The Quick Write for the Uptight—Speed-Drafting with a Purpose

This morning I wrote a 700-page document that will be part of a book I’m working on. I wrote quick, as the ideas kept flowing, one point leading to another. When this happens, digression inevitably happens. During a quick-write, I manage that by putting the detour in brackets and pressing on. I stop when the flow dries up, or something more urgent claims my time. How this works depends on the tool I’m using. Sometimes it’s a basic analog option: a page of paper. This may be a loose page of typing paper or a page in a Moleskine notebook. Sometimes I use an iOS app, like Notability. There are times when I write directly into an email message from my iPhone and then send it to myself. On my laptop, I’m most likely to use Scrivener. I almost never use a conventional word processor, especially Microsoft Word. If my scribblings are in notes to myself sent to my email box, I’ll try to grab a few minutes as soon as possible to copy and paste them into something more permanent and better organized among my other work on the project. I may paste them into MS Word, or Apple Pages (which I like better), or Scrivener (which is where I want them to end up anyway). If my quick-write is on paper, I can scan it and copy the PDF file over into Scrivener. What I use for speed-drafting depends on two things. First, and most basically, convenience. What do I have to work with in the moment? What I’m addressing in this post is, after all, in-the-moment writing. I’m not talking about rough drafts that fit into scheduled writing time. I’m talking about spontaneous writing. I’m talking about writing that happens in your head when you aren’t expecting it. I’m talking about ready-made writing that presses you with urgency at the most inconvenient times. Second, my ever-present intention to be prepared for making the most of these speed-write occasions with the greatest convenience. That means having a plan. Not a detailed plan. Just something as simple as keeping the tools I use close to hand. I almost always have my iPad handy. And I do always have my iPhone with me. But in my truck I have 3 x 5 index cards, spiral-bound so they don’t take flight when I swerve to avoid a driver texting her boyfriend. If I’m carrying a daypack or messenger bag, I have a few other conveniences ready: pens and mechanical pencils, a book I’m reading, and a sheef of blank typing paper. Or maybe a Moleskine notebook. I’m partial to the Moleskine tradition. So I’m pretty much ready for anything anytime, even if it’s just reaching for my smart phone. So far, what I’ve said only speaks to the need for readiness and the most basic things to keep in mind. But now comes the trickier question: How do I do it? That is, how does the writing itself actually proceed and get processed? On this I follow two guiding principles. I’m including them here for two reasons. The first is that they may be helpful to someone else. But there’s also my desire to improve my writing workflow, and someone reading this may have a tweak to suggest in the comments section of this post. Your suggestions are welcome! Principle #1: Write quickly first, as thoughts and provisional words and word order come to mind. This principle is not ground-breaking news that I’ve received from some Oracle. It’s common sense and it’s been said before. But keep in mind, you’re not practicing your writing using someone else’s prompt. In this scenario, the prompt comes from your own mind. Usually it’s related to a project you’re working on, something you’ve been thinking and writing about already. Maybe you haven’t gotten out of bed yet. At this moment, something has happened to set off a chain reaction of thoughts ready for the page. The time is now and you won’t get them back. Not in this form, anyway, and maybe not ever with as much ease and clarity. Principle #2: Later, but not too much later—maybe that day or the next—re-read what you’ve written and make simple improvements. The point is not to wait for some kind of breathing spell to transpire so that things percolate and you can write to perfection. The point is that it usually won’t be convenient to do a major re-write. The aim is to re-read immediately following your spontaneous speed-writing session. You really do want to get to this as soon as you can. But at this stage you still must be careful not to labor over what you’ve written. That will come later. The goal for the time being is to clean up what you were in a rush to write when the words were coming at you fast and furious. This is an initial straightening up, akin to the sort of thing you might do when you’re expecting company in the next few minutes. It’s the second principle that isn’t as well-understood or routinely practiced. So why is Principle #2 so important? It comes down to this: Since you want to follow up your quick-write using Principle #2 as soon as possible, the timing still might not be all that convenient, even for this. You may only have a few moments available. But in the typical case, where you’ve written only a few hundred words, a few moments is all you’ll need for this intermediate step in your writing workflow. But you make those moments count. You press out the most obvious wrinkles, you unkink the knotted branches, you replace a word or phrase with a better one, but only if it immediately comes to mind. While you’re busy ironing out the most conspicuous bits, there may be some actual clothes ironing waiting to be done—before that company arrives in the next quarter hour! Principle #2 is counsel for when the earliest opportunity to edit or re-write presents itself. Some clarifying points about Principle #2:

