Articles

On not being inspired
and not giving up

Blue sky with olive tree One of my lovely clients contacted me recently regarding his current manuscript. He ended his email with the words: “I am trying to encourage myself to keep going.”

If you are a writer, then you know—with a weighty, world-weary certainty—that writing is not always fun. It is rarely easy and often unrewarding. Finding the motivation to keep putting one word after another (while most likely also going back to delete, tweak or shuffle a whole bunch more) is a challenge when you lack inspiration. Even the most eloquent and impassioned writers get disheartened from time to time.

The hard truth about encouraging yourself to keep writing is that it’s entirely up to you.

Leaving aside the commonly quoted notion that we write because we ‘must’—as if impelled by an inner imperative that seeks to be appeased—the reality in most cases is that we write because we choose to do so. I’m sorry to say it, but with some exceptions, it makes no essential difference whether we write or not.

But.

This does not mean your writing is not important.

It is, and that’s the point.

What you write does not have to change the world. It doesn’t need a million and six readers, but it does have to mean enough to you that you will find some way to keep going with it, even when motivation and inspiration are low. Even when you doubt yourself and your ability. Even when you are utterly discouraged.

The only person who can incite you to continue is you.

You need to believe your writing matters.
That is what will stop you from giving up.

Maybe you hope your story will help others. Maybe you yearn to educate or entertain, or perhaps you are, quite simply, a kinder person when you give yourself time to write. Whatever your reasons are, remember them and repeat them to yourself in moments of misgiving.

If you’ve lost enthusiasm for your writing, try taking a new approach to it. Pick a different time or place to write. Set yourself challenges or restrictions and work within them. If you currently spend hours groaning over your computer screen, limit yourself to handwriting for no longer than thirty minutes a day. If you’re stuck on a particular passage or chapter, prohibit yourself from working on it for a week.

It is also wise to find external support, whether it is from a family member, a friend, a fellow writer, an imaginary mentor or even an editor. Although you are the only one who can decide whether or not to persist with your writing, you do not need to feel alone during difficult times. Meaningful affirmation can come from others, especially if they see the value that writing has for you.

Sometimes the inspiration comes later and sometimes it doesn’t come at all. The trick is to keep going regardless.

If you are really struggling and none of these suggestions brings you any relief, then it may be time to let it go. Despite its myriad frustrations, writing is ideally an enriching activity. If it has ceased to be so for you, perhaps the most generous choice you can make is to do something else instead. The world is full of wonders that have nothing to do with words (or so I’m told). You could always go and discover some.

As writers, we must come with ideas, dedicate the time to write, linger and labour over language, redraft and revise, endure—or hopefully enjoy—being edited, anticipate rejection, withstand doubts, and keep writing despite everything. In addition to this, we are responsible for generating and sustaining our own encouragement.

That might seem unfair. It may even be enough to make you want to give up. But you are the one who gets to choose.

So tell me: what are you going to do?

Now it’s your turn…

What discourages you about your writing? What do you do to motivate and inspire yourself? What support or advice can you share with others who feel like giving up?

Is perfection in editing possible?

Close up of peacock feather I could make this an incredibly short article by just writing the word ‘No’, but of course there’s more to the story than that. In this case, there is also a story behind the story. It explains why this issue is currently on my mind.

Last month, I had the unpleasant experience of discovering some mistakes in a document I had edited and sent back to a client. By the time I found them, the material had already been sent to production, so it was too late for any remedy. I was embarrassed and apologetic but also disappointed in myself. I regard all my work seriously and strive to ensure it is as free of errors as possible.

And I guess that is the point: as free of errors as possible.

I could recite a list of reasons why this oversight occurred, but to my ears they sound like excuses and poor ones at that. Nor would recounting them change what has happened. A more useful approach is to offer some reminders—for myself as much as for you—that may help prevent such situations from arising.

Here, then, are a few suggestions for doing a final check of your document before handing it over to an audience, your boss, a publisher, or even your editor.

1. Give yourself time

This is the simplest advice, and I’m sure you’ve heard it before. But you know what? It works. You first need to allow a reasonable amount of time to complete a thorough edit of your manuscript. The more practice you have with this, the more accurate you will be in determining how long this will take. When you have a fair estimate of the time required, grant yourself a bit extra. This is especially advisable for important documents. Then, whenever possible, allow a full day or at least a night between the penultimate and final proofreads of your text. You really do see things differently and will pick up on minor errors when you have some distance from the words.

2. Read it aloud

Yes, I know you’ve been told this one too. I find this strategy is effective for some people and less so for others. The trick is not just to read out loud but to actually listen to what you are saying. You won’t notice flaws in syntax and flow if you’re just droning away without paying attention. Read slowly and pause between paragraphs. Let your mind absorb the words and the way they work together. Hearing your writing can help you improve it, but do remember that that this approach may not enable you to spot typos or other visual inaccuracies.

