Category Archives: Postmodernism

The Rest Room

If you decide to skip today’s post, I won’t blame you. It’s about…toilets.

I just read an extraordinary article (Prescriptive and Descriptive Labels, by Jorge Arango) about – yes – toilets. Arango doesn’t mention Derrida or postmodern language theory. But if you’re interested in language (his real topic), the article is worth reading.

Most of us naively think that naming is all about slapping labels onto things. Not true. Naming almost always involves something else as well: classifying things. It’s a subtle process, easily overlooked, that has colossal implications for how we think, how we relate to others, and how we live our lives.

Jorge Arango’s article is about choices for a public restroom door. Suppose you were opening a new business, and you were getting ready to put a sign on the restrooms. Instead of the traditional picture of a woman on one door, and a man on the other, you could do something different. One restroom door could have this picture:

toilet sign

And the other restroom door could have this picture:

toilet and urinal

Suddenly everything changes. Customers of both sexes have a choice – handy if it’s a busy time (the ladies’ room often has a line, while the men’s room often doesn’t).

This set-up (actually used in the coffeeshop of the building where Arango works) has some unexpected advantages. It eliminates arguments about which bathrooms transvestites and transgender persons should use. And it makes life easier for parents with young children of the opposite sex. Mom doesn’t feel quite right taking little Junior into the ladies’ room with her – but he’s not yet ready to cope with the men’s room by himself. And what father really wants to take a little girl into the men’s room with him?

It would also challenge us to re-examine some of our assumptions about everyday life. In the US, it’s almost unthinkable that a man would enter a woman’s rest room, and vice versa. But when I traveled in Mexico, I often visited restrooms with male attendants, and I quickly got used to it.

Of course there’s a reason this restroom arrangement doesn’t cause problems in the coffeeshop in Arango’s building: the restrooms are single-use only. But it is really inconceivable that a bigger public restroom couldn’t be designed with the urinals placed at – say – an angle so that women don’t have to look at them?

If you’ve hung in this far, I hope you’re starting to realize that my point isn’t about public restrooms at all. I’m trying to show that what you name something makes a difference. Replacing traditional Men/Women restroom signs with Toilet and Toilet + Urinal would generate some rethinking and might even lead to some changes in behavior.

That is what great writers do with words. The book I’m working on right now is going to have some examples of how Shaw played with words to shake up our thinking. Here’s one example, from Shaw’s play Major Barbara: How do you classify poverty? There are four possibilities:

  • a virtue (religious men and women take a vow of poverty)
  • an immutable fact of life (the Bible says “the poor we will always have with us”)
  • a product of laziness and other character defects
  • a crime against society

After you’ve read Shaw’s Preface to Major Barbara, you’ll never be able to say “the deserving poor” or “poor but honest” again. Those phrases – which fall trippingly from the tongues of so many people – will no longer make sense to you.

Great writers often make commonplace words and ideas suddenly seem shockingly different. Can you do that? You might have the makings of another Bernard Shaw in your soul.

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Helen Keller

I just came across a wonderful New Yorker article about Helen Keller, the deaf-and-blind humanitarian. Of course I stopped what I was doing to read it. I was sure there’d be nothing new for me in the article – I’ve been fascinated by Keller all my life, and I’ve read the major biographies – but I plunged in anyway.

Turns out I was wrong. What I learned from reading it is that Keller (who died in 1968) was a postmodernist.

Keller was an amazing woman – and a controversial one. She had a goody-goody image that belied the tough woman she really was. (One example: she was a tireless crusader for eyedrops to be routinely given to infants to prevent syphilis-related blindness.)

Keller was most famous as a writer. She had a huge audience that inevitably included a number of critics and doubters. Everything she wrote, the skeptics said, was derivative. Because she was blind and deaf, her life experience was too limited to have generated the vivid descriptions and provocative ideas that filled her books.

If you’re a student of philosophy, you can hear an echo of Plato’s Phaedrus – the old speech vs. writing argument – in the complaints of those critics. Writing is bad because it’s secondhand and derivative. Only what we experience firsthand, in the present moment, is real.

It’s unlikely that Keller ever read anything by James Hillman or Jacques Derrida, but she firmly aligned themselves with them. “The bulk of the world’s knowledge is an imaginary construction,” she said. For Keller, history was “but a mode of imagining, of making us see civilizations that no longer appear upon the earth.”