• This is not a leisurely activity. You don’t have to carve out large chunks of time for it. You’re getting to it as soon as possible, and this may mean that you don’t have the time just then to massage the piece into perfection.
• This is not a burdensome activity. It won’t take long. All you need is a few minutes to re-read and make the most obvious changes. What we’re talking about goes quickly and can fit into a relentlessly fast-paced schedule.
• This is not a substitute for conventional re-writing and editing. Think of it as fast editing. Real re-writing comes later, when you can put it all into proper context alongside other writing you’ve done on the same project.
• This is not more writing. You’re sticking strictly to what you already have on the page. You’re not making the piece longer or shorter, unless an addition or subtraction strikes you immediately and with irresistible force.

There are two residual benefits:

• It’s easy and natural, almost effortless.
• It prepares the way for the work of re-writing and editing, and makes that work easier to get to and easier to do.

So it keeps the writing momentum going. You’re a writer. You’re a writer who writes. You’re a writer who writes when it doesn’t feel like writing. You’re a writer who writes when it doesn’t feel like writing because it happens when you aren’t even trying.

* * *

So what about that 700-page thing I wrote this morning? Well, it happened because of something I was thinking and reading about last night. It led to other things, this post, for example, which itself exceeds 1300 words. And in between the two, because of a text message I received from a friend, I wrote another 500-word post that I’ll publish later. So that makes 2500 words of scratch in various degrees of publicly consumable material. Even I’m surprised by this.

But there’s one last point I want to stress—the simple touching up recommended in Principle #2 sometimes does result in a ready-for publication piece, especially if it’s relatively brief and self-contained. Like this post.

The Art of the Paragraph | The Smart Set

If you’re a writer, you know you have to take paragraphing seriously. But have you considered your options?

The Art of the Paragraph | The Smart Set.

The Period and the Paragraph

Writing with Hedges

Good authors hedge their bets. That’s what English professors Booth, Colomb, and Williams claim. But is this always the case? See if you can identify any hedges in this selection from their book The Craft of Research.

“Some researchers think their claims are most credible when they are stated most forcefully. But nothing damages your ethos more than arrogant certainty. As paradoxical as it seems, you make your argument stronger and more credible by modestly acknowledging its limits. You gain readers’ trust when you acknowledge and respond to their views, showing that you have not only understood but considered their position. But you can lose that trust if you then make claims that overreach their support. Limit your claims to what your argument can actually support by qualifying their scope and certainty. . . .

“Consider mentioning important limiting conditions even if you feel readers would not think of them. . . .

“Only rarely can we state in good conscience that we are 100 percent certain that our claims are unqualifiedly true. Careful writers qualify their certainty with words and phrases called hedges. For example, if anyone was entitled to be assertive, it was Crick and Watson, the discoverers of the helical structure of DNA. But when they announced their discovery, they hedged the certainty of their claims (hedges are boldfaced; the introduction is condensed):

‘We wish to suggest a [note: not state the] structure for the salt of deoxyribose nucleic acid (D.N.A.). . . . A structure for nucleic acid has already been proposed by Pauling and Corey. . . . In our opinion, this structure is unsatisfactory for two reasons: (1) We believe that the material which gives the X-ray diagrams is the salt, not the free acid. . . . (2) Some of the van der Waals distances appear to be too small. (J. D. Watson and F. H. C. Crick, “Molecular Structure of Nucleic Acids.”)

