When it comes to improving yourself as a writer, not even writing professors can agree on the best approach. I’ve used dozens of textbooks and spoken with scores of professors about the topic, and I’ve come to realize that everyone has their own assumptions about what it takes to develop as a writer. While all of these assumptions can be backed up with research, stories, experiences, and logic, they can’t all simultaneously be "the best." Some even contradict each other.
Read through the following list of nine common yet conflicting assumptions that people make about the art of learning to write. Which one do you most agree with, and which one do you most disagree with?
The most important thing that influences your growth as a writer is the belief that you can learn to write well.
As a first-year college student, you should start with simple writing tasks, such as telling stories, and then move to harder writing tasks, such as writing a research paper.
The best way for you to develop as a writer is to imitate the writing of the people you want to write like.
The best way for you to develop as a writer is to develop good reading skills.
Practice is the key to your development as a writer. The more you write, the more you will improve.
Your writing proficiency begins with learning the basics and then building on them, working from sentences to paragraphs to essays.
In order to break the rules of writing, you have to learn them first.
You're either born a writer, or you aren't.
The most important thing for you to understand in academic writing is the standard essay format: introductory paragraph with a thesis statement, five paragraphs, topic sentences, concluding paragraph, and so on.
Spend a few minutes free-writing (or simply thinking) about why you agree with the one and disagree with the other. Some things to consider:
How does your own experience with writing support or contradict this statement?
What does common sense or logic tell you?
Why do you think writing instructors might make the assumption?
My objective isn't to sway you to accept any certain assumption nor to discredit another. I simply want you to think about these assumptions and to understand the philosophies that underpin them.
I'm not going to tell you which assumption I most agree and disagree with. If you pay attention as you read through this book, it should be obvious. Also, if you're anything like me, your assumptions will change over time. I worry that if I tell you which one I most agree with, in a few months, I will have changed my mind. That's my prerogative as a human being and as a writer.
I'm no Tony Robbins, so I'm not going to preach to you about how you can accomplish anything you set your mind to. If you want a pep talk, Google "The power of believing in yourself."
I do, however, believe that the belief that you can do something is important. I'm not sure it's the most important, though. For nearly two decades, I was under the delusion that I could be a great singer. I knew I wasn't, but I truly believed that in time I could learn to sing well.
I'm proud to report that not only did I never learn to sing well, I actually got worse over time.
I don't think the problem was that I was naïve or misguided in my belief, but that I didn't take the necessary steps to turn that belief into reality. I didn’t take voice lessons. I didn't join a choir. I didn't visit karaoke bars. As a writer, when you believe in yourself, you still have to follow up that belief by actually doing something, like taking a writing class, writing during your free time, or attempting to publish something.
This belief in yourself that makes your goals possible is what we call self-efficacy. If you’re lucky, your professor knows about self-efficacy and will design a writing assignment early in the semester that you can succeed in and feel good about, which in turn will make you more likely to improve from there simply because you now believe in yourself. A positive start begets feelings of confidence while a negative start begets feelings of inadequacy, both of which can have a real impact on your ability to grow as a writer. But even if you do poorly on your first assignment, there are other reasons to believe in yourself. And if you did well but still don’t believe in yourself, just keep writing. Belief can only get you so far anyway.
The first question that arises for me when I hear this is, "Who gets to decide what is easy?" I've been able to write research papers—good research papers—since I was a Freshman in high school. The whole concept just came easily to me. But I struggled for years when it came time to writing personal essays. Eventually, I figured it out (it's really not that hard). I know I'm not unique: I've met plenty of students who have struggled with writing personal essays, narratives, short stories, and poems, but who have whizzed through their research papers with no problems.
That being said, I'm all for the notion of starting with the simple tasks and moving on, but it’s impossible for me to determine which assignments are going to be easiest for my students.
Though she wasn’t the first to say it, nor will she be the last, one of my favorite quotes about the power of mimicry comes from the fiction writer, Zeynep Ozakat: “Imitation is part of being a writer. Just like babies who learn to smile by imitating adults, we must have the humility to learn from the greats through mimicry.” [2]
I used to be a huge disbeliever in this assumption. I believed in individuality. In genius. In creativity. And you don't develop any of those things by imitating the people around you.
