Having worked with writers of all different ages and education backgrounds, I’ve observed first-hand that most of us possess an innate sense of what makes good writing—even if we don’t have the terminology to explain it. It doesn’t matter if it’s been 30 years since our last grammar lesson or if we missed grammar altogether. We know good writing when we read it or hear it.
If I explained that in “active voice,” the subject in a sentence does what the verb describes, whereas, in “passive voice,” the action described by the verb is done to the subject, would you instinctively know what I mean? Probably not.
But if I ask you which sentence in the following pairs sounds better:
• “Shawn fumbled the ball” or “The ball was fumbled by Shawn”?
• “The pilot landed the plane” or “The plane was landed by the pilot”?
• “Lightning struck the tree” or “The tree was struck by lightning”?
I’ll bet money you pick the first sentence in each pair—the active voice. It’s more forceful and direct and creates a stronger image. It’s not about right or wrong; it’s about vigor.
In the passive sentences above, the original objects of the verbs (“ball,” “plane” and “tree”) become the subjects of the sentences. None of the passive constructions are incorrect; they’re just weak.
One strategy for building active sentences is to avoid the use of “to be” verbs: is, are, was, were, had been, would be—the list goes on and on. The subject doesn’t act, but is acted upon, resulting in less vigorous sentences. Which constructions sound stronger?
• “She was seen by Sam” or “Sam saw her”?
• “There were branches blocking the road” or “Branches blocked the road”?
• “He had been forced to move out of his home because of foreclosure” or “Foreclosure forced him out of his home”?
In the active sentences—the second one in each pair—the “to be” verbs get out of the way so the meaning rings clear. Notice, too, that the active sentences are shorter than the passive ones. A side-benefit of active voice, then, is tighter, more concise writing.
So what causes us to lapse into passive voice?
Too often, I think, we forget to apply our innate sense of good writing to our own work. And because writing isn’t easy, we get intimidated, and before we know it, we’ve downshifted into passivity. We’ll sound more scholarly if we say, “The ball was fumbled by Shawn,” rather than spitting out the truth: “Shawn fumbled the ball,” right?
We need look no further than the 85-page handbook on grammar and usage, “The Elements of Style,” for answers. Written by William Strunk Jr. in 1919 and revised and updated by E.B. White in 1959, it remains—to this day—the gold standard for composition students (which means “all of us”).
Chapters I and II offer 22 basic rules of composition, but it’s Rule 14 that makes me quake in my boots. Every time I write a passive sentence that depends on a weak, “to be” verb for its survival, I feel the ghost of Strunk shouting from the rafters, “USE THE ACTIVE VOICE,” and I heed his command.
Try this: On your next piece of writing—no matter what the purpose or audience—challenge yourself to write the entire piece without using a single “to be” verb. Enlist verbs that push hard and create motion, imagery, sound and smell. Use verbs whose sounds suggest what they mean: slither, dazzle, twirl, sizzle, pamper, sniff. When you revise, banish every passive construction you can do without. Then stand back and watch your writing jitterbug.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Cut the Fat
Robert Browning said it best: “Less is more.”
So why do we write as though “more is better”? Why do we use five words when one is sufficient? Why do we think we sound smarter if we use fancy words over simple? Why do we use passive language when arguing a point? Why do we dodge and evade when the goal is communication? Why all the repetitious redundancies? (Who, me?)
Why are we full of hot air?
As William Zinsser says in his classic writing guide, On Writing Well, “Clutter is the disease of American writing. We are a society strangling in unnecessary words, circular constructions, pompous frills and meaningless jargon.” Okay, so we’re windbags. But finding out why we’re “strangling in unnecessary words” is not nearly as important to me as helping writers cut the fat. Period.
I call it “tightening.” It means making each sentence as lean and clean as possible; cutting every word that doesn’t pull its weight. As an editor and writing coach, clutter is the most noxious weed I encounter; tightening terminates it (like that fancy wording?).
