Writing Tools

by Roy Peter Clark

  Tiny drops of writing become puddles that become rivulets that become streams that become deep ponds.

  The power of this writing habit is overwhelming, like Harry Potter being told for the first time that he is a famous wizard. You are now reading Tool 45 — in what was once a yearlong online series — headed for Tool 50. If I had said to my editors, "You know, I'd like to write a book of writing tools," I never would have done the work. At the front end, book projects seem impossible to get your arms around, like hugging a polar bear. Instead, I pitched the writing tools project as fifty short essays, delivered at the rate of one or two per week.

  The same strategy could have produced the book on my nightstand, The Lord Is My Shepherd by Harold Kushner, a superb writer and teacher. The foreword begins:

  I have been thinking about the ideas in this book for more than forty years, since I was first ordained as a rabbi. Every time I would read the Twenty-third Psalm at a funeral or memorial service, or at the bedside of an ailing congregant, I would be struck by its power to comfort the grieving and calm the fearful. The real impetus for this book came in the wake of the terrible events of September 11, 2001. In the days following the attacks, people on the street and television interviewers would ask me, "Where was

  God? How could God let this happen?" I found myself responding, "God's promise was never that life would be fair. God's promise was that, when we had to confront the unfairness of life, we would not have to do it alone for He would be with us." And I realized I had found that answer in the Twenty-third Psalm.

  Writers search for the focus of a story, and what a strong focusing idea to write a book about a single fourteen-line prayer, one that has such significance within the Judeo-Christian context. Imagine writing a book about the Lord's Prayer, or the Ave Maria, or one of Shakespeare's sonnets. But how to organize the writing and reading of such a book? Kushner provides an elegant solution: each chapter is devoted to one line of the psalm. So there is a chapter called "The Lord Is My Shepherd," and another called "Though I Walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death," and another called "My Cup Runneth Over." A 175-page national bestseller is divided into an introduction and fourteen short chapters, handy units for the writer and the reader. Bird by bird, tool by tool, line by line.

  WORKSHOP

  1. Admit it. You want to write something bigger than you've ever written before, but you can't get your arms around the project. The length or breadth of it intimidates you. Cut up the monster. In a daybook or journal, break it up into its smallest parts: chapters, sections, episodes, vignettes. Without referring to any notes or research materials, write one of these small units. See what happens.

  2. The next time you are in a bookstore, take a peek at several big volumes: novels, memoirs, almanacs. Check out the table of contents and figure out the structural units that make up the book. Now check individual chapters to see how they subdivide. Notice these small parts in the rest of your reading.

  3. Traditionally, the Bible comprises books, chapters, and verses. Browse through the King James Version and pay attention to how the books divide. Notice the differences, for example, among Genesis, Psalms, and the Song of Songs.

  4. Before you draft your next story, scribble on a legal pad what you conceive as the parts of the story. Don't just write down beginning, middle, and end. Try writing down the smaller parts of those bigger parts.

  I abhor the image of the writer as a solitary figure. That romantic stereotype, associated with loneliness and struggle, has alienated many aspiring writers and blown a cloud over one of the craft's shining truths: that writing is a social activity.

  I remember my first published work, a Christmas poem for a 1958 school newspaper:

  On a cold and snowy night In a land so far away, A babe was born in Bethlehem, Born on Christmas Day. They laid Him in a manger, No place for a king, But it seemed just like a palace When they heard the angels sing.

  I was a proud ten-year-old poet when I saw my name emblazoned above the text, but it took a small Long Island village to publish that singsongy verse. It took a teacher to invite us to write. It took my mother to brainstorm with me. It took another student to draw a little illustration. It took a school clerk to type

  stories onto mimeographs and another to run them off and distribute them. It took the students and some of their parents to praise me. With that early experience shaping my writer's soul, I ask forgiveness for my visceral rejection of the tormented writer on the mountaintop.

  If you aspire to improve as a writer, begin with your self-interest: if your story is well edited, accompanied by a powerful photograph, on a page that is well designed, it will look more important and more people will read it. You would be foolish to ignore or belittle that power.

  In fact, you will never reach your potential as a writer unless you take an interest in all of the associated literary crafts. Cultivate this habit: ask questions about the crafts of copyediting, photography, illustration, graphics, design, and Web site production. You need not become an expert in these fields, but it's your duty to be curious and engaged. One day, you will talk about these crafts without an accent.

  Just as important, make nice with people who come forth to help you. If you do not yet write for publication or as part of your job, practice collaboration with the people who help you now: friends, teachers, fellow students, members of a writing group or book club, fellow bloggers or Web site editors and designers.

  To find the right mood, imagine that you are the author of a wonderful novel that has been optioned to a film studio. You have received a huge advance to write the screenplay. Now think of all the associated crafts that will contribute to the perfection of your work. Think about the directors and actors, the cinematog-rapher, the film editor, the set designer, the score composer, and many more. Carry the vision of that rich collaboration into all of your writing.