But then I had an interesting experience my junior year of college. In a fiction-writing workshop, my professor claimed that he could tell exactly which authors we had been reading right before we wrote our stories. We tried to call his bluff, and he spent a few minutes going around the circle, skimming our drafts and telling us who we had read. Students were gasping in amazement, but I thought it was all a ruse—a joke he had set up with a few of the students. When he got to my short story, I smiled smugly knowing he would never guess who I had been reading. Even if this wasn’t a prank and he did have some unique ability, there was no one more unabashedly unique in his writing than me. My stories dripped with idiosyncratic personality, attributable to no one but myself and nothing but my own genius.
He looked at the draft for only a few seconds, said, "You've been reading Annie Proulx,” and tossed the manuscript back on my desk.
I was floored. He was absolutely right! I had just finished Proulx's The Shipping News right before I wrote my story, and I had another collection of her short stories sitting on my nightstand. I asked him how he could tell, and he pointed out a few tell-tale stylistic choices that were distinctly Proulx-esque (prounounced prew-esk). I became an instant believer. I realized that even if we don't mean to, at a subconscious level we mimic those whom we read. After that, I made the conscious choice to read people who I wanted to write like. When my writing gets stale, I seek out new authors with distinct styles.
It's important to note that there is a difference between imitating an author and copying an author. Imitation is about riffing off the styles, structures, and strategies of other writers. Copying is about ripping off those same things, which is plagiarism. Nobody wants that.
I was recently talking to a published author—a novelist who I'll leave unnamed—who told me the worst thing you can do while writing a book is to read. "Don't read a single word," he said, "until you're absolutely done with your book."
It may seem like this advice goes contrary to everything I just said, but it actually corroborates it. What he was essentially saying is that when we read, we can't keep ourselves from assimilating the styles, structures, strategies, and cadences that we’re taking in.
I've ignored his advice, by the way. If, as a writer, I'm the sum total of everything I've read, then I want to keep adding to that total. I'm not ready to yet declare myself replete and ready to churn out my magnum opus.
I'm a work in progress.
I've had several students tell me that they're great writers but have never read much, or that they read all the time, but they don't like writing. It would seem there is a disconnect between the two.
I don't doubt these students’ claims, but the connection to reading and writing goes a bit deeper and may not be decipherable at first glance. Liking to read and hating to write, or vice versa, doesn't necessarily mean that one has nothing to do with the other.
This assumption has a lot of tie-over from the previous one about imitation. Like it or not, at a subconscious level, we incorporate the things we read into the way we think. One of the most prevalent ways that reading a lot has been proven to improve writing is the assimilation of grammar and usage patterns. We learn at an instinctual level how language works, even if we can't articulate the rules.
I didn't really think much about this until after I had my Ph.D. I took a job teaching developmental writing, a course aimed at helping students brush up on their writing skills before they take mainstream college writing courses, and I was tasked with teaching my students the formal rules of grammar. That's when I realized that I had never had a single grammar lesson in all my years in college. The last grammar lesson I could remember having was in ninth grade. But I knew the rules of grammar. How could I not? I had published essays and stories, and I had been teaching writing courses for years. Yet, I couldn't tell you the difference between a dependent and an independent clause or a coordinating and a subordinating conjunction. I didn't know the difference between a gerund and a participle. Yet, somehow, I did. If you read my writing, you would see that I clearly had a mastery of English and its accompanying syntax, grammar, and usage.
I had learned these "rules," if we can call them that, at an instinctual level through decades of reading. In the weeks before I started teaching the developmental writing course, I didn't necessarily have to re-learn the rules, I just had to learn how to talk about them. Even though I knew when to use a semi-colon, I had to learn how to teach it to others.
My advice, therefore, is to read—a lot—even if you don't like it. And read what you enjoy. You don't have to analyze every sentence; let the words do their work at the subconscious level and fill you with all the instinctual goodness that you will need to become a great writer.