Cynthia Ozick, author of the Keller article, adds, “Are we more than the sum of our senses? Does a picture—whatever strikes the retina—engender thought, or does thought create the picture?” Ozick reminds us that much of her knowledge comes not from our senses but from collective memory, heritage, and literature.

You – reading this – aspire to write. What that means is that you yearn to fly (just as Keller did when she figured out how to experience a world she’d never seen or heard). Imagination is the lens through which we experience life. We need to resist the forces that want to tie us down to the concrete reality of the here-and-now.

Today – right now – take the time to fly for a minute or two. And when it’s time to return to Earth, keep your wings handy. You’ll need them the next time you sit down to write.

Helen Keller, age 8, with teacher Annie Sullivan

Helen Keller, age 8, with teacher Annie Sullivan

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A Slippery Sentence

What do you think of this sentence?

We were planning a shopping trip when Aunt Mary arrived.

It’s perfectly grammatical – but there’s a problem: It could have two meanings.

  • We planned our shopping trip around Aunt Mary’s arrival.
  • Aunt Mary’s arrival interrupted our shopping plans.

Language (as the postmoderns keep reminding us) is a slippery business. It’s always a good idea to ask someone else to read anything important you’ve written. An English degree isn’t required! We all use language all the time, and that means we all have expertise.

In the writing group I facilitate, I always recommend taking feedback seriously. If even one person sees an alternate meaning – or has trouble processing what you’ve written – consider revising what you’ve written. 

 

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What’s a Mother?

A recent Carolyn Hax advice column triggered some thoughts about this mysterious, untameable tool called language that we all use every day.

A man asked Carolyn Hax for advice about a thorny family situation. Six years ago, he and his wife adopted a baby boy born to a teenage relative. The little boy, “Jake,” is doing great. He knows he was adopted but isn’t interested in learning more.

Three years ago, the couple’s other adopted child had a visit from her birth mother. Jake couldn’t understand what was going on and was terrified that his sister would be taken away.

Now Jake’s birth mother wants to visit him and start a relationship. The adoptive father doesn’t want to upset Jake – but also doesn’t want to be dishonest with him. The adoptive mother flatly refuses to allow Jake to meet his birth mother until he’s older.

When I read that letter, I was really grateful that I’m not an advice columnist! Carolyn Hax (of course) came through with some excellent advice and suggestions.

But my thoughts took off in a different direction. I started trying to figure out why “Jake” – a happy and secure little boy – had reacted so fearfully to the visit from his sister’s birth mother.

And what I decided is that there might be a hidden language issue here.

What is a mother? Life experience tells us there are many ways to become a mother: birth, adoption, a second marriage, foster care, and so on. But Jake knows only that “mother” means the woman who is the center of his young life. He depends on her for almost everything.

So what does it mean when a second woman appears, also labeled “mother”? To Jake, that experience must have been unfathomable. The only explanation he could come up with was that this new mother wanted to take his sister away. Isn’t that what his own mother would do?

It would help if Jake was old enough to understand the terms “birth mother” and “adoption” – but he’s not.

* * * * * * *

We like to think that language is something we can tame, control, and quantify – but it’s not, and we can’t. Our efforts will ultimately fail, and there’s a single word that explains why: imagination.

Language is not an inert system of symbols and sounds just waiting for us to do what we will. It is inextricably and mysteriously connected to the deepest parts of our brains and our souls. I’m talking – of course – about postmodernism.

While I was thinking about Jake and his fears this weekend, a little exchange from Shaw’s Pygmalion popped into my head. Henry Higgins, a professor of speech, is standing with a small group of theatergoers waiting for the rain to stop so they can go home. Pointing to a dirty young woman who’s selling flowers, Higgins starts a conversation with another man who’s waiting:

THE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: the English that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well, sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an ambassador’s garden party. I could even get her a place as lady’s maid or shop assistant, which requires better English.

THE FLOWER GIRL. What’s that you say?

I don’t know how anyone could quantify and label that little exchange. Higgins isn’t even talking directly to the flower girl – she’s eavesdropping. But his words cause a paradigm shift for her. Suddenly she sees possibilities that never existed for her before.

When Higgins throws a large amount of money into her flower basket, she doesn’t go on the expected spending spree. Instead she decides to return the money to Higgins – in exchange for speech lessons.

