Strangely enough, I did not take any writing courses in college. Neither my B.A. in English nor my M.Ed. in English required me to take even a single writing course. There was a writing course requirement for all incoming students at the college (of arts and sciences) within the larger university that I attended; but I passed out of it.

True, I took many, many university courses in English literature, all of which required essay writing. Professors commented on my essays and assigned them grades. But I took no university class that attempted to systematically teach students how to write.

As it turns out, I am not the only professional writer who did not take a single writing class in college. I hear tell of others on occasion. Just this week, I read an interview with Daniel Mendelsohn, editor-at-large of the New York Review of Books, author of many books and articles, and expert in literary criticism. (I found this interview in the most recent issue of Poets & Writers magazine.) Here is what Mendelsohn is quoted as saying:

“I myself never studied writing; I just read a lot. You start by imitating the people you like, and soon you develop your own voice.”

It’s true that reading a lot, imitating what you read, and developing your own voice are all key components of learning how to write. I certainly followed this path. But I find myself dissenting, in a slight way, when Mendelsohn claims the following:

“I don’t think any kind of writing can be ‘taught.’ Either you’re a writer or you’re not, and it doesn’t matter what kind of writing we’re talking about—fiction, criticism, whatever. I do think that people who are gifted can be helped along, their craft refined and improved, by good teachers.”

In one sense, I agree wholeheartedly with this sentiment: it’s true that some people are born with a gift for writing, while other people are born with other gifts. And I agree that those born with a gift for writing can be helped along. But I find myself dissenting with Mendelsohn’s definition of teach, as well as the implication that people not born with any particular gift for writing cannot also be helped along the writing path by good teachers.

This opinion of mine surely arises from my background as a high school English teacher. The belief that sustained and inspired me during my four years in the classroom was that reading and writing can be taught—and be taught to students of all ability levels. And I found, after recovering from some major pitfalls during my first year, that my belief is substantially true.

But being a high school English teacher was challenging. It was challenging in many ways, obviously, but one of those many ways is that teaching English language arts is more loosey-goosey than teaching other subjects. English language arts and mathematics are the two main core subject areas; all of the other academic subjects build upon English language arts and mathematical skills. But these two subjects are vastly different. In math, logic and formulas rule. In English, emotions count as much as logic. And while there are formulas in English, they are looser, and they can be broken. The formulas are more like tips and tricks.

But these tips and tricks work. And they can be taught.

Of course, when Mendelsohn says that writing cannot be taught, he is not referring to the teaching of tips and tricks. He’s referring to the creation of an art form, to the advanced, invisible workings of mind that go into crafting a masterful text.

But I would argue that if that is the definition of teaching, nothing at all can be taught. You cannot teach anyone to swim, to be a scientist, to pilot an airplane, to fully understand Algebra, to create a masterful painting: the novice ultimately has to learn the skills of a discipline on their own, through study and practice. But while you can’t implant expertise into someone’s brain, you can offer them an increasingly more advanced sequence of tips and tricks. And you can monitor their efforts and guide them on a path toward greater proficiency. This is what good teachers and coaches do.

And so, there are tips and tricks that can help people learn how to write well. Where did I learn them, if not while pursuing my undergraduate and graduate degrees? I’ll explain in my next blog post.

Did you learn professional, job-related skills through taking college classes? Through personal study and practice? Through another source? Through a combination of several ways?

Folks, I have discovered a perfect novel.

Others apparently agree that it’s really great, because it won the 2018 Man Booker Prize. This prize is awarded, according to the Booker Prizes website, to “the best novel of the year written in English and published in the UK or Ireland.” This novel is certainly that . . . or anyway, it is the best of those I have personally read (an admittedly small percentage!).

But I would also argue that it’s one of the best novels of all time: especially as regards flawlessness. Since I was a kid, I have had something of an obsession with perfection. I’m always on the lookout for the perfect can opener, the perfect hybrid bicycle, the perfect cutting board, the perfect pair of running shoes. And the perfect novel.

