Let's be Honest: Are Books about Writing Worth Reading?
3. Rules Not to be Broken. Sometimes these texts can read like rule books. And writers like to break the rules. Every creative should know the “rules” so that they can effectively subvert expectations and do their work well. But when the writing style of these craft books comes across like a lecture, then the reader wants to ignore the rules entirely out of annoyance.
4. The Act. Inherently, there is something false in craft books. They try to make order out of a process that is naturally chaotic. While this is an admirable cause, it can make writers feel like they have done something wrong by going about writing as their stories and lives require. Books about writing can sometimes make writing sound akin to being a mechanic. Turn the screw to the left. Then to the right. Remove screw. Replace battery. Close hood. Etc. But writing is chaotic. Many writers begin with a feeling, with an image, with a theme, and try to build something around it. Walter Mosley, in This Year You Write Your Novel, differentiates between two kinds of writers: the structured writer and the intuitive writer. These two types of writers have different needs based on their methods of organizing the writing process. The structured writer might know from the beginning what their story is about. The intuitive writer may need more time to figure it out. I appreciate this distinction because it allows writers the room to recognize that we do the work differently based on who we are and what the story is about. This is the appropriate way to address how to write a novel. When the text offers different options for writers who are trying to find a sustainable path forward, the effect is positive. Solutions should be multi-faceted and unique and blend-able. The damage here is done when craft texts make writers feel bad about their own process when that process doesn’t adhere to the accepted formula. When I was in college writing courses, my professors and the texts they had us read often laid out instructions for how to write your story, and they often made me feel like a failure or lesser than because my life circumstances and my story demanded that I take a different approach. Books about writing should uplift writers, not shame them. Books about writing should offer meaningful and flexible tips, not strict structures that fabricate an imagined “true writing method.” Because we all know our own truths when it comes to capturing a story on the page.
Let’s start with what annoys me (and others) about books on writing.
In college, my professors assigned excerpts to read from texts about craft every week. And I continue to force myself to read them now that I am out of school. While I try to go into each reading excited to learn, I find myself far more annoyed by such works than inspired by them.
Why am I annoyed?
Disclaimer: Not all craft books fall to these traps. But enough of them do to make the sub-genre an issue for me.
Tone: Books about craft can come across as very condescending, and condescension is rarely a strong teaching tactic. It turns readers off. It turns everyone off.
Classic Examples vs New Examples. The writers of craft texts tend to refer to the classics as prime examples of storytelling and what gets published, instead of discussing new writers and new books. The reasons are valid; they want to refer to books people will have read or learned about at some point in their lives, and the classics fit the bill. Furthermore, there are plenty of resources written on the classics, which makes it is easier to discuss them. And, to be honest, the classics make us feel “literary” to discuss. But the lessons learned from the classics are stale. New texts can teach us new lessons in new ways. New books and new writers are equally qualified as the classics to teach writers how to write. I grow bored reading the same names of the same largely white men in the literary canon. It feels lazy and detached to focus on writers from the 18th-20th centuries to teach writers of the 21st century. Walter Mosley puts it perfectly in his book This Year You Write Your Novel: “Many writers, and teachers of writing, spend so much time comparing work to past masters that they lose the contemporary voice of the novel being created on this day. You will not become a writer by aping the tones and phrases, form and content, of great books of the past. Your novel lies in your heart; it is a book about today; no matter in which era it is set, written for a contemporary audience to express a story that could only have come from you.”
5. Lessons of Balance, Balance, Balance, Balance, Repeated into Infinity. This is the one lesson repeated throughout all books about craft. Do this, but not too much. This is a valuable lesson. But it is repeated over and over again to the point of nausea. For example, the writer of the text wants to discuss metaphors. They tell us to use metaphors to develop characters and intrigue your readers. But not too much. Okay, sounds good. In the next chapter, the writer of the text wants to discuss Narrative Summary. Use narrative summary to give useful information economically. But not too much. Okay, again, sounds like the same advice, but that’s cool. You see where I’m going. The lesson at the end of each chapter, no matter what writing technique is being discussed, is do this, but not too much. It’s a bit annoying to read the same lesson over and over again. I’d rather read about nuanced, difficult ideas. I’d rather read about when the writer stumbled upon a metaphor that totally changed the game— a detail of a book they read that made them think differently about metaphors across the board. I’d rather read about Narrative Summary fails in famous literature. Essentially, I’m saying I want to hold writers to the same standard they are held to when writing anything else: say something new. Say something that blows my mind. Say something that makes me really think. Repeating the same lesson over and over again doesn’t offer anything new to the discussion of craft. So what’s the point? Where’s the passion? Be a writer and write something that I’ve never seen before. Do. Better. I will close this point with an example of a text that does better— that presents really insightful, unique thoughts on writing. Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction by Charles Baxter. The book is filled with surprising connections between our everyday lives/societies and the art of storytelling. Baxter digs deep. He raises questions that are sometimes unanswerable, but worth grappling with so that we may attempt to understand our work in a larger context— so we can push ourselves to tell stories actively, with purpose. After you close the book for the day, the lessons follow you. You encounter them in the real world. You reflect further, carrying ideas across your weeks and months. They are lasting. Those are the kinds of lessons I want to encounter as a reader of books on writing.