(If you’re curious about all this, I’ve written an article linking this exchange in Pygmalion with Sigmund Freud’s “talking cure” – a provocative term for Freud’s therapeutic method, is it not?)

Critics of postmodernism think it’s hilariously funny when people like me say that words resist being pinned down. But little Jake’s parents are discovering that “mother” is a far more complex word than they originally thought. In the same way, all of us often have language encounters that shake us up, open new doors, and challenge us in ways we could never have expected. As Jacques Derrida famously said, “the problem of language has never been simply one problem among others.”

 

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“The Ink Stains That Have Dried upon Some Line”

This is the last of three posts about deconstruction. (Click here to go back to the first post.) We’ve been looking at a picture (below) of my parents at a Roman Catholic dinner honoring couples who had been married for 50 years.

In my last post I’d asked you to listen to John Hartford sing “Gentle on My Mind” and look for a reference to writing. (I hope you listened to it and melted the way I always do! Incidentally, I once heard Hartford – who composed the song and wrote the lyrics – perform it in person.)

OK, back to work. Here are the lines from the song that I’m going to talk about today:

And it’s knowin’ I’m not shackled
By forgotten words and bonds
And the ink stains that have dried upon some line

Written vows – according to Hartford’s song – are dry and lifeless. They hark back to a feeling in the past that was once alive and vibrant but may have faded with the passage of time. Hartford’s song is about the difference between marriage vows – “forgotten words and bonds” – and real  love, which has no need for promises and obligations.

What Hartford has tapped into here is a bias against writing that goes back to Plato and has found its way into every aspect of our Western culture. According to Jacques Derrida, we tend to dismiss writing as a stale and lifeless imitation of what’s real and alive: the warm breath of natural speech.

One of Derrida’s goals as a philosopher was to challenge Plato’s value system. Sometimes what’s unnatural and artificial is more expressive of who we really are than what’s natural, inborn, and spontaneous.

I’m thinking of myself after 25 years of ballroom lessons. I can feel and respond to a piece of music in ways that the untrained, “natural” Jean couldn’t have attempted. So who’s the real me? A postmodernist might say that all my “unnatural” training has uncovered parts of me that otherwise would have stayed hidden.

And what about those “ink stains that have dried upon some line”? I’m as much of a romantic as anyone else, and I love the idea of being swept away in a passionate swoon.

But I also have enough life experience to know that keeping a promise – even when it was made long ago, and things aren’t going well, and you really don’t feel like it today – has deep and lasting value. (But don’t think for a minute that my common-sense attitude towards life and love keeps me from appreciating Hartford’s song!)

If you’d like to learn more about these natural vs artificial and writing vs speech issues, I’ve published an article arguing that Bernard Shaw anticipated Derrida’s critique of Platonism in – of all things – Pygmalion (AKA My Fair Lady). You can read my article here. (If you’re thinking that Shaw was on the side of Derrida and the postmoderns – that’s what I think too. It doesn’t seem to have mattered that Derrida wasn’t even born when Shaw wrote Pygmalion!)

 *  *  *  *  *

If you’ve stayed with me this far, you might be thinking that I’ve loaded an awful lot of really heavy stuff into this simple picture of my parents. That’s right – and that’s my point.

In the end, writing is all about thinking. Because we want more, more, more out of life, we seek out writers who can add depth and breadth to our everyday experiences.

In the first of these three posts about the anniversary dinner, I talked about my mother in a personal way. Was there anything else to say about this picture?

My answer to that question is yes. I think we can “deconstruct” the picture – take apart its apparently simple and straightforward message to find unintended meanings underneath. Here’s my list:

  • Because the Catholic Church is so large, it sometimes loses touch with the individuality and diversity of its members
  • The Catholic bias against sex can complicate its support for marriage
  • No matter how hard an institution tries to send a simple, unified message, other truths will find a way to be heard

Do you have a picture you can “deconstruct”? Are there any accidental details that challenge the intended message? Or is there a “before” or “after” story that adds complexity to the picture?

My Mother and Father with the Bishop

  My Parents and the Bishop

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Deconstructing a Picture of My Parents

In my last post I asked you to “deconstruct” a picture of my parents (below). The event was a dinner hosted by the Roman Catholic Church to honor couples who had been married for 50 years.

Following in the footsteps of French philosopher Jacques Derrida, I suggested that you look for accidental details that might put the picture into a broader context. I also encouraged you to think about what was going on before and after the picture was taken.

