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Writing is acting

by Bill on March 10, 2010

Comedy and tragedy masks.I’m not big on rules or posts that say “do this” and “do that,” so this post is to simply describe how I approach writing. It might be better to say it describes what writing feels like to me.

What is that approach?

Exactly what the title says: writing is acting. This isn’t an idea I picked up in a book, or in a class, or found online, though there may be people out there who have professed or do profess this approach. It is simply something I found myself doing as I wrote.

What I mean by “acting”

When I refer to writing as being acting I mean every word is delivered by a particular character, or “voice,” even if it is a third person omniscient narrator. It could be the voice found in a business letter, some web copy, a newsletter or poem – anything that involves writing. No matter how objective and dry the text may want to be, it is still a character delivering it – in some cases a very objective and dry one. It always has a voice. The question is, who is that voice?

I’m not talking about going into some great psychological-emotional examination of character as if you were an actor getting into a role (unless what you are writing is fiction and you’re developing a character). For the most part, it’s a kind of variation on the kid’s game, “let’s pretend.”

For whatever you are writing, you put on some kind of persona. I suppose we all do it in our daily lives behaving one way at work, another in a meeting with a client, another at home, another at a party. But it’s the persona that gives you the voice and the voice dictates the style – even the language. And for me, it all becomes much more easy when I’m “in character.”

Mimicry

I think what lies behind it is mimicry. As with many, if not most, writers, I began as a reader. Once started, soon I was reading just about everything I could find – old novels, new novels, science fiction, crime, mysteries, classic literature, books in translation and on and on. Also, when I turned on the radio or watched television, I listened. I also listened to the world around me — immediate family, relatives, friends, neighbours and on and on.

What I heard was a myriad of voices, some with puzzling syntax, unexpected contractions, emphases put in places that were strange (to me).

When I started writing, almost all of it was mimicry, a channeling and regurgitation of all these voices found in words on the page or heard spoken.

Of course, all of the writing I did was utterly wretched. But I was learning and, even better, I was having fun. The best learning is about discovery and the more you discover the more curious you become.

I kept doing it because, for me, it was fun and after a while it ceased to be mimicry. Somehow, it had become mine. I couldn’t tell you how but all of those styles I had come across, all the characters I had found and all the voices I had heard were mysteriously filed away so they could be called upon as persona templates, in a sense. They were starting places, if nothing else.

When I write something like a business letter I become a businessman with his own or her own voice. I write in a business-like fashion less because there are certain expectations and styles associated with a business letter than because that is how the character I become would write – a business person would write in a business-like way.

When I did editing work on some legal documents, I became a lawyer. I was anything but an actual lawyer but I employed his or her voice and his or her way of looking at text because in a sense I was playing a lawyer as an actor would. I was also trying to approximate how a lawyer might think as he or she looked at the text.

In fiction, if I‘m telling a story in the third person I might become my grandfather. He was great at telling stories. He was a natural raconteur (of course, he was Irish). Or I might assume another persona. But all writing comes from someone and I have to become that someone in order to write.

You might say, “Why not be yourself?” The answer is I do. But I emerge from the totality of the writing, the sum and not the parts. To take an example from fiction, ask yourself if you think the narrative voice found in the novels of Cormac McCarthy is the same voice of he uses in the world, the one you would hear him use in a casual conversation or while in a grocery store. His narrative voice comes, I believe, from a persona or character he assumes as he writes. It is both him and not him.

It’s just “let’s pretend”

All writing is acting. Even a narrator is a character – even if he or she is passively objective. A classified ad requires writing and that means it, too, requires a persona/character. For your wallet’s sake, that character will practice brevity. Business writing requires a business person’s approach and their language, unless they are speaking to customers when what they need is a customer’s voice and point of view.

You don’t need to go to acting school. You just have to remember what it was to be a child and playing “let’s pretend.” You need to be the voice you’re using.

A question often asked in marketing about companies, products and services is, “What’s your story?” The other question you need to ask is, “Who’s telling my story?” This second question is often taken to mean whether the teller is you, your customers or your competition. The other way to look at it is, if the answer is that you are telling your story, who are you and do you sound like who you think you are?

It may be that, if there is any trick to writing, it’s in not writing like a writer. That may be the one persona you can’t put on. Unless, I suppose, you’re writing for other writers. But that would be kind of boring, don’t you think?

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What’s wrong with being silly?

by Bill on March 9, 2010

Let us dream of evanescence, and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.
- Okakura Kazuko -

Why is a certain kind of writing always assumed to be for children? I’m thinking about writing that would include writers like Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein. It’s writing characterized by silliness and humour.

