Writing

The Olive

This, to my amazement, is my hundredth blog post. I’ve been posting weekly, almost without interruption, for nearly two years. So with your indulgence, I’d like to take a step back and reflect on the experience.

This project began as a way to keep myself occupied and motivated during the pandemic. Since I wasn’t having any meaningful experiences in the present, it seemed like an opportune time to delve into the past, and to reexamine some questions that I’d been wrestling with all my life.

Looking back on what I’ve written, I’m surprised by what I chose to write about. Most of the incidents I’ve recounted come from early in my life, from my childhood through my mid-20s. Apparently nothing that’s happened since then carries as much emotional weight as the experiences I had as I was growing into an adult. I’ve said little or nothing about relationships I’ve had, places I’ve visited, or cultural events I’ve been involved with. Emotional injuries, injustice, and death seem to be recurring themes, despite my initial intention to give these essays a lightly humorous tone. As someone who had always considered himself entirely secular, I’m startled by how many times I’ve made reference to God or religion.

I mentioned in my first post that I’d attempted twenty years ago to write a book of personal essays. The book never got finished, because I found that much of what I’d written on any given day sounded foolish or inconsequential on the following day. I think I fell into that trap because of my training as a philosophy major: I felt that every essay had to take the form of an argument that led to a meaningful conclusion. I realize now that life doesn’t build to conclusions — it just happens — and so it’s pointless to try to present it as if it does.

You’ve probably noticed that most of my posts have weak endings, or lack any ending at all. That’s because I’ve taken advantage of the looseness of the blogging format to avoid having to shoehorn my thoughts into a formal structure. I just say what I want to say, and when I find myself straying into bullshit territory — usually, it turns out, after about 800 words — I stop. This simple strategy has been tremendously freeing. For the first time, I’ve experienced writing as a pleasure rather than a trial. I’m grateful to finally know what that feels like.

At the same time, this experience has forced me to face my limitations as a writer. The first surprise was that I have limitations. Writing was always my most reliable skill. I was the student who was able to write an elegant, convincing book report on a book I hadn’t read. I wrote such persuasive essays on my college applications that I was able to get into Princeton despite my spotty high school record. As an adult, I always earned my living at least partly by writing for hire. I could write about almost anything and make it sound like I knew what I was talking about.

But it’s clear now how limited my range as a writer is. The purpose of my writing was always to explain, to instruct, to convince. I don’t write poetry; I don’t write fiction. My prose may be polished, but there’s nothing beneath the surface — it means what it says, no more and no less. In the case of these blog posts, that literalness usually takes the form of here’s something that happened to me; here’s how I felt about it; here’s something else that it reminds me of.

A real artist can start with the particular and transform it into something universal. It’s clear to me that I lack that transformative power — not just in writing, but in other realms as well. The photo-illustrations that accompany these posts may hopefully be witty, but they’re also often literal interpretations of the text. The same can be said of my other visual art projects. (My pieces about hands are just about hands.)

Although I’ve retired from teaching, I realize now that this tendency toward literalness pervaded my teaching as well. My skill as a teacher always relied on my ability to explain things: I can take a complicated subject and present it in a way that’s clear, organized, and easily digestible. But a real teacher has the ability to take those explanations and transform them into something more valuable for the student: an inspiration, an identity, a mission. Those things have always been beyond me.

On the positive side, writing this blog has given me a sense of purpose in my retirement. I’m surprised at how much I have to say that feels like it’s worth saying, and how much my perception of things is different from anything I’ve read elsewhere. It’s my hope that my idiosyncratic observations about my own life will encourage you to see your life differently.

Writing this blog has been like making olive oil. When they first crush the olives, the juice comes running out — that’s the stuff we call “extra virgin.” It was like that for me when I first started the blog: I’d sit down to write and the words would flow. But then the olive stops giving up its oil so readily, and the growers have to use more invasive methods, such as heat and chemicals, to extract the rest. In my case, it now takes more effort to find things to write about that don’t feel self-indulgent, obvious, or repetitive. But I think there’s still some flavorful oil left in this olive, and — as long as you keep reading — I’ll keep squeezing until there’s nothing left but the pit.

