Lessons Learned About Writing

Because heaven knows I've been doing enough writing in Oxford, and because I'm one of those strange people who likes to reflect on the process of composition, here are a few:

- Write to rewrite. Yes, I knew this before. It's one of those maxims that everyone repeats about writing. But never have I realized it so intensely, truthfully, personally. The first draft doesn't matter. Don't write expecting every sentence to turn out perfectly. Shut down the inner censor and throw everything you've got at the page, allowing it to be hideous and wandering and nonsensical if it wants. It's all for the next draft. With enough time, out of all that rubble a pearl will emerge.

- Free writing and free association is a mysterious, wonderful thing. Again, something I knew before, but once I abandon myself to the first draft and allow the mushed-up-word-soup to come, I find myself stumbling across insights I never had before.

- If you have an idea, write it down. Straight away. Don't let it slip out of your fingers, don't rely on your mind or your memory or the muse to strike the inspiration again.

- The essay is about the discovery. Often, I cannot nail down a specific thesis until after I've finished writing something, or until I'm well into it, and this is honestly the way it should be. The word "essay" itself means attempt, something I've been reminding myself of a lot lately. I start out with an idea of what I want to say, a vague train of thoughts that loosely relate, and only through the probing and thinking and writing process can I lash them all together, drawing out a meaning that I never could have predicted.

- One essay can never say it all. Or book, either. So frustrating, the limitations of words and intelligible, coherent arguments. But also exhilarating: one can always return to it, over and over again.

- Be disciplined. Tight prose, always. But not so tight that it bursts under the strain.

- It's okay to let passion and fervent language leak into your academic work. Sometimes better, in fact.

- Read, read, read. And then read some more.

I suppose I did know all of this before I came to Oxford. But not so clearly. It's like returning to an old draft: the ideas are there to begin with, but only time and effort can bring them into sharper relief. Now, on to next week's tutorial paper!

Finding my Bookish Roots

As an English major, one of the absolute best things about spending time in England is being able to experience the places and scenery that prominently feature in the literature I'm reading. For me, the impact of this has been huge.

I've been to the Globe Theatre and can imagine how Shakespeare must have looked on that stage. When I read Dickens or Thackeray, I recognize their descriptions of London, even across a distance of 150 years. St. Paul's, Fleet Street, Chancery Lane, various towers and bridges: yes, yes, I know that too! Their books suddenly stir with new life, vivid and relevant like never before. I've now been to a country gentleman's house - Mr. Darcy's Pemberley, perhaps, or Queen's Crawley or Thornfield - as well as seemingly hundreds of English churches; I've seen towns, taverns, inns. In Bath, I find myself whirling into the world of Jane Austen: I can see the balls, the pretentious society, the tedium of social appearances. When the mists descend on Oxford, I see how mysterious the English countryside can seem, and the Gothic no longer feels so ludicrous; it does seem that an ignis fatuus could flare at any point and lead me astray. Hillsides and ruins and vistas do strike me as romantic, or - as I think Burke put it - sublime. Even on walks through wooden paths and meadows, I can visualize myself as Jane Eyre; at any moment, Mr. Rochester could gallop up and go sprawling on that horse of his. Or perhaps this is just a nice Sunday stroll, and I am Dorothea Brooke, and tea (and hopefully not Mr. Casaubon) will await in the parlor upon my return.

All this, and more. The bottom line is that the British literature I read no longer seems to me as fantastical, as far away as it once did, but grounded in a specific place and time. My surroundings speak to me again and again through my books, through the strong and vigorous voices from long ago. I am seeing how books are the concrete manifestations of their age, and this only increases their magic and charm. Oh, England - an English major's dream!