When I went to work for Larry Ragan in 1992, I read one of his columns and then sat down to read all the rest. This is from one of my favorites, republished today on Ragan.com:
When a prolific New York writer was once asked if he spent much time in revising his work, he gave a reply that has become famous:
“Rewrite it? I don’t even reread it.”
To attain such confidence in one’s craft is perhaps the goal of many writers, but I have often felt that an anecdote about Robert Benchley comes closer to the true writer’s attitude toward his work.
Benchley confessed that he closeted himself away from people when he reread his stuff because it would have been embarrassing if others were to see him laughing at his own humor.
These two stories could neatly summarize two conflicting attitudes editors hold toward their work. Some grow blasé—they don’t even bother to reread their material. Others never tire of doing so. Not only do they reread it, but they study it, admire it (with many, many misgivings), try to improve it, and never fail to be awestricken at the wonder of their thoughts going out into the world, naked, defenseless, but unashamed.
That column reminds me how lucky I am, to have worked for Larry Ragan before he died in '95, and to reread my own writing, on occasion, with Benchley's embarrassed glee.
Do you like to reread your own writing sometimes? If not, why on earth do you do write?
Dave, thanks for shining a light on Dad’s article. As I read it this morning I was struck by its similarity of style, content and voice to another writer I know. Hmmm…wonder who that is……
Do I like to read my own writing? Well, it depends.
Those of us who write in the corporate world are frequently required to write things we wouldn’t necessarily choose to write about, or write about in the ways we’re required to do.
Those times when I’ve had to write what I facetiously call the “rah-rah, isn’t everything peachy” type of message, I would probably go with the New York writers opinion.
However, when I get to write something honest, clear, and valuable, or when I get to write something that touches people then I’m more like Benchley.
The one I’ll always remember fondly was a message I wrote on behalf of the CEO of the company I was with on Remembrance Day (for the American’s that’s Canada’s version of Veteran’s Day) about why we honoured our service people with a minute of silence across the entire business, and what the contribution and sacrifice of those service people gave to the rest of us.
I heard from the CEO’s admin that he got a number of emails from employees saying they were touched by the message, and thanking him for sending it. That is one of those moments that reminds me why I put up with all the nonsense that goes on in corporate, and why I cannot imagine doing anything else to make a living!
Sure, I read my writing. More often than not it keeps me humble because I’m horrified to see how often I fall into the trap of writing about “initiatives” and “challenges” and the rah rah crap messages that Kristen is talking about. I worry that it’s like the Amazon tribesmen you hear about who feared having their picture taken because each photo would steal part of their soul. Every time I cave to the hollowness and vagueness of corporate-speak, do I give up a little part of my talent that I won’t get back?
But sometimes I think I do get it right. Sometimes I succeed despite the language of mediocrity that I too often accept as acceptable just to get the job done.
And those are the pieces, in whole or in part, that I end up cutting and pasting into a document I keep saved under the file name “good stuff”. It’s not as many pages as I’d like it to be, but it’s there and it’s where I go when I need to be reminded what I can do.
Hemingway said something like “For a long time now I have tried to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can.” I have little if anything in common with Hemingway, but I get that.