I write quite a bit of it and whenever I show it to someone they invariably say, “Oh, kids would love this! You should write a childrens’ book.” Why?

I can honestly say that whenever I have written something of this kind – something silly – children have never entered my mind. I’ve written for myself. I love this stuff. (Note: in excess, it can get annoying and very quickly.)

A lot of other adults appear to love it too. But it isn’t serious or “adult” enough so, in order to justify liking it, we say it’s for children. I don’t have children so I don’t know if I even could write a book for an audience of children. On the other hand, I have been a child so I do have first hand experience.

When we enjoy something but it doesn’t have the serious aspect we think we, as adults, should carry, we choose to see it as something “for children.” I’d be willing to bet that the vast majority of childrens’ books sold appealed to adults first, adults who then figured their kids would love it. It may well be that children will like them but it’s the adults who really love them. It’s adults deciding what their children will or won’t like based on what they, the adults, do or don’t like.

What’s wrong with being silly? If the issues we deal with in our lives and in the world can be considered heavy (poverty, income, relationships) it is humour, including silliness, that leavens it and makes it light enough to make a start and continue with those tasks.

You can’t always be silly. It would be irresponsible and irritating as hell. But sequestering it as something that “children will love” is a kind of denial that misreads who we are. And on the subject of silliness:

Cinnamon cat

The cinnamon cat.Cinnamon Cat follows the scent
of cinnamon dust and that
is the only concern of the cinnamon kitty
known as the Cinnamon Cat.

She loves a bun, honeyed and swirled,
swirled with her favourite taste.
She’ll sticker her nose with honey and spice,
and no crumb goes to waste.

But taste isn’t what the Cinnamon Cat
finds precious in a bun,
and it isn’t honey that sticks her there;
it’s the scent of cinnamon.

Beware how you dress and perfume your wrist
and how you cologne your cravat.
If you’ve even a hint of a cinnamon stick,
you’ll be stuck with a Cinnamon Cat.

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Words and how they sound

by Bill on March 8, 2010

Dancing coupleThe way words sound is critical to their effectiveness. How they are arranged is also critical. Language is musical; sentences are rhythmic. We don’t usually think in these terms though. But poets know it. Rappers know it. And writers of prose, if they’re good, they know it too.

I’m currently reading Seth Godin’s latest book, Linchpin, and it’s clear he knows it. You’ll see longer, sometimes clausal sentences followed by one or two short, punctuation-like sentences. Writers often do this. (I just did it there.) It’s like a joke: set up followed by a quick punchline. Doing this emphasizes your key point. Hopefully, it makes it memorable.

Words acquire their music by an arrangement of consonants and vowels and accents, some hard (“eat”) and some soft (“where”). A word itself has a certain rhythm, a beat or combination of them, and in a sentence can help create a more complex rhythm as it sits side by side with other words and their rhythm(s).

It all combines to create the music of words.

French is an interesting language (sometimes called one of the romance languages). We associate it with softness, I think, and even elegance – especially when we don’t actually speak it. We don’t understand the meaning but we hear how it sounds and the sound alone carries a meaning, though it’s often wrongly interpreted.

For example, let’s suppose a restaurant is opening. We’re going to call the restaurant, La merde de chien. Now, if we don’t speak French and are utterly unfamiliar with it, we don’t know what that means. But it sounds as if it might be elegant. Knowing nothing about the restaurant, we might assume it’s a fine dining establishment. Maybe it specializes in French cuisine.

We just don’t know but we do know that La merde de chien sounds as if it could be a top drawer place. There are so many soft sounds in La merde de chien. We might picture soft lighting. We might imagine a piano or a string quartet playing quietly in a corner.

We would imagine something altogether different if we knew it meant Dog Poop.

If we know what La merde de chien means it will strike us that the sound and the meaning are at cross-purposes. (I’m assuming an English speaking person’s perspective here.) Sometimes that is the effect we want. It’s an effect I wanted here. I wanted sound and meaning to disagree as a way to illustrate how the sound of words works.

The words we choose are guided by our purpose. What do we want them to do? What message are they meant to convey? This should determine the words we choose – not simply for their dictionary meaning but also for how the sound of the words also conveys the meaning.

Two more examples … Why do we usually call them PCs and not personal computers? Because personal computer is six syllables with really only one hard sound (the u in computer). It’s a bit soft and clunky. PC is two syllables, both accented and rolls off the tongue with ease. It has a catchier rhythm, like a jingle or pop song.