Here’s my list:

  • Before the picture was taken, my parents stood in line with other couples as they waited to be photographed.
  • My parents are wearing name tags.
  • Because the Roman Catholic church requires its clergy to be celibate, the bishop has never been married.
  • My parents and the bishop are holding a scroll of paper that records the wedding vows they renewed at the dinner.

* * * * *

Now I’m going to ask a very Derridean question: did that moment with my parents and the bishop actually happen? Critics of postmodernism (I’m thinking of Steven Pinker) love to make fun of Derrida and his followers for their denial of obvious realities.

So let me reassure you: The photo is real. (I’m not a nut, even though I’m a postmodern thinker!) Of course that dinner happened, and that moment with the bishop, and the picture.

But there’s also a sense in which the photo is not real. All photos are edited. The photographer makes decisions about what to include, what to exclude, and what to emphasize. So that photo is both real and a misrepresentation of that moment.

For example – think about how different the picture would look if the photographer had stepped back a few paces before he clicked the camera. We would see right away that there was no intimate connection between the bishop and my parents: they were one of many couples at that dinner.

The name tags my parents are wearing drive home the point. Who wears name tags to a get-together with a special friend?

But the dinner really did honor the sacrament of marriage, right? Umm…sort of. The Catholic Church considers celibacy a higher state than matrimony. So smack in the middle of the picture, where you can’t miss him, is a man who’s considered holier than my parents because he never married.

So…I would say that the picture did and didn’t happen. The bishop was delighted to meet a couple who were celebrating their 50th anniversary – but not enough to spend time with them or even learn their names. There were just too many people at that dinner! The immense size of Catholicism inevitably gives rise to impersonal policies and practices that may not work for some of its members.

And then there’s that ambivalence about marriage, which the Church honors on the one hand but also considers an obstacle to a fully lived spiritual life. It’s good to marry but even better to avoid sex altogether.

*  *  *  *  *  *

There’s something else noteworthy in that picture (and this is very Derridean) – that scroll of paper. I’m going to ask you to listen to a familiar (and wonderful) song: “Gentle on My Mind.” Look for what the song says about writing. (It’s there!)

There will be more about all of this in my next (and final) post about this picture. (Meanwhile, please listen to “Gentle on My Mind” even if you’re not interested in deconstruction. It’s great poetry and one of the best songs ever. Your day will be better!)

One more thing: you may be wondering why anyone would even bother with these ideas. I can give you two reasons. First, postmodern thinking is all around us – and has been for a long time. (Bernard Shaw was thinking about these ideas in 1914, when he wrote Pygmalion.) Second, this kind of “deconstruction” – digging beneath surface appearances for deeper meanings – is an excellent critical thinking tool.

My Mother and Father with the Bishop

                     My Parents with the Bishop

 

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A Picture of My Parents

Today I’m going to challenge you to “deconstruct” a picture of my parents (below). The event was a dinner hosted by the Catholic diocese on Long Island (where my parents lived) to honor couples who had been married for 50 years.

That dinner – part of the Church’s ongoing struggle against the secular trends of casual sex and easy divorce – had an additional, unexpected effect. My mother was a lifelong Lutheran; my father was Roman Catholic. When they married, Catholicism took a dim view of what were then called “mixed marriages.” My parents weren’t even allowed to have a church ceremony – they were married in the priests’ residence. My mother always felt hurt and demeaned by the Church’s attitude towards her.

The anniversary dinner astounded her. She felt honored by the photograph with the bishop (below) – but what really astounded her was having the priests in the diocese serve the dinners and fill the coffee cups For the first time in 50 years, my mother felt recognized and respected by the Church. It was the healing experience she’d been waiting for.

 *  *  *  *  *  *

Now let’s start our deconstruction project. I’ve already given you an up-close-and-personal look at that anniversary dinner. Now I want you to figure out what this picture says about the Roman Catholic Church (and possibly about similar institutions). To do this, I invite you to think about these two questions:

  • What details in the picture (below) reveal the challenges that Roman Catholicism is facing?
  • What contradictions do you see? (I hope you’re already latching on to something important about deconstruction: it’s a form of critical thinking, and not just the word game that some critics take it to be.)

Here’s a hint to get you started. Imagine that you’re watching the photographer snap the picture of my parents. What happened before the click of the camera – and after?