Sometimes readers slog through so much clutter they have no idea what the writer means by the sentence’s end. Other times, writers use so many inflated words—trying to sound intelligent—that the sentence is unintelligible. And what about passive sentence constructions? After several in a row, the reader is left with a string of weak-kneed drivel. Then there’s the artful dodger, who dances around the truth with evasions and euphemisms. And what about all those “baby puppies,” “small smidgeons” and “true facts”? Redundancies, all.
It’s time to tighten—and you can do it at any stage of the writing process. I tighten as I’m writing a first draft and again, as I revise. Once you get the hang of it, your writing will never be the same again. It becomes your secret weapon.
Try this: Look over a recent piece of your writing with a magnifying glass. It doesn’t matter if it’s an office memo, an application letter, a short story or a memoir. Get out the red pen and mark every word that’s not absolutely necessary. Be ruthless.
Then rethink and tighten. It works like this:
• “We agreed to collaborate” becomes “We collaborated.”
• “After encouraging consultation with her supervisor, she decided the time had come to actuate her potential by going back to school” becomes “With her boss’s encouragement, she went back to school.”
• “I offered my assessment of the plan” becomes “I assessed the plan.”
• “I would tend to agree with her position in theory” becomes “I agree with her.”
• “Generally speaking, the reduction in force failed to distress him” becomes “Being fired didn’t faze him.”
• “The factual evidence proves that we heard the song once before in the past” becomes “The evidence proves we heard the song before.”
Now revise. Just make sure that in the process of tightening, you don’t squeeze the life out your writing. The goal is to cut the fat without changing your original meaning or losing your voice.
So why do we write as though “more is better”? Why do we use five words when one is sufficient? Why do we think we sound smarter if we use fancy words over simple? Why do we use passive language when arguing a point? Why do we dodge and evade when the goal is communication? Why all the repetitious redundancies? (Who, me?)
Why are we full of hot air?
As William Zinsser says in his classic writing guide, On Writing Well, “Clutter is the disease of American writing. We are a society strangling in unnecessary words, circular constructions, pompous frills and meaningless jargon.” Okay, so we’re windbags. But finding out why we’re “strangling in unnecessary words” is not nearly as important to me as helping writers cut the fat. Period.
I call it “tightening.” It means making each sentence as lean and clean as possible; cutting every word that doesn’t pull its weight. As an editor and writing coach, clutter is the most noxious weed I encounter; tightening terminates it (like that fancy wording?).
Sometimes readers slog through so much clutter they have no idea what the writer means by the sentence’s end. Other times, writers use so many inflated words—trying to sound intelligent—that the sentence is unintelligible. And what about passive sentence constructions? After several in a row, the reader is left with a string of weak-kneed drivel. Then there’s the artful dodger, who dances around the truth with evasions and euphemisms. And what about all those “baby puppies,” “small smidgeons” and “true facts”? Redundancies, all.
It’s time to tighten—and you can do it at any stage of the writing process. I tighten as I’m writing a first draft and again, as I revise. Once you get the hang of it, your writing will never be the same again. It becomes your secret weapon.
Try this: Look over a recent piece of your writing with a magnifying glass. It doesn’t matter if it’s an office memo, an application letter, a short story or a memoir. Get out the red pen and mark every word that’s not absolutely necessary. Be ruthless.
Then rethink and tighten. It works like this:
• “We agreed to collaborate” becomes “We collaborated.”
• “After encouraging consultation with her supervisor, she decided the time had come to actuate her potential by going back to school” becomes “With her boss’s encouragement, she went back to school.”
• “I offered my assessment of the plan” becomes “I assessed the plan.”
• “I would tend to agree with her position in theory” becomes “I agree with her.”
• “Generally speaking, the reduction in force failed to distress him” becomes “Being fired didn’t faze him.”
• “The factual evidence proves that we heard the song once before in the past” becomes “The evidence proves we heard the song before.”
Now revise. Just make sure that in the process of tightening, you don’t squeeze the life out your writing. The goal is to cut the fat without changing your original meaning or losing your voice.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
See you in February!
I'm combining January and February into one blog, so check back in early February.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Just Do It
“There are years that ask questions
and years that answer.”
-Zora Neale Hurston
It’s early December, which means it’s time for me to write the annual holiday letter—because in my family, the task always falls to me.