Why call a Macintosh a Mac? Why Mac and not Tosh? Mac is one syllable, one beat. Tosh is also one syllable, one beat but Mac ends with a hard sound, Tosh with a soft sound. Macintosh has a better rhythm than personal computer but, like Tosh, ends softly. Mac doesn’t. It is hard and it sounds like what Apple would like us to think about their computers: tough and efficient and effective. It’s a period. All those other words are commas.

abe_lincoln01

A final, perfect example of the music of words, is Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. If you read the text you’ll hear how, while called a speech, it is really a poem. And a poem is really just a fancy word for song.

Why would Lincoln say, “Four score and seven years ago …” and not simply, “Eighty-seven years ago …?” Why would he conclude with the repetition of, “… government of the people, by the people, for the people …?”

It was for the music of it. It was for the sound. When sound and meaning intersect and are one, words resonate. They stick in the mind and they’re remembered.

They work like all get out.

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The peculiar tone of writing rules

by Bill on March 4, 2010

Tone is an expression of attitude. It tells people how we feel about something. In writing, it tells the reader how we feel about our subject.

Or does it?

We usually have two or more feelings about a topic though not simultaneously. There is an initial gut response. Then there is a more reasoned response. It’s often unchanged but perhaps not as extreme as the first. It’s a “toned down” response. Since discussions progress, our attitude may change further as we get more information and see other perspectives.

I began thinking about tone after my post Ten off-the-cuff writing rules which included a link to Ten rules for writing fiction (lists made by other writers). In my list and in many of those other lists, there was a common tone.

There is something about making a list of rules, especially writing rules, that seems to shoehorn people into a particular tonal stance: somewhat dogmatic, a bit pontificating. There is an air of absolutism in the rules though I don’t think anyone actually feels any rules about writing are absolute or even close to that.

I think it may have something to do with the conflict between feeling rules for writing are silly and knowing that for each of us, individually, there actually are rules we follow (though it may be more true to say there are particular techniques we use). So when we present “ten rules for writing” or something similar there is an element of the facetious, or self-mockery. However, that element is so buried it comes out as dogmatism. “Do this and do that.”

The rules we present are really descriptions of ourselves as writers. Put more accurately, each of our rules would read, “To write like me, do this.”

It may have something to do with the brevity we feel something like a rule requires. Who ever heard of a rule that went on for several pages with a really full description, clauses, exceptions and addenda? We expect rules to be short. Thus, when we set down a rule we generally keep it brief but, because we know nothing is as simple as that, we’re a bit frustrated and that mocking element slips in.

We know rules are nonsense so we can’t help feeling a kind of conflict in saying, “This is what you must do.” If you read Elmore Leonard’s list (“Using adverbs is a mortal sin”) you know they are great rules – if you want to write like Elmore Leonard. But if you’re another kind of writer, it might simply be a helpful guideline that, if applied too rigidly, makes your work stilted or gives it a feel that is inappropriate to its theme.

But if we equivocate, we undercut our rule. So we have an inner conflict because the rule is true but not necessarily everywhere, for everyone. This conflict makes itself manifest in a tone that is dogmatic. Yet when you look at it closely, it isn’t really dogmatism but a kind struggle between helpful advice and facetiousness. We know that what we’re really doing is describing ourselves and pretending it’s a rule for writing. So deep down we’re a little uncomfortable because we feel we’re a little bit like flim-flam artists. We try to mask that discomfort with a bit of bravado.

Still, the “rules” we present are usually good ones for someone who wants to improve their writing. They can try them out to see if they work for them. They just have to keep in mind that of they don’t work, junk them.

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A follow-up bonus writing rule

by Bill on February 23, 2010

Columbo - "Just one more thing ..."I had a bonus rule, number #11, included in yesterday’s post, Ten off-the-cuff writing rules. I deleted it because I started trying to explain my meaning and realized it should be a separate post.

Here is that rule:

#11 For marketing purposes, you may wish to refer to yourself as a business writer, a fiction writer, a web writer, SEO writer, technical writer and so on. There are many kinds of writer you can choose to be. However, that is just marketing. Writers write. Everything. You only describe yourself as a particular kind of writer because that is what someone willing to pay you wants to hear. When that person wants a copywriter, you’re a copywriter. When they want a web writer, you’re a web writer. But you are a writer. Period.

