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| Photo by Danielle MacInnes on Unsplash |
From a paper written while I was a student in English 312 at Clemson University with Prof. Hilligoss.
October 30, 2007
How you know your writing is good
I must admit that I am never sure that any of it is good. I can usually write well enough to get good grades, but in the broader scheme of things, I’m not sure that this qualifies as good, just good enough.
Sometimes it feels different when I write. Things click and I don’t have to think too much about how or what I’m writing. The words flow easily and it’s almost like someone else is writing. Writing that feels this way usually requires little editing and gets the most compliments…but not always.
Sometimes I manage to pull off something funny, and then there is the edification of the reader’s or listener’s laughter. I don’t usually set out to be funny, but when I find myself on a lighter track, I can continue in that direction pretty well, so I do.
I have come to rely on a succinct ending as a way to feel good about what I have written. If I can tie a piece all together with a final punch, that feels better to me and I am more likely to want to show people the pieces that end this way, maybe because they feel more finished to me.
I don’t suppose any of this is useful, because I can’t articulate specifically how to tell whether writing is good. Maybe that is the difficulty with any subjective area. I think I do pretty well at making good construction, but that doesn’t necessarily create something people will want to read, just something that is easier to read than a poorly constructed piece. I think I can actually articulate this better using music. There are some people who have the ability to make music that is mechanically perfect. All the notes are in the right places at exactly the right pitches, in the precisely correct time, in exactly the correct combination. And yet in spite of this there is something missing. There is no passion, no depth. This music can be good, but is not quite great because music does not have to be perfect to be great. Music can touch the soul, but a passionate performance will do this much more effectively than a mechanically perfect one. I think about writing in the same way and I get hung up in trying to make it perfect, but what I really want is for it to have meaning.
Once, for a reason that now
entirely escapes me, I described in an email the sunset I was enjoying as I
looked out my office window. In a
business setting, communicating with a business associate, I felt compelled to
share the few moments of beauty with which my day was graced. The reply that came back said, “That was
beautiful.” But what exactly made it
beautiful is a matter of some speculation.
Was it that I had effectively conveyed something that touched the
reader? I hope so. I guess for me that’s the bottom line, souls
connecting on some level beyond the normal surface level at which we spend far
too much of our lives.
What you’re afraid of when you show people your writing
I am afraid of lots of things, but primarily that they will think what I have written is stupid, as in “that’s nice, but who cares?” I think I always hope someone will read one of my pieces and say, “That’s the best thing I’ve ever read,” or, “That changed my life,” or something equally dramatic. Nobody ever has, except that once (the email mentioned above), and I’m sure that’s asking too much of myself and them. This actually kept me from writing for many years. I wanted to write but didn’t know what to write about because I didn’t think I had anything to say that really mattered. For many years I would only turn to writing when nothing else served to organize random thoughts—when prayer was only leading me down wild roads without answers, or when the pressures of the day wouldn’t be set aside to allow me to focus and I needed to store those concerns on paper for later. Like so much of my life, writing could not be something I did just because I enjoyed it; it had to be purpose-driven. Somehow I had developed a value system for my actions that went something like this: listening to other people make music—acceptable, making it myself—waste of time; reading things other people had written—acceptable, writing things myself—waste of time. And the ensuing bottom line to all of this became: helping someone else—acceptable, helping myself—waste of time. It has been incredibly freeing to be allowed to write whatever comes into my head for this class without concern about whether the topic is significant or weighty enough.
Comments you hate to see on your papers
What I really hate is a paper that comes back with no comments. These are usually marked with that nice big “A” at the top, and I know I should just be happy with that and move on, but I know I’m not perfect and I think there’s always something that could be said. If there’s nothing to comment on negatively, than I hope to have some idea what it was that was good. A lack of comment leaves me wondering if the teacher actually read it or just checked for errors.
I do hate when the comments are
grammar corrections, but only because I’m kicking myself for having missed them
in my proofreading. I appreciate the
opportunity to learn from them, though.
Last semester I got a mild reprimand on a paper for using a comma
splice. Prior to this I had never even heard
of a comma splice. I knew that the
construction was wrong, but I had always fixed it before by rewriting the
sentence to avoid the situation altogether.
I was uncomfortable with the proper use of a semicolon, so I stuck with
construction that was safer. Upon
reading this comment, I went immediately to my grammar book and read everything
in it that was even remotely related to “comma splice.” I can now use semicolons with more confidence,
although I seldom do because the habit of avoiding them is already well-seated.
