Argumentative Synthesis Clarity

I feel a sudden onset of clarity, Bartok.

In English 101, we’re dealing with vague instructions for the argumentative synthesis paper. To help clarify things, I send out an announcement just before class begins, and post it again the first week, explaining what I expect to see in their essay.

This is complicated by two factors:

1.        Students don’t always remember that announcement, or don’t bother to read it to begin with.   
2.        The instructions for the paper are vague.

The vague instructions, the course designers say, are on purpose, allowing us as teachers to custom-teach the essay in ways we think work the best. The problem is for this to work, we have to overcommunicate. And even with overcommunication, students get to the assignment, particularly for part two, and read the vague instructions and figure they’ve got a handle on things, when truth be told the instructions don’t follow the clarifications I offered them earlier in the semester.

So rather than fight against the system, I’m going to modify my expectations.

Part of the vagueness has to do with semantics. The instructions call for students to write about three “positions” on the problem or issue they’ve decided to concentrate on. Since many don’t know what a “position” is in this sense, they’ve asked for clarification. I’ve said positions=solutions, and even provide a custom worksheet for them to use to construct their part two outline so their outcome meets my expectations.

But I have to make the worksheet optional. And since it’s optional and not mentioned in the worksheet where the students have to describe the “positions,” it’s not always helpful.

So the epiphany today, reached while conferencing with a student: I will accept discussion of three solutions or three positions. Solutions may take them in one direction, while positions may take them another. I’m going to stop trying to shoehorn them into thinking the paper has to be exactly as I want it, and allow for this dual path to completion. One caveat: At the end, they either have to explain which solution is  best, or which position is best. That’s still fitting with the overall philosophy of the assignment, I think, and will lead to fewer headaches with the instructions.

ADDENDUM FROM DEC. 5.

I've had additional time to think about this subject, and had an enlightening conversation with an individual in the know, particularly about teaching and teaching internationally, which is what we're doing.

We have to break any molds me might have about expected outcomes. Students are coming into BYUI through a wide variety of backgrounds and academic experiences. It's come to my mind that my expectations have been exceptionally American since I started teaching this course. I believe I can maintain high love and high expectations while loosening the constraints I put on my students when it comes to the Argumentative Synthesis paper. Students can succeed without having to conform to my narrow interpretation of the assignment. If I allow a broader interpretation but still maintain high expectations, both I and my students will be happier with the outcomes.

This post shows a rudimentary new approach to this essay. I'm going to think about it some more between semesters and see what goals I can come up with to help my students have better success with this paper.

Should I Eat Potatoes While I Run?

Should I eat potatoes while I run?

Should I nibble on the sun?

Should I run, should I run

‘til pudding comes out my bum?

Leave potatoes on the shelf, on the shelf, on the shelf

Leave the sun to shine

And do not run, do not run

With any stuff coming out your bum.

Should I fill my boots with dirt?

Should my cauliflower hurt?

Should the dirt, should the dirt

Be rubbed right into my shirt?

Fill your boots with feet, with your feet, with some feet

And cauliflower hurts

If with it you are beat.

And that shirt? Also hurts.

Should I sing a silly song

As I’m dancing in my thong?

And is it wrong, is it wrong

To feel like I don’t belong?

Sing your silly song, silly song, silly song

But cover up the thong

Because it’s very, very wrong.

It’s clear you really don’t belong.

Writing Lessons: Robert Asprin

I know I have problems with my writing. One of those problems is prevarication. Another is hooptedoodle. And when prevarication and hooptedoodle combine, it’s not a good thing.
So I’m turning to successful writers to see what they do.

Robert Asprin, author of the popular Myth series, is not a prevaricator. He gets you right into the story. Even if you’re not familiar with the Myth world.

Here, as an example, is his how he introduces readers new to the series to the stories’ basic premise in Myth Directions, Book 3 in the series:

“I lose my powers to a stupid practical joker, and instead of concentrating on getting them back, I take on some twit of an apprentice who doesn’t have any aspirations higher than being a thief, train him, groom him, and get him a job paying more than he could spend in two lifetimes, and what happens? He complains! I suppose you think you could have done better on your own?”