3. Change how it looks

We’ve all had the experience of spotting a slip up just after printing sixty copies of a document, right? (Please tell me it’s not just me!) There you stand, papers in hand, staring at the error and wondering how you could have missed it during the twenty-eight read-throughs you did before printing. Why did you not notice it before? The answer is that you are now seeing it differently. If your material is brief enough to print, try doing that for your final proofread. If it is a longer document, change the size or colour of the type or put the text into a different font. You might also try saving it as a PDF and reading it onscreen. Sometimes that’s all it takes for mistakes to make themselves known.

4. Use a spelling and grammar checker with extreme caution

This tip comes with a hefty warning. Please do not under any circumstances rely solely on the built-in spelling and grammar checkers in your word processing program. While they may be useful in pointing out the odd grammatical glitch, their proposed corrections can be—with alarming frequency—just plain wrong. My advice is that you review with a measure of skepticism each item identified by the checker and really consider whether or not its recommendations are relevant, appropriate and accurate. If you are unsure, seek further clarification, either online or from someone who has some expertise with language.

5. Embrace subjectivity

Editing, like writing, perspective and style, is subjective. Although there are numerous rules governing language, their interpretation can be quite individual—not to mention idiosyncratic. In practice, this means that what appears incorrect to me may be perfectly acceptable and even preferable to someone else. Perhaps in that sense, mistakes themselves can be considered as subjective, existing only in the eyes of those who behold them.

6. Be human and humble

These ideas are hopefully helpful, but in the end, my friends, it comes down to a simple truth. None of us is perfect and nor will our endeavours ever be, despite our best and most dedicated efforts. Mistakes in editing can be annoying, embarrassing and unfortunate, but they are very rarely fatal. When they do happen, acknowledge them, apologise for them, and amend them if you can. Above all, accept that you won’t always get it entirely right. It’s okay, though. You’re in good company.

For myself, I plan to practice all of the prompts I’ve shared here. Doing so won’t make me a perfect editor, but it will mean I am a human one, which is as good as I can be.

Now it’s your turn…

Have you ever made an editing error that you’re willing to share? Or has an editor ever missed a mistake in one of your manuscripts? What do you do to recover from such uncomfortable bungles?

That or which? It’s all relative
(and sometimes definitive)

A bunch of blue flowers Among the words that befuddle writers are “that”, “which” and “who”. Although they may seem like simple enough terms, each serves a variety of grammatical functions, depending on its role and position in any given sentence. As some of the functions these three words fulfill are similar, confusion over their usage can arise.

I have written before about the subtle but important difference between “that” or “who”. Now let’s explore the relative merits of “that” and “which”.

And yes, I did commit a mild pun there, for “that” and “which” are both relative pronouns. This means they stand in place of a noun and relate to a specific antecedent that has appeared earlier in the sentence. For example:

I chose the flowers that I like.
The flowers are blue, which is my favourite colour.

In the first sentence, “that” refers to the flowers. In the second, “which” relates back to blue.

While it may seem that these words can be used interchangeably, many grammarians agree that the choice of “that” or “which” is determined by whether or not the clause it introduces is defining or non-defining. In other words, your selection of one or the other is based on how crucial the information in the clause is to the overall meaning of the sentence.

To help clarify this, Mark Tredinnick offers a handy distinction in The Little Green Grammar Book between definition and description. A restrictive clause defines the antecedent by providing essential information about it, whereas a non-restrictive clause describes it through offering additional details that are no doubt fascinating but not necessary in order for the sentence to be meaningful.

Referring back to our examples, the clause “that I like” is restrictive because it defines the flowers I chose. In contrast, the clause “which is my favourite colour” is incidental to the statement that the flowers are blue. It describes my attitude towards the colour blue but does not define anything in the sentence.

As these examples show, a restrictive clause is introduced with the word “that”,
while a non-restrictive clause uses “which”.

Incidentally, non-restrictive clauses, including those beginning with “which”, are typically preceded by a comma. This is because these clauses tend to be parenthetical, which is a fancy way of saying that what they contain is not vital.

I did mention that we would discuss the ‘relative’ merits of these words, and it is important to note that there are regional and stylistic variations to the usages I have outlined here. In documents I edit, I ensure each “that”, “which” and “who” is employed correctly, according to my understanding. However, not all writers in all places adopt the same practices. Some are guided by preferences that differ from my own, which is fine. (See what I did there?)

I guess in a sense, you could say that it’s all relative, except for when it is definitive, which is relatively easy to decide, provided you keep in mind what is essential and what is additional.

That makes all the difference.

Now it’s your turn…

Do you get muddled betwixt “that” and “which”? Do you have any techniques for remembering which to use when? Are you clear about the difference between restrictive and non-restrictive clauses?

Photo by Veronika Lykova on Unsplash

The true essence of editing

Here’s a puzzle for you to ponder. In your view, which of the following is most true?

Editing essentially involves:
a) wrangling unruly words into smooth sentences
b) telling authors all the things they are doing wrong in their writing
c) stifling creative expression by imposing boring conformity on written texts
d) having a licence to act snooty about possessing a superior grasp of grammar
e) wincing a little whenever commas, semicolons or apostrophes are misused
f) establishing happy and harmonious relationships.

If you guessed options a or e, you are partly right. If you picked b, c or especially d, then we need to talk. If you were confused by option f, you’re probably not alone, but actually, that is the correct the answer.