I arise from bed with determination. After transferring a load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, I eat some oatmeal, make coffee and with a steaming cup in hand, I climb the stairs to my office, walking right past the unread newspaper. I open the lid of my laptop with ceremony and push the power button with a flourish. Settling into my chair, I sip coffee as I watch the screen come to life. I open a new Word file and name it “Holiday Letter.2008.” So far, so good.
But instead of staring at the screen, I stare out the window above my desk, looking for inspiration. Then I remember how much more inspired and focused I am after a brisk walk or run. And besides, the sun’s out this morning. I need to catch some Vitamin D before the clouds move in. I lace up my running shoes, put the leash on the dog and we hit the open road.
When I return an hour later, I’m greeted by the buzzzzz of the dryer alarm, reminding me I need to fold the clothes before they wrinkle. As I head upstairs, folded clothes in hand, I notice the dog hair that’s collected in the corners of the stairs. No choice but to vacuum. And while I’m at it, I realize it would be silly to only vacuum the stairs. So I vacuum the whole house.
Then I remember today’s priority. I march back upstairs and as I plop down in front of the computer, I catch a whiff of myself. Phew! After all that walking and vacuuming, I have no alternative but to shower.
Refreshed, I return to my desk and decide I should reread holiday letters from past years. I’m so flooded with nostalgia that I barely hear the sound of Steely Dan on my cell phone, my daughter’s ring tone. Can’t ignore her call—we haven’t talked in over a week. Forty-five minutes later, I’m back at my computer.
But before my fingers hit the keyboard, I make the mistake of looking up at the clock. It’s time for lunch. I march back downstairs and slap together a peanut butter sandwich. While I eat, I glance at the newspaper splayed out on the kitchen table. I don’t let myself read the conclusion of any story that jumps to another page.
Enough is enough. I march back upstairs, slide my legs under the desk, and with a deep sigh, begin to write. And as I do, I remind myself of the goals I set for myself each year:
1) To remember who my audience is—friends and family—who accept me for who I am. Why would I need to impress them with lengthy descriptions of my trip to Spain, the achievements of my kids and my husband’s work accomplishments? (The trip immersed me in a new culture; the kids have found their niches and are happy and healthy; and Jim still finds his job stimulating.)
2) To write in first-person. Although I’ll mention something about every member of my family, the viewpoint of the letter is mine. I remind myself how irritating I find letters in which the writer—for example, Kathy—writes about herself in third-person.
3) To use my own speaking voice. I want to sound like I’m talking to friends and family around the kitchen table.
4) To find the blessings in the last year. And the humor—always, the humor.
5) To not be afraid to tell the truth. Maybe, as Zora Neale Hurston reminds me, the last year has been one with more questions than answers. No need for gory details. Just enough honesty, grace and reflection for my friends and family to know that next year, I’ll probably have more answers.
and years that answer.”
-Zora Neale Hurston
It’s early December, which means it’s time for me to write the annual holiday letter—because in my family, the task always falls to me.
I arise from bed with determination. After transferring a load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, I eat some oatmeal, make coffee and with a steaming cup in hand, I climb the stairs to my office, walking right past the unread newspaper. I open the lid of my laptop with ceremony and push the power button with a flourish. Settling into my chair, I sip coffee as I watch the screen come to life. I open a new Word file and name it “Holiday Letter.2008.” So far, so good.
But instead of staring at the screen, I stare out the window above my desk, looking for inspiration. Then I remember how much more inspired and focused I am after a brisk walk or run. And besides, the sun’s out this morning. I need to catch some Vitamin D before the clouds move in. I lace up my running shoes, put the leash on the dog and we hit the open road.
When I return an hour later, I’m greeted by the buzzzzz of the dryer alarm, reminding me I need to fold the clothes before they wrinkle. As I head upstairs, folded clothes in hand, I notice the dog hair that’s collected in the corners of the stairs. No choice but to vacuum. And while I’m at it, I realize it would be silly to only vacuum the stairs. So I vacuum the whole house.
Then I remember today’s priority. I march back upstairs and as I plop down in front of the computer, I catch a whiff of myself. Phew! After all that walking and vacuuming, I have no alternative but to shower.