6. Exaggerated examples. When telling us the “do’s” and “don’ts” of writing, the writer will provide extreme examples of bad writing. Exaggerated examples of poor writing aren’t helpful. I’d much rather the writer find a nuanced example that can be discussed in-depth and at-length to make a point. When I was a Teaching Assistant for writing workshops, rarely, if ever, did I stumble upon clear examples of really bad writing. The writers, though young and inexperienced, did not turn in writing that was obviously bad. They made mistakes. They didn’t pace things well. Their characters sometimes fell flat. But the mistakes were always nuanced and full of potential. When we discussed craft texts where the writer would reference a clearly bad example of writing, everyone in the room would nod their heads in agreement. Of course you wouldn’t do that. But then they would go home and make similar mistakes on the page. The students didn’t connect the bad example with their own writing. Why? Because exaggerated examples feel fake. They feel like they are only examples, not real mistakes made by real writers. I encourage writers of craft texts to not do the easy thing, which is to pick wild examples of bad writing. I encourage them to find examples that need to be unpacked, that feel real, that aren’t easy to spot. We learn more from those discussions.
7. A Fault of Readers. But perhaps the biggest problem of all is a fault of access. Readers don’t know when to pick up the texts they might need most. I find myself more frustrated when I pick up a book about writing that focuses on a phase I’m already past. For example, if you’re already done with several revisions on your novel, you don’t really need a book about getting started. You’re past that. You probably need a book about revisions or a book about pacing or structure. This task is on us. We have to learn how to evaluate our own position in the process so that we can find the resources that we, as individuals, need at that specific moment.
But, despite these complaints, as you all know, I believe that every book brings with it some value— something worthwhile. I hold that same standard to books about craft, even though I have strong feelings that make me dread reading them. So, after reflection and reading a few craft texts over the last few months, I also have a list of good things writers can gain from these texts.
Now, let’s talk about the perks of reading books about writing.
Inspiration. Ultimately, I’ve felt that the greatest perk to reading books about writing is the by product of inspiration. When you find a writer who speaks your language, who writes the books you read, who has come from a life you recognize, their insight can have an inspiring effect. When books about writing motivate writers to tackle new problems in their own work— to tackle them with vigor and passion— that’s the greatest benefit possible. This doesn’t happen with every book on craft, however. Inspiration comes when all the right pieces come together and truly speak to the writer’s heart.
Tips for Success. Especially as more writers of color are getting published and read, readers and writers alike want to learn more about their stories, their processes, what motivates them, and how they do what they do. When writers take a moment to share their personal experiences, not only as creatives, but as writers trying to get published in a racists and sexist system, we all stand to gain. Texts about writing that address the how behind being a writer are incredibly useful. One of my favorite books about craft that I’ve read thus far is Jane Friedman’s The Business of Being a Writer. Not only does she write about becoming a published and career writer, but she does so without condescension. Her experiences professionally in publishing offer readers very real, relevant insight. Writers are artists. We are creatives. But, according to Jane Friedman, we must ALSO be business-driven. That may sound like “selling out,” but ultimately she argues that it isn’t about lessening your values or your voice; it’s about amplifying your values and your voice so that more people hear it, more people know your name, more people know what you’re about. It’s about teaching writers how to promote themselves as successfully as businesses do. Texts like this can encourage writers to branch out. For example, I was motivated by Friedman’s advice to start this website. She advocates for a stronger literary community built up by stronger literary citizens. And I wanted to be a part of that. Literary citizenship is essentially the idea that readers and writers need to treat each other well, support one another, and welcome new readers and writers warmly. The goal is to have a stronger community that touches on everything from publishing to small businesses, like indie bookstores. The underlying philosophy is that if we share our resources and support liberally, then our community grows stronger. Had I not read Friedman’s text, I would not have encountered this sort of thinking. And I feel that I am a better reader and writer for it.
Exercises. While not all writing exercises are useful for each and every one of us, some can totally change how writers evaluate their own effectiveness as a storyteller. And this is coming from someone who HATES writing exercises. I agree with Walter Mosley, “I believe the novel itself if your exercise.” But, with the right exercise, there is value. Recently, I picked up Sandra Scofield’s text The Last Draft: A Novelist’s Guide to Revision because I had just finished a new draft of my novel and wanted to more effectively revise. When writers enter a new phase of their writing, like me leaving the draft and entering revision, there is a great opportunity to find these sorts of books about writing to help us navigate that next step. And, while I didn’t agree with all of Scofield’s ideas on writing, I took away a few really helpful exercises to improve all my future revisions. If you want to see one of those exercises at work, check out my blog post What 2018's Most Popular Reads Can Teach Us About Writing Successful First Chapters. I took one of her exercises on structure and applied it to a question I’ve had for a while now: What can writers learn by studying the structure of successful first chapters from new books? I also reference her chapter tagline exercise when inspecting each of my own chapters. If you want to learn more about that, definitely pick up her book sometime.