Yes, despite all that fussing over spelling and sentence structure, editing is essentially about relationships.

The primary one of these, and the one I discuss a lot, exists between the author and the editor. There are many reasons why this relationship is important, not least of which is the fact that without authors there can be no editors. Of course the opposite is not true. Although editors need an author’s words in order to edit, authors can cheerfully (if at times inaccurately) write without editors. That’s what makes it a privilege, in my view, whenever an author elects to work with an editor.

In addition to the relationship between an editor and an author, there is also one between the editor and the author’s ideas. While connection and collaboration among individuals is a wonderful thing, an editor must also engage with the ideas in a document in order to ensure they are conveyed clearly and completely. This is where the first relationship can be crucial, as the editor seeks to discern the author’s intentions and helps to craft their written expression.

Beyond this, there is a relationship between the author’s ideas and the readers’ understanding. Having a conscious comprehension of this guides editors in their work. The purpose of most writing is to share insight, imagination or information, and the role of the editor is to amend the text where necessary so this can be done effectively.

And now we get into some more subtle relationships, because an editor addresses the processes that occur between sentences in a text and between words in a sentence. Here, we are touching upon the fundamentals of syntax, those accepted patterns of word order that enable us to express meaning. When coherence breaks down from one paragraph to another or words go awry within a sentence, the meaning of a text is lost. An editor’s job is to fix this by understanding and improving the relationships amid words and sentences.

This leads us to one further relationship, which is between words and ideas. The author’s task is to use the most potent and poetic words possible to articulate an idea. For an editor, the focus is on enhancing the eloquence of words and ideas alike. This is done through a deep appreciation not only of the author’s objective but also of language itself.

From the personal to the conceptual, and from the meaningful to the syntactical, editing is all about relationships. Each one is like a single strand of a intricate web that in its entirety and complexity links ideas, words and people together.

Achieving harmony in each and all of these relationships is what editors do. This is the true essence of editing, and it is what makes our skills so vital and so valuable.

Now it’s your turn…

What relationships do you perceive between writing and editing? What do you consider to be the essential elements of these? And you don’t really believe editors are snooty, do you?

Thoughts on truth for writers from Vincent van Gogh

Close up of portrait of Vincent van Gogh As far as I’m aware, Vincent van Gogh never shared any explicit advice about writing. (If he did and you know of it, I’d be delighted to hear it.) What van Gogh did was draw and paint. A lot. He also wrote very many letters. One of these, to his brother Theo in July 1882, contains this engaging thought:

One must work long and hard to arrive at the truthful. What I want and set as my goal is damned difficult and yet I don’t believe I’m aiming too high. I want to make drawings that move some people … In short, I want to reach the point where people say of my work, that man feels deeply and that man feels subtly.

Whether or not you believe van Gogh achieved what he sought will depend on your perspective on his art. Regardless of this, his words to Theo hold wisdom for writers and creators of all kinds.

What is clear in these brief lines is the entwined importance of truth and diligence. The language in this letter shows that Vincent van Gogh knew how challenging being guided by truthfulness can be, and yet it is through devotion to truth, despite the discomfort it can bring, that we may create works that embody those qualities of deep and subtle feeling.

As artists, writers and makers, truth offers itself to us in a range of ways. The most vital of these concerns our honesty with ourselves. It is my belief that we need to know our own truth and affirm the integrity of our intentions in order to create works of genuine meaning. Only then can we engage in authentic communication with our audience.

This is not to say that everything we make must be based on empirical fact or that we ought not invent or contrive. Bringing the vibrant sparks of imagination to life is, after all, the task of the artist. Still, there must be truth in it.

The sort of truth that I—and perhaps also van Gogh—speak of here goes beyond simple veracity. It has an emotional or even a spiritual essence that resonates within us despite its guise. We know this truth, intrinsically and viscerally, when see, hear or feel it in art. In its presence, we perceive, consciously or not, that the person who crafted its expression did so with dedication and an awareness of reaching towards something ineffable.

That’s the kind of art I want to experience.
It’s the kind I aspire to make.

The search for this truth and our desire to proclaim it must be at the heart of our creations. We need to become attuned to it in the themes we choose, the ideas we explore and the words we use. This means we must be willing to become more aware of those moments when we feel our integrity waver, whether through fear or uncertainty or doubts about our ability. It is in such moments that we decide what kind of artists we are.

Later in the same letter to Theo, Vincent van Gogh acknowledges that art “demands persistent work, in spite of everything, and unceasing observation”. He goes on:

By persistent I mean in the first place continued labour, but also not abandoning your approach because of what someone else says. I have hopes, brother, that in a few years, and even now already, you’ll gradually see things by me that will give you some recompense for your sacrifices.

I hope that as writers and creators we can commit to our work with honesty and courage, not varying our vision due to the opinions of others. I hope we find recompense in our efforts, yet even more, I hope that what we do moves people in some way by offering them a glimpse of what we know to be true.

A damned difficult goal it may be to pursue the truthful. But it is a wholly worthy one too.

Now it’s your turn…

What are your views on art and truth? When have you faced a moment that challenged your integrity? What do you do as a writer to explore, express and experience truth?

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