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?

The first date was a dinner date! When the waitress came, the inquisitive one ordered the Sloppy Spaghetti With Corn on the Cob.

The waitress’s face acquired a look of uncertainty. She said, “Are you sure you would like to order the Sloppy Spaghetti With Corn on the Cob?”

The inquisitive one proclaimed, “Yes!”

Soon, the food arrived. The inquisitive one and the date started eating.

“What do you like to do for fun?” asked the date.

“I like gardening,” said the inquisitive one, while splashing Sloppy Spaghetti sauce on the white tablecloth. And they talked about gardening for a bit.

At a lull in the conversation, the date asked, “Do you like to exercise?”

“Yes, I like running,” said the inquisitive one, between two massive bites of the corn on the cob. And they talked about exercise for a bit.

At a lull in the conversation, the date said, “I really like to sail. Sailing is my favorite hobby. I enjoy it very much! Do you like boats and being on the water?”

“I know a lot about sailing!” the inquisitive one cried out, slamming a fist on the table for emphasis, hitting the spoon at a perfect angle to fly up and land—plop!—in the half-full glass of red wine.

Together—for they were on the same wavelength!—the date and the inquisitive one watched the glass totter, and tip, and topple down toward the inquisitive one. The red wine splashed all over the Sloppy Spaghetti dots on the white tablecloth, and started dripping into the inquisitive one’s lap.

The conversation seemed to have come to another lull. So the inquisitive one said, “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a writer,” said the date.

“Oh! What do you write?”

“Articles for the Washington Post.”

“What do you write about?”

“Dating and relationships.”

“Very cool!” The inquisitive one grinned widely at the date, revealing chunks of corn between every tooth. “Pardon me, I need to use the restroom. Be right back!”

The inquisitive one, who was nothing if not prepared, changed into an extra set of clothes. This extra set of clothes was in the bag the inquisitive one had brought, just in case—along with the passport and life vest, naturally. Then the inquisitive one used a paper towel to remove all the visible corn from the teeth.

The inquisitive one, upon returning, smiled brightly at the date, looking clean, tidy, and ready for a boating expedition.

The date stared at the inquisitive one in surprise, disbelief, and—one might even say—love.

I’m excited to share that an article I wrote was today published in the Washington Independent Review of Books. Read the article here!

Hey, all! Yesterday I walked through the Shoreditch area of London and took in some street art. (Many thanks to K., who recommended it to me.) The best graffiti is beautiful and powerful, evocative and provocative. It’s, you know, art.

Graffiti can dispense insight. It can offer alternate ways of looking at reality. Often found in gritty urban settings, it proclaims to the world that feeling and thought and ingenuity exist everywhere humans exist (which is sometimes, sadly, contrary to popular belief!).

Here’s a sampling of what I saw yesterday in Shoreditch. Yes, I was that tourist taking photos of the street art. Well, so be it: a tourist is what I am, ain’t it?
 

TO / SPEAK SPEAK SPEAK / the truth / FEARLESSLY—

Great message. Perhaps this has meaning not just in isolation, which is cool enough, but also in combination with the message above it. Perhaps it means that we should not shy away from openly telling people when we adore them; and also we should not shy away from expressing ourselves when people encroach upon our (physical or metaphorical) space. Also, the words “adore” and “endure” both seem to imply that when we speak the truth fearlessly, we should do it with respect. I can be on board with that message!

But zoom out on these lovely messages, and we have a new message that blatantly urges us to spend money. This crude message is all the more crude in juxtaposition with the beautiful sentiments nearby. It’s a reminder of all the forces in our world that try to push us away from what’s really important (i.e., adoring and enduring each other by speaking truth fearlessly).

 

I was stumped by yet another medical mystery.

A prescription drug that helps me immensely also makes me tired. I have trouble waking up. I feel fairly alert in the morning, but I ache to nap all afternoon. And forget the evening—I’m ready for bed immediately after dinner.

My doctor has been helping me experiment with different remedies for this problem. Now, granted, I can still function. The problem isn’t severe. In the past, I have been on medications that made me significantly groggier. Still, if I can maneuver myself into a life situation in which I feel more alert more often, I will happily take it.

The trouble, however, is that doctors and scientists, even in this advanced age of medicine and technology, don’t really know how the brain works. And they don’t really know what happens when different chemicals are introduced to it. We know a whole heck of a lot! Sadly, though, that whole heck of a lot amounts to a patchy understanding of what’s going on up there. The brain is just too complex and intricate and multivariate and changeful.

As Gary Greenberg writes in his article “Psychiatry’s Incurable Hubris,” in the most recent issue of the Atlantic, “Psychiatrists . . . cannot precisely predict for whom and under what conditions their treatments will work.”

Sigh. That explains why my doctor is forced to help me experiment. Since different people react differently to any given drug, it’s not possible to know beforehand what will work for each patient.

Thus my doctor, thinking we might make a change and see how I felt, prescribed me a new medication.

I felt different right away. Within a few hours, I felt like I was floating on a cloud. A very nice cloud. The niceness of the cloud intensified over the next few days. It became softer and fluffier and cozier . . . and I felt like sleeping. All day long. Zzzz. . . .

In the meantime, I made a profound discovery about this medication. Listen up, literary friends, because this is crucial! This is key! This is vital! My new medication . . . gave me writer’s block!!!!

I could no longer write blog posts! With sufficient amounts of caffeine and junk food, I was able to edit and proofread, but write a paragraph? Nope! (Needless to say, since you are reading this post, I went off that drug pronto.)

Why is this significant? Well, listen to this fine theory of mine. If this drug energizes some people—not me, obviously!—then might it not also cure any writer’s block those people might be experiencing?*

I humbly invite the reps of said drug company to call me ASAP, so we can discuss my payment for this lucrative marketing idea.

*In case it isn't sufficiently clear, this is a joke. Do not try this at home, or at work, or on a sailboat, or at an amusement park, or in an airplane, or anyplace else you might find yourself. Please also refer to the footnote in my original Medical Mysteries post.