  As I develop as an author and journalist, these key figures continue to make my work better:

  • Copyeditors. Ignore the traditional antagonism that leads writers to believe that copyeditors are vampires who work at night and suck the life out of stories. Instead, think of copyeditors as champions of standards, invaluable test readers, your last line of defense. I once wrote a story about two brothers with terrible physical handicaps, boys who had been separated for years. I described their wonderful reunion, how the brothers watched cartoons and fed each other Fruit Loops. A copyeditor, Ed Merrick, called me to check on the story. He offered his praise for a job well done, but said he had sent a news clerk down to the supermarket (this was before the convenience of the Internet) to check on the spelling of Fruit Loops. Sure enough, the correct spelling was Froot Loops. Nice catch. The last thing I wanted was for the reader to notice this mistake, especially at a high point in the story. Years later, I would see Ed and give him the thumbs-up sign in gratitude for his Froot Loops fix. Talk to copyeditors. Learn their names. Embrace them as fellow writers and lovers of language. Feed them chocolate.

  • Photographers. Make sure photo assignments are considered early in the process, not as an afterthought. Using television journalism as a model, look for opportunities for you and the photographer to work side by side. Help the photographer understand your vision of the work. Ask questions about what the photographer sees. Use the work of the photographer to document the story. Let the photographer teach you about focus, framing, composition, and lighting. Ask the photographer what you can do to help.

  • Designers. As your project develops, make sure you include visual artists in the conversation early in the process. Learn from them what you need to see and bring back from a scene, material that can be converted into sparkling visual and design elements. Ask your editor and visual journalists how you can help them while you are doing research or writing early drafts.

  Remember that good work takes time — and not just for you. I earn to meet your deadlines to give others time to do their jobs, lEven if you lack the authority to convene conversations, enc
ourage early planning that includes all key players. The more interested you become in the associated crafts, the more you will be invited into decisions about how your work is presented and perceived.

  Between 2001 and 2005, I wrote more than five hundred columns and essays for the Poynter Institute Web site. I am no expert on how to produce a story across media platforms. But I am adapting my writing tools and habits to a brave new world of media technology. The opportunity to write in different voices, the chance to interact with the audience, the adventure of crossing old boundaries — all these require a richer imagination and greater collaboration than ever before.

  If you work hard at your cross-disciplinary education, supporting the marriage of words and visuals, you will prepare yourself for a future of innovation and creativity. You can do this without sacrificing the enduring values of your craft. This requires not just the Golden Rule — treat others the way you want to be treated — but what my old colleague Bill Boyd calls the Platinum Rule: Treat others the way they want to be treated. How does the copyeditor want to be treated? What does the photographer need to do her best work? And what gives the designer satisfaction? The only way to know for sure is to ask.

  WORKSHOP

  1. If you work in a news organization or for a publishing house, if you are writing a film documentary or a nonfiction narrative, if you write for a Web site or a newsletter, you depend on others to accomplish your best work. List the names of these people. Make sure you have their phone numbers and e-mail addresses.

  2. Develop a schedule of conversations with each person on your list. Apply the Platinum Rule. Ask them what they need to do their best work.

  3. Encourage the kind of support you desire. Don't just complain. If someone has written a good headline or saved you from a mistake, reward that good work with praise.

  4. Read about the associated crafts. Find a good book on photography. Read some design magazines. Listen to conversations about these crafts and develop a lexicon so that you can chime in.

  Now that we have dismantled the disabling myth of authorship as a lonely craft, you can free yourself of the need to rent a loft overlooking the ocean, your only companions a portable typewriter, a bottle of gin, and a kitty named Hemingway.

  In the real world, writing is more like line dancing, a social function with many partners. As we've seen, some of those partners — a writing teacher, a workshop group, a Web producer, a copyeditor — may be assigned to us. Other helpers can and should be of our choosing.

  You must create a system of support both wide and deep. If you limit yourself to one classroom teacher or one editor, you will not get the help you need. You must create a network of friends, colleagues, editors, and coaches who can offer feedback — and maybe an occasional feedbag.

  My support system changes as I change. I'm a different writer and person than I was twenty years ago, so I refresh the team I have assigned to help me. This should be a radical concept to you, especially if you are starting out as a writer. You may say to yourself, I'd be happy with any feedback at all. I am saying to you, don't settle for what is given to you. Whatever it is, it is not enough. Work on developing the support system you need and deserve.

  Here are the kinds of people I need:

  • A helper who keeps me going. For years, my teaching partner Chip Scanlan has played this role for me, especially when I am working on a long project. Chip has a rare quality as a colleague: he is capable of withholding negative judgments. He says to me, over and over again, "Keep going. Keep writing. We'll talk about that later."

  • A helper who understands my idiosyncrasies. All writers have quirks. The fleas come with the dog. I find it almost unbearable to read my published work in the newspaper. I assume I'll encounter some terrible mistake. My wife, Karen, understands this. While I cower under the covers with my dog, Rex, she sits at the breakfast table, crunching her Rice Chex, reading my story in the paper and making sure no unforeseen horror has appeared. "All clear," she says, to my relief.

  • A helper willing to answer my questions. For many years writing coach Donald Murray has been willing to read my drafts, and he begins by asking me what I need from him. In other words, "How would you like me to read this?" or "What kind of reading are you looking for?" My response might be, "Is this too Catholic?" or "Does this seem real enough to publish as a memoir?" or "Just let me know if you find this interesting." Murray is always generous, but it helps us both when he reads with a focus in mind.

