Words Fail Me Part 2

5. From Here to Uncertainty.

HOW AM I DOING?.

Not bad. You've mastered your subject, you have a plan, you know your audience, and you've started to write. In the chapters to come, you'll pick up the skills-the fundamentals as well as the fancy moves-to make your writing the best it can be. Before we get to the tricks of the trade, though, there are a few things you should know about writing. I learned them the hard way, but you shouldn't have to.

Habit Forming.

Everything you write, whether it's a shopping list, a Ph.D. thesis, or an e-mail giving directions to your house, will make a certain demand on your time. No matter what your project is, estimate how much time you'll need and then work out a writing schedule you can live with.

Let's use the shopping list as a no-frills example. You know you have to leave the house by three o'clock to do all your errands. And you know it'll take five minutes to scope out the refrigerator and the cupboards and the s.p.a.ce under the sink and write down what you need to buy. So set aside five minutes sometime before three to do it. You procrastinators will need to stop whatever you're doing at two fifty-five. (By the way, the business about knowing your audience applies even here. If Aunt Millie is doing the shopping for you, write "peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly." If you're the intended reader, you can scribble "PB&J.") You don't need me to tell you how to make a shopping list. The point is that everything you write will be better if you allow yourself the time to do it well. An autobiography would be a more challenging example. Say you'd like to finish it in five years, and you're willing to give it two hours every Sunday afternoon. By writing a page at each sitting, you'll end up with about 250 pages at the end of five years. If that length is in the ball park, and if you enjoy writing for two hours at a stretch, then your schedule is reasonable. But if you start fidgeting after an hour, change your schedule. Make your writing sessions shorter but more frequent, perhaps an hour on Sat.u.r.day and an hour on Sunday. Or if you haven't lived all that much, write for just an hour a week and shorten your memoir by half.

Above all, take it easy with the schedule and keep your expectations moderate, at least in the beginning. If you try to do too much you'll only disappoint yourself. If you find that you can easily do more, then give yourself more to do. Psychologically it's better to add to a schedule that's too light than to retreat from one that's too heavy. Why become discouraged right off the bat?

Once you've worked out a sensible schedule, stick to it. Do this whether you intend to make writing a daily habit or have to deliver a report a week from next Tuesday. Respect your routine and insist that others respect it, too. There's no need to be rude. Just tell friends and relatives you'll be working between this hour and that, and if they interrupt, you'll break their knees.

Whether you're in the mood or not, write when it's time to write. Don't wait around for inspiration. It almost never shows up punctually, believe me. I get my best ideas while I'm actually writing, and you probably will, too. Your engine will start out cold, but it'll warm up after a few laps.

One caution. You'll be amazed at how creative you become-not creative at writing, but creative at finding excuses not to write. I still fight this tendency. I can't find the word I want, for instance, or a paragraph won't come together. I stare off into s.p.a.ce. Before I know it I've convinced myself that the windshield-wiper fluid in the car might be dangerously low and in the interest of public safety I'd better check it out-right now! Or in the course of looking something up in the dictionary, I'll come across the word "wheat" and realize that I've never baked bread. Never! It's something I've always wanted to try. And what better time than the present?

If making up excuses were an Olympic event, I'd win the gold medal every time, hands tied behind my back. Hey, that's not a bad idea. They made synchronized swimming an event, didn't they?

First-Draftsmanship.

Cla.s.sy prose does not leap, complete and fully formed, from anyone's typewriter or computer or quill pen. While it may read as naturally and eloquently as if it were flawless from the start and couldn't have been written any other way, don't believe it.

All writing begins life as a first draft, and first drafts are never (well, almost never) any good. They're not supposed to be. Expecting to write perfect prose on the first try is like expecting a frog to skip the tadpole stage.

Write a first draft as though you were thinking aloud, not carving a monument. If what you're writing is relatively short-a financial report, a book proposal, a term paper-you might try doing your first draft in the form of a friendly letter. The person at the other end could be someone real or imagined, even a composite reader.

Relax and take your time, but don't bog down, chewing your nails over individual words or sentences or paragraphs. When you get stalled (and you will), put down a string of X's and keep going. What you're writing now will be rewritten. If it's messy and full of holes, so what? It's only the first draft, and no one but you has to see it.

Accepting that your first draft is your worst draft can be extremely liberating. It's all right to sound like a jerk at this stage in the proceedings. Cut loose. n.o.body's looking. You wouldn't believe some of the rubbish that was in the first draft of this book-and I'll never tell.