To clarify: Don’t confuse interest and knowledge with writing. You may have no interest in technical writing (it can be pretty dull). You may feel ill-qualified to write it because the subject matter is one you know little of (though keep in mind, there are subject matter experts with whom you consult). A certain kind of writing may have certain requirements and constraints that you need to keep in mind while writing, but writing is still writing.

For a certain job you may need to describe yourself as a “kind” of writer – technical, copy, web and so on. But writing is writing. You are a writer.

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Ten off-the-cuff writing rules

by Bill on February 22, 2010

list_150I began this list last Thursday. I finished it off Saturday morning. Surprisingly, on Saturday I also came across Ten rules for writing fiction. It seems I wasn’t alone in putting together a list. (Those writers, by the way, are much better than I am so their lists should carry a good deal more weight than mine.) There is no order to my list. They are “off-the-cuff,” jotted down as they popped into my head. They read as follows:

#1 If you’re the kind of writer so very good that only modesty withholds the modifier “great,” you can ignore rules. By the way, if you’re that kind of writer you’re probably dead and have been for some time.

#2 Writing correctly is not the same as writing well. A sentence can be perfectly grammatical yet fail to communicate its message. Some sentences are ungrammatical yet communicate their meaning immediately and clearly.

#3 Writing isn’t about words, it is about communicating. Words are just the tool. Don’t fall in love with language.

#4 Few things are as discouraging to readers as very long paragraphs. Break it up. Better still, brutally look at what you’ve written and ask if it is really necessary. The answer is usually no.

#5 Get to the point. Immediately. Don’t write long paragraphs to set things up (referred to as exposition or back story). If that material is truly necessary, you can toss it in later (however, see rule #8).

#6 Read everything you write out loud. If you can’t read it out loud easily and fluidly, something is wrong with it. Rewrite it or drop it. (Additionally, read material that is not your own out loud. It will help convey to you how things should read and sound – or the opposite.)

#7 Listen. Everyone has their own way of speaking. They use particular words, phrasing and syntax. By listening, you’ll find new ways of constructing sentences and hear how language can communicate character (among other things). You’ll also notice that people rarely use long, clause-filled sentences.

#8 Edit. Rewrite. Edit. Rewrite. Edit. Rewrite. Repeat until doctors start suggesting Prozac.

#9 Your favourite writing is usually your worst, pretty as it may be. It’s the stuff that needs to be junked. It’s sad but true. On the other hand, it’s a great way to flag material that should be dropped. If you love it, that’s a sign something is wrong.

#10 Getting paid beats compliments every time.

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A few links worth a look

by Bill on February 20, 2010

I’ve been busy this week and haven’t posted anything. (The web collectively mutters, “Thank heaven!”) But I have come across a few things that caught my attention.

The first is oodles of writers providing their rules for their craft and while it is in a fiction context many, if not all, are applicable to any kind of writing. The second is a brief Seth Godin post that points to how to use clichés (and why they work). Third is a post of my own from my other site, included if only because it has been ages since I’ve added anything new (probably of limited interest). And finally … a post that begins talking about language but soon reveals itself to be about impermanence. It’s interesting, at least to me, and may prompt me to write a lengthy post of my own. We’ll see.

And now the links:

Ten rules for writing fiction

“Get an accountant, abstain from sex and similes, cut, rewrite, then cut and rewrite again – if all else fails, pray. Inspired by Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing, we asked authors for their personal dos and don’ts.”

How to use clichés (Seth Godin)

“The effective way to use a cliché is to point to it and then do precisely the opposite.”

A Lady Takes a Chance -1943 (Piddleville)

After having it on my computer for about two months in a half-finished state, I’ve finally posted my take on A Lady Takes a Chance (1943). It stars Jean Arthur and John Wayne and, yes, it’s a romantic comedy.

Let’s Get Radical (thinkBuddha.org)

“… We are, perhaps, not very good at thinking about change. Western thought, in particular, seems to be very wedded to an idea of stasis as the fundamental condition of things.”

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My Christmas wish is for an editor

by Bill on December 14, 2009

workstation01.jpgI have a recurring wish and that is for an editor. Since it’s the Christmas season, I’ll say it’s my Christmas wish. I’d like an editor. That’s what I want – my own personal editor.

My definition of editor is someone who goes over what I’ve written, corrects or points out the typos, grammatical mistakes and the spelling mistakes. He or she would also be the person who understands what I’m trying to do or say in my writing, how I write and knows when those mistakes of grammar are intended and when they are just bonehead mistakes. They do more, too.

They look at what I’ve written and say things like, “This is rubbish. Toss it and write something else,” or, “This is awful. Not a bad idea, but really bad writing. Did you bother to think this through?”

