I am a person who’s pretty much always had a good fiction or a memoir on the go, something I’m falling asleep to each night, and reading in whatever spare moments I can find. I come from a family of big readers, and my dad was an English teacher for most of his career, so good books have always been on hand. My parents always bought me books at Christmas and on my birthday, and in my pre-mom life, I could easily lose an hour or two in a bookstore, wandering around collecting books that spoke to me, bringing a pile home that would last me for months. But while I used to have a good selection of books that had been recommended by friends or purchased for me or that I’d heard about and bought in advance, for the last two years, I haven’t been seeking books out. I just haven’t had the time or energy to do so.
And so, by the grace of little libraries, I’ve been fortunate enough to have my book habit supported by the little library box at Claire Lilienthal Elementary School on Divisadero and Beach, a short walk from our place, and on the way to the Palace of Fine Arts, one of my favorite places to take Ava to run around. So, some random woman in the Marina, or a few random women, more likely, have been feeding my book habit for the last six months at least. I’ll get a random urge to pop by the box and see if there’s anything new that interests me, or I’ll be headed there to drop off a few books of my own, and it will totally make my day to pick up a book that I’m excited about. As much as I genuinely enjoy my day to day life right now, we can all use a good dose of escapism, and books are by far my favourite form.
I’ve had some really good finds. The God of Small Things was shatteringly beautiful, but just so tragic I could barely stand it. It tore me open and stitched me back together again, just the way a good book should. The Society of Shame was so sharp, just so clever and funny and painfully accurate about our current moment, I passed it on to one friend and recommended it to many others. None of This Is True introduced me to Lisa Jewell, whose writing is so addictive that I’d truly rather not pick up one of her books unless I’m willing to stay up all night trying to follow the many twists and turns that seem to be her signature style. But she writes well and she writes women well, some of her characters’ internal dialogue so startlingly authentic I’m sure she’s taken the thoughts out of my own head and placed them on the page.
There have also been some duds. It doesn’t feel worth mentioning the titles, but a few books I picked up that had stickers on them proclaiming “Reese’s Book Club Pick” or “100 Best Books NYT Book Review” fell flat for me. I kept reading them because the storylines were compelling enough that I wanted to see them through, or I didn’t have anything else on the go, but I found myself frustrated by the writing style. I found myself thinking this isn’t good writing, or, at the very least, this isn’t great writing."
I would catch myself stumbling over an awkwardly phrased sentence, reading it over a few times to grasp the meaning. Or there would be a comma missing somewhere crucial, or one in entirely the wrong place, which felt super sloppy to me. I would catch myself editing certain sentences in my head, thinking, what she really should have written was…, and moving the words around in my mind to give the sentence more impact. It was a helpful exercise for me in many ways, noticing what was annoying to me as the reader (ie. too many adjectives), and how poor writing or a lack of proper editing could lead to genuine confusion as a reader. It got me thinking a lot about what good writing means to me.
To me, good writing boils down to two equally important factors. Beauty and clarity. Can I convey my meaning as clearly (and concisely) as possible? And can I say what I want to say as beautifully as possible too?
I don’t think of the writing I do here as “writing, writing”, but when I’m working on an essay or something I think of as more literary, I could agonize for an hour over the exact arrangement of words in a single sentence, working and reworking the words to give what I’m saying the most impact. And hey, maybe in that hour that I’m agonizing over a sentence, one of those famous authors who frustrated me so much is banging out a whole chapter, so who’s to say which way is “right”.
I am not an expert on writing, it should be said. I’ve had very little formal training, but I have taken a few courses and workshops here and there, and learned a lot about the craft from writers I really respect. I was also raised by a mom who taught me to always read everything out loud as I was editing it, in order to hear the flow, and an English teacher father who wouldn’t correct my homework for me, but would hand me back my essays all marked up in red pen, circling whole sentences with the notation “Awkward. Rephrase” above them. That early training in how to edit my own work probably did more for my writing than anything else could have. Thanks Mom and Dad!
I picked up a short story collection by Alice Munro at our Airbnb recently, and was immediately reminded of what good writing feels like. It seems as though I was meant to read this collection, because after only finishing three of the ten stories before we had to check out, I found the same collection at another place I stayed with my mom the very next night. A true master of the form, and a Canadian legend who sadly passed away very recently, I always feel extra affinity for Munro’s characters because the places she writes about are often familiar to me. I couldn’t put the stories down, staying up well past midnight night after night, needing to find out what was going to happen, what choices the women in her stories were going to end up making, and how their lives would be shaped by them.
I was midway through reading Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage before I realized I had not been mentally revising a single sentence. Her descriptions were tight and evocative, not an excess adjective to be found. I was immediately drawn into her stories, so much so that the writing itself was barely noticeable. After finishing the collection, I thought two things: One, I want to read more Alice Munro. And two, I want to be more intentional with my reading choices again. Yes, it’s lovely to have cheap entertainment handed to me easily (and for free!), but I don’t want to be reading books that I’m mentally revising. Life is too short to read shitty books. Put that on a bumper sticker somewhere.
Just a few days ago I picked up Pachinko, a book I’d bought for my mother-in-law years ago, upon the recommendation of a friend who called it one of her favourite books ever, and I found it on her bookshelf this week. Diving into it, I had the same feeling I had reading Munro. Immediate immersion in the story, characters and images filling my mind, the words themselves receding into the background. And that’s when it hit me. Good writing gets out of the way. It’s spare, unflowery, concise, and sharp. It’s so crisp and clean that it takes up very little space in my consciousness as the reader, leaving all of my attention available to focus on the story. It gets out of the way so the story can speak for itself. And yes, some sentences are so striking or so artfully written that I go over them again and again in appreciation, but for the most part, the writing recedes into the background, allowing the story to shine.
This idea has just come to me, but I have the sense that getting out of the way is true for other disciplines as well. Good coaching gets out of the way. Good coaching offers observations and asks short questions and then gets out of the way, making space for the client to have their own realizations and draw their own conclusions. Good design gets out of the way too, making places feel spacious and easeful. Good mothering gets out of the way too, a lot of the time. Standing back, biting my tongue on suggestions or instructions, managing my own discomfort as I allow Ava to navigate challenges on her own, letting her figure things out or ask me for help if needed. Standing back and holding space for her to discover her own capacity.
There’s more here for me, I feel sure. In the meantime, I am going to keep on appreciating how delightful it feels to be pulled into the world of a good story, and noticing what becomes possible in my life when I’m able to get out of the way.
I love this whole essay!! Chuckled out loud at "Life is too short to read shitty books. Put that on a bumper sticker somewhere." Books are life! Or at the very least, life for me is utterly unimaginable without them. p.s. I thought about this some more. In some ways I believe conversation is life! I call it the "whole darn karmic enchilada." A favourite quotation: “It’s one of the secrets of the world. We all have the key to one another’s locks. But until we start to talk, we don’t know it.” – Michael Silverblatt https://www.kcrw.com/people/michael-silverblatt