On Reading and Writing

Why do we need people who write and publish, and people who read and discuss?

Fragonard: Young Girl Reading

Writing and the why-of-it is no insignificant matter. Speech and writing are the means by which ideas are transmitted, for one, and nothing shows this better than the study of linguistic history.  

      Human evolution from Heidelberg Man to Neanderthal Man to Homo Sapiens to modern humankind has shown that the evolution of language has paralleled physical evolution. Thinking ability, problem-solving potential, inventiveness have through all the stages of evolution complexified, and that largely because the development of language has kept pace, allowing for what can be called the communal brain. Ideas can be worked on by hundreds simultaneously, but only because the vehicle of language has kept pace with progress.

      But language is not only a vehicle, its a tool with which we think, solve problems, formulate ideas; language is the engine of the individual’s reason train. The discussion about whether or not we can think what we can’t say is old as psychology itself. (Click here for a primer on the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis and more.)

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There are at least two good reasons for us to take another look at writing and reading in our day. Pick up Henry James, Portrait of a Lady or Josef Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and you’re sure to conclude that while our world is becoming more complex, our language breadth may be shrinking. 

      The consequences of keyboarding replacing writing with pen and paper is one on which the jury is probably still out. 

      More concerning is that the majority of the population doesn’t spend much time in—what is in simplest terms—the library of the meaning of our very humanity.

      One additional point. The lament over the uneven distribution of wealth in industrialized countries is a big concern. I see a parallel in the uneven distribution of literacy with similar consequences, i.e. the dividing of our world into ever more distinct have and have-not classes.

      We who’ve been lucky to have been granted a sound literary education have a responsibility to the world, a responsibility that reaches toward ever better writing and the universal ability to benefit from it. If there are sacred things in our world, surely the collection, the making available, the reading of our thoughts and ideas has to be on that list.

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Journalism students are told early on that it’s only the last thing that they as reporters, columnists, commentators have written that will be remembered by their readers . . . and that only briefly! When we think of poets, novelists, writers of books generally, this obviously isn’t always true. But for those of us who write blog posts—like this one—or sermons or lectures, the maxim seems to have merit.

      Which raises the question: “Why bother posting a column, writing and delivering a sermon, composing a letter to the editor, preparing a study lesson? What’s the point if its attended to half-heartedly, forgotten by the time lunch has been eaten? Isn’t thoughtful writing meant to change people, like a vaccination or a heart transplant?

      Perhaps we’re imagining writing (stories, sermons, lessons, op eds, poems, etc.) through a false metaphor. Perhaps the parallels to nutrition make more sense. We eat a hearty breakfast, work for a few hours, forget the bacon and eggs because we’re hungry again and long to be fed. The choices are endless, ranging all the way from chips and coke to a balanced carb/protein/mineral plate of lamb, potatoes, broccoli, and a lettuce & tomato salad. 

      As with food, there’s nutritious writing and junk writing. As with food, the inquiring mind, the healthy outlook is not supported with junk writing and certainly not with one fabulous post, one terrific sermon. It’s a steady, balanced, nutritious reading/listening diet that provides mental, spiritual and intellectual benefits.

      We grow physically on the quantity and quality of the food we eat. We grow mentally, intellectually, spiritually on that which we read or listen to, day in, day out.

      If this metaphor holds, then writers are chefs, or at least sous chefs or cooks. They have skills and work hard to produce a steady stream of nutritious meals.

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It makes sense to reiterate here that the nature of being human on planet earth is in constant evolution, one need only compare the conditions from century to century to see this. That language should evolve conjointly goes without saying; this implies, then, that its not masterpieces that we’re in need of, but a continuing stream of writing, reading, discussion, adaptation commensurate with the evolution of circumstances and ideas. The vilification of a free press is a dangerous tactic employed only by those who would halt progress in protection of their own interests. Tyrants who do this are unlikely to be broad, thoughtful readers.