But let's talk about you. Say you work in the marketing department of a fast-food chain with a big problem. There's a perception among the public that the company's products are radioactive. Your a.s.signment is to come up with a campaign to convince people not only that the food is safe, but that it can add years to their lives and grow hair on bald heads. "Piece of cake," you tell the boss, rolling up your sleeves. Meanwhile, you're wondering where your next job will come from.

Stay calm. Approach the project as you would any other, even if this one seems impossible. Gather and organize your material-research by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, testimonials from consumers, demographic studies, and soon. Then plunge into your first draft. If you like, dump in everything but the kitchen sink. This isn't a finished marketing proposal; you're only thinking aloud. Toss in your wildest inspirations. How about radiation sensitive food wrappings that change color when emissions are present? Sure, include that. How about TV ads featuring a ninety-seven-year-old man with a full head of hair, wolfing down burgers as doctors check him over with Geiger counters? Get it on paper, on tape, or into the computer. Don't stop to examine ideas from every angle-just keep going.

Later, when you revise, you can agonize over the details and cut out the embarra.s.sments. (Revision, the art of tinkering with what you've written, is worth a chapter in itself. In fact, it gets one: chapter 30.) In the meantime, nothing is too ridiculous for a first draft.

The Flexible Flyer.

While you're writing you'll come up with ideas, or make discoveries, that can take you in new directions. "Jeepers, what a swell idea!" you'll say to yourself. Or maybe, "Duh! What took me so long?"

Sometimes, though, a sudden inspiration or some eye-popping information won't fit neatly into your grand design, the organization plan we talked about in chapter 3. What to do?

Even the best-laid plan can't antic.i.p.ate every brain wave. When a glowing lightbulb appears over your head, don't turn it off. A good idea is a gift, not an inconvenience. If your writing plan doesn't let in any light or leave room for a fresh idea, then change it. It's supposed to make writing easier, not harder.

Imagine that you're writing a laudatory essay about your great-uncle Klaus, who died before you were born. He emigrated from Berlin to Brazil toward the end of World War II, and you've organized your material around his many philanthropies on behalf of the Amazon Indians. Halfway through the project, you come across old doc.u.ments that explain why he left Berlin in such a hurry, and how he acquired that old SS uniform in the trunk. I'd say it's time to revise your writing plan.

Flexibility is a skill every writer should develop. If the human mind weren't flexible, we'd still be living in caves.

Faith, Hope, and Clarity.

I'll always take a plain sentence that's clear over a pretty one that's unintelligible. When your writing is hard to understand, it's just so much slush, no matter how many beautiful images and nice rhythms it has. Readers won't like what they can't understand. They may understand it and still not like it, certainly. But that's a chance you have to take.

The best writing is the clearest; we sense its meaning immediately. The subject-particle physics, perhaps-may be over our heads, but the writing should never be. Albert Einstein was able to convey difficult scientific ideas simply and elegantly."I think that a particle must have a separate reality independent of the measurements," he wrote. "That is, an electron has spin, location and so forth even when it is not being measured. I like to think that the moon is there even if I am not looking at it."

No subject is so complicated that it can't be explained clearly and simply. Of course, simplicity is deceptive. Turning out flashy, dense, complicated prose is a breeze; putting things down in simple terms that anyone can understand takes brainwork. Still, you don't have to be an Einstein to write well. When you reach the inevitable impa.s.se, try another approach. Every time you do this, consider it a step forward, not back.

Take Five.

Some people don't know when to stop. But resting is part of the job. Like Bertie Wooster's beloved oolong, it restores the tissues. A rest can take many forms, from a simple mental pause to a walk around the room to calling it a day. For those of you who haven't already figured this one out, here's when to give yourself a break.

* When you're indecisive. If you find yourself staring at the computer screen for ten or fifteen minutes, going back and forth between two trifling choices until neither seems better or worse than the other, stop. You've lost your perspective.

Maybe you're writing a whodunit and can't decide whether the detective is "stunning" or "gorgeous." Quit futzing around. Take a breather, go back and make a choice, then move on to more important things.

* When you start seeing double. If the page or the computer screen begins to blur even though you've just gotten new gla.s.ses, call a time-out. Not many writers do their best when they're tired.

* When you can't concentrate. If you're unable to tune out the hum of traffic or ignore the neon sign across the street, a brief rest might be in order. Be honest, though, and make sure you genuinely can't concentrate even if you try. There's a thin line between truly lacking concentration and simply looking for excuses not to write.