This is all shouted by the character Ahaz on page 1 – page 1 – of the novel, and you get right away that he’s a prickly number to deal with as well. And you know enough about the story to get into it, without having read the first two books (there are enough hints scattered throughout the book to indicate that if you like this one, you should go back to read the others, just so you understand some of the references made. But there’s enough here to get you into the story.

I’m amazed at this. I mean it’s basic skill of the craft. But to see it when you know it’s what you need to do is helpful. (Caveat: My writing style is not the same as Asprin’s style; ergo I may naturally want to leave more prevarication and hooptedoodle than he does. But I can still learn about moving a story forward.)

Maybe Doleful Creatures prevaricates because I’m new to the story myself. And maybe that’s a sign I need to get more familiar with the story and my characters.

More on moving forward:

Asprin uses the Louis L’Amour method of writing – ending every chapter on some kind of cliffhanger. He does this in Myth Directions by bringing a new character into the story right after setting the stage for SKeeve – the main character – and his desire to go wandering through the dimensions.

I don’t do that in particular. And maybe I should. But it’s not my style of writing, so I have to wonder if that’s a tool I need to add to the toolbox.

But it does help Asprin keep the story moving. He may introduce a little hooptedoodle here and there, but he sets the goal of making sure the story is moving again and again and again. So that could be a good thing. Although it smacks me as hokey.

The Oaf

The Oaf went lumbering down the street
Spitting out two-by-fours.
He cursed the clouds and cursed the cold
That hindered his autumn chores.

The leaves they crunched beneath his feet
A littering he abhors.

No dragon to slay, no beast to best
Yet anxiety kills the Oaf.
He plunks away at a tiny desk
Sweating to earn his loaf.

The cold it seeps into his brain
The fingers to work are loth.

The knight has set, the sun has died
The Oaf cries a-standing there.
November chill it seeps in deep
Right through its thinning hair.

But demons laugh a laugh so deep
Chuckling, they do not care.

“Now go away, O demon Cold!”
He shouts to the sky so drear.
Demons laugh and demons fly
Whispering hatred in his ear.

The Oaf by demons deep beset
Scratches his shaggy rear.

So You're A Hack Writer, Part 2

In talking with my writer friends, and in re-reading some of the many books on writing that I’ve read, I see three areas in which I know I can improve.

First, I have to get past being pleased with my own writing and concentrate more on keeping the story moving and the reader interested. Let’s call that keeping the ball rolling.

Second, I need to make sure I’m clear. I might know what part of my story means, but if I haven’t communicated that to the reader, they’ll come up with meanings of their own which may make other things less clear. Let’s call this being clear.

Third, I need to kill those doubts.

In his book “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft,” author Stephen King writes “In many cases when a reader puts a story aside because it ‘got boring,’ the boredom arose because the writer grew enchanted with his powers of description and lost sight of his priority which is to keep the ball rolling.” There’s where I stole the phrase.

I’ve been there with books. I recall reading – or at least attempting to read – “Little, Big,” by John Crowley. I gave up by about page 120 of this 800-page novel because by that time, the following had happened: A lady sat in her quiet bedroom looking at pictures and drinking tea. Another character had driven around the property in an old Ford car. I was promised the book was full of fairy magic and wonder. I got tea and road dust. I’d like to say I’m exaggerating. But I’m not.

So I need to read the story from the point of view of the reader, King says, so I can see where I might be stalling the story to the point readers won’t want to continue.

Benwitz advises sending the book on to beta readers – fellow writers or fans of the genre you’re writing in who are willing to read your story and offer you advice on it. They can point out when they’re getting bored, when they’re confused, or what they love and what they’d like more of. That can be risky, leading to re-writing just for the sake of individual readers. “You have to take the ‘take what you need and leave the rest’ approach,” she says (Benwitz).What are the disadvantages of this solution? Knowing when to stop, for one. I know not everything I write is golden. But when you get to the point you're second-guessing everything you do, Benwitz says, you risk losing the story. "Sometimes our first instincts turn out to be our best," she says.