When I worked as a 911 operator, I had a coworker who bragged that she graduated college having only written one paper. She turned it in a dozen times between her sophomore year of high school and her senior year in college, making small tweaks so it would satisfy the assignment requirements. After her confession, a lot of things suddenly made sense, such as why her training reports read more like middle-school journal entries. I tried to tell her that perhaps she had put herself at a disadvantage, having skipped these opportunities to practice her writing. I should note that at the time of the conversation, I was teaching writing as a graduate student. She laughed, as did others listening to our conversation. "Why would I waste my time writing a brand new research paper when I had a perfectly good one already done?"
I'm sure many of my students would love to pull off that same feat. That's why I build so many in-class writing assignments into the early stages of the assignment. In the end, they will end up putting in a lot more time and energy trying to re-use an old paper than if they just write a new one. I don’t just want them to produce a document to satisfy an assignment; I want them to practice.
One of the problems with the idea of practice makes perfect is that it can also make permanent. If you have ever tried to learn an instrument or a sport, you already understand this principle. If you learn something incorrectly through repetition, it is extremely difficult to unlearn it and teach yourself the correct way of doing it. I've heard coaches curse their athletes' previous coaches for allowing them to learn sloppy techniques. I once overheard a professor in a music conservatory say to a budding violinist, "Why would anyone teach you to hold your thumb like that? You're making it impossible for yourself!"
And so it is with writing. Practice is essential, but you must be open to feedback and criticism, whether from your professor or your classmates or someone you trust, so that you can be sure you're practicing the things that will actually make you a better writer. Of course, take their criticism with a grain of salt. Writing is, after all, about choice. And you can always choose to do things your own way. Also, be wary of people who try to correct your writing by citing some arcane rule. Chances are, it's not a rule at all, nor do they fully understand it themselves.
I'm all for starting with the basics. The problem with this assumption, though, is that too often the basics are taught out of context.
How can you judge if a paragraph is effective until you know how it fits into the essay? How can you judge the effectiveness of a sentence without seeing how it works in the paragraph and with the other sentences?
If you have ever struggled with learning "the basics" of writing, chances are it's because they were taught out of context. If you were expected to master the concept of a thesis statement before you ever wrote the essay, you were doomed from the beginning. If you were expected to memorize the rules of grammar by looking at other-people's sentences and not by tinkering with your own, it was never going to happen. The basics have to be taught in context—and the best context is your own writing.
So if you want to learn to write dynamite paragraphs, start by writing an essay and then playing around with the paragraphs and the sentences.
According to Picasso, you have to "learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist." [3]
I had a student from Siberia who pointed out that "breaking the rules" isn't a luxury afforded to those who speak English as a second language. "If an American student breaks the rules," she said, "people think they’re being creative. If I break the rules, they think I don't know how to speak English. But I know the rules—probably better than most Americans."
Why is it that writing instructors cling to this assumption—that we should first learn the rules and then, if we’re feeling brave, break them? I suppose it's for two reasons: first, it's an easy answer to the old question, "Why are we learning this?" And second, because it offers instructors wiggle room when their students point out the poor grammar of successful writers.
As I've mentioned in the previous chapter, I'm not a fan of the word rules, but I do agree that in order to master anything and manipulate the norms, conventions, and traditions in your favor, then you need to know and understand them first.
One of my favorite books is Bossy Pants, by Tina Fey. It's well written, but it's not perfectly written. She has all sorts of fragments and run-ons, but as a reader, I trust her. I know she's a genius and a highly-accomplished writer, and I know that she knows how to write complete sentences. So when she doesn't, it's obviously a stylistic choice used for comedic effect. And it works—it’s one of the few books I’ve read that has made me laugh out loud. So I suppose there is merit to this assumption. But it's tricky—what if someone who I didn't already admire wrote the book? Would I have rolled my eyes at the grammar errors and given up? What if the author were from Siberia? Would I be so forgiving of her abuse of the English language?
I like to think I'm not that petty when it comes to correctness. My multiple use of fragments and run-ons throughout this book should be proof of that—though, admittedly, I am no Tina Fey.
