Writing—A Paradox on Paper

Saturday Writer

Before this project, I was Editorial Director for a textbook company. I got to be part of the team that reconceived and revised the writing program that I had been taught to write with when I was kid. Over time well-meaning editors and changes in teaching philosophy had done to that program what Americans do to sports cars—changed it to satisfy too many people until it didn’t go “Varoom, Varoom” anymore.

Who would have thought I would end up there? I had learned to write from these books and then taught writing from them. Now I would be making the books for kids and teachers who were where I used to be. I was living a bedtime story.

“Okay, big shot” was the thought that occurred to me. “You’ve done impressive things, but this involves a legacy.” I faced both a chance and a challenge. I’d need to apply my complete skill set, all that I’d ever done, to something much bigger than me. My role was keeper of the vision—to make sure that the idea became reality. We all took the quest very seriously. Here was our chance to tell kids why we write—not just the whats and hows.

For teachers to have those “when will I use this in real life?” answers, someone had to put reasons into words. That writing job fell to me. In order to write them, I had to describe them, give voice to something I did without thinking. What elusive intangibles underpinned writing? I wanted the list to be complete. Everyone agreed this task was best done away from the rush of a publishing office.

“Go home, think it through, you won’t get it done here,” the president said to me.

“Don’t forget to say that writing is more than speech written down,” reminded the copyeditor.

“I’m with you,” I replied. “Grammar is credibility.”

“Explain that the words may be yours, but they are not you,” said one first-year editor. “Too many people take feedback too personally.” She was so bright, so right. I reveled in her perspicacity.

“Say that grown-ups do book reports in meetings,” said our traffic manager.

“Speaking of which . . . ,” I teased.

The advice kept on coming. We all were invested in different ways. We wanted kids to know what we knew. I guess we were all thinking how it might have been had we had real ideas to discuss on hot school days at quarter to three. I went home, knowing I’d be glad when it was over.

I’d like to say that I’ve so much experience that the words flowed effortlessly. I’d like to say that, but writers owe readers honesty. The truth is I had to scour my life—as a person, a teacher, a manager, a writer—to find the meaning in why I write and from there, why all of us do and why we need to.

I thought for days. I read words of writers, musicians, and painters. I spent two days saturating in quotes about writing online, to call up my own imagery. I walked through the neighborhood and made friends with the historic trees around the corner. I stared at the lake until it went black under the sky. Then I stared at the sky for a while. I made lists and notations. I listened to music, like I’m listening to music now.

Even when I started writing, it took more days of walking, thinking, and listening to the same Peter Gabriel CD. Yet, what slowly evolved were eight principals of writing. A good sign—I called into the office and read down the list; no one had any to add. The first written was the third or the sixth. The list was still some sort of mush when those two came to be. I have no idea in which order the rest fell into place. I was soon flying with passion and hoping I was catching the details on the pad next to me. I didn’t want to lose a thought that belonged.

Yet most important was What is Writing?

Writing effectively is more than fluency, flexibility, and creativity paired with grammar, mechanics, syntax, and semantics. It is elegance and simplicity. It is revealing one’s thinking while thinking about how others will interpret that thought. Writing is problem solving and building. It’s expression and structure held in delicate balance to communicate artfully and with credibility.

The process of writing is a repeating, self-actualizing event. It is part technique, part talent, and part tedious drudgery. It is dynamically social, yet deeply individual. Fine writing requires personal investment to ring with the truth, yet detachment to stand up to critique. Writing is composing the music of language while singing in your own key. It is precision and persuasion. It is exactness and elaboration. It is the ultimate paradox on paper—an act of ego wrapped in self-doubt.

That is why even the best writers never claim mastery.

That is also why . . . we as writers should take ourselves seriously.

What is Writing?

I wrote the textbook definition . . . paradoxically.

Now, let’s talk about irony.

—me strauss Letting me be

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