Posted August 23, 2022 by Mark S
Category: Writing

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Sentencing Guidelines

I know that my writing style is stuffy and formal. Although I’m liberal in my beliefs, I’m ultra-conservative in the way I express them. For example, I’m fastidious about sandwiching every non-restrictive clause between commas, and beginning every dependent clause with “that.” I still make a distinction between “if” and “whether.” I still use the subjunctive (“if Puerto Rico were a state” rather than “if Puerto Rico was a state”) when talking about hypothetical situations.

It’s not that I want to appear stodgy. When I was young, having such a formal writing style helped me be taken more seriously, but now that I’m a senior citizen, it’s more likely to make me seem out of touch. (I’m reminded of a time when I was in my 40s and a new acquaintance asked me why I have a beard. “I grew it to look older,” I said. She looked me over and said, “I don’t think you need to do that anymore.”)

I think that the real reason I write this way is because of how my brain processes language. Most people, if they were composing the first sentence of this post, would write “I know my writing style is stuffy and formal,” leaving out the word “that.” Doing so makes it feel friendlier and more casual. But the omitted word “that” is actually a meaningful conjunction whose purpose is to introduce a dependent clause. In order for the sentence to make sense, my mind has to consciously insert the missing word.

This re-parsing happens almost instantly — so quickly that it might legitimately be called insignificant. Having no way to get inside other people’s heads, I can only guess that it really is insignificant for most people. But for me, it’s annoying, like a speck of dirt on my eyeglasses. What reason is there to put unnecessary obstacles in the way of clarity?

In my post “Hat Check,” I opined that the function of a hat (or a finger) is more important than its style. I guess I’m saying the same thing here about language. Writing style is important, but it’s less so than the primary function of writing, which is to deliver meaning. Anything I can do to make the meaning of a sentence more immediately accessible, without requiring the reader to expend effort on reinterpretation, contributes to the sentence’s utility.

I once edited (and largely ghost-wrote) a college textbook called “Sentence Combining: Shaping Ideas For Better Style.” Its thesis, put forth by a professor of English named John Clifford, was that anyone can become a better writer by starting with a list of independent statements and then arranging and combining them in different ways. For example, the statements “London’s first department stores seemed pleasant” and “They were disagreeable places to work” can be transformed into:

London’s first department stores seemed pleasant, but they were disagreeable places to work.
Although they were disagreeable places to work, London’s first department stores seemed pleasant.
London’s first department stores seemed pleasant even though they were disagreeable places to work.
It’s surprising that London’s first department stores were disagreeable places to work, since they seemed pleasant.

At the time, this concept seemed so obvious to me that I couldn’t imagine why anyone would need to publish a book about it. Writing, for me, has always been a laborious process of trying and rejecting different formulations until I find the one that most clearly represents the meaning and tone that I want to communicate. (In 1983, when I edited that book, I was still conducting all of those trials mentally and then writing down the result on paper. I didn’t get my first computer — which allowed me to do the work on a screen instead of totally in my head — until the following year.) To this day, writing an email or even a simple text takes me forever.

I didn’t think there was anything unusual about that until I met my wife Debra, who can write quickly and almost effortlessly. Considering that she made it through law school and then had several books published, there’s clearly nothing wrong with her writing; she communicates as well as anyone, and her style is considerably less labored than mine. She certainly doesn’t waste time recombining sentences à la John Clifford.

I suppose that this is just another example of how my brain is wired differently. (I struggled with whether to remove “that” in the preceding sentence, but left it in for consistency.) I’d love to write in a more casual style for this blog, but achieving precision and casualness is more work than I can manage for weekly posts. For those who haven’t met me, be assured that I’m not as stuffy in person as I might come across on the page.