“Without hedges, Crick and Watson would be more concise but more aggressive. . . .

“Of course, if you hedge too much, you will seem timid or uncertain. But in most fields, readers distrust flatfooted certainty expressed in words like all, no one, every, always, never, and so on. Some teachers say they object to all hedging, but what most of them really reject are hedges that qualify every trivial claim. And some fields do tend to use fewer hedges than others. It takes a deft touch. Hedge too much and you seem mealy-mouthed; too little and you seem smug. Unfortunately, the line between them is thin. So watch how those in your field manage uncertainty, then do likewise.”

The Craft of Research, 3rd ed.
Authors: Wayne C. Booth, Gregory G. Colomb, and Joseph M. Williams
Publisher: Chicago University Press
Copyright 2008
Pages: 127-129

Questions to Consider:

1. What do the authors mean by a “hedge”?

2. Why must authors hedge when making arguments, even when they are experts in their field?

3. Do the authors do any hedging of their own in this selection?

4. Can you give an example of something you’ve read that came across too smug? How about too timid?

5. It can be tough to tell whether a blog post is trustworthy, knowledgeable, or well-argued. Often, a blogger neglects to hedge responsibly. How would you apply the “hedge test” to the blogs you read?

Not many people…

English: W. Somerset Maugham British writer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Not many people know how much bitterness, how much bargaining, how much intrigue goes into the awarding of a prize or the election of a candidate.

From the Preface of W. Somerset Maugham, A Writer’s Notebook

This is true regardless of profession, and it shows up even among Christian leaders. Perhaps no one is above campaigning on his own behalf for something he thinks he deserves from his constituency or the general public. This includes authors, public speakers, and university professors.

It is well that…

English: W. Somerset Maugham early in his career. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It is well that a writer should think not only that the book he himself is writing is important, but that the books other people are writing are important too.

From the Preface to W. Somerset Maugham, A Writer’s Notebook

Face the Fear—Peter Bregman’s Advice for Procrastinators

“Failure in a long-term project isn’t just a work issue; it’s an identity issue. Is it any wonder that we procrastinate?” This simple insight lies at the heart of Peter Bregman’s excellent counsel for those who have trouble getting started on BIG PROJECTS. You know who you are:

• first-time book authors
• second-, third-, and fourth-time book authors
• PhD candidates confronted with writing a dissertation
• public speakers
• athletes
• those who aspire to developing a new hobby
• parents
• generals of armies
• book keepers
• bloggers

Yep. Pretty much anyone who ever wanted to do something of value.

Bregman recognizes that the salami technique is useful, but he notes that it doesn’t deal directly with our “issues” as procrastinators on large undertakings. (The salami technique consists in slicing the biggies into smaller, more digestible sizes, then acting on each, one at a time, gradually making forward progress until the end is in sight.)

No need to repeat what Bregman says. Just visit his post for the Harvard Business Review here.

Write More and Better Blog Posts in 2011

Erica Johnson, who writes for WordPress, posts some helpful and encouraging tips for those who want to boost their blog activity this year. She links to a few other sites that generate prompts for writing ideas.

Follow this link.

How to Write a Lot—A Review

Cover via Amazon

Maybe you’d like to write a lot. Maybe you have to write a lot. Here’s a book you may like a lot.

• How to Write a Lot: A Practical Guide to Productive Academic Writing, by Paul J. Silvia. (2007; 149 pp.)

The book is published by the American Psychological Association. Silvia, a relatively young scholar, teaches and writes about psychology. In this book, he applies his own eclectic method in  psychology to the ordeal of writing as an academic.