Refreshed, I return to my desk and decide I should reread holiday letters from past years. I’m so flooded with nostalgia that I barely hear the sound of Steely Dan on my cell phone, my daughter’s ring tone. Can’t ignore her call—we haven’t talked in over a week. Forty-five minutes later, I’m back at my computer.
But before my fingers hit the keyboard, I make the mistake of looking up at the clock. It’s time for lunch. I march back downstairs and slap together a peanut butter sandwich. While I eat, I glance at the newspaper splayed out on the kitchen table. I don’t let myself read the conclusion of any story that jumps to another page.
Enough is enough. I march back upstairs, slide my legs under the desk, and with a deep sigh, begin to write. And as I do, I remind myself of the goals I set for myself each year:
1) To remember who my audience is—friends and family—who accept me for who I am. Why would I need to impress them with lengthy descriptions of my trip to Spain, the achievements of my kids and my husband’s work accomplishments? (The trip immersed me in a new culture; the kids have found their niches and are happy and healthy; and Jim still finds his job stimulating.)
2) To write in first-person. Although I’ll mention something about every member of my family, the viewpoint of the letter is mine. I remind myself how irritating I find letters in which the writer—for example, Kathy—writes about herself in third-person.
3) To use my own speaking voice. I want to sound like I’m talking to friends and family around the kitchen table.
4) To find the blessings in the last year. And the humor—always, the humor.
5) To not be afraid to tell the truth. Maybe, as Zora Neale Hurston reminds me, the last year has been one with more questions than answers. No need for gory details. Just enough honesty, grace and reflection for my friends and family to know that next year, I’ll probably have more answers.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Don't Forget the Road Map
Over the last few weeks, the Rogue Valley's Indian summer has given way to rain and fog. When my kids were young, they'd squeal with delight when they'd wake to the drizzly or foggy mornings of November, because they knew--being native Oregonians--that the holiday season was just around the corner.
Next month, I'll offer some tips on writing a holiday letter, but this month, it's time to get organized. Before tackling any writing project, take the time to plot your course: Make a road map.
Any kind of road map will do. Experiment with several organizational techniques until you find one that suits you. Though the formal outline has its firm believers, I find it tedious and confining--and I trace it back to good ol' Mrs. Steinman.
She was actually young and stylish--so unlike the stereotype of the old, stodgy English teacher--but she hammered away for months, it seemed, on how to write a formal outline. Invariably, I'd spend more time obsessing about the "correct" way to outline than on the actual writing assignment. So I took an alternate route. When I was required to hand in an outline with my final draft, I'd write the essay first--using my own technique--and then I'd outline my completed essay.
But if formal outlining works for you as a prewriting tool, by all means, use it! Writers who swear by the process claim that a project will virtually "write itself" if you've invested enough time in an outline. Knowing how all the parts fit together before you start writing is a distinct advantage, but formal outlining is only one approach among many.
When tackling short pieces--like articles, essays and letters--I rely on one of two techniques. With both approaches, I research and/or think about my topic long before my fingers hit the keyboard. Next, if if I'm using the first strategy, I make a list of the points I want to include. Sometimes I'll put them in a logical order; other times, especially when I know the topic well, I just list the points randomly--so I won't forget them! Using the list as a springboard, I begin my first draft. I call it a "scratch" outline--a working version of Mrs. Steinman's formula.
With the second strategy, I dispense with the list altogether and just plunge in, discovering what I have to say--and the order in which I'll say it--as I write. The very act of writing sets my gears in motion. The result is a loosely structured "free writing," that I carefully organize in the next draft.
If you're a visual learner, try making a tree diagram. Write your main topic (say, "Highlights of 2008") at the top of the page, then divide and subdivide the topic into smaller and smaller parts, branching out on the page like an inverted tree. Then pick the most promising material to write about.
"Mapping (also called "clustering") works in a similar fashion. Write your main idea ("Highlights of 2008") in the middle of the page, then circle it. Next, write down words that relate to the main idea, circle them and draw lines connecting them to the words that triggered them. Once the page is full, look for word clusters; they'll suggest a structure for your first draft.