Posted May 3, 2022 by Mark S
Category: Writing

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Paper Delivery

I was always bewildered when teachers would explain the process for writing a paper. You were supposed to do research, take notes, make an outline based on the notes, write a first draft, review and edit the draft, and then write a second draft. To me, it seemed crazy to go through all those steps. Why not just write the paper?

From elementary school through high school, this is how I wrote a paper: I laid out all of the necessary books on my bed; started writing, referring to the books as needed; and stopped when I reached the required number of pages. Then I turned it in. I always got A-plusses on my papers.

A few things changed when I got into college. Because I was in an environment where “pulling an all-nighter” was a social norm, I was able to procrastinate longer than I could when I lived with my parents. That meant that at ten or eleven o’clock on the night before the paper was due, I’d roll the first sheet of paper into my typewriter. (College papers usually required making some sort of argument rather than doing straight research, so I could dispense with the laying out of books on my bed.) I’d start typing, and by morning, I had a finished paper.

In college, where standards were higher, I didn’t always get As on my papers, but the professors often commented on how well written they were. I only got a B-minus on my senior thesis, but I didn’t mind, because my thesis advisor said that it read like an essay in The New Yorker. I worshipped The New Yorker, so that was the highest compliment he could have paid.

I should note that unlike with most of my other college papers, I didn’t write my entire thesis the night before it was due, nor did I write it as I typed. I actually wrote it out in longhand first, in tiny printing on unlined paper, so I wouldn’t be distracted by guessing how many pages it was. I put a mark next to anything I’d said that needed to be supported by a source; then, after the draft was written, I went to the library to find sources that said what I needed them to say. (It was a huge library, so that was no problem.) Having thus taken care of the footnotes, I began typing.

Looking back on it, the fact that I was able to turn out papers this way seems unbelievable. As much as I prided myself on the fact that I was able to avoid making outlines and writing multiple drafts, the fact is that I did do those things — I just did them in my head. By the time I started the task of writing, the entire paper was already organized and reasoned out. All I had to do was come up with the words.

This was in the days before word processors. Once something was typed, there was no way to edit it, other than tearing up the sheet of paper and typing the whole page again. Obviously, that was something to be avoided, so I thought very carefully before committing any sentence to paper. Entire paragraphs were written and edited mentally before they appeared physically. The idea of doing that seems superhuman now.

When I got my first computer — an IBM PCjr, in 1984 — I was already making my living as a freelance writer. The way that computer changed my writing process was, almost literally, mind-blowing. All of that mental labor could now be outsourced to the screen. I could shape and reshape sentences, rearrange paragraphs, and change things I’d written earlier to better fit with what I wrote later, all without having to track and retain it in my mind. I don’t think I can say that my writing got better, but it sure got a hell of a lot easier.

I’ve been reading many articles about how online life is rewiring our brains — how we’re losing our ability to focus and concentrate for extended periods, and how we’re less likely to remember things, since our devices do most of the remembering for us. I’m not convinced that my use of Google and Facebook has changed me much, but I can definitely state that my brain is a very different animal now than it was prior to the 1980s. My post-computer brain can’t write without a word processor. On those rare occasions when I have to hand-write something — say, a message on a greeting card — I have to compose it first on a screen, and then copy down what I’ve written. (What an ironic reversal from the old days, when things were handwritten first, and then typed.) In practical terms, I can’t say that this is a problem. Word processors exist, and they’re not going away, so the fact that we (or at least I) depend on them doesn’t matter much. Still, the thought of having a superpower and then losing it feels kind of sad. I may have developed some other skill to compensate for it, but if so, I haven’t found it yet.

Posted January 26, 2021 by Mark S
Category: Writing

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Preface

About twenty years ago, having written a number of educational and technical books for hire, I decided that I would write a book of my own — my own thoughts, in my own voice. It would be a book of critical and philosophical essays, describing pivotal points in my life and what they led me to believe is true about the world. I had majored in philosophy in college, and I had an unusual variety of life experiences to draw from, so I felt that I was reasonably prepared to translate the lessons I’d learned into a series of entertaining but edifying personal stories.