Go ahead and make your list. You can compare it to mine in my next post, two days from now.

My Mother and Father with the Bishop

                                                                My Parents with the Bishop

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Deconstructing Lady Gaga

The New Yorker recently posted a review of a new documentary about pop sensation Lady Gaga. A sentence from that review jumped out at me when I read it:

The accidental tells here – when Gaga stops steering her own story or suggests a version that seems to be at odds with the facts – are the most compelling.

Whew. Two unrelated ideas immediately popped into my head. So – hold onto your hat, because we’re going to be traveling in two directions today.

1.   I was immediately reminded of a principle from Steven Pinker’s wonderful book The Sense of Style: The Thinking Person’s Guide to Writing in the 21st Century:”Good writing takes advantage of a reader’s expectations of where to go next.”

I expected the New Yorker article to provide examples of “accidental tells” – slippages in the image Lady Gaga is trying to present to us – and incidents “at odds with the facts” – contradictory details. But the article didn’t include a single example.

I wish, I wish author Amanda Petrusich had told us what she was thinking! For example, she mentions drug use – Lady Gaga lists all the medications she’s taking, and at one point she’s shown swallowing a pill. But those moments from the document are hardly “accidental” – the producer and director must have known they were there.

Here’s a takeaway for aspiring writers: tell readers where your writing will be taking them – and be sure to give readers what you promised. 

2. My other thought was about Jacques Derrida. Derridean deconstruction is all about “accidental tells” – omissions and marginal statements that can point us to useful truths if we’re patient enough to ferret them out.

When I read the Lady Gaga review, I was expecting something truly marginal (a favorite Derridean term) – perhaps something an alert audience member might overhear in a conversation or glimpse in a mirror while watching the documentary.

There’s nothing mystical or mysterious about deconstruction: it’s an everyday activity for us. We’re always reading “between the lines” and listening for gaps in what we’re told. (Parents automatically do this with their teenagers!)

Jesse M. Hellman, a Shaw scholar and friend who’s also a psychiatrist, says that he’s always looking for omissions in what his patients tell him: “You’ve talked about everyone in your family except your older brother. So what do you think is going on there?”

I hope I’ve aroused your curiosity about deconstruction – and given you something to think about! Stay tuned: next month I’m going to post a photo of my parents – and ask you to “deconstruct” it.

Lady Gaga

                                Lady Gaga

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Words with Shadows

I do a lot of traveling and really enjoy it. Often, when I tell friends that I’m heading for the airport, they offer a send-off like “Be careful!” or “Have a safe trip, Jean.”

I know I’m supposed to feel reassured, as if a wish for safety could protect me from harm. But I always feel a shudder of nervousness instead. The word “safe” summons up all the things that can go wrong on a trip: kidnapping, a downed plane, a false arrest. My own preferred sendoff when friends are traveling is “Have fun!”

Many words come equipped with shadows. “There’s nothing to worry about” is something that people say only when a situation really is worrisome. “You can count on me” is a reminder that the person I’m depending on might bail out.

I’m remembering the look of panic on my husband’s face one time when we were leaving for a trip and I mentioned a phone call I’d made to our credit card company. “There won’t be any problem paying for our room,” I blithely told him. Big  mistake. He couldn’t relax until the desk clerk gave us our room key many hours later.

Shadows tend to make their appearance when we least expect them. Think of a parent who’s trying to warn a teenager about the perils of experimenting with drugs and sex. Hidden within your warnings is an ominous message: Doing these things is a possibility for you.

The same goes for religious parents trying to share their faith: implicit in their testimony is the possibility of not believing. And the same principle applies to atheists explaining why they don’t believe in a deity: their words are creating the very concept they’re trying to inoculate their children against.

 *  *  *  *  *

Today I’m going to talk about two words that can cast dark shadows: renewal and community. My point is not – of course – that you should avoid these useful words. What I’m hoping is to raise your awareness of the subtle and mysterious ways that words can complicate our lives.

Many years ago I was a member of a spiritual group that astounded me with its warmth and fervor…until things started to go wrong. No matter how hard I tried, I just didn’t fit in. It was mystifying: I’d never had trouble making friends before, and no one seemed to know what was wrong.

I finally decided that this particular group of people needed to rethink the way they practiced their faith, and I didn’t last long there. But there was always a nagging feeling that I had missed something important.

Much later I realized that shadow words were causing many of the problems.