Those last are few and far between. There are many great, classic novels; but a lot of them are flawed. Huckleberry Finn is one of the best novels ever written in the English language; but its ending is a travesty (see the more in-depth discussion of this and other of the book’s flaws in this article I wrote about books to read before college). The Scarlet Letter is brilliant; but its long sentences and abstruse language can be difficult to ingest. Other great, classic works of literature have powerful components and sections that one can arrive at only by wading through a whole lot of monotonous drivel. Many novels, moreover, are saddled with a boring or gimmicky or inappropriate title, or a cover image that doesn’t quite fit.

The 2018 novel Milkman, by Anna Burns, has none of these defects. This is a novel that feeds the reader a steady diet of insights and delights, from beginning to end.

Let me count this novel’s virtues! The language is wildly original, and yet not too difficult to comfortably read. There are no monotonous segments to wade through: just one fascinating sequence after the next. At one incredible point, the cover image becomes fully and astoundingly clear to the reader; at another, the title becomes so. The ending manages to keep things simultaneously fascinating and real—a technically difficult feat that few authors can pull off.

How did she do it? I don’t know; but I’m excited to share this idea with you today: the idea of adding this one to your reading list. To pique your interest, here’s the gist of the opening setup. This passage is from page 3 of the novel:

“He appeared one day, driving up in one of his cars as I was walking along reading Ivanhoe. Often I would walk along reading books. I didn’t see anything wrong with this but it became something else to be added as further proof against me. ‘Reading-while-walking’ was definitely on the list.”

The novel is propelled ever forward from this seemingly innocuous scene. She is reading-while-walking. What could come of that? He is appearing, driving up in one of his cars. What could come of that?

Both nothing and everything.

In my careless youth, I regularly read while walking, but I do not anymore . . . largely because of what could come of it.

Did you read while walking when you were younger? Do you read while walking nowadays? Why or why not?

While in London, I noticed that the British had no qualms about swearing up a storm. I’m not sure whether the same is true of Parisians or not. They could have been swearing up a full-on hurricane, and I would not have noticed. Instead, it was me who was (inwardly! I tried very hard to be polite) swearing up some kind of ouragan.

So, oui, everyone, please pardon my French! It’s very poor; but I made do with the few words I know, and I learned a lot. In this blog post, I’d like to share some of the comical language woes I experienced as an American in Paris.

Would You Like a Worm of Wine?

Upon first arriving in Paris, I entered a bar to wait for my Airbnb room to be ready. An exuberant bartender (a friend of my Airbnb host) wished to communicate. Due to our mutual lack of skills in each other’s tongues, we used Google to translate.

One of the first things he typed was (in French) “Would you like a glass of wine?” The app translated this as “Would you like a worm of wine?” I thought this was very funny. I did not for a second think that he was offering to serve me a worm soaked in wine. The word for glass, I was proud to remember, is verre, while the word for worm is ver: an understandable language mishap.

But this was not nearly as funny as what happened next.

Would You Like Broccoli Beer?

Giving up on the app, he asked if I wanted beer. The word for beer is bière, so I understood him perfectly. The trouble was that he then started asking—with greater and greater insistence—whether I wanted broccoli beer.

Broccoli beer? I was skeptical. Don’t get me wrong—I love broccoli. But in beer? Is this how they brew beer in France? Dump some broccoli and hops in a barrel, throw in some worms, wait a few weeks, and voilà: beer! He was so confident that I would like it that I finally agreed to try it.

The beer was served. It was not green, but a normal amber color. It was very good beer.

We kept talking about the broccoli beer, until I finally realized what he was saying: Brooklyn! And I laughed and laughed. I Googled “broccoli” and showed him a photo of what I thought he meant. He thought this was all very funny, too.

And just as funny? The thought that I would travel all the way to Paris, just to drink beer from New York! (He was trying to make me feel comfortable, which I appreciated . . . but ha!)

Would You Like Snails?

Yes, I would like snails, merci beaucoup. I sat outside at a cafe and ordered the snails cassolette, just to try something new and interesting. (I was so eager to eat that I took some bites before snapping this photo.) It was delicious: it tasted like mushrooms or squid. No problems here.