Since you haven’t seen my name on the New York Times best-seller list, it should be obvious that the book never got written. Believe me, I tried. My problem wasn’t lack of discipline — I had been self-employed for most of my adult life, and I was in the habit of devoting my days, and most of my nights, to work. Rather, the problem was my inability to say anything that stood up to scrutiny. I’d spend a day crafting a few pages of compelling prose; then I’d read it the next day, cry “This is bullshit,” and delete nearly all of it. After a couple of months of this, I found myself with a folder full of fragments that seemed worthy of non-deletion, but nothing that cohered into a meaningful essay. I reluctantly concluded that I hadn’t acquired enough wisdom to write a book.

Well, it’s twenty years later, and a couple of things have changed. First, I’m in my mid-60s, and I’ve had a chance — I hope — to accumulate a bit more wisdom. Second, there’s now a socially acceptable place to publish fragments that don’t necessarily cohere into anything meaningful. It’s called a blog.

I was understandably hesitant to start a blog. Many talented people maintain them, and much of what they have to say is at least occasionally interesting and enlightening. Given the sheer volume of blogs out there — and even accepting that much of their content is worthwhile — my natural reaction is to retreat, and not to read any of them. Putting myself in the shoes of my potential audience, I can assume that no one is likely to read mine, either, no matter how much effort and care I put into it. In that case, why bother?

The answer begins with the long-ago death of my father. (Yes, I’m about to describe a pivotal life experience and tell you what it let me to believe about the world. Book or no book, that’s still my M.O.!) Aaron Schaeffer, a lifetime smoker, died of metastatic lung cancer at age 61. He had been born in the Bronx to impoverished immigrants who had never quite adapted to life beyond the shtetl. (His first language was Yiddish; he learned English only when he started attending school.) He had leanings toward being an artist, but chose to become a mechanical engineer because he knew that was the only way he’d be able to support a family. When he married my mother, it was generally accepted that she was “marrying down,” and he was never quite able to live up to her expectations. His son — that is, I — proved to be something of a disappointment, and our relationship was never close. But when I went to Florida after his death to help my mom sort through his things, I discovered that he had boxes and boxes of memorabilia stacked in the garage — records of engineering patents he’d acquired, commendations and awards he’d won after his midlife career change to educational administration, minutes of meetings he’d chaired during his tenure as president of our local synagogue, articles he’d written, news clippings he’d appeared in.

I looked through it all, and then threw it all away. As much as they must have meant to him, none of these mementos had any value to my mother, my sister, or me. As I heaved the precious contents of his boxes into the dumpster, I was left with a deep sense of the futility and meaninglessness of life.

But then a funny thing happened: I got old. I’ve passed the age that my father was when he died, and I’ve outlived my mother and sister as well. And as it turns out, I have boxes and boxes of memorabilia that mark the milestones, events, and achievements of my life. As irrational as I know it to be — and even knowing that after I die, all of it will be tossed into the dumpster just as my father’s things were — I can’t part with them while I’m alive. To keep going, I need this tangible evidence that my life has meaning, even if (as I strongly suspect) it doesn’t. I accept that need — call it self-delusion, if you will — as part of being human. And here’s what I’ve lately come to realize: I have mental boxes that are every bit as prized as the physical boxes. I have memories, thoughts, and ideas that feel tremendously valuable to me. Whether they actually are valuable is beside the point. I feel the need to make them tangible — if not in a book, then in a blog. If you read it, and if you get anything useful, enjoyable, or thought-provoking from it, then I’ll be extremely happy. But ultimately, I’m not doing this for you; I’m doing it for me.

Posted October 2, 2020 by Mark S
Category: Writing

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The Olive

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