Many members had attended a three-day spiritual workshop that had an amazing impact on the participants: people positively glowed when they came back. But here’s the thing: the words that shaped those workshops – renewal and community – had shadows that undermined the spiritual goals of love and unity.

Think about renewal. You renew library books and insurance policies because they’re expiring or going out of date. So a group that emphasizes renewal risks sorting its members into two categories. One contingent is refreshed, restored, and renewed. The other contingent (people like me – sigh) is stale, out of date, and expiring.

Another word that defined those workshops was community, and it too had a dark shadow: isolation, alienation, and loneliness. A workshop that creates its own community risks leaving everyone else shivering in the cold.

* * * * *

You may be wondering if there’s a way to avoid those splits. I think the answer is yes – if you’re aware of the shadows lurking nearby. Those workshop participants could have been reminded that renewal and community are flexible terms. Everyone feels spiritually stale sometimes, and we all know the how it feels to be cut off and disconnected from other people.

Another possibility is to search for a word with a less threatening shadow.  Instead of a renewal weekend, you could plan a retreat. Now your workshop is offering a respite for anyone who’s busy, preoccupied, distracted, rushed, or overworked. Who today doesn’t fall into that category?

My larger point, of course, is that we all need to pay close attention to our word choices. Language (as I never tire of explaining!) is not the inert, lifeless tool we often take it to be. Words have mysterious powers and hidden messages. Start listening for the shadows  that travel with expressions we use every day: “Be safe.” “No problem!” “Don’t worry.” “Trust me.” “My feelings for you will never change.” Uh-oh….

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Diction Mistakes and Gobbledygook

Many people think of language as kind of a label maker. The more labels (words) you know, the more successful you’re likely to be. I’ve known people who always carried a dictionary with them.

Certainly those people were on to something important. A friend of mine who was a career counselor told me that a high score on a vocabulary test is one of the most reliable predictors of future success.

But language is much more than a label maker. It’s a critical thinking tool that sorts and classifies everything we know, think about, and experience. A person with a large vocabulary can make subtle distinctions that lead to a more precise understanding of the world around us. The results are better thinking habits and wiser decisions.

Great writers (of course I’m thinking about Bernard Shaw!) are masters at using language to challenge readers and theatergoers to think more deeply about concepts we assume we understand – but probably don’t.

Think for a moment about the difference between grammar and diction. Many people (even some English teachers I’ve known) always lump them together. But diction (defined as “word choice”) has nothing to do with grammar (the deep structure of language).

What do you call the hot caffeinated beverage that many people drink with their breakfast? Answers might include “java,” “joe,” “cuppa,” and “coffee.” You probably use one word from that list most of the time. The same is true of children’s games (“hopscotch” or “potsy”?), money (“currency” or “bucks”?), sleep (“catch some Z’s” or “crash”?) – and countless other everyday words.

Those preferences have nothing to do with grammar. In fact many of the writing problems that English instructors and editors shake their heads over have nothing to do with grammar. Examples include clumsy sentences (“He expressed that he had a hope for a continuing friendship of a non-romantic nature”) and colloquialisms (“ain’t,” “cuss”).

If an instructor or editor returns your work heavily marked with a red pen, don’t assume that you need a course in formal grammar. The real problem could be diction errors – and diagramming sentences and doing workbook exercises won’t solve it.

Here’s some advice for you:

  • Take that feedback seriously: study it, ask for explanations, and learn as much as you can from it
  • Read, read, read – you’ll effortlessly absorb some of the writing practices of great authors
  • Ask a trusted friend to help you identify and correct diction problems in your conversation 
  • Aim for an easy and natural style in your writing

I’m going to take a minute or two to expand that last point (and this is especially for high school and college students). I’m often asked to help young people with homework and college application essays. These are students who study hard and do well in their academic studies.

But at least half the time what I’m asked to read is pretentious gobbledygook. Mind you, these are young men and women who speak with perfect clarity and impressive intelligence. But put a pen in their hands, or put them in front of a computer, and – OMG!

If you have an instructor who berates you endlessly about your writing, try putting your ideas into simple, straightforward sentences. Then show the result to your instructor and ask for suggestions about the next step. Very likely you’ll discover that using your own voice and choosing everyday words (not, of course, slang!) will work perfectly well.

Do me the favor of experimenting with my exhortations. (Translation: please try it!)label maker

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