It’s all too easy to recognize bad writing. Poor grammar, jumbled thoughts, the careless repetition of words – you know it when you see it. Whether it’s an article, an essay, a book, or any other format involving the arrangement of words, reading it feels like a chore, and you are likely to give up on it before you get to the end.
Good writing is, at the least, competent. A good magazine piece conveys information clearly and logically. A good novel features a believable plot, recognizably human characters (unless they’re not humans), and dialogue that you can imagine being spoken. A good work of nonfiction needs to be well-researched and get its facts across in a way that avoids inducing boredom. Good writing leaves you with a sense of satisfaction for time well spent.
Great writing, though, is thrilling, exhilarating, and inspiring – prose with the beauty of poetry. The reader consistently comes across examples of fine literary art: deftly crafted sentences, beautifully turned phrases, emotionally engaging scenes, vividly evocative imagery, wickedly funny lines – any or all of which may make you keep a pen or highlighter nearby to mark the passages you want to be able to come back to. Great writing makes you want to read everything the author has written – to catch up with past work and to be on the lookout for anything new. And, if you’re lucky, a great writer will have a beneficial influence on your writing style.
So, how do you get there? Hell if I know, but here’s something I’ve tried and had some success with.
Try this:
Retype a portion from a book that you think of as great writing.
“So, what can one say about a man who rapes his own child?”
“I supposed it might help if you could see him as sick rather than evil,” Johnny suggested limply. “I can’t get over this,” he added, “it’s really awful.”
“I’ve tried what you suggest,” said Patrick, “but then, what is evil if not sickness celebrating itself? While my father had any power he showed no remorse or restraint, and when he was poor and abandoned he only showed contempt and morbidity.” ― Edward St. Aubyn, The Patrick Melrose Novels
Here’s my crappy first draft:
Fred was a shoe repairman in Cincinnati who worked sixteen hours a day breathing in shoe polish fumes. Every night he came home and Sylvie had dinner ready. They ate in near silence, had sex, and went to sleep. On Saturday nights they went out for barbeque. They always got the early-bird special. On Sunday they went to church and had fried chicken supper. It was the same for the thirty-three years they had been married. Fred always assumed that he would be the first to go. Then Sylvie got stomach cancer and she was dead in three months. Fred never told her how much he loved her until now. He didn’t think it was too late.
And here’s my rewrite after I retyped Edward St. Aubyn
Fred toiled away as a cobbler in the heart of Cincinnati, the pungent fumes of shoe polish his constant companion throughout his grueling sixteen-hour days. Each evening, upon his return, Sylvie awaited him with a meal prepared, their interactions often draped in a veil of quietude. Their routine unfolded with a predictable cadence: dinner, intimacy, slumber, punctuated only by their weekly sojourns for barbecue on Saturdays, indulging in the early-bird offerings without fail. Sundays ushered them to the pews of their chosen sanctuary, followed by the comforting embrace of a fried chicken supper.
This rhythm, steadfast and unyielding, sustained them through the passage of thirty-three years of marital union. Fred, in his resigned contemplations, always harbored the expectation that his departure from this mortal coil would precede Sylvie's. Yet fate’s capricious hand, dealt a cruel blow when Sylvie succumbed to the ravages of stomach cancer, her demise swift, unfolding within the span of a mere three months.
In the wake of her passing, Fred found himself ensnared in the tendrils of regret, a regret that echoed in the recesses of his being for not having articulated the depths of his affection to her sooner. Only now, in the shadow of her absence, did he dare to acknowledge the profound love he harbored for her, grappling with the cruel realization that perhaps, in his silence, he had squandered precious moments that now lay forever beyond his grasp.
That is a wonderful vignette. And The Patrick Melrose Novels is among my all-time favorite books.
Liz, I love the captivating tone of your writing. My favorite passage: "Each evening, upon his return, Sylvie awaited him with a meal prepared, their interactions often draped in a veil of quietude. Their routine unfolded with a predictable cadence: dinner, intimacy, slumber, punctuated only by their weekly sojourns for barbecue on Saturdays, indulging in the early-bird offerings without fail". Splendid. Marvelous. Captivating.