some brain dump on writing + an exercise in arrogance

My years working in marketing trained me to write short sentences.

This, of course, went against my nature, which was:

These qualities were exorcised out of me by the copychief.

So now, as an act of rebellion [I didn’t read Dostoevsky just so I could write sales copy], I’m going to write something loooong—something that will bore you and make you click away. Get ready.

I like what Mortimer Adler said in How to Read a Book about the act of reading: it’s like catching a ball—the pitcher (who he compares to the writer) has to work to give it a good throw, and you, as the catcher (the reader), ALSO have to move, make an effort, get in position to catch it.  You’re not just standing there with your hands cupped, waiting for the ball to fall in. Both the thrower and the catcher, sender and receiver, are active participants.

If I rewrite this in marketing style, it would be like:

I like what Mortimer Adler said about reading.

He compared it to baseball.

The pitcher has to make a good pitch.

But the catcher ALSO has to move to catch the ball.

He’s not just standing there waiting for it to fall into his hands.

The writer has to write well.

He has to make sure he’s clear.

That his words don’t confuse.

But the reader also has responsibilities.

He has to give it his best effort.

To read between the lines.

To not give up when he encounters difficulties.

To raise himself to the level of the writer.

He has to think.

(If you can’t tell the difference, go see a doctor.)

—Okay, back to verbosity. Tired of seeing all that white space—

Sometimes, I find myself viscerally repulsed by the markety sound of today’s online writing (similar to the above). It’s like scrolling through my LinkedIn feed. Makes me want to puke.

There was a time when those who were less literate felt compelled to elevate their mind in order to catch up to the more literate. This was why a lot of thinkers in the past tried to learn Latin to proficiency, even though it was not their first language—because Latin was the language of the smart ones. It was the privileged tongue. (This wasn’t always the case. Before the rise of the Roman Empire, Latin was considered a “low” language, and those who aspired to erudition tried to learn Greek, instead.)

They didn’t demand the intellectuals to simplify, be more concise or use plainer language. They assumed the responsibility to improve their mind so that they would deserve the knowledge that was locked inside inscrutable text.

But now, it’s the other way around. People with larger vocabularies are the ones adjusting to those who know fewer words. Intellectuals who can think in more abstract and complex terms are advised to make things more concrete and accessible. They’re told: “you can only be sure you understand something if you can explain it to a 5th grader.”

This is nuts. Why are we pandering to the attention spans and the vocabulary limits of the plebeians! We writers are the smart ones. They should work hard just to deserve to understand us.

***

Nowadays, when you use simple words like ineffable or ephemeral, you are called “pretentious.” [I do have pet peeves of my own. I hate the word “diaspora”—it screams “wannabe academic”.]

It’s the classic Hemingway vs. Faulkner debate. Who is the better writer? The terse Hemingway or the dense, ornate, grandiloquent Faulkner? When you read both, you’ll likely like both. But most people today are solely Team Hemingway. [By people, I mean us—people who read. I don’t imagine my blog attracting non-readers.]

I’m not team Faulker only. I’m for variety!

What I don’t like is that a lot of people today have this lazy heuristic that goes:

Good Writing = Concise

They probably read this in a modern book on “good” writing and took it as gospel. What’s more disgusting than braindead people are people who think they are smart, unaware that they’re just parrots.

I once read a couple of books on writing: On Writing Well and Everybody Writes. I don’t remember the names of the authors but both of them champion conciseness and brevity, echoing Strunk & White’s prescription in The Elements of Style to “eliminate needless words.” Even my idol Stephen King said something similar (if I remember correctly).

There’s no doubt that the authors of On Writing Well and Everybody Writes (as of course, Stephen King and Strunk & White) are good writers. But it’s a stretch to call them better writers than Marcel Proust who took more than 3 pages describing a boy who can’t sleep because he wants a good night kiss from his maman.

Maybe instead of championing brevity, we must champion intentionality. There are writers who choose to express their thoughts with longer sentences and arcane words to greater effect.

***

I was shookt one day when I opened a book.

I was halfway through chapter 2 and I couldn’t understand a thing!

The book was Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann.

[Okay, now. Pick up a copy and prove you’re better than me.]

I know it was meant to be a difficult book…

to be kind to myself, blah blah.

But I’m someone who holds a secret pride.

The pride of having understood 80% of Sartre’s Being and Nothingness on first reading!

[And without referring to secondary sources!]

This revelation was too much for my ego to handle at that point then.

So I shelved Mann and never touched him again.

Was it brain fog caused by eating too much sugar?

Maybe.

But I suspect it was social media.

It fed my mind a diet of only short simple sentences.

So I found it difficult to follow complex structures.

Now, I’m doing the same to you. Lol.

Want concise?

Here, take this.

***

By now, it should be clear that I have nothing against verbosity. But I also have nothing against brevity.

A writing style with lots of words and one with fewer words can both be equally good.

What is unforgivable is writing for the sake of writing, whether concise or verbose.

[I agree with Schopenhauer when he said that there are two kinds of authors: (1) those who write because they have something to say, and (2) those who write for writing’s sake.]

One of the most popular writing advise now is:

Write every day.

“Ship it!” they would say.

They probably took the cue from Austin Kleon’s Show Your Work.

Austin is a good writer. It’s okay for him to show his work and ship every day.

But for the majority, maybe not.

There’s already too much trash in the world.

They are drowning out good works, making them harder to find.

There are a million pieces of writing (books, social media posts, etc.) getting published yearly.

And my time and budget are limited.

So the ethical thing to do if you have nothing to say is to cap your pen and stop writing.

Ok, that’s harsh. Let me revise:

It’s okay to write everyday. You can write in your private journal whenever you want.

But if our intent is to publish, we need to spend more time thinking and pondering.

What’s not okay is publishing our writing every day, regardless of quality and thought.

I felt this more strongly after I read The Checklist Manifesto by Dr. Atul Gawande.

I kept on reading in the hope that there would be a redeeming quality in the end.

[and because I was in denial of the fact that I wasted money on something I thought would improve my productivity]

But there was none! It was trash all the way through.

His idea was:

keeping a checklist will improve your life because it will help you be more organized and not forget things.

Good idea, yes.

He also gave examples of how this improved operations in hospitals and other organizations.

But this book was completely unnecessary! He could have just written a 1000-word article, not a book!

My guess is that he was talked into publishing a book because he was trying to beef up his CV because he was aiming for a position in some medical or academic institution. He probably hired a ghost writer who probably did some mental acrobatics to expand a simple idea to fill up the pages required to be considered a “book”.

I wrote a scathing Goodreads review warning everyone. I wanted to write Dr. Gawande a hate email but I stopped myself.

Doctors are supposed to make you live longer. But he took 2 hours of my life—the hours I wasted reading his “book”.

I felt like he owed me an apology for putting pen to paper.

And maybe I also owe you an apology.

After all, it took me this long belaboring a simple idea:

That both terse and wordy writing can be good.

Maybe I should write myself a hate email.

But I also promised in the beginning I would bore you, so…

Mission complete.