If only Mrs. Steinman had known that form matters less than function! It's not the technique that matters; it's the act of planning. Starting a writing project without a road map is like driving over Mt. Sexton on a foggy night. Ten minutes of planning this month just might save you an hour of writing next month, when you'll need it the most.
Next month, I'll offer some tips on writing a holiday letter, but this month, it's time to get organized. Before tackling any writing project, take the time to plot your course: Make a road map.
Any kind of road map will do. Experiment with several organizational techniques until you find one that suits you. Though the formal outline has its firm believers, I find it tedious and confining--and I trace it back to good ol' Mrs. Steinman.
She was actually young and stylish--so unlike the stereotype of the old, stodgy English teacher--but she hammered away for months, it seemed, on how to write a formal outline. Invariably, I'd spend more time obsessing about the "correct" way to outline than on the actual writing assignment. So I took an alternate route. When I was required to hand in an outline with my final draft, I'd write the essay first--using my own technique--and then I'd outline my completed essay.
But if formal outlining works for you as a prewriting tool, by all means, use it! Writers who swear by the process claim that a project will virtually "write itself" if you've invested enough time in an outline. Knowing how all the parts fit together before you start writing is a distinct advantage, but formal outlining is only one approach among many.
When tackling short pieces--like articles, essays and letters--I rely on one of two techniques. With both approaches, I research and/or think about my topic long before my fingers hit the keyboard. Next, if if I'm using the first strategy, I make a list of the points I want to include. Sometimes I'll put them in a logical order; other times, especially when I know the topic well, I just list the points randomly--so I won't forget them! Using the list as a springboard, I begin my first draft. I call it a "scratch" outline--a working version of Mrs. Steinman's formula.
With the second strategy, I dispense with the list altogether and just plunge in, discovering what I have to say--and the order in which I'll say it--as I write. The very act of writing sets my gears in motion. The result is a loosely structured "free writing," that I carefully organize in the next draft.
If you're a visual learner, try making a tree diagram. Write your main topic (say, "Highlights of 2008") at the top of the page, then divide and subdivide the topic into smaller and smaller parts, branching out on the page like an inverted tree. Then pick the most promising material to write about.
"Mapping (also called "clustering") works in a similar fashion. Write your main idea ("Highlights of 2008") in the middle of the page, then circle it. Next, write down words that relate to the main idea, circle them and draw lines connecting them to the words that triggered them. Once the page is full, look for word clusters; they'll suggest a structure for your first draft.
If only Mrs. Steinman had known that form matters less than function! It's not the technique that matters; it's the act of planning. Starting a writing project without a road map is like driving over Mt. Sexton on a foggy night. Ten minutes of planning this month just might save you an hour of writing next month, when you'll need it the most.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Overcoming Roadblocks
How often do you forget someone's name, rack your brain for a word that's on the tip of your tongue, struggle to remember the title of a book you loved so much you thought you'd never forget it? Welcome to the club! Given the frenzied pace of our technological world, who's not affected by information-overload? And whether we admit it or not, age-related forgetfulness happens to the best of us. Then there's the simple, garden-variety forgetfulness that stymies everyone--regardless of age--from time to time.
Forgetfulness is one thing. A roadblock--the kind that causes writers to get stuck in their tracks, unable to move forward--is another. (Notice I'm not calling it "writer's block," a convenient, overused term that's sometimes used to justify giving up.) No matter what you call the phenomenon, everyone--whether you're writing the Great American Novel or a job application letter--struggles to find words at some juncture.
We sometimes think that professional writers are blessed with such a wellspring of creativity that writing is effortless. It just ain't so. As my clients have heard me say over and over, regardless of your writing ability, writing is hard work--some of the hardest work you'll ever do. In a George Plimpton interview with Ernest Hemingway in 1958, Hemingway confessed that he had rewritten the last chapter to A Farewell to Arms 39 times before he was satisfied! When Plimpton asked him, "What was it that had you stumped?" Hemingway replied, "getting the words right." If Ernest Hemingway agonized about "getting the words right," is it any wonder that mere mortals struggle?
