I was interested in talking with Mike (whom we called Fanch) because I, too, have been interested in how mainstream journalism might evolve away from its often corporate-controlled and rather elitist tradition of disseminating "news" to readers from the top down and more toward a democratic partnership of sorts in which the defining and creation of news is more of a collaborative act. New communicative media such as blogs, Twitter, Facebook and shared documents via a variety of Google sites have clearly been redefining how people get information and what (and who) might constitute expertise. These are deep issues of a philosophic nature, in my mind. And, at the risk of being accused of "burying my lede" (a journalistic way of saying get to the point, for god's sake), I am going to state now that those issues are not what I'm going to write about in this blog post, though I think they do influence what I am about to say indirectly. What I want to talk about is how my conversation with Mike made me think anew about how one might learn to be a writer.
The simple answer: There is no way to learn how to write. One learns simply by writing, writing a lot of words.
So, a little bit of back story: A few weeks ago, I described how the fact that some people would be praised for having a "god given gift for writing" used to unnerve me, at least partly because no one made that claim about me. To answer the question of why I was writing if I didn't have "the gift," I created two categories of writers: Those who did it as an art, and those who did it as a craft.
Now the difference between writer = artist and writer = craftsperson is loaded, politically and socially. It evokes comparisons between what is often regarded in an elitist sense as "high art" (the stuff you find in places like the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Museum of Modern Art) and what is condescendingly referred to as "low art" (graffiti on a subway train, a mural on a public wall, decorative masks, costumery, embroidered handbags, and pretty much anything one might create to brighten up a day or display a flair for the original). I found it somewhat comforting to be not the "artiste" but the craftsperson. Claiming the latter moniker, I felt, allowed me the right to make mistakes, write some really bad stories that would need extensive editing, and devote some time and energy to working on my craft, honing my skills, trying to become better. I could learn to write, in short, by writing. Not by claiming myself as already perfect, as artiste.
Fanch spoke of a journalists creed that was written by Walter Williams at the well-regarded University of Missouri School of Journalism in the early years of the 20th century. The statement, which can be accessed at http://www.rjionline.org/news/walter-williamss-journalists-creed, briefly describes journalism as an occupation of the public trust. Fanch has dissected and disseminated thoughts on the creed extensively since his retirement from The Seattle Times, in an effort to work toward development of a creed for the 21st century, and shares his thoughts periodically via his own blog at http://mikefancher.wordpress.com. What he had to say about the 20th century creed was this: A fair amount of the creed deals with the skills a journalist might hope to acquire; the remainder is about things that we don't talk a lot about. Those things include an understanding of the society in which one lives; a commitment to engagement in a particular way about that society; and a sense of ethics in terms of how one might engage appropriately.
As Fanch spoke, I started thinking about how I write and how I teach. I started to wonder if perhaps there were different levels of teaching associated with the art of writing. Notice, please, my use of the word "art". It is deliberate. There is the teaching of the skills: crafting a sentence, organizing a story, developing characters, creating dramatic tension and conflict to advance a plot, writing dialogue, constructing scenes, and so on and so forth. Tons of books on how to master writing skills have been published. Most of them ultimately highlight the need for practice. Along these lines, the art of writing ultimately is about craft. You can study stories written by others, masterpieces of the past. But to learn how to write such stories, you must write them yourself. That realization is often frightening for those who think of the art of writing as an art, in the "artiste" sense alluded to earlier. It's much less intimidating if you think of writing as a craft, as something where you're allowed to make mistakes, write really badly, get your work all marked up, and see each new story that you craft as a step toward getting a little better.
But what is the other level associated with the art of writing? Is there more to learn than skill? Fanch's interpretation of the journalists' creed suggests there is, and that other level might be the art of the art, in a more relaxed, more humbling way than the artiste level might indicate. To restate the creed, to write well, one must connect with readers. One does this partly by understanding the society in which one lives. One also does this by making a commitment to engage with that society in ways that are socially appropriate to one's own sense of self and that self's relation to one's place in the world.
To put it more simply, one of the ways that I often engage with the world is by speaking up. But when I'm in a space that feels new or unfamiliar, I am happiest if I can simply skulk in a corner and hang out. This might seem like disengagement, but the reality is that it's not. It's a form of listening and watching -- both of which are information-gathering practices in their own right. These acts of engagement and studies into the society with which one interacts are ultimately journeys of the self into spaces of discomfort that might lead to discoveries and transformation. That, in a way, is what the art of writing is about.
Can you get to the art without the skills? Can you master the skills but never find the art? On the first question, I am fairly convinced that the answer is no. As I write about the art, I feel I am writing about it as an abstraction. It's something that is understood more and more as one's skills develop. Regarding the second question, I find it difficult to believe that focus only on skills will never lead to art. But, to be honest, I am not sure what the answer is. If it were yes, my original belief that you could separate writers into those who did it as an art and those who did it as a craft would be affirmed. But, if it were not, we might need a different understanding of what art is altogether.
To return to journalism, that sense of a need for a different understanding of what defines the journalist and the work of journalism is what seems to intrigue Mike Fancher. It intrigues me, as well, perhaps for different reasons. What would happen if all embarked on a mission to practice and refine our skills while simultaneously entering into a pact to immerse ourselves fully and actively with the worlds in which we live?
(A brief note on the image: I found the image at the top of this post via a Google Images search. In trying to secure an appropriate credit, I discovered that the photo comes from an arts supplies store. It appeared in the Google search after being used on a blog about making money in what is called the Variety Arts. The particular post that it illustrated speaks in some ways to the questions I raise here. Check out the post at http://www.bradweston.com/wordpress/what_is_art/.)
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