The problem arose when a panhandler walked up to me and said something. I stared at him like an idiot—or like an American who doesn’t speak French. I got the impression that he wanted money, not because I understood a single word he said, but because of his attire.

And then suddenly the waiter appeared and chased him into the street, yelling! They had an altercation! I tried to understand what they were saying; and I thought I understood the waiter to say (in French) “second.” It was just an impression of a feeling, not the conscious hearing of an actual word. Was that the second time the panhandler had panhandled at that cafe? I will never know.

So I finished my snails and went to the theatre.

Would You Like to Cry . . . or Sleep?

I went to a production of En attendant Bojangles (Waiting for Bojangles). The play is based on the best-selling novel by Olivier Bourdeaut, which I wrote about in these previous blog posts. Here is a complete list of the words I understood while watching the play:

• mère (mother)
• père (father)
• avec (with)
• chaque (each)
• Espagne (Spain)
• Mademoiselle Superfétatoire (Miss Superfluous, the family’s pet crane)

Needless to say, these did not get me very far. But the visual aspects of the production were superb. And the audience was loving it. The women around me were crying at the end, and the ovation was loud and long. I, however, had trouble staying awake.

Another evening, I went to a production of the classic play Fin de partie (Endgame) by Samuel Beckett. I understood a longer list of words this time, because Beckett uses a lot of short, simple sentences in the play, so as to help establish an apocalyptic mood. But once again, I understood almost nothing and struggled to stay awake.

After the performance ended and most of the people had exited, I snapped this photo, because I thought it was such a cool venue. It was a little brick tunnel, as you can see. As I was taking the photo, the usher spoke to me harshly. He said quite a large number of words to me. At first, I thought he did not want me taking the photo. But as I was nodding and exiting the theatre, I noticed a lot of people waiting to get in, apparently for another performance that was about to happen. So then I thought that probably the usher just wanted me to leave. Once again, I will never know. Hopefully he was not saying to me, “Under no circumstances should you post that photo on the Internet!”

Maybe I will keep studying French and try the Paris theatres again someday. Fuck me, it was not a fully enjoyable experience this time around (pardon my language).

Would You Like to Buy a Vowel?

To sum up—language is strange. Have you noticed that there doesn’t seem to be a consensus among Americans about how to pronounce “Franklin Roosevelt”? Is it ROSE-eh-velt or RUSE-eh-velt? How about “Teddy Roosevelt”? (This article has more of a definitive answer than what I can provide.) I recently heard “Franklin Roosevelt” pronounced in the French way on a bus intercom; a bus stop in Paris is named after him.

I have no words—in any language—to describe my surprise upon hearing the bus stop announced, and suddenly realizing what had been said!

The inquisitive one traveled to London. It was going to be an exciting adventure!

While in a crowded street market, the inquisitive one saw some postcards. “I could send these to my nephew and niece!” thought the inquisitive one, as a bunch of people jostled into the back, shoulders, and butt. When the inquisitive one went to pay for the postcards, there was a terrible realization: the credit cards, cash, phone, and passport were all missing!

Instinctively, and in a panic, the inquisitive one ran to that timelessly universal haven for inquisitive types, the public library. Frantically, the inquisitive one Googled what to do when lose passport England USA help! and scanned through some websites. Next, the inquisitive one logged into the email account and composed a message.

Here it must be noted that, due to shock and anxiety, the inquisitive one had been stricken with a psychological disorder! The inquisitive one could no longer distinguish fact from fiction, information from misinformation! Furthermore, the inquisitive one could no longer recall a single rule of spelling, grammar, or word usage! Consequently, the email read as follows:

Not knowing whom to put on the To: line, the inquisitive one sent it to every contact in the address book. Then the inquisitive one waited for a reply.

But no one replied! The inquisitive one kept checking the email for hours, but then, night fell. The library closed. The inquisitive one was forced to scrounge through trash bags for food and sleep in an alley.