I say eclectic because Silvia expects his counsel to be congenial to psychologists of various stripes:

• developmental psychologists
• cognitive psychologists
• clinical psychologists
• emotion psychologists
• psychologists with interdisciplinary interests

What he writes is for all academics who wish to be more productive writers. But he does advise his peers in psychology a little more directly on occasion. When he says, “Our academic journals radiate bad writing,” he means journals in his discipline. But scholars across the disciplines will recognize the sort.

Silvia pokes fun in good humor. He notes that “psychologists love bad words,” then points out that “they call them deficient or suboptimal instead of bad.” He means, of course, that words like “deficient” and “suboptimal” are often needlessly “erudite,” and therefore bad for good writing.

“Psychologists like writing about the existing literature. Is there a nonexistent literature that I should be reading and referencing?” It’s nice to hear a psychologist asking such a philosophical question. (I’m afraid that some philosophers, in response, will get caught up in analyzing “should” and explaining the scope of relevant research literature in terms of counterfactuals and alternative worlds.)

There are chapters here on:

• Writing articles—”Your paper might be rejected once or twice before it finds a good home, but a good paper will always find a home.”
• Writing books—”If you have something to say, write a book.”
• Writing with style—”Your first drafts should sound like they were hastily translated from Icelandic by a nonnative speaker.”

But the crucial chapters are two, three, and four (pp. 11-57):

• Chapter 2: “Specious Barriers to Writing a Lot”
• Chapter 3: “Motivational Tools”
• Chapter 4: “Starting Your Own Agraphia Group”

Silvia’s aim is to introduce the reader to “a practical system for becoming a productive academic writer.” He acknowledges the irony of writing such a short book on how to write a lot. But, he says, “there isn’t much to say. The system is simple.”

The “system” is indeed simple. It comes down to this. Create a manageable writing routine and stick to it. Specifics include:

• Follow a schedule (a little writing every weekday, if possible).
• Set long-term goals for completing writing projects.
• Set concrete goals for each scheduled writing session.
• Prioritize your writing.
• Avoid binge writing.
• Monitor your progress.
• Permit yourself a measure of “windfall writing” when it comes naturally.
• Always engage in some writing-related task during the scheduled writing session.
• Settle for the simplest of writing implements to be sure you’re always able to write on schedule.
• Be content with whatever writing environment you’re permitted by your circumstances.
• Expect a flood of quality writing ideas as a result of regular writing.
• Join an “agraphia” group.

All of this is excellent advice. Much of it is common sense, often repeated in “the literature” on writing. But such common sense is seldom practiced.

Here are three areas where Silvia’s book might have been stronger:

1. His comments on writer’s block are slight and mildly dismissive. He’s onto something when he says that “scheduled writers don’t get writer’s block.” But even scheduled writers can be unproductive. This relates to my next point.
2. He could say more about how to plan scheduled work so that it is completed on schedule. It isn’t enough to (a) decide on a project to be completed, (b) sit down to write regularly about that topic, and (c) set concrete goals for each writing session. Even if every concrete goal is mission critical, regular writing will not ensure project completion. A disciplined writer doesn’t just write daily (or whatever “regularly” means in his case). He writes towards completion of a project.
3. He understates the value of style in academic writing. This is a bit surprising. Silvia himself writes with engaging style. And he devotes a chapter to style. But oddly, the chapter dedicated to the topic is preoccupied with aids to writing strong, clear sentences. This is a minimalist approach to style. It derives from the notion that “as academics, we’re not creating high literature” (p. 26). This outlook may enable the blocked academic writer. But I’m a strong advocate for writing that engages as it informs.

Most scholars, even the most-published ones I imagine, would like to be more productive writers. Paul Silvia presents a method that works. The book moves chapter by chapter through the standard barriers to productive, anxiety-free academic writing. It’s a quick read with much practical advice, some of it on points not mentioned here.

The Serious Business of Lying and the Enterprise of Fiction

Image via Wikipedia

Ursula Le Guin objects to the idea that science fiction is predictive. In 1976, she wrote:

Science fiction is not predictive; it is descriptive.