They know when to have fun and when to be serious. They monitor and say things like, “It’s time for you to shut up. You’re talking (posting) too much.” This is because they monitor everything and, because they do, pick up when the line of excess has been crossed or is about to be, hopefully before anyone else does.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a real editor. For the most part, the editor is me and I think I do a lousy job. I also think the reason for that is laziness – though there is some merit in saying it’s being too busy. I know others have schedules they’ve set up for themselves, processes they go through prior to publishing online and all kinds of other little checks and balances, all of which they’ve created and put in place for themselves.

I’m not like that. I need those things imposed from an external source – in other words, someone else. I’m one of those people who, no matter how many times he tries to, can’t sustain discipline when it is self-imposed. I’ve had assignments in the past where when I ask for a deadline I’m told, “No rush. When you can get to it.” I tell those people to give me a date, even if it is arbitrary. I tell them that if they don’t, it won’t get done.

It’s another reason I want an editor. I want someone setting time frames and setting up constraints. That is how I work best.

Strangely enough, one of the times I most want an editor is when I’m at my best. When I’ve written something really good, be it a blog post, an article, a piece of fiction or web copy, I want other eyes that see with the same standards I have. I’ve found the better my writing is the less sure I am that it is good.

It seems good. I like it. But maybe I’m kidding myself and it’s rubbish. I can’t tell and the more I debate it with myself the more uncertain I become  and the more picky I get and the more I “tweak.”

The word ‘standards’ may not be the best to use. While it is correct, strictly speaking, it doesn’t include in its meaning the sense of aspiration. I want an editor that can see what the writing aspires to be and can say, while in terms of standards it fits the bill, it either falls short or achieves what it aspires to be.

Anyone know who that person is? Got an email address? I can’t pay them anything so I’d like them to work for free and be at my beck and call. It’s my Christmas wish.

Would someone get on that please?

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Give me crap or give me death

by Bill on December 5, 2009

Yes, I’m being hyperbolic in my title. Given the choice between rubbish and life I’ll take life every time. But I like what is often considered to be “crap.” There are only two things about it that I object to: excess and exclusivity.

I object to the way, when something has some degree of success, it is milked for all it is worth. I also object to the idea of a world that is crap and nothing else.

I’m speaking here about entertainment and/or art – books, movies, television, music, games and so on. We go through recurring phases where many of us feel that the world has gone to hell in a handcart and the end of culture is nigh because we have succumbed to the avaricious tendrils of crap. I don’t think it has ever been true.

I recall when everything was Dan Brown’s book The Da Vinci Code (which produced many copycats and inevitably became a movie). Loads of people told me it was crap. It wasn’t real writing. It was just awful.

I should write so badly!

If I could write a book like The Da Vinci Code I would. I might then buy an island to retire to and write a real book, but I doubt it. I’m pretty sure I would like my successful book and probably would try writing another. I can’t write a book like The Da Vinci Code if only because I’ve not the fortitude for the research involved.

I did read Brown’s book though. I thought his sentences were pretty pedestrian. But wow! He had the “what happens next?” aspect nailed. Yes, it’s a good, entertaining book. It’s not Dostoevsky but then it doesn’t try to be.

Scene from Twilight: New MoonCurrently we’re overwhelmed by Twilight – the books, the movies, the 24-hour feed of entertainment news about New Moon, the actors, the food they ate … all that stuff. Yes, it’s certainly annoying and I think you could probably set an egg timer on how long before the backlash starts (if it hasn’t already).

Like all backlashes, however, it will appear to be about the movies and books – they’re awful! They’re crap! They’re artless! The truth is that the backlash will be about the excess and it will be about the perception that the world has become exclusively about Twilight (and that won’t be quite true).

(Twilight, by the way, is simply the most visible example of an obsession with vampires and zombies in movies, books and games – an obsession that will pass as it always does.)

I think the only legitimate criticism of books and movies like these is the way the excess of marketing obscures other works – works themselves that may be well-made crap that is lost to us and works that have a more serious intent to them, equally lost.

People, however, like their crap, including me. And why shouldn’t we? There is a long history of art and literature that was the product of what is discounted as crap. Shakespeare, for instance, wrote people-pleasing rubbish. He, however, saw that it is possible to do that and make something more meaningful at the same time. Had plastic explosives been around in the Elizabethan period, I’m pretty sure old Polonius would have died in a car bomb incident in Hamlet.