Another misconception about professional writers is that every time they put their fingers to the keyboard, they're inspired. Trust me, the Muse--a goddess from Greek mythology who inspires the creative process--visits professional writers no more often than the rest of us. And frankly, if we wait around for the Muse to find us, we'll wait forever.
Montana novelist and National Book Award finalist, Sandra Scofield, formerly of Ashland and Jacksonville, has said of the writing process, "Nothing comes fast or easy. Everything is about discovery. You have to think of writing as day labor; you show up." Some days, the words will fly off your fingers, other days, you'll struggle to string together a few good paragraphs. The only solution is to roll up your sleeves and dig in.
But what if one bad day is followed by another and then another? What if the roadblock is bigger than your will to move through it? What if you just can't conjure up that word on the tip of your tongue no matter how much you rack your brain? That's the time to step back and let go.
Rejuvenate yourself. Go for a walk, meditate, do yoga, soak in the hot tub, call an old friend or watch a movie. Get as far away from the writing process as possible. For me, the breakthrough may not happen the same day, but if I'm patient, the right word, the missing argument or the next plot turn will come when I least expect it, usually as hot water washes over my head in the shower. It's like losing your keys. You can look and look and look and never find them until you give up and walk away; then magically, they jump out at you.
Give yourself enough time and space to gain perspective on your writing and before long, that roadblock will come tumbling down.
Forgetfulness is one thing. A roadblock--the kind that causes writers to get stuck in their tracks, unable to move forward--is another. (Notice I'm not calling it "writer's block," a convenient, overused term that's sometimes used to justify giving up.) No matter what you call the phenomenon, everyone--whether you're writing the Great American Novel or a job application letter--struggles to find words at some juncture.
We sometimes think that professional writers are blessed with such a wellspring of creativity that writing is effortless. It just ain't so. As my clients have heard me say over and over, regardless of your writing ability, writing is hard work--some of the hardest work you'll ever do. In a George Plimpton interview with Ernest Hemingway in 1958, Hemingway confessed that he had rewritten the last chapter to A Farewell to Arms 39 times before he was satisfied! When Plimpton asked him, "What was it that had you stumped?" Hemingway replied, "getting the words right." If Ernest Hemingway agonized about "getting the words right," is it any wonder that mere mortals struggle?
Another misconception about professional writers is that every time they put their fingers to the keyboard, they're inspired. Trust me, the Muse--a goddess from Greek mythology who inspires the creative process--visits professional writers no more often than the rest of us. And frankly, if we wait around for the Muse to find us, we'll wait forever.
Montana novelist and National Book Award finalist, Sandra Scofield, formerly of Ashland and Jacksonville, has said of the writing process, "Nothing comes fast or easy. Everything is about discovery. You have to think of writing as day labor; you show up." Some days, the words will fly off your fingers, other days, you'll struggle to string together a few good paragraphs. The only solution is to roll up your sleeves and dig in.
But what if one bad day is followed by another and then another? What if the roadblock is bigger than your will to move through it? What if you just can't conjure up that word on the tip of your tongue no matter how much you rack your brain? That's the time to step back and let go.
Rejuvenate yourself. Go for a walk, meditate, do yoga, soak in the hot tub, call an old friend or watch a movie. Get as far away from the writing process as possible. For me, the breakthrough may not happen the same day, but if I'm patient, the right word, the missing argument or the next plot turn will come when I least expect it, usually as hot water washes over my head in the shower. It's like losing your keys. You can look and look and look and never find them until you give up and walk away; then magically, they jump out at you.
Give yourself enough time and space to gain perspective on your writing and before long, that roadblock will come tumbling down.
Monday, September 1, 2008
The Lost Art of Letter Writing
When's the last time you received a letter from an old friend? I'm not talking about a friendly e-mail (which has its place, as I've said in earlier blogs) or those short thank you notes in which the sender struggles to find words beyond, "Thank you for the blender. I really needed one." I'm talking about an honest to goodness letter. Better yet, when's the last time you wrote a letter?