For clarity, I love to look to the writing of Richard Rhodes, who wrote “The Making of the Atomic Bomb,” in a style that’s historically accurate but also reads like a novel. Rhodes, in his book “How to Write,” emphasizes clarity of meaning when he edits.“

A physicist who escaped to the United States from Nazi Germany in the 1930s was disturbed on the train from New York to Princeton [New Jersey] to see all the wooden houses – in Europe, he writes, wooden houses ‘are looked down upon as cheap substitutes which do not, like brick, resist the attack of passing time.’ In Princeton on a Saturday afternoon, the physicist found the streets empty of students. He inquired at his hotel where all the students had gone. Perhaps to see Notre Dame, the clerk told him. ‘Was I crazy?’ the physicist asked himself. ‘Notre Dame is in Paris. Here is Princeton with its empty streets. What does it all mean?’”

The confused physicist, Rhodes goes on to say, needed meaning that the context of his world was not providing. Because he did not have context, he had to fill it in with his own experience. Only later he learned that many houses in the United States are wooden because wood is plentiful, unlike in Europe, and that the Notre Dame referred to was in this case the visiting football team from the University of Notre Dame in Indiana.“If you don’t say what you mean,” he concludes, “your readers will fill in meaning willy-nilly” (Rhodes).Can there be a disadvantage to clarity? Readers unsure of meaning are angry readers. They could be bored readers. They won’t be your readers forever.

I know what my story is about. But are there times I’m confusing my readers? If so, I need to fix that.
Then there’s that doubt.

One of my favorite Disney films is “The Rescuers” from 1977. In the film, two mice named Bernard and Bianca must fly from New York to the Devil’s Bayou on the back of an albatross to rescue a kidnapped girl. Bernard is uncomfortable with most aspects of the journey, and is called on by the albatross Orville to read his pre-flight checklist, which includes the following: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” The joke is that albatrosses, built for long flights, aren't the best at takeoffs and landings, so a little extra effort is needed.

That’s what I need to do with my doubt.

But listening to doubt and doubt only can be self-destructive. "At some point, you have to sit back and stop second-guessing yourself, trust what you've written, and just move ahead," Benwitz says.

Works cited (cumulative)

Benwitz, Lisa, personal interview by the author, October 2, 2019.

King, Stephen, “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft,” Scribner, 2000.

Parker, Dorothy, “Inventory,” The Complete Poems of Dorothy Parker, Penguin Classics, April 2010.

Rhodes, Richard, “How to Write: Advice and Reflections,” William and Morrow Company, Inc., New York, 1995.

Schultz, Robert, personal interview by the author, September 30, 2019.

The Rescuers, directed by John Lounsbery, Wolfgang Reitherman, and Art Stevens; Buena Vista Distribution, 1977, flim.

Be Clear.

In Lewis Carroll’s poem “The Walrus and the Carpenter,” there is nothing but ambiguity. We don’t know, for example, whether it’s day or night:

The sun was shining on the sea
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright –
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done –
“It’s very rude of him,” she said,
“To come and spoil the fun.”

Though this confusion works well for Carroll’s famous bit of “nonsense verse,” a reader looking for a straightforward answer as to whether it’s night or day is going to leave confused.

Some might leave insisting it’s the middle of the night. “It says so, right at the end of the first verse!”

Others will rightly point out, though, that the sun is up in the first verse as well, and in the second verse, the moon is complaining about the sun’s presence. And since both moon and sun can appear together in the daytime, it’s logical to assume that since both are in the sky, it’s daytime, no matter what the first stanza declares.

Nobody’s all that satisfied with what these first verses mean – and Carroll likes it that way.

When you’re writing an essay, though, you need to be as clear as you can possibly be.

How to achieve that clarity?

You have to look at your writing through the eyes of the reader. Don’t assume what’s in your head is in the reader’s head as well.

Here’s an example:

My Grandpa Spiers smoked a pipe, worked on the railroad, and knew how to play the harmonica, mouth harp, and the musical saw. Because of that, he developed cancer of the jaw and died before he turned fifty.

