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Draft is a series about the art and the craft of writing.
Look at too many years of education, I can identify a really impossible teacher. She took care of me and my intellectual life, even if I did not do it. Your expectations were high impossible, so. She was an English teacher. She was also my mother.
When good students penetrate into an essay, they dream of their instructor, which returns them to them in exactly the same state, for a single word that is added in the edges of the end side: "fawless." This dream was true in the afternoon in the ninth grade for me. Of course, I heard that the genius could show up early, so I was just a little surprised that I had achieved perfection in the delicate age of 14 years. Of course, I did what every professional writer would do; I hurried off to spread the good news. I did not get very far. The first person I told was my mother.
My mother, which is just shy of five feet big, is usually spoken incredibly soft, but on the rare opportunity when she was angry she was terrible. I'm not sure if she was more upset from my Hubris or from the fact that my English teacher let my ego go out. In any case, my mother and her red pencil showed me how bad faulty could be a flawless essay. At the time I am sure that she thought she taught me about mechanics, transitions, structure, style and voice. But what I have learned, and what my time stuck with my time writing in Harvard was a deeper lesson about the nature of creative criticism.
First, it hurts. Real criticism, the guy who leaves an indelible brand as a writer, also leaves an existential imprint on you as a person. I heard that people say that a writer should never take criticism personally. I say that we should never hear these people.
Criticism, is best deeply personally, and comes into the heart, why we write the way we do this. Maybe you are a narcissist who secretly annoys your audience. Or an elitist that expects your reader Herculean plastics. Or a know-it-all that can not admit that stylistic repetition is sometimes annoying redundancy. Or a wallflower hiding behind sparkling unexposed modifikers. Or a confirmation junkie, which is the first that boasts a flawless essay.
Unfortunately, when my mother explained, they can be all these things at the same time.
Your red pen had made something painfully clear. To become a better writer, I first had to become a better man. Now, before I ever read it, I came to feel the meaning of Walt Whitmans "Song of Me". And I stood the annoying suggestion that my song was not good.
The intimate nature of real criticism implies something about who can give it, namely someone who knows them well enough to show them how their psychic life is in the path of good writing. Conveniently, they are also the people who are interested in viewing them through the traumatic aftermath of this realization. For me, the Aftermath took the form of my first, and I hope only, encounter with the block of the writer.
It took three years.
Franz Kafka once said, "The letter is complete loneliness, the descent into the cold abyss of himself." The criticism of my mother had shown me that Kafka has right with the cold abyss, and if they destroy the introspective descent that the letter requires that they are not always satisfied what they find. But in the following years, her sustainable tutelage suggested that Kafka could be wrong at the loneliness. I was lucky to find a critic and a teacher who was willing to make the journey of writing with me. "It's nothing of great difficulty," according to Plutarch "to increase objections to the recovery of another man, it is a very simple thing; but to produce a better in his place, a work is extremely annoying." I am Me sure I wrote in the later years of high school on essays without the guidance of my mother, but I can not remember.However, I remember how it has recorded the "extremely annoying" work of the persistent criticism.
There are two ways to interpret Plutarch if he suggests that a critic should be able to produce "better in his place". In an uncomplicated sense, he might think that a critic must be talented than the artist she criticizes. My mother was treated well on this count. (She denies it, but she is still a much better writer than me.) But maybe Plutarch proposes something else, slightly closer to Cicero's lawyer, that you should be criticized by creation. " Real criticism creates a valuable opening for an author to become better - a process that often ecr, but almost always makes sense.
My mother said she would help me with my writing, but first I had to help. For every order I should write the best essay I could. Real criticism not to find obvious mistakes, so if you have found any - the guy I could find alone - I had to start from scratch. Completely new. As soon as the essay was "flawless", she would take one evening to go through my mistakes. That was, as true criticism, the guy who changed me as a person started.
She stopped me as pseudo-complex as I referred to dark references and professional jargon. She had no patience for brilliant but useless extended metaphors. "Writers can not bluff their way through ignorance." That was news to me - I have to find another way to structure my daily existence. She carried back my flowery language, lined lines through my exclamation marks and argued for the value of the understatement. "John," she whispered almost. I leaned in to hear her: "I can not hear her if you call me." So I stopped screaming and bluffing, and my letter improved slowly.
Somewhere on the spot, as I put my hopes aside to write this flawless essay. But maybe I missed something important in the teaching lessons of my mother about creativity and perfection. Maybe the point of writing the flawless essay should not give up, but never exit voluntarily. Whitman repeatedly revises "song from myself" between 1855 and 1891. repeated. We make our absolutely best writing with a piece and come as close as possible with the ideal. And at the time we start. In criticism, however, we are forced to leave to give up the perfection we thought we had reached the chance to be even a bit better. This is the lesson I took from my mother: If perfection was possible, it would not be motivating.
John Kaag is an associated professor of philosophy at the University of Massachusetts Lowell and former visiting assistant professor for writing expository on Harvard. He is the author of the upcoming book "Find Westwind: a history of American philosophy." And yes, Becky Griffith Kaag, his mother and a former English teacher with high school, took their machining pen in this essay.