* When your brain is fried. My brain gives out after about four hours of writing. If I try to go on, I become incoherent. Some people can write from dawn to dusk, some for only an hour or two; everyone has a limit. When you've reached yours, quit for the day.

* When you're feeling lousy. If you can't think of anything but your aching head, your stuffy sinuses, or your 103-degree fever, maybe you should be in bed.

* When your writing stinks. If your work is going badly and everything you do only makes it worse, stop for a while. You may need to end your writing session early. Next time, take a fresh look, try a new approach.

When you quit, however, don't immediately start doing something you enjoy, like taking a nap or dashing to the fridge for some Ben & Jerry's. Instead, do some unpleasant task, like paying bills. Don't reward behavior that you shouldn't encourage.

I find that when my work stalls, things look much better the next day. Time and distance can work wonders.

Talking of Michelangelo.

If you think that your prose is deathless, that what you're writing is the literary equivalent of the Sistine Chapel, sc.r.a.pe yourself off the ceiling. It may be as good as you think, but chances are it's not quite that fabulous and you need to come down off your high.

The buzz you get when you're really on is one of the great rewards of writing, yet it feels very much like the buzz you get when you're deceiving yourself. By all means enjoy your dizzy euphoria. Just remember to take another look after your head clears. Try to see your work as a reader would, coming to it cold, and don't be crushed if it's less dazzling the second time around. Self-intoxication is dangerous only if you fail to sober up.

Signs of Progress.

Remember Sisyphus, the Greek character who was condemned to roll a stone uphill, only to have it roll down again? He ought to be the patron saint of writers. Any writing project, even a small one, seems a Sisyphean task if you feel you're going nowhere-a common feeling among writers.

Sometimes, though, you'll think you're going nowhere when in fact you've almost arrived. That's because progress seldom announces itself. It comes in increments, without orchestral accompaniment, so don't think you're toiling in vain because you don't hear a flourish of trumpets every time you write. When you learn to recognize signs of progress, you won't feel you're running in place. Here are some signs to look for. Don't expect to see them all. Even one can keep you going.

* You've met your quota. If you've set a quota-a number of words or pages you hope to produce each time you write-you have a built-in progress meter. If you don't have a quota, and if you work on a computer, do a word count at the end of each session. I do this every time I write, if only to watch the numbers change. When the count grows, that's progress. When the count shrinks, that can be progress, too-if I've cut out something dumb.

* You've done your time. Even if you haven't written very much at a sitting, at least you've started on time, finished on time, and done some thinking in between. Keeping to a schedule is definitely progress.

* Your writing holds up. If it still looks good to you the next day, it probably is.

* You can't wait to get back to work. Now you're getting somewhere.

* You can't stop. Let's not kid ourselves. No one feels like this every day.

* You're not afraid to show your writing. If you have the confidence to ask for someone else's opinion, you've made progress.

* You can take criticism without collapsing. Well, you asked for it, didn't you? Besides, if criticism helps you get your project back on track, that's progress. (If only I could follow my own advice!)

The Payoff.

When you read something you love, something so beautiful and right and true that it leaves you breathless with admiration, you probably think, "Words come easy to her," or "His writing is effortless." That's what writers want you to think. But the effortless feel of good writing takes effort to achieve. As Samuel Johnson put it, "What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure."

Don't think that what's hard for you comes naturally to others. Everyone has to work at writing well. But there's a payoff-two payoffs, actually.

First, the techniques for writing well aren't hard to learn. And they work! You'll find them in the chapters ahead, the fundamentals and then the fine points.

Second, effort really does make a difference. If you work at your writing, even a little, you'll see results. You may not use every bit of advice in this book, but any improvement at all is worth the trouble. Remove only one word of jargon, sharpen only one fuzzy idea, goose only one sentence with a livelier verb, and your writing will be that much better.

PART 2.

The Fundamental Things Apply.

6. Pompous Circ.u.mstances.

HOLD THE BALONEY.

This has happened to me, and I'm sure it's happened to you. You're listening to people talk, at a board meeting or a seminar or a discussion group or even at some la-di-da c.o.c.ktail party, and everyone is being soooo impressive. The pretentious language gets deeper and deeper, until you're up to your knees in big words and bureaucratic/academic/ corporate gobbledygook.

Just as you're thinking you'd rather be somewhere else, a voice of reason pipes up with a simple question or comment that cuts through the baloney: "Yes, but does it work?"

Or: "By 'eggplant' you mean purple."

Or: "In other words, we're fired."