Reaching the Unconscious. Sometimes, for me, even if I disagree with almost every single thing a writer says in their book about craft, I can still achieve something for myself simply by sitting down with their text. How? My mind is allowed to wander. This may sound like a disadvantage, but let me explain. When I read Alice Mattison’s book The Kite and the String: How to Write with Spontaneity and Control--and Live to Tell the Tale, I disagreed with her on almost every page. I got frustrated quickly. But I paused. I realized that I didn’t have to agree with her or even heed her advice to grow. As I turned each page, my eyes scanning her words without fervor, my mind reflected on my own writing in ways I never had before. And all of a sudden I’d stumble upon random, chaotic thoughts that turned into real ideas for impactful change to my work. Sometimes, as a creative, you have to simply give your mind the space to do its thing. Again, I find myself wanting to reference Walter Mosley’s book This Year You Write Your Novel. He writes,
“The most important thing I’ve found about writing is that it is primarily an unconscious activity. What do I mean by this? I mean the novel is larger than your head (or conscious mind). The connections, moods, metaphors, and experiences that you call up while writing will come from a place deep inside you.”
Rules to be Broken. In tandem with my #3 complaint about craft books (Rules Not to be Broken,) I find that a perk of reading books about writing is the revitalized urge to break the rules laid out before you. There is something so delicious about having a writer tell you, for example, “you must pick one POV to tell your story,” and having that gut reaction as an artist that subverts, “But what if I blended two POVs at the same time?” Rules help writers ground their work. Rules help readers understand the story. Writing requires rules to sustain itself— to sell and survive. But writing also requires rules to be broken so that readers don’t feel like they are reading the same thing over and over again. Writers are artists. We feel that need to do something revolutionary and new. We feel the need to be independent creators with our own rules. Reading books about writing can motivate us to think about the rules we sustain and the rules we break in our writing— intentionally or accidentally. Writers should take the time to analyze the rules subverted and the rules upheld in their work so that they are done with purpose to add meaning to the story— to add power that readers crave.
Other Activities. One of the amazing things I find in texts about writing are the suggestions for other activities to help you grow as a writer. For example, Walter Mosley recommends that writers take Poetry workshops. Even if you aren’t a poet, he recommends poetry classes because they stand to teach you how to choose economic and powerful words to convey an experience. I’ve heard writers recommend all sorts of activities that have nothing to do with writing. Volunteer to connect with real people. Hike to get outside your own head. Take notes on plot while watching your favorite movie. And so on. While we can’t do it all, some of the recommendations might just speak to you in a new way that could change your life. The thrill of possibility is always a gift.
Again, here is a list of texts I referenced in this blog post (none of these are sponsored, by the way):
The Business of Being a Writer by Jane Friedman
The Kite and the String: How to Write with Spontaneity and Control--and Live to Tell the Tale by Alice Mattison
The Last Draft: A Novelist’s Guide to Revision by Sandra Scofield
This Year You Write Your Novel by Walter Mosley
Burning Down the House: Essays on Fiction by Charles Baxter
And here is a list of books about writing that I intend to pick up and read in the near future. I’m sharing these with you to emphasize one big point: Though I have problems with lots of books on writing, I still must read them. I must make the space for them in my life as a writer. If I don’t, I run the risk of closing myself off from the (relatively few but important) lessons that are there to be learned. We have to suffer moments of irritation, of annoyance, of boredom so we can access the moments of brilliance. That, after all, is what writing is all about.
Black Women Writers at Work by Claudia Tate
The Art of Slow Writing: Reflections on Time, Craft, and Creativity by Louise DeSalvo
Things I Don’t Want to Know by Deborah Levy
Narrative Discourse by Gérard Genette
Negotiating with the Dead by Margaret Atwood
Several Short Sentences About Writing by Verlyn Klinkenborg
The Word: Black Writers Talk About the Transformative Power of Reading and Writing edited by Marita Golden
Let’s be real: I’ve been brutally honest here regarding my complaints about books on craft. No matter the perks, I (and perhaps some of you) will still be incredibly annoyed when sitting down with such a book. So, as I close out this post, I’d like to offer a mantra for all of us to remember when reading a book about writing. This mantra can calm you, can remind you of your worth, can insist upon your needs above the needs of other writers, and can give you the ability to make it through without getting too angry.
I am a writer.
My story dictates my choices.
My writing has room for growth, just like I do.
I want to listen and learn from others.
But I don’t have to change my voice, my story, or my process if those changes harm my voice, my story, or my process.
As I read this text about craft, I understand the writer’s words are not law.
As I read this text about craft, I recognize that I am allowed to disagree.
As I read this text about craft, I am allowed to get emotional.
Because my work is emotional.
I don’t have to finish it if I don’t want to. I don’t have to pick it up if I’m not ready for it, or, if what it offers is in my rear view mirror.
The text will end.
I am a writer. I am powerful. I am enough.