Before you move on, pause for a moment. Re-read that example. And see if you can spot the ambiguity.

I have two purposes in this sentence, but one of them is muddled. I want, first of all, for you to get to know my Grandpa Spiers. He did indeed work on the railroad, and knew how to play a variety of unusual musical instruments. But the second purpose in that sentence – that his pipe smoking led to his death from cancer of the jaw – is muddled. I know what I mean. And it’s possible a few of you picked up on what I meant as well. But I’ll wager a fair number of you were wondering what the connection is between the railroad and the musical instruments he payed and his premature death from cancer.

Part of me wants to say, “give your readers the benefit of the doubt. They’re smart enough to make the connection between the pipe-smoking and the cancer.” But part of me knows there are some who are going to be confused by those two sentences and miss the connection. Or they’ll see the connection after they think about it for a bit. Even if they see the connection after a little while, I’ve not done my job as a writer. My job is to help readers see those connections right away.

So here goes.

My Grandpa Spiers worked on the railroad and knew how to paly the harmonica, mouth harp, and the musical saw. He also smoked a pipe – and that led to him developing cancer of the jaw and dying before he turned fifty.

You don’t have to re-read those sentences to understand the meaning or the connection, because I helped make the connection for you.

This is not you talking down to your readers. This is you helping your readers understand you more quickly.

Another example:

When my brother finished laying the last bricks on the chimney, I used the rake to finish the joints.

I know exactly what I mean, because I worked as a hod carrier – or bricklayer’s assistant – for many years. I’m sure some of you are wondering what I’m doing with a garden or leaf rake. Some of you are probably wondering what “joints” are in this context.

This is an example of ambiguity stemming from jargon and specialized experience. To make this useful to my readers, I have to slow down and explain a few things.

So here goes.

When my brother finished laying the last bricks on the chimney, I used the rake to finish the joints. A rake is a hand-held tool that has two small wheels on it. In the center is an adjustable nail that removes, or rakes out, mortar from between the bricks to give those mortar joints a more finished look.

I did have to add another sentence for clarity, but I hope that addition helped some of you get a better picture of what I’m writing about. I might even, if raking mortar joints is essential to the story I’m telling, provide photos or video, like this:



It’s important as you write – and as you offer feedback – to note where you or another writer needs to be more clear. If you don’t understand what someone has written, it’s a fair bet you’re not the only one who won’t understand. Help each other by pointing out ambiguity.

And if you’re an oyster and the walrus and the carpenter ask you to follow them for a beachside stroll, be like the old and wise oyster and stay put.

Steal the River

The above is a Terry Pratchett novel in utero. Below, a very feeble attempt at a start. . .


“They are digging,” he said.

“No!” whispered the other.

“For the past four months, yes. I have seen it.”

The second picked up his cup, drained it. “They are fools.”

“Fools, yes. But they are digging nonetheless.”

“Bruno, you’re –”

“A liar. Yes, I know. I am. But I tell you, I have seen it.”

“Where do they dig?”

“I cannot tell you that. It is a secret.”

“A secret? A thousand men moving all that dirt and rock!” he shouted.

“Yes, a secret, even here,” he said quietly, reaching up, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and pulling him back down into his seat.

“They cannot possibly hide it. All that dirt!”

“You think they plan to do this without a plan for the dirt? Lucca will have more hills to hide its ugly women! The dirt is the least of their problems! They need men. Men to dig and men to haul and men to hold the water back until the idiots in Pisa look out their windows and see nothing but mud!”

“You’re shouting,” the other said. “I thought it was a secret.”

“Oh, it is,” he said, tapping the side of his nose.

“Everyone in the bar heard your shouting.”

“Bah,” he said. “That’s bar shouting. Two drunken fools at a table talking as other drunken fools drink or play darts or eat questionable sausage or run off suddenly to puke. Bar shouting.”

“Yours too. But let us test a few of them. You! Old man!”

The old man sitting at the table next to them – the old man who had up until that point quietly sipped his wine and whittled on a bit of a stick – smiled blindly in their direction.

