The two enemies of good writing

And a side rant about a book that still fills me with rage

People frequently ask, “how do you know when the writing is done?” And I always answer, “you just do.” What that means is, I know that I have put in the work, that the main points I wanted to make are clear, that there is just enough unsaid for the reader to reflect on, and that I cleaned up the typos and grammar.

When the work is not done, it feels like an itch at the back of my brain. Something is missing. Something is unfinished. And I carry that malaise with me until I identify the problem and rework my text accordingly.

And it can usually be traced back to one of these two enemies of good writing.

Sir Cedric Morris, Iris Seedlings (1943)

The desire for it to be perfect

Every writer experiences this. You want your writing to “sing” on the page. The ideas and characters are so clear in your mind, and you desperately want your words to reflect the richness and emotion of your imagination. As soon as the blank page is before you though, if your desire to write perfectly is greater than your desire to write, you will be dissatisfied with every keystroke.

Your words will not come out perfectly the first time. You get something down on the page and then you rework those words until the tone, adjectives and meaning are immaculate.

When you put pressure on yourself to write it perfectly, you are blocking your flow. This is why I sometimes suggest that writers work long-hand when stuck. Don’t fuss over your handwriting or staying on the lines. Don’t like something? Cross it out and keep going. At the end of the day, you can look back on your written pages and be impressed by the workings of your creative mind. With long-hand, you can better understand why you chose this word instead of another. Or how a reworked response on this page led to a surprising plot point on the next.

If you focus too hard on being perfect, you lose the joy of discovering what a layered and beautiful thing your writing process is.

Sir Cedric Morris, Spring Flowers (1923)

The desire for it to be done

Yes, I know you have deadlines. And yes, I know you have a million other things to do. But if you rush your writing, it will feel flat and readers will find it hard to connect. Writing requires patience, discipline and hard work over an undetermined period of time. There is no glory in having it done quickly. As the borrowed (and vaguely remembered, also slightly modified) Twitter meme goes, “why would I bother to read something, if you can’t be bothered to write it?”

Like it or not, good writing takes time. And it will take the time that it takes.

Let me illustrate by telling you about this novel I read last year.

The title and premise were great. Cute cover. The author was riding a wave of popularity, especially with Millennial readers. But my enthusiasm quickly petered out. The plot was lazy and full of holes. The concept was poorly executed. As one Goodreads reviewer put it, “Occasionally funny and occasionally insightful in a limited, WASP-y kind of way, but mostly ridiculous, privileged, and, ultimately, pointless.”

I barely made it through. Towards the end, she brought in a major historical event that could have drawn the messiness together into some kind of meaningful whole, but… no. She introduced Chekhov's gun. And then left it on the table.

Why do I think this novel fails so miserably? I suspect the publishers wanted to continue feeding her fandom, that they rushed the manuscript to print to keep the money rolling in. I may be wrong, but I read the excellent Yellowface by RF Kuang right after and the association was too easy to make.

Given another six months with the idea, she may have done something extraordinary with what-remains a good concept. But rushed writing is rarely good writing. In moments when I am tempted to say, “it’s good enough”, I ask myself instead, “do I want it to be done, or to be great?”

And back in I go.