The next day, the inquisitive one fell in with a band of drug dealers. But the inquisitive one, having no talent for sales, was not able to make any money. As the days passed, the inquisitive one started to despair of ever again eating something that didn’t come from a garbage bag. But then a fellow drug dealer invited the inquisitive one to, along with him, ditch the drug dealers and join a band of political agitators: which the inquisitive one gladly did.

This was a better situation because the political agitators took tea and crumpet breaks 15 or 20 times daily, which filled the belly nicely. These political agitators were pro-Brexit, or anti-Brexit, or anyway they had a very specific stance regarding Brexit. However, due to their use of incomprehensible words such as queue, quid, lift, and mummy dear, the inquisitive one was not able to determine what precisely that stance was.

Anyway, a few days after that, Fortune smiled even more happily on the inquisitive one: someone replied to the email! The inquisitive one collected $10,000 using the bank information sent by a (wonderfully kindhearted!) acquaintance, whom the inquisitive one vaguely remembered having met a couple of decades previously. Oddly, though, at the U.S. Embassy, the inquisitive one learned that, contrary to what the Internet very clearly stated, such a large sum of money was not required.

While the U.S. Embassy was working on issuing a new passport, the inquisitive one (with wonderfully kindhearted generosity!) gave the remainder of the cash, as well as the bank information, to the good drug-dealer-turned-political-agitator friend.

This friend, the inquisitive one had been astonished to learn, was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark! Well, or maybe he was Charles, Prince of Wales. In all honesty, the accents in this city were so thick that the inquisitive one could hardly understand a word anyone said. Or was he a Nigerian prince? In any case, he was a prince, but he had fallen on hard times and lost his throne. He promised to return all the money, and significantly more, to the (wonderfully kindhearted!) decades-old acquaintance of the inquisitive one, and to give the (wonderfully kindhearted!) inquisitive one a sizable pile of precious stones and jewels, once his throne was properly restored. And it surely would be restored within the next few days, due to the temporary loan of the money in the account!

The inquisitive one, strangely and sadly, lost contact with the prince at that point. But the very next day, the U.S. Embassy issued the inquisitive one a new passport! While the inquisitive one was not able to recover the lost credit cards, cash, or phone, the issuance of the new passport was a truly wondrous occurrence: and the inquisitive one’s anxiety faded away. Knowledge of spelling, grammar, and word usage returned. Also recovered was psychological sanity, including the ability to understand what was real; what was possible but unlikely; and what was rabid delusion.

MORAL: Health is better than wealth; and it’s easier, as they say in the wisest countries, to pass a needle through a camel’s eye, Amen.

A few weeks ago, a reader of this blog sent me the following message:

I very much appreciate the question, and I would like to attempt an answer today. For a long time after receiving this message, I could not think of how to answer it in less than a full-length book. Mounting a comprehensive defense of the humanities would result in a huge (and probably staggeringly boring!) treatise.

I would have to go through each discipline—not just literature, philosophy, and history, but also visual art, linguistics, religious studies, theater, women’s studies, modern and ancient languages, classics, music, anthropology, et cetera—and detail all the ways in which they are useful to humankind. Yes, dear reader, listen to me spout forth: communication skills are essential to maintaining healthy relationships and sharing ideas with others; and art provides a bulwark against existential despair and empowers the disenfranchised; and studying the past sheds a powerful light on the present and future; and philosophical and religious ideas help people think about old dilemmas in new ways; and so on.

I am yawning already!—not because these topics aren’t interesting, but because the humanities don’t need justification at this juncture in history. Their worth was established long, long ago. Think of the flourishings of Ancient Greece and, later, the European Renaissance, as well as flourishings of art and technology in non-Western civilizations. Great cultural moments bring together advancements in both the arts and the sciences: they have always gone hand in hand. As a result, most of today’s great universities still combine these foundational disciplines into one large “college of arts and sciences.”

We may as well mount a shiny new defense for the roundness of the earth, or the evolution of species, or the dangers of smoking, or the virtues of calling your mother every once in a while.

