point, he ends by urging that you ignore any of these rules if they fail to aid the clarity of thought and expression that he assumes is a writer’s goal.

If practiced, what these rules do for you is to make you think exactly what you are trying to say. Unlike the rules that other writers propose, these are not suggestions that you can apply by rote. What they really are is a set of suggestions for how to keep your purpose actively engaged while you are writing.

What makes “Politics and the English Language” so unique – and such a necessity – is that, more than any other book or essay on writing I have ever seen, it cuts through the pretenses and the posturings and the assumptions about being a writer to articulate what writing is about and to offer concrete ways to achieve the purpose of writing.

Read (and re-read) “Politics,” and when its rules become a part of your normal writing and editing, and you will understand all you need to know about writing. After that, the rest will be practice.

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Advice from writers is always suspect. More often than not, the advice is only what the person giving it would do, and there are several alternatives that would work just as well. That means that would-be writers really need to read several pieces of advice on the same topic before deciding what the best approach for them might be.

All the same, a time arrives for many writers when they are moved to give advice. This is my time, and I can only hope that my experience teaching first year university students how to write helps to make my advice a little more universal than most such efforts.

At any rate, for better or worse, here are seven things that I wish someone had told me when I first started writing that I think are likely to be true for most writers:

• Read widely: How else can you know what has been done and what people think is possible? (they may be wrong, of course). Genre writers in particular need to read outside their chosen genre if they want to do more than produce a mid-list book that will fit one of a publisher’s monthly slots then disappear forever.
• Hard work is more reliable than inspiration or natural talent: Inspiration is wonderful when it hits, but, by definition it rarely does. Working regularly, regardless of inspiration, produces far more writing than inspiration. Writing, it turns out, is like anything else: The more you do it, the easier it becomes. That’s why so many people tell you to write daily. The same goes for natural talent, too: I have seen many writers and artists of all sorts who had natural talent fail to produce anything memorable and many initially less talented writers and artists who succeed through their determination to improve.
• Structure is more important than style: Learning how to turn a clever phrase, or even a clever paragraph, is relatively easy. Most people can learn it in a matter of a few months. By contrast, understanding structure – what needs to be said, in what order – takes years before you gain even a basic competence. A large part of the problem is that it is hard to teach, and therefore is rarely taught. Another part of the problem is that the language to discuss it often doesn’t exist (film scripts sometimes come close, but there are things you do in writing that you can’t on film). Consequently, you need to study the structure of what you admire and loath by yourself. Unfortunately, most people don’t realize the need.
• Writing and editing are two different functions: Writing is largely intuitive and unanalytical, while editing is logical and thoughtful. Both are needed to create a piece of writing, but trying to do both at the same time only makes both harder, because you are are always stopping and starting. Except when you realize that you are completely on the wrong track, try to relax your efforts at editing when you are writing, especially in the first draft. You’ll make the process much easier on yourself.
• Don’t worry about style: Concentrate instead on writing as well as you can. Style is the by-product of effective writing, not an end in itself. Focus on expressing yourself as well as you can, and your style will soon emerge.
• Only the anal-retentive obsess about grammar: A writer by definition should have a better than average knowledge of the language that they write in. However, that does not mean that they need to be experts in grammar. Grammar matters when you submit a manuscript, because you want to create the best first impression possible with an editor or agent. But, until then, worry about making what you write effective. Until then, obsessing about grammar is like worrying about the wrapping on a present, or the transitions in a slide show instead of the contents.
• You can’t please everyone: No matter how good a writer you are, nothing you write will ever please everyone. Often, some people will love and hate your work for the same quality. The reason is that everyone brings expectations and experiences to writing that are beyond your control, and very few people can distinguish between what they like and what is well-written. If most people say the same thing about a piece of writing, then they are probably right, but if one or two say something, you’re just seeing the variety of reactions to your work

Almost certainly, there are more useful pieces of advice that I could give. However,these seven points are enough to start with. Understand them and make them part of your approach to writing, and you’ll be well on your way to being a professional writer. Chances are, too, that you will have saved yourself years of development.

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When I was at university, I used to write essays from the beginning. I would ponder the title for hours, labor over the first paragraph almost as long, then gradually pick up speed as I realized what I had to say. People who contact me about my published articles often assume that I must still write that way, but teaching composition and more experience has taught me that these work habits are inefficient.

To start with, I can’t remember the last time that I approached a subject with a definite position in mind. As I’m researching, people often ask what my perspective is, and I can almost never tell them, because I honestly don’t know. I may have a predisposition towards a certain viewpoint, but as I research, that predisposition transforms, sometimes morphing out of all existence, and at the very least becoming more qualified and richer as I test it against facts. I’m sure that some people suspect me of equivocating when I tell them I don’t know what my perspective is, but all I can honestly say is that a topic interests me, either personally or because of its importance.

As I research, some ideas may start to emerge. But they are tentative, and usually change as I work, assuming they are there at all. It’s only when a deadline looms or sources start to get repetitive and I’m unlikely to pick up any additional nuances that my opinion start to take definite shape.

Just before I actually write, I start sorting my notes. At times, I print them out so that I can get a different perspective on them. I go through them, noting important points and quotes that I would like to use. Especially for a longer article, I may jot down a rough order that I think will present my opinion in the strongest way possible.

Then I begin to write. Perhaps one time in five, an opening sentence or two comes to me. But, even when I’m so lucky, I don’t spend much time on the first paragraph or section early in the process. I know that I will probably change it drastically before I’m done, and I prefer not to rewrite when I can wait for clarity instead.