Predictions are uttered by prophets (free of charge); by clairvoyants (who usually charge a fee, and are therefore more honored in their day than prophets); and by futurologists (salaried). Prediction is the business of prophets, clairvoyants, and futurologists. It is not the business of novelists. A novelist’s business is lying.

— Ursula K. Le Guin, Introduction to The Left Hand of Darkness

Lying, you might say, is serious business. Even when it comes to fiction, when we like to be lied to. But why do we like to be lied to, those of us who read fiction and pay good money to see movies?

There’s a clue in the title of John Dufresne’s guide to writing fiction: The Lie That Tells a Truth. Fiction and film, at their best, package important truths in a tissue of lies. Some of these truths we already know before our fictive experience of them. Others we learn, if we trust the lies, when fiction happens to us. And often it is our capacity to trust the lie that makes us vulnerable to truths.

Some will protest that the novelist and the screenwriter do not lie. After all, we know “it’s only a story.” But since when has this stopped us from believing what we know isn’t so? Isn’t Le Guin onto something when she says,

In fact, while we read a novel, we are insane—bonkers. We believe in the existence of people who aren’t there, we hear their voices, we watch the battle of Borodino with them, we may even become Napolean. Sanity returns (in most cases) when the book is closed.

And in the thick of our believing, we don’t want to be reminded that “it’s only a story.” We’re like the lad whose grandfather reads to him in the movie The Princess Bride. He’s not as ambivalent as he pretends. And neither are we. If it’s a really good story.

Why Are Academics Such Bad Writers?

Image via Wikipedia

“Our academic journals radiate bad writing—I store my journals on the shelf farthest from my desk to avoid the fallout.” This is Paul Silvia’s take on the modus operandi of far too many academic writers.

What is “bad writing”?

It’s writing that …

• uses impenetrable English;
• revels in ambiguity;
• requires backtracking just to follow the point;
• ensures a slight readership by the specialization of its vocabulary;
• deploys arcane symbolism that intimidates readers;
• can be recommended as a soporific, even to specialists in the same field.

That’s my list.

Paul Silvia believes there are three reasons for bad writing among academic authors:

1. They want to sound smart.
2. They never learned how to write well.
3. They don’t spend enough time writing.

My list would be longer and more focused:

1. They don’t know good writing from bad writing. If all they read are journal articles and academic monographs, then they’re on a steady diet of poor writing. The best writing is nourished by close reading of the best of writers, both inside and outside one’s discipline.

2. They don’t believe that good writing matters. “Academic writing gets published without concern for stylistic quality, so why bother?” There are two reasons to bother. First, the academic writer should pursue excellence, rather than what is commonplace. Second, the best writing attracts more readers. The ratio of readers to authors of journal essays is appalling. Monographs are pricey because the expected readership is low. But the best writers within a discipline, because they reward their readers with more than originality of content, are read by more people, and they are read more faithfully by people who like their writing.

3. They believe that good writing will reduce their publication prospects. More academic authors are looking for opportunities to publish in the broader market. Their prospects are dim if they can’t write with style. Those who are content to write as academics for academics should understand that quality of writing that does not compromise quality of scholarship has a better chance of publication. And for those who write for interdisciplinary journals, the need is even greater, since non-specialists will need more help in their reading and more reasons to keep on reading.

4. They confuse good writing with casual writing, or popularizing. Writing with style means one thing when writing for peers, and something else when writing to inform or persuade Joe Six-Pack. A good writer understands this and adjusts her style accordingly.

5. They don’t realize that good writing can be learned. I have three suggestions for those who wish to improve their writing style.

First, read others who write with style. Observe their practices. Notice how they employ metaphors and similes. Look for sharp and arresting turns of phrase. Study transitions from paragraph to paragraph and from section to section. Look for patterns that explain their capacity to sustain interest. Think of this as a component in the research you do for your writing projects.

