When it comes to writing, reality is a veritable gold mine
Tackling taboos: Digging for truth in today’s tough topics key to penning success
American novelist John Irving would often hear from people who want to be writers, but were stuck regarding what to actually write about.
The author of The World According to Garp and A Prayer for Owen Meany would simply tell them: “Write the truth.”
I remember hearing that advice when starting out in journalism. It seemed the ideal antidote to writer’s block and the best answer to questions about the purpose of writing.
As a journalist ( not a writer of fiction), I am often asked about writing. People are especially curious about covering the explosive subjects of religion, spirituality, ethics, migration and cultural diversity.
I have never considered myself a “natural” writer in the way of some Vancouver Sun colleagues ( I’ve always been impressed, for instance, by how effortless writing seems for Nicholas Read and Shelley Fralic, with whom I attended journalism school).
I have had to work at writing. Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000- hour rule applies to me: Given some aptitude, almost anyone can become skilled, whether at violin, soccer or writing, if they devote 10,000 hours to it.
Since most people today write in some form — school essays, newsletters, blogs, scientific articles, sermons, reports, email, speeches, legal briefs or poetry — I will take a shot at answering a few questions I’ve been asked, often by young writers.
However, before being specific about the process of writing, I’ll reaffirm how during my career Irving’s admonition to write the truth has hovered at the back of my mind. It’s been a motivator.
Why write anything if we do not aim to describe the real world; in all its beauty, dullness, terror and uncertainty?
We cannot take for granted that most writing is honest. As British author George Orwell warned when he coined the term “doublespeak,” many people spend a great deal of effort putting together sentences that are, subconsciously or not, meant to obfuscate, manipulate, deceive and soften hard realities.
Those who do so are not just the marketers and “thinktanks” with something to sell. They are people climbing various ladders: Micro biologists torquing data to gain grants and social scientists trying to achieve tenure by satisfying peers’ pre- conceived theories.
Less- than- truthful writers also include those in fiction who seek to show off, usually by being obscure. Journalists, including me, often fall short too. It’s easier at times to just repeat well- worn ideas, instead of disturbing with the unexpected.
Four ways to fi nd the diamond in the rough
There are four key ways to make sure you’ll have something valuable to write about — and to actually get around to doing so.
The most practical is to always have something with which to write; a pen, pencil stub, a smartphone, a journal, an iPad. Best thoughts are often the most fleeting. Get them down, assess them later.
A second thing every writer needs is deadlines. Instead of fearing deadlines, treat them as your friends. This comes automatically in the stressful news business, which former Sun editor Chris Rose sardonically called “the word factory.”
Deadlines force writers to stop second- guessing. They are the salvation of both harried radio reporters and highend essayists, like James Fallows. Great novelists, like Charles Dickens and Fyodor Dostoyevsky, also wrote to deadlines.
Third, communicate in direct language, as Orwell taught.
Don’t try to trumpet how clever you are with ornamental words. If you have something worth saying, your insight will emerge in plain language for all to appreciate.
In regards to over- writing, bureaucrats are the most vulnerable to say- nothing jargon. And academics and poets may be most susceptible to the pseudo- elitism of ten- dollar words.
The fourth, and toughest, requirement in the name of truth telling is to be ready to transcend your preconceived opinions.
Since I’m in a John Irving frame of mind this week, I’ll pass on that he also advises writers to remember what he calls the obvious: “Before you can write anything, you have to notice something.”
Most of us march through existence on autopilot. But the writing process lures us to see what is really there. Then we are required to tell the full story, whether we like it or not. As Herman Melville said, “Woe to him who seeks to please rather than to appal!”
Sink your teeth into controversial subjects
Which brings us to religion, ethics, migration and diversity.
These are arenas where people are emotional and easily become offended. To say the least, it’s impossible to please everyone, and some readers let me know it.
Here are some conflict- rich subjects I’ve explored in 2014: The rise of secularization, doctor- assisted suicide, foreign ownership of real estate, women in Islam, UBC’s gender policy, temporary foreign workers, religion and homosexuality, atheists’ certainty, declining trust among ethnic groups, Stephen Harper’s trip to Israel, evangelicals’ high divorce rates, etc.
Of course I have my biases on all these issues — I can’t be a Baptist, Buddhist and nonbeliever all at the same time. But I do try to take seriously the viewpoints of everyone I cover.
The traditional journalistic principles of accuracy, balance and fairness always prove helpful. I am not impressed by writers who routinely launch one- sided, unfair rants.
I’m more drawn to writers who can accurately explain an opponents’ viewpoint before countering it. That’s not only more respectful, it’s less boring. It takes readers to the heart of today’s difficult matters.
To that end, I often appreciate journalism because it tends to focus on what is happening now. I grow frustrated by the host of writers who over- emphasize the past, which they make appear a lot tidier than the present.
I especially have trouble with tut- tutting writers who impose their 21st- century values on those who have come before; to prove how, golly, we’re sure not as racist, homophobic, sexist or warloving as those earlier people ( even if they did include LaoTzu and Shakespeare).
It’s much simpler, morally, for instance, to write about B. C.’ s isolated Komagata Maru incident, which happened 100 years ago, than it is to figure out what is really going on among the more than 300,000 people with roots in India who now live in B. C., with all that population’s ragged complexities. Writers need to capture how times, and meaning, have moved on.
This is one of the reasons I admire observant journalists, academics and novelists like Irving, Douglas Coupland, Robert Putnam and the late Carol Shields, who have always striven to peel back the layers of the initially impenetrable present — the real world.
Sometimes I worry I might be too much a contrarian. But mostly I think it’s useful. For one, I never run out of things to write about. If nearly everyone seems to believe one thing, it keeps a writer fresh to explore the other thing; the chunk of actuality most ignore.
Writers should be willing to break taboos. And I do not mean just sexual taboos — in the 21st century, that has grown tiresome. I’m talking about challenging taboos associated with spirituality, ethno- cultural values, economics, gender, the eco- system, migration, community life and more.
Finally, it must be said any writer’s attempt to be some kind of witness to truth will always be provisional.
For instance, with this column I have many limitations: a deadline, a pre- set length, personal biases, incomplete self- awareness, finite experience and a mood that fluctuates by the hour.
So, when I write, I do not seek perfection. There is no such thing.
The river runs long and keeps flowing; all I can do is my best to convey one person’s understanding of the flux.
Oh yes, in case I forgot to state perhaps the most plain truth:
Writing is hard.