The same is even truer for the title. Since I’m paranoid about losing material, I usually save whenever I pause in typing, but the file name is usually only the most general description of the topic.

Instead, I usually start with the second paragraph or section, which generally includes some background facts that don’t require much of an opinion and are therefore easy to write. However, if I’m really unclear about what I’m thinking, I scan my rough outline to find a part that I can develop easily. That’s one of the advantages of knowing the overall structure – I don’t have to start at the beginning and discover the structure through trial and error as I work.

As I start to work on my chosen starting point, I’m sometimes hoping that finishing it will help me discover another section I can write on. Without exception, it usually does, and I settle down to writing.

As I write, I stop sometimes to check a fact or the spelling of the name, thankful for how easy such checks are on the Internet. Almost always, I think of additional points that I have to add, or realize that a quote would be more effective some place else. But I almost never rearrange points in the first draft, and doing so is a sign that I’ve lost my way and need to stop and restructure. For the first draft, what matters is getting something into the file that is reasonably good.

After a five minute break, I start on the second draft. That’s where the serious restructuring and rewording happens, although, increasingly, as I gain experience, I find less and less is required. It’s here, too, that the first paragraph or section and the title take shape, since by this point my perspective is fully formed.

I leave my least favorite parts of writing – spelling and punctuation checking – for last. And, yes, that sometimes means that I skimp on them if time is short, I’m ashamed to say. But it helps that I know some of the things I need to look for, such as leaving two spaces instead of one, or the words or phrases I tend to overuse, which vary, but generally include too many unnecessary connectives.

By far the greatest part of this cycle is the research and initial organizing. It usually takes up nearly two-thirds of my time. The actual physical act of writing, when I finally begin it, is almost an epilogue to the process, taking less than fifteen percent of my time, with editing taking up the rest.

These allotments may seem counter-intuitive, but they allow me to work efficiently and produce salable copy, so I don’t think I’m likely to tinker with them much. I only wish I had discovered this work flow sooner, instead of spending so much time constantly writing and rewriting the same passage in the hopes that clarity and continuity would eventually strike and I could move on.

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Writer’s block is a problem that writers discuss a lot. Wannabes discuss it even more, possibly because the problem is more dramatic than sitting down and writing. Personally, though, I tend not to use the term, because it suggests an obstacle, and I consider writer’s block a signal from my unconscious to which I should pay attention.

Not, you understand, that I have more than a passing familiarity these days with the condition. For one thing, I find that writer’s block always disappears when I have a deadline – when I am under pressure to produce, I don’t have time for doubts and blockages, so I just ignore them and push onwards. Contrary to what you might expect, the result is not much worse or better than when I feel inspired. By contrast, I was much more prone to writer’s block when I was an amateur, and didn’t write for food and shelter.

For another, I don’t consider uncertainty anything more than a temporary problem. If I have no topic, then scanning the Internet and brainstorming produces two or three within a couple of hours – often more. If I have trouble writing a particular passage, I have enough sense of structure – either from my scribbled notes or my experience in developing a topic – that I write another part of a piece and return to the problem area later, when I have a better sense of what I’m trying to express. There is almost always a factual, non-controversial part that is easy to write, and I don’t have to start with beginning, which half the time only emerges after the rest of a piece is written.

Occasionally, though, I find myself at a complete loss about how to proceed. I lose not only the words, but – more importantly – the idea or the argument, and find myself typing the same words over and over again. Sometimes, I re-type several previous paragraphs, hoping that the I will rediscover the continuity. I grab a snack or do a small household chore, or go exercise, and, when I return, I am still no closer to knowing what I should write.

Not long ago, this state would leave me frustrated. As often as not, I would quit work in despair, and feel the world unfair and rigged against me.

Then I was hit by one of my periodic flashes of the obvious: The writer’s block was not an obstacle that kept me from writing. That was a misinterpretation (and one I believe that most people make). Instead, it was the first sign of a recognition deep in my mind that what I had already written or what I planned to write didn’t work. Either I need to review my argument, or restructure it or reword it.

In other words, writer’s block was not a sign of my incompetence or lack of direction. It was my understanding of writing trying to get my attention. Instead of resisting it and trying to overcome it by brute determination, what I actually needed was to acknowledge it and actively work with it.

Exactly what the problem was might require a little trial and error. Perhaps I need to delete a passage, or reposition it. Perhaps what I thought was a minor point is a major one, and needs to be given more attention than I had initially planned. Or perhaps two points are really one, or something is missing from the argument or the plot, like an important point or detail, or I need to anticipate and argue against a viewpoint that otherwise would counter mine. But the problem is not lack of inspiration, an inability to concentrate, or any of the other explanations I had heard. It is a structural problem, and relatively easy to solve with some thought and effort.

Once I had found that perspective, writer’s block stopped being a problem, and transformed itself into an opportunity to improve my writing. Now, when I start to lose the sense of what I’m writing or of what I will write next, I treat that loss as a signal to rethink what I’m doing. I no longer worry about the state, because I’ve learned how to work with it.

Looking back, I am only puzzled that I failed to reach this conclusion sooner. A cabinet maker faced with a problem doesn’t stop and agonize over their plight; they try to design their way around it. So why should a writer be any different, except that they have greater tradition of self-dramatization? When you stop thinking of writer’s block as an external affliction that mysteriously descends upon you and start thinking of it as a sign that something is wrong, then it becomes a problem that you can solve by making concrete changes. Once you change your thinking, you may find writer’s block not only misnamed, but also more useful than you ever imagined.

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