From the September 1954 issue of the Forum Journal
The intention of these notes is to help writers for the Party. That does not mean only potential contributors to the "Socialist Standard”; it means, I think, all members. Rightly, we think of oral expression as the chief means of communicating ideas—so much so that we have a habit of saying “verbal” when we really mean “oral”. Nevertheless, we all write about Socialism at times, and there is every reason why, like talking about Socialism, it should be done well.
After saying what this is about, it is worth saying what it is not about. I am concerned with the craft, not the art, of writing. If you can see an overlap, that’s fine; the fact remains that art consists mainly of communicating feeling, and our sort of writing has the different aim of informing and explaining. As I see it, it is a matter chiefly of workmanship.
A lot of people are sufficiently misled by the talk about art to imagine that a good writer simply sits down and turns it out. Don’t believe it. The only man I knew who claimed he did that was the worst regular contributor the Standard had in recent years (no longer with us—still, no names). For what it is worth, my own way of working is something like this. First I make and arrange copious notes, as if I were preparing a lecture. Usually I find I have insufficient knowledge of some of the points, and have to spend a day in the British Museum or some other library looking up the things I don’t know. Then I write it out on foolscap, crossing out every other line, until I am satisfied that I’ve said all I want to say. I copy the article and go through it to weed out vaguenesses and ambiguities and look for better phraseology; and finally I type it out as the finished job. There is no universal method of writing articles, however, and what suits me may be hopeless for somebody else. The important thing is that, whatever one’s approach, there is no analgesic for the throes of composition.
If I were devising maxims for writers, the one at the top would be: Don’t write unless you have something to say. The only reason I know for waiting is to tell something or explain something to people. “I want to write” means nothing until it is expanded to "I want to write about . . .” There is scope enough: socialists, after all, are people with a different viewpoint on most things, and the world is our parish. That does not mean any socialist can write about anything—on the contrary, another golden rule should be to keep within the limits of one’s own knowledge. There are some things I should not dare to write about, because I know too little about them; I can only say the boldness of writers who raise two-thousand-word edifices on the basis of a smattering amazes me. One other thing about choice of subject —it ought to be worth while. It is not difficult to find something a Cabinet Minister has said and sneer at it, or to quote a paragraph from the “Reader’s Digest” and say it confirms our case; most times, however, these articles are not worth even the small amount of trouble their writers have put into them. When an item of the sort seems too good to be missed, the best way of using it is as a reference in an article on a larger topic.
Subject and subject-matter are not the same thing; or, having a subject, you must gather accurate, interesting—and therefore carefully chosen—information about it. The worst way to “gather” information is to paraphrase factual items from papers and magazines— i.e., to set up as a journalist on the back of another journalist whose journalism you say you despise. If you are borrowing, say so. Facilities for fact-gathering are available in most areas. The public library is the obvious and convenient place, and in London there are several very good reference libraries. By specifying research on a particular topic you can get a one-day pass into the British Museum Library or the Newspaper Library at Colindale, and there are several small libraries with special collections.
So much for subject-matter. In its presentation, good grammar and usage are essential. Some people argue the reverse, that you can play hell and Tommy with the rules and still say what you mean. They are wrong. Grammar is the logic of a language, and gives precision that is not otherwise attainable. Precision is less necessary in speech, where hearing is helped by sight and words may be spilled usually without harm being done; in writing—particularly explanatory writing—it is all-important. Grammar is a bogey to most people because an elementary education is too brief to give any sort of mastery of it, but there are a few intelligently written books about it. The best I know is Eric Partridge’s “English: A Course for Human Beings”. It’s expensive, but most libraries have it. At this point it may be worth mentioning the books which I think are necessary to a writer. He must have a dictionary (the most popular is the Concise Oxford, but Chambers Twentieth Century has much more in it) and he should have Roget’s Thesaurus, which provides the right word or phrase for almost everything. The more books he has in addition to these, the better.
Perfect phraseology is a consummation devoutly to be wished; the avoidance of bad or hackneyed phraseology is a more modest but most desirable aim. I should like to see some expressions banned from the “Standard” for a very, very long time: “bloodbath” for a war, “sheeplike” for compliant workers, “woolly-minded” for idealists, and so on. And there are the too-often-meaningless asides: “obviously” followed by something which certainly isn’t obvious, “needless to say”, another lie, and “of course”, which can usually be reckoned the precursor to an absolute non sequitur. The best phraseology is the clearest and most concise, and weighty terms seldom help in that direction. Nor do long words: too many people think “commence” and “terminate” are better than “begin” and “end”. They aren’t. As a socialist is reputed to have said to a ponderous speaker, call a spade a spade and not a metallic implement for penetrating the earth’s crust.
Such matters as tone and style arise from the consideration of phraseology. Tone is the attitude, real or assumed, of the writer to his readers, and it is extremely important to a writer about Socialism. When you are being critical of people and beliefs it is only too easy to sound supercilious, self-satisfied or just contemptuous, but none of these approaches wins anyone over. On the other hand, a patronizing, sure-we-understand-each other-John tone implies just as clearly that you have a low opinion of the reader. There is no question of “adopting” a tone to strike the right note, any more than you can borrow a style. Both are integral parts of any piece of writing, and have meaning only when they are at work with the subject-matter.
Innumerable chapters have been written about style without anybody becoming much wiser. More than anything else, it is the written expression of personality. Therefore, try to write as you speak rather than develop a special manner for writing. A good style is never obtrusive; its effect is of making the subject-matter pleasant to read, without drawing attention to itself. I have said a style cannot be borrowed, but every writer is influenced to some extent by those he has read, and there is great value in reading the masters of style. Probably the best modern writer in this respect is George Orwell—a beautifully clear, direct style, almost athletic in its easy, unhampered movement. Whatever else one thinks of Orwell, he is good to read. E. M. Forster is very good; and so, in a different way, is Jack London—economical with words, reporter-like and forceful. Farther back, Charles Lamb is worth reading as a stylist (and for pleasure), and among the ancients there was no one better than Tacitus—no word in his writing that is not usefully employed. And, as we are interested in writing about Socialism, it is worth mentioning that the ‘‘
Socialist Standard” has had good stylists, too:
R. W. Housley was a particularly able writer, and I hope H
[Edgar Hardcastle] will not think I am buttering him up by referring to him, too/
Of the many devices for appealing to readers, humour is the one which tempts writers most. Don’t do it. If you want to know why, try counting how many successful funny writers there have been. Oral humour is not so difficult because tone of voice, facial expression and the mood of the moment all help it. Max Miller in person is uproarious, but his jokes in print (those which are printable) fall flat. Witty comment is a different thing, but again, it isn’t easy; and even when the wit can be seen to sparkle, it is only valuable when it is used to sharpen a comment, and not as an end in itself.
There are a good many verbal devices which can heighten effect and even, used skilfully enough, contribute to style; most of them have long been classified as “figures of speech.” It is worth knowing about them, and a text-book such as Partridge’s will explain and illustrate them. The presentation of contrasts and analogies and the construction of phrases that will really tell are worth all that can be put into them.
Finally, a writer needs to keep writing, to be self-critical and to obtain criticism. Show your writing to other people and don’t argue with what they say about it. One useful means of self-criticism is to put away or forget something you have written and read it a few months later; one way or the other, you’ll be surprised. And there is a writers’ class at the Head Office every year—like all the Party’s classes, it is very good.