The thing about crap is that when it succeeds it is fun and it is communal. You can talk to just about anyone about The Da Vinci Code, just as you can talk to everyone about Twilight. Even people who haven’t read or seen them have something to contribute.

I saw quotes from some well-known actors recently bemoaning the state of films today. The complaint is essentially that there are few roles with any weight, studios and audiences only want crap. I can sympathize with their plight but at the same time I can’t help thinking they are seeing it through actors’ eyes and not those of the audience.

Those making the complaint are also what is often termed “seasoned,” meaning they are older and have years of experience as actors. I’m not sure a younger actor would make the same complaint. I think they tend to be thankful for the work, are enjoying the ride and the gaining of experience, and are likely a bit bedazzled by the zoo that attends success.

Whenever I speak to people who are not cinema lovers, those people who make up the majority of the potential audience, people who simply want to “see a movie,” they are almost always reluctant to see something they perceive as “serious.” They simply want spectacle and/or laughs. They don’t want to go to a movie for an insight into life and people. They want escapism. What’s wrong with that?

If this observation is accurate then it is sheer dreaming to expect anyone to invest big money into something that might have a bit more meat on it. The kind of money that attends filmmaking, such as salaries, production costs, distribution and everything else, dictates trying to make a crowd-pleaser – bombs and bums. Comic books. Vampires and zombies (until it changes to something else).

The really good writers do what Shakespeare did: give the audience what it wants and, while doing that, subversively work themes and ideas into it that bring it an unexpected weight. It is definitely not an easy thing to do and it succeeds rarely.

Movies that are considered serious still get made – I think they get called dramas, usually independent films popular on the festival circuit. They succeed too, occasionally surprising us by doing so. But generally their appeal is to a much smaller audience and so, when made, that has to be considered and that means a smaller budget. To spend $200 million on a movie about surviving cancer would be to flush $200 million down the toilet despite the best intentions and the best outcomes.

One last thing … For all the nonsense that gets hyped, critiqued and discussed, the really big winners rarely do so simply because of their spectacle aspects. Say what you will about The Da Vinci Code, it worked because it was a well-executed mystery. Twilight? Yes, it’s about vampires, just as Titanic was about the spectacle of the world’s largest ship sinking. With all the vampire books and movies however, why would Twilight be so successful? From what I’ve heard it, like Titanic, is a love story. You may find them corny, unrealistic love stories, but that is what they are. And those who think they are nonsense should consider the age of the demographic they most appeal to and maybe ask themselves if somewhere along the line they have forgotten what it is to be young.

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Writers write too much

by Bill on November 24, 2009

Yes, writers write way too much (including me). There are a number of reasons why. I’ll outline some below but first, how can I make such a claim? I can because I am a writer and a reader. It’s the reader that tells me we write too much. It’s the writer that tries to figure out why.

Love of it: Writers love to write. That’s why they write. This becomes a problem because we’re often self indulgent and very much enthralled with our own opinions. It is exacerbated by the web (where you write as much as you want for as long as you want) and the reality that there are few editors going over what is written and even fewer good editors.

Word count: In many cases, particularly with professional writing such as magazines, newspapers and so on, there is a word count imposed. One thousand words on a topic. It may well be, however, that what you have to say can be stated in a simple five word sentence. Word count demands that you dribble on for another 995 words.

This isn’t to say there shouldn’t be a word count. More often than not it prevents us from going on and on and on (because we love writing). It’s also a necessity because of how people read and the publishing format. It can simply be too labour intensive and costly to constantly design due to varying lengths.

Process: This is the interesting one and the one where an absence of a good editor really shows. More often than not writers preface what they actually have to say because that is how we get into what we are writing about. “I had been living in New York for ten years and had witnessed the seasons change in the pulsating city … blah blah blah.” After several paragraphs, even pages, you get to the point: you moved from New York to L.A.

The preface itself may not necessarily be superfluous (though it usually is), but it represents a writer’s viewpoint, not a reader’s. For the reader it’s a case of, “Why in the world am I reading this? What’s the point?” You have to keep reading before you ever get to the point, the one that may make the preface understandable.

I’ve seen this over and over and especially in my own writing. Before we get into the writing groove of our topic, we ramble on looking for our way in. That’s fine – it’s the process. But it isn’t fine if you make the reader go through it too.

The reason I’ve written this post, by the way, is because I came across a really good post yesterday that I never finished because the writer went on and on. What he had written could have been written in half the number of words or less.

This problem is evident in my own posts. I’ve written oodles. But how much of it was unnecessary? Quite a bit, I think.

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