“You, old man. You have heard our conversation?”

“I heard about digging,” he said slowly. “And dirt that’s moving. And water that’s holding back. And about the idiots in Pisa. I have a grandson in Pisa.”

“You’ve heard of Luchesi?”

The old man coughed up some wine, dribbling some down his chin.

“You know Luchesi?” he repeated.

The old man nodded. “The one who –“

“—cuts off –”

“Yes. I know him.”

“He wants this digging kept a secret.”

The chattering in the bar – lowered with each sentence and outburst of the two men at the table so they could hear the secrets – died, but for one word, a name, whispered and written on bits of paper passed back and forth and in the spilled wine on the further tables.

“You know of any digging?”

“No,” the old man said.

“Not even for the idiots in Pisa to crap in?”

“No, nothing,” he said.

“No hole for that grandson of yours?”

“No, please.”

He reached across the table and patted his companion on the shoulder. “See?” he said to the other.

“It’s a secret.”

“Ah, but threats? The name of Luchesi? Now you go into the realm of rumors.”

“Rumors,” he said. “As long as the name of Luchesi is in those rumors, I do not fear them. Pisa can send spies. They can send diggers for all I care. You think we’ve not let the idiot diggers from Pisa go back home? And paid?”

“But –”

“But always with the name of Luchesi. And you know what happens if you say the name Luchesi too often.”

“Yes,” he said. “He appears.”

“And not in the best of moods.”

A waiter walked to the table and deposited another bottle of wine. He slipped the waiter a coin with a nod.

“And all they know is, we dig. And they do not dig channels. They dig wells. They dig pits. They dig graves – some of those are filled in, yes – or they dig cesspits. No big channels. No hole within sight of another. They are not stupid, those planning the dig. One knows the hole one digs. Nothing more. And they feed them the dirt for breakfast.”

The Peter Principle, or I Don’t Care How We Do References As Long As We’re Consistent and As Long As they Work for those Who Have to Read Them.

I could probably tighten up that title.

But It’s not important.

Which is why I don’t want to even apply for the supervisory position where I work.

The supervisor is supposed to care* whether we put the document title before or after the document ID. And about all I could do in the nearly two-hour meeting where this and other matters were discussed was make an occasional point but mostly try not to fall asleep.

Enter the Peter Principle.

I’ve written about this before, but for the uninitiated, the Peter Principle is thus:

“Members of a hierarchy are promoted until they reach the level at which they are no longer competent.”

I’ve been on that level before. And it’s not pleasant. My current job allows me the occasional frisson of competence, so why rock the boat? More money? Sure. But money isn’t everything. Or so I hear, says the guy with a side-gig teaching online English classes. Which kinda takes money out of the equation.

I know this does not computer in some minds. Let us refresh the thought that not all minds think the same, not every person is filled to the brim with sloshing ambition and talent and leave it at that. Besides, you uber-talented and motivated people need people like me to step out of the way and not mind getting bossed around, right?

Thing is, aside from the occasional twinges of anxiety, annoyance, and paranoia (which are going to come with whatever job I might take on) I’m happy where I am and what I’m doing there. Could I learn to be more excited about reference ordering? Probably. It’s not outside my skill set or the realm of possibility. But there are other aspects of the job that add to the unsavoriness. It’s a job that needs doing, so be it. But it doesn’t have to be done by me. There are people with more experience who can take the job. And I’m good with that.

*I should care too. And I do. I’m just not all that hot up about being involved in the process that gets us from speculation on what form the references will take to the finished product. Which is probably why I was so terrible at algebra.

"Some Days You Just Can't Get Rid of A Bomb."

So when I left work Thursday, it was under a growing cloud of concern that my professionalism was being called into question.

There was nothing I could do before I left to ease the concern, so I knew it was going to follow me all weekend long. Why did I know this? Because we Davidsons have a streak of paranoia that LIVES for stuff like this.

So indeed, all weekend long, I’d be trucking along and then KABLAM the paranoia would checking saying, “Hey, remember when you get back to work