Second, spend time in carefully-selected books that point the way to improved style. Books of this kind should practice what they preach. Here are a few that I recommend:

• Lynne Truss, Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation
• Sheridan Baker, The Practical Stylist
• Constance Hale, Sin and Syntax: How to Craft Wickedly Effective Prose
• Thomas S. Kane, The Oxford Essential Guide to Writing
• John R. Trimble, Writing with Style: Conversations on the Art of Writing

Third, write more—with deliberate attention to style. Be patient with the process. Don’t expect too much too soon. Write a little everyday.

6. They’re impatient in their writing. Writing well, with style, takes more time and effort. Many writers simply don’t want to spend the time. They’re undisciplined writers who fancy themselves sufficiently productive simply because they have countless publications to their credit.

7. They think that to be a good writer you have to be a perfectionist. Not true. What you have to be is patient, persistent, and prioritized. Only the writer with meager styling skills believes that perfectionism is required. But a practiced writer, who habitually attends to matters of style, comes to write more naturally and comfortably. I venture to say that the best stylists have the easiest time of it and have the most fun doing it.

Source:

• For the quote at the top of this page, see Paul Silvia, How to Write a Lot, p. 59.

More good reading about bad writing:

• George Orwell, “Politics and the English Language” (george-orwell.org)
• Rachel Toor, “Bad Writing and Bad Thinking” (chronicle.com)

Doug’s related posts:

• Writing Tips: The Moleskine Method (three parts; douggeivett.com)
• How to Cultivate the Reading Habit (douggeivett.com)
• If You Don’t Feel Like Writing, You Can Always Read about It (douggeivett.com)
• Perfecting Your Prose—Part 1: Richard Lanham and the Paramedic Method

Other:

• Monday is the root of all evil (theglobeandmail.com)

Mysterious Opening Lines: Le Carré, Ludlum, and Others

GIGA Quotes, an online source for quotations, has listed 43 pages of first lines from books, beginning with Merrian-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. This amounts to more than 2300 first-line excerpts from “classical, notable and bestselling books” (here).

First lines interest me. They interest me as an author, and as a reader.

Eating Movies Like Popcorn

Ray Bradbury, named by Marie Arana “America’s one-man fantasy factory,” wrote,

I was a child of movies. My mother ate them like popcorn.

In 1964, Bradbury called cinema “a science fiction device.” He was talking about all cinema. So, naturally, he wished to see film adaptations of his stories. His best-known successes are Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles.

At Barnes & Noble one day, I crossed paths with the book The Writing Life: Writers on How They Think and Work. Opening the book at random to page 76, I went to the bottom of the page and read the last sentence:

If you wait long enough, I learned, and stuff your eyeballs with shapes, sizes and colors, the gumball machine to your skull lends you gifts at the drop of a pen.

Writing Tips: The Moleskine Method, Part 2

In the previous entry, I introduced the Moleskine, describing its features and plugging it to writers who are on the go or need help with organization. In this entry I explain why I think writers should get comfortable with writing in longhand—a skill that’s required if you’re to make use of what I will now call “The Moleskine method.”

Writing Tips: The Moleskine Method, Part 1

I always have an unwieldy number of writing projects doubtfully spinning into existence at the same time. One tool that has proven its value is the Moleskine.

I Don’t LOL

Twittering. Blogging. Facebooking. And yes, for those stuck in ancient technology, emailing. Every time you check your site, someone, somewhere has ended a post with “LOL.” Not me. I don’t LOL. Here’s why: it’s TC. I mean, it’s totally cliché. Or, if you prefer, it’s LTC—that is, “like, totally cliché.”

Apparently, “TC” is already spoken for; it’s the official text messaging acronym for “take care.” OK, fine. I can live with that. So TC; in fact, TCWYA—take care with your acronyms.

I’ve got nothing against acronyms. But social networking has taken this way too far. I just don’t believe there are that many people out there “laughing out loud” at any given time, and telling the rest of the world, or maybe only their 4,658 friends on Facebook.

KWIM?