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There’s a difference between spoken and written speech. When we dialogue informally, our utterances are mostly “off the cuff,” unproven, tentative, and that’s a fine way to exchange local information and ideas, feelings and commiserations at the family/friends/community level. It’s one of our most-loved pastimes as well.

      The serious, written word, by comparison, is constructed, vetted for accuracy, edited for language conventions and pondered . . . often for days and weeks. This is not to say that a thing is only true if it’s written down; it only means that good writing has a chance of doing what the unrehearsed, spoken word really can’t: prepare and serve a complete, a tasty, a nutritious dish.

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If there’s skill involved in writing, there’s also skill involved in reading. The written material that flogs a political viewpoint, that attempts to persuade us to certain actions, that fudges the truth for an ulterior purpose is everywhere. Good reading requires a growing vocabulary, attention to the credentials and purposes of the writer, a keen sense of what’s logical and what isn’t and a host of important considerations that separate the astute reader from the one who’s ripe for the picking. But all that is a huge subject for another day.

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True, we mustn’t forget that writers (not unlike the rest of humanity) are ego-driven to a lesser or greater degree. Writers hope to be read, hope their work gains recognition, long for positive feedback. At their dreamiest, they may have visions of a Pulitzer, or a Mann-Booker, or maybe a CBC Reads appearance. But more generally, thousands of people are writing because they enjoy the act, may even experience it as compulsion. They write to their community and are content with the privilege of publishing, even if its only in a circular with a small readership or on social media or a weekly sermon.

      And let’s be realistic; a writer has no more right to the limelight than does a cook, a sales person, a farmer, truck driver or kindergarten teacher. But if we’re to thank the cook for feeding the body, let’s also thank the writer once in a while for cooking up a dish for the mind.

       So eat something, then find a quiet, comfortable place and read.

       Somebody put in a lot of effort in the kitchen.

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“I don’t like reading. I get restless. I can’t concentrate for more than a few minutes.”

      “I don’t write. I wouldn’t even if I could. I’d rather be doing things . . . out there.”

      You’ve probably heard the excuses for remaining disengaged from the written arts. I could have added, probably, “Half the time, I don’t know what that stuff is talking about, so I lose interest,” or what for many are reasons—not excuses—resulting from developmental or chronic physical/mental challenges. But for those of us with average vision, average minds, engagement with the written word is within reach even if left unexercised.

      Chalk it up to life-style choices, possibly. Every day presents an abundance of options and just as in the expenditure of money, what’s spent on A can’t also be spent on B—with the caveat that daytime is a fixed amount for everyone alive. You can watch a hockey double header on TV of an evening, or read a few chapters of Yuvel Harari’s Sapiens: a brief history of humankind, but you can’t do both at once.

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Meanwhile, what we choose has a history that begins in childhood: parents who read/don’t read, the relative prominence of books and reading in the home, family involvement and support in schooling, parental and school nurturing of curiosity, etc., etc. Many adults these days are spending a lot of time and effort driving children to hockey, soccer and baseball practice. Physical activity and sportsmanship can be immensely beneficial. 
      I guess I’d plead for the arts—including language arts—to be granted similar status. I’m reminded of the father who desperately wants his son to excel in hockey, but when he offers to drive him to register for his first level is asked by the son, “Could you drive me to the library instead?”

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I have often lamented the fact that my parents and grandparents didn’t write. What thoughts my mother and father had as they moved from place to place, what they discussed on my birth day and why they named me as they did, what it felt like to be self-isolated during the 1918 ‘flu epidemic when she was 17 and he was 21, even an inkling into what they believed might have given the current world a perspective I could really use.

      Some parents of the 20^th Century in my community did journal, but it was most often a weather report with significant events named but not enlarged upon. My great-grandfather who lived his entire life in the 19^th Century in Ukrainian-Russia, by comparison, kept marvelous journals including the nature of his personal struggles with hard times.

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I’m reminded of an adage having to do with an old man planting trees under whose shade he will never sit. Hope that extends to children yet unborn may in the end be the elixir that saves humanity from its own folly.

      This may—in the end—be the best reason for writing . . .

      . . . and reading?