If you remember life before faxes, computers and cell phones, you also remember the joy of discovering a hand-written letter in your mailbox. Sometimes, I couldn't stop myself from ripping open the envelope and reading its contents on the spot. Other times, I'd set the envelope aside until I found a quiet moment in the day when I could savor the letter, like a piece of dark chocolate after dinner. I would sometimes read a juicy letter over and over until I darn near memorized the words.
I miss those letters. Excluding holiday "form" letters (which have their place, just like e-mails), it's been over a year since I've received a good, old-fashioned letter. And it's not because I don't have out-of-town friends. It's because my friends, like everyone else in this fast-paced, digitized world, don't take the time to write letters. What a loss.
Beyond the joy of sending and receiving letters, there's another pearl: When you write a letter, you have a purpose and a specific audience, so your writing is as clear and focused as it ever gets. Think back to the last letter you wrote to a friend--even if it's been a few decades. Did you struggle to find words? More likely, the process was natural, almost effortless. Although journal writing has been touted as one of the best tools to build writing fluency, I think letter writing trumps it a hundred times over.
I started my first journal as a kid, mainly because my best friend kept one. As a young adult, I started several journals, only to fall off the wagon after a few weeks. I thought I lacked self-discipline until I realized that, for me, filling blank pages with words written to no one in particular feels like a fruitless chore. Far from building writing fluency, I would stare at the blank page, clueless about what to say. In fact, the only time I've come close to writer's block is with journal writing.
But give me the audience of an old friend and suddenly I have purpose, clarity of thought and fluency to spare. A few years ago my best friend told me she'd kept all the letters I've written her in a shoe box--and we go way back. I shudder to think what I might have written 20 years ago, but I'm honored that she valued my words enough to preserve them. It's probably the best writing I've ever done. And I owe it to audience and purpose.
Don't get me wrong. If journal writing works for you, by all means, forge ahead. But if a blank page has ever left you wordless, try letter writing--called epistolary writing--instead. Not only will you find your voice and purpose, but you'll do it with panache. And the best part of all? One of these days, when you least expect it, you'll discover a return letter in your mailbox!
If you remember life before faxes, computers and cell phones, you also remember the joy of discovering a hand-written letter in your mailbox. Sometimes, I couldn't stop myself from ripping open the envelope and reading its contents on the spot. Other times, I'd set the envelope aside until I found a quiet moment in the day when I could savor the letter, like a piece of dark chocolate after dinner. I would sometimes read a juicy letter over and over until I darn near memorized the words.
I miss those letters. Excluding holiday "form" letters (which have their place, just like e-mails), it's been over a year since I've received a good, old-fashioned letter. And it's not because I don't have out-of-town friends. It's because my friends, like everyone else in this fast-paced, digitized world, don't take the time to write letters. What a loss.
Beyond the joy of sending and receiving letters, there's another pearl: When you write a letter, you have a purpose and a specific audience, so your writing is as clear and focused as it ever gets. Think back to the last letter you wrote to a friend--even if it's been a few decades. Did you struggle to find words? More likely, the process was natural, almost effortless. Although journal writing has been touted as one of the best tools to build writing fluency, I think letter writing trumps it a hundred times over.
I started my first journal as a kid, mainly because my best friend kept one. As a young adult, I started several journals, only to fall off the wagon after a few weeks. I thought I lacked self-discipline until I realized that, for me, filling blank pages with words written to no one in particular feels like a fruitless chore. Far from building writing fluency, I would stare at the blank page, clueless about what to say. In fact, the only time I've come close to writer's block is with journal writing.
But give me the audience of an old friend and suddenly I have purpose, clarity of thought and fluency to spare. A few years ago my best friend told me she'd kept all the letters I've written her in a shoe box--and we go way back. I shudder to think what I might have written 20 years ago, but I'm honored that she valued my words enough to preserve them. It's probably the best writing I've ever done. And I owe it to audience and purpose.
Don't get me wrong. If journal writing works for you, by all means, forge ahead. But if a blank page has ever left you wordless, try letter writing--called epistolary writing--instead. Not only will you find your voice and purpose, but you'll do it with panache. And the best part of all? One of these days, when you least expect it, you'll discover a return letter in your mailbox!
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