Don’t get me wrong; these things all needed to be defended, at some point. And we should not take their defense for granted. If there is a serious debate going on about whether it’s virtuous to call your mother every once in a while, and there are complicating facts and factors on both sides of the argument, and the best scholars in the world are concerned with getting to the bottom of this issue—why then, by all means, mount your defense! Write that treatise!

But here’s what I suspect is really going on, behind the scenes of your question. It’s not our society’s foremost thinkers who are debating the usefulness of the humanities. It’s your bitter uncle Rusty who tries to engage people in false debates during family gatherings, so he can prove what a deep thinker he is. It’s muckraking radio commentators who make a living getting people riled up about nonissues, while ignoring the truly important questions. (Getting to the bottom of the important questions might cause some tycoon to lose money.)

One summer break when I was an undergraduate, I went hiking with some friends from high school. Enamored with the beauty of the swampy, forested area through which we were walking, on a cute wooden platform, and thinking about my indecision about whether to major in biology or English, I suddenly cried out, “Oh, I’d love to know the names of every one of these plants!”

One of my friends, who was studying engineering, replied, “That’s stupid! What good would knowing the names do? The important thing is to know what the plants are useful for. Their names are irrelevant, and learning them would be a waste of time.”

As the insecure young woman I was at the time, I had no reply. I was stunned. I felt ashamed for having said the wrong thing (though I shouldn’t have). But I did make one good decision in the aftermath of the event: I stopped hanging out with that person. In retrospect, I think that’s the best decision I could have made. What was I supposed to do, mount a defense for the existence of language?

Interestingly enough, this brings me back to Brené Brown. Here is what she writes in Dare to Lead about judging others:

“Based on research, there are two ways to predict when we are going to judge: We judge in areas where we’re most susceptible to shame, and we judge people who are doing worse than we are in those areas. So if you find yourself feeling incredibly judgmental about appearance, and you can’t figure out why, that’s a clue that it’s a hard issue for you.”

So what was going on with my friend? I suspect, based on what I know about his background, that he was under constant, intense pressure while growing up. He was expected to work part time while in high school to help support his family, and also to perform at a high academic level so he could get a scholarship to a good college and work toward a degree that would guarantee him a high-paying job. Meanwhile, there I was, a walking, talking placard for the arts, whose daddy was paying her way through an expensive school, just so she could dither around in indecisiveness about whether or not to major in literature. From his perspective, I probably seemed to be doing worse than him in the area of striving to get a high-paying job; and he probably felt insecure about his ability to measure up and actually one day get that job. So he made his judgmental remark about language.

If you know someone who looks down on the humanities, try not to take it personally. It’s not about you. It’s not even about the humanities. It’s about a fear of not measuring up.

If Uncle Rusty tries to engage you in any more “friendly debates,” it’s important to tell him clearly to stop, or else you won’t hang out with him anymore. Then stick to that. My story about my high school friend is only the least dramatic of instances in my life where I had to take that hard line—even with people very close to me. I learned the hard way, unfortunately, that not setting such boundaries is detrimental to my physical and mental health.

This might seem harsh, but as someone who reads and writes for both a vocation and an avocation, and who, as a result, both earns money to live on and enjoys the benefits of art and creativity and communication and curiosity, I can’t let people try to shame me into thinking that what I do is not worthwhile. If I had to spend all my time continually justifying the value of the humanities, and the rising of the sun in the east, and the whiteness of snow, and the aliveness of Elvis (well, maybe not that one!)—I wouldn’t get anything else done. Let’s not waste our time rehashing the logic behind old truths that everyone already agrees with, deep down, underneath the screen of fear.

Of course, if Uncle Rusty wants to ask you a genuine question about your humanistic pursuits (your writing, your philosophical ideas, what you learned from the last history book you read, etc.), and listen to your answer, and perhaps share with you something he’s passionate about, that’s different. In that case—let’s get this party started, Unc!

Do you have a question you would like me to answer in a blog post? If so, send it to me in a private message. Thanks again to the author of today’s question!