by Kristin Huggins, Consultant
Bonnie Friedman is a novelist. From the very first pages of this book, it’s apparent she has spent countless hours living in this creative headspace. Her descriptions bloom into metaphors, and those metaphors are rife with brilliant, complicated allegorical truths of writers and the difficulty of writing. It’s all very literary, if you please.
But what Bonnie speaks to with utmost clarity is that writing is nuanced. It is hard. It can make you question your sanity not only as a professional but as a human being. Through this book, Bonnie anchors these challenges in a way that makes you feel connected with all writers, no matter their proficiency or discipline. That we are not alone in this process.
Here are the main takeaways from this text:
First: Writing is terrifying, even to those who love it. In my undergraduate (and even graduate) coursework, writing was a task I studiously avoided at all costs. I felt that because I was not one of the blessed (i.e., an English major), I was not qualified or gifted enough to write with any authority. Bonnie takes this twisted, albeit common mentality and slaps it out of the air. “We are afraid of writing, even those who love it. And there are parts of it we hate. The necessary mess, the loss of control, its ability to betray us, as well as the possibility that what we write may be lousy, it might just stink…” (pg. 15). In this, Bonnie assures all who come to the altar of writing that each of us will face barriers and challenges. The fact that we hate parts of the process does not make us any less of a writer or devalue our work.
Second: Accolades and theoretical frameworks count for nothing in the face of a writing deadline. Writing doesn’t care how many post-nominal letters follow after your name. Writing doesn’t care how many classes you’ve taught as a TA. Writing doesn’t care how brilliant your theoretical framework is and how it perfectly situates your research questions within your qualitative study. It is the Great Equalizer. “Phi Beta Kappa counted for nothing here. One of the finest writers was a shaggy man without college who said he slept in a tent pitched in his living room… He spoke his stories into a tape and he paid a secretary to type them” (p. 51).
Third: More words do not equal a better manuscript. This is a particularly hard pill to swallow. When you finally dip your toe into the writing waters and are surrounded by more experienced, bigger fish, all you hear are “writing sprints”, “word count checks”, or “hitting your daily word goals”. It seems obvious that better writing is synonymous with more words. False, cries Bonnie, who also fell prey to this addictive mindset: “I wrote the same thing over and over because I didn’t trust it had communicated. And I thought, the more words the better. People read because they enjoy reading. Wouldn’t they enjoy reading more words?” (pg. 50). This hits at the crux of the issue: trusting in yourself as a communicator and trusting that your words do the job justice.
At times, this book can be difficult to get through as an academic. While Bonnie’s writing is beautiful and fragile and lyrical, this is not the traditional academic way. After all, aren’t we expected to present our writing with a prodigious level of conciseness, wrapped with a bow of footnotes, in-text citations, and proper indentations? Get to the point. What is the problem? Who is your audience? Too much fluff here. Take these four sentences and say them with one.
However, Bonnie would encourage you to step outside your academic context and see writing for what it truly is: the effort of humanity to communicate with one another despite fear, envy, or doubt. Embrace the imperfections, and let go of the all-consuming inner narrative that tells you you’re not good enough.
Happy writing, dear readers.