  • An expert helper to match my topic. My current interest often dictates the kind of helper I need. When I wrote about the Holocaust and the history of anti-Semitism, I depended on the wisdom and experience of a rabbi, Haim Horowitz. When I wrote about AIDS, I turned to an oncologist, Dr. Jeffrey Paonessa. Such people may begin as interview subjects, but the deeper you get into a topic, the more they can turn into sounding boards and confidants.

  • A helper who runs interference. On fire with enthusiasm for one writing project, I'd wake up early, get into the office before daylight, and try to write for a couple of hours before my other work responsibilities forced an interruption. Joyce Barrett blessed me with her assistance for twenty years. I especially remember the morning she came to work, saw that I was writing, closed my office door, and put a motel-style Do Not Disturb sign on the handle. That's good downfield blocking.

  • A coach who helps me figure out what works and what needs work. For more than a year, an intern named Ellen Sung edited a column I wrote for the Poynter Web site. In most ways, the two of us could not have been more different. I was older, white, male, with a print orientation. Ellen was twenty-four years old, Chinese American, female, and thrived online. She was well read, curious, with mature sensibilities as an editor. She could articulate the strengths of a column, asked great questions that would lead to revisions and clarifications, and framed negative criticism with persuasive diplomacy. Ellen now works as a newspaper reporter, but she still belongs to my network, willing to help at a moment's notice.

  You may choose these helpers one by one, but over time they form a network, with you at the center. You may address them as a group via e-mail or ask them in various combinations to help you solve a problem. You can test the criticism of one against the wisdom of another. You can fire one who gets too bossy. You can send another flowers or a bottle of wine. It's good, on occasion, for the writer to be the king — or queen.

  WORKSHOP

  1. Look at the six categories of helpers described above. Make a list of six people who might be able to serve you in these capacities. Rehearse a conversation with each with the goal of expanding your network.

  2. Make a list of the specific ways an editor, teacher, or friend has helped you improve a story. Have you approached that person to express thanks for such help? If not, go out of your way the next time it happens.

  3. Admit it. An editor or teacher is driving you crazy. Rehearse a conversation in which you describe the behavior that hinders your work. Can you find a way to communicate this with civility and diplomacy? "Jim, the last few times I've suggested a story idea to you, you've rejected it. I find this discouraging. I'd like to work on some of these stories. Is this something we can talk about?"

  4. Make a list of the members of your writing posse. Next to their names, list the roles they play for you. Who else do you need to accomplish your best work?

  As I peruse my collection of books on writing, I find they fall into two broad categories. In one box, I find books such as The Elements of Style and On Writing Well. These classics by Strunk and White and William Zinsser capture writing as a craft, so they concern themselves with toolboxes and blueprints. In the other box, I find works such as Bird by Bird and Wild Mind. In these works by Anne Lamott and Natalie Goldberg, I'm less likely to find advice on technique than on living a life of language, of seeing a world of stories.

  The standards for this second category go back at least to the 1930s when Dorothea Brande wrote Becoming a Writer (1934) and Brenda
Ueland wrote If You Want to Write (1938). It is a blessing that both books remain in print, inviting a new generation into the community of writers.

  Brande expresses her preference for coffee, a medium-soft lead pencil, and a noiseless portable typewriter. She offers advice on what writers should read and when they should write. Her concerns include meditation, imitation, practice, and recreation. But she is most powerful on the topic of self-criticism. To become a fluent writer, she argues, one must silence the internal critic early in the process. The critic becomes useful only when enough work has been done to warrant evaluation and revision. Influenced by Freud, Brande argues that during the early stages of creation, the writer should write freely, "harnessing the unconscious":

  Up to this point it is best to resist the temptation to reread your productions. While you are training yourself into facility in writing and teaching yourself to start writing whenever and wherever opportunity offers, the less you turn a critical eye upon your own material the better — even for a cursory survey. The excellence or triteness of your writing was not the matter under consideration. But now, turning back to see what it may reveal under a dispassionate survey, you may find those outpourings very enlightening.

  Four decades later, another writer, Gail Godwin, would cover the same territory in an essay titled "The Watcher at the Gate." For Godwin, the Watcher is the "restraining critic who lived inside me," and who appeared in many forms to lock the doors of her creativity.

  It is amazing the lengths a Watcher will go to keep you from pursuing the flow of your imagination. Watchers are notorious pencil sharpeners, ribbon changers, plant waterers, home repairers and abhorrers of messy rooms or messy pages. They are compulsive looker-uppers. They cultivate self-important eccentricities they think are suitable for "writers." And they'd rather die (and kill your inspiration with them) than risk making a fool of themselves.

  Like Brande, Godwin draws her central images from Freud, who quotes Friedrich von Schiller: "In the case of a creative mind . .. the intellect has withdrawn its watchers from the gates, and the ideas rush in ... and only then does it review and inspect the multitude." Schiller chides a friend: "You reject too soon and discriminate too severely."