The first thing students usually bring up in response to this assumption is the difference between talents and skills. No doubt, you're familiar with the analogy: we can all learn to play basketball, but we can't all play like Michael Jordan. Likewise, I can learn all sorts about theoretical physics, but I'll never be Einstein. By that logic, anyone can learn to write—learn the skills of writing, that is—but not everyone will be Marcel Proust or David Foster Wallace, and they especially won’t be Tina Fey.
For me, I suppose, the difference between skill and talent is just a matter of time and effort. If you want to become a fabulous writer, and you're willing to put in the time and effort, you can make it happen. Writers with natural-born talent might just get there a little sooner than us writers who have to fight for every scrap of skill we can acquire.
It's easy to understand where this assumption comes from: standardized tests, such as placement exams. We live in a testing culture, and high schools are geared toward helping students do well on ACTs, SATs, and other college-entrance exams, most of which contain a timed-writing element. These tests, unfortunately, are not judged by how interesting they are. They have weird little rubrics that include things like whether or not the thesis statement is repeated in the conclusion, how many transition words are used, how many simple, complex, and compound sentences are used, and so on. It's set up so that they can be read and judged quickly and efficiently. Some, in fact, are even read and graded by machines. No human eyes ever behold the text.
It's unfortunate because students are left with the false assumption that these tricks for beating the test are the same methods for writing compelling essays. They're not. I've read a lot of these timed essays, and even the ones that receive the highest scores are utter snoozers. In fact, some researchers—in an effort to discredit “robo-grading”—have written essays that were complete non-sense that somehow got a perfect score, while other essays that are universally admired, like “Once More to the Lake” by E. B. White, received a terrible score.
About the time I was finishing my master's degree, I was invited to take the written portion of a new graduate-school entrance exam. They had some flashy new software they were eager to use, and they wanted to work out the kinks before charging students 200 bucks a pop to take it. They offered me no compensation—just the chance to have my name put into a raffle for a 50 dollar gift card to Applebee’s—and I gladly accepted, fueled solely by pride. I was going to beat the high score, and then I was going to feast on endless appetizers.
I forget the exact writing prompt, but it had something to do with crafting an argument about raising taxes to pay for something or other. I did my best, and as soon as I hit “submit,” I got my score. I stared at the screen in disbelief. I was sure my little essay would be forwarded to a committee of professors spread across the country who would hang onto my every word. But in less than a millisecond, there it was. I got what roughly equated to a D-minus.
The problem was that the software program was looking for those pesky pre-programmed "indicators” and had no interest in how funny or persuasive my essay was. If I had used "therefore," and "in conclusion" a little more and stopped trying to channel my inner-Tina, I would have probably gotten an A-plus.
I’m not calling for an end to timed-essay prompts. They are a quick, efficient way to test students’ mastery of certain subjects. But let’s be honest: the type of writing that gets a good score on these tests is rarely the type of writing anyone wants to read, which explains why these testing companies have resorted to employing robots to grade them.
In first-year writing courses, instructors often teach the standard-essay format. It's a good place to start. If you have never written an essay, it can be comforting to have a recipe, so to speak. Having a formula helps limit some of the choices you have to make, and choices can be overwhelming when you're learning something new. The problem is that some writing instructors don't move on from there. They teach the standard-essay model and leave it at that, and their students move on from the course thinking they are now accomplished writers, but they are only churning out the "boring" academic stuff that works fine for timed tests but that no human being actually wants to read. The standard-essay format should be seen as a type of scaffolding—something to help you, the student, as you develop as a writer or as you prepare for a timed written exam. But just as the scaffolding was removed from the White House when it was finished, at some point your writing instructor needs to remove the scaffolding of the standard-essay format (or five-paragraph theme) and allow you to flex your creative muscle, to make those hard choices, and to write things that are interesting, compelling, and intriguing.
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[1] These nine assumptions are adapted from Bruce Ballenger’s The Curious Writer, 1st edition.
[2] From Zeynep Ozakat’s blogpost, “It's High School Biology Class All Over Again and Here's Your Frog. His Name Is Kafka,” at http://www.glimmertrain.com/bulletins/essays/b98ozakat.php.
[3] I don’t have a specific source for this quote. It’s been floating around the internet for years, usually in the form of a motivational meme. There’s a good chance Picasso didn’t even say it, but that doesn’t make it any less relevant.