I’ve just stopped reading the notebooks of a very good writer, that is, a writer who uses words with respect, reverence, clarity, who can make a sentence that sings. His dates are 1835-1902, if you want to look him up. I don’t mention his name because as soon as you identify a person you invite a debate on that person’s merits, which is unwelcome if you’re aiming to make a more general point. So much of conversation revolves around: Do you like – or dislike – so-and-so, instead of the more challenging topic, Why do you like – or dislike – him or her? Verdicts tend to be final, stubborn, and forestall discussion. Pro or con, yea or nay, whose side are you on?

                  Since “very good writers,” by my reckoning, are not numerous, why would I quit this one, with whose notebooks I was unfamiliar? Verbiage is copious but literature scarce: a discovery I enjoy is almost an oxymoron.

                  I wanted to like this writer. When a writer is good, I root for them while I read to keep getting better, to wow me and woo me and whisk me away into the paradise of awe. The abler the author, the more persuasive the argument for the salvageability of mankind. Humans are worth rescuing from the muck of our actuality because a Shakespeare or Bach or Caravaggio once strode the earth. No giraffe, for all its suave majesty, could have written King Lear or the B-Minor Mass. I am not being cute here. The only accomplishment that redeems our species, in my opinion, is the wonders we have made; otherwise, we’ve been a botch – and a waste of Eternity’s time. 

                  This writer needed to write. Urgency is the first requirement for greatness in any art. Manmade – as opposed to natural – beauty is never easy. It’s a painful breech birth that threatens its parent’s life. Any maker who chirrups beauty is a breeze hasn’t ached enough.

                  This writer sacrificed much – convenience, contentment, comfort, conformity – the cozy cocoon of community – to make what he needed to make. And more than once he made memorably. But here’s where, with me, he flubbed. While he wanted to tell me things, he was unsure why.

                  Writing is a relationship. And a relationship, to satisfy, must be defined. There’s no such thing as an all-purpose relationship. One can be a student, preacher, teacher, parent, spouse, lecher, kvetcher, pal, boss to another, but not all or even several at once. One can graduate from one relationship to a new one – I graduated, I hope, from Jane’s friendly acquaintance to emotional necessity – she sure did with me – but to pitch yourself you must know the effect you’re aiming for. I want to be your pal, simple as that, so you’ll be mine, so together our moment will spook us less: that is my mission. I do not want to recruit, reform, redeem – you’re dandy as is. That amiable aim informs every word I utter. If I yammer, bore, scold or lecture, I’ve lost my way.

                  This very good writer couldn’t decide whether he was trying to beguile me with epigrams or disarm me with logic. “Is he asking or telling, musing or proving, being toward me a philosophy professor or pleasant pal?” my discomfort squawked in the margins. Does he want to sway me or assuage me? Not knowing why someone’s appealing to you – and any writer longs to appeal – one stands off, warily. Charm me, arm me, alarm me, only decide!

                  I can’t remember being taught this in school. Before setting pen to paper, know why you’re doing it. What effect on your reader defines success?

                  Samuel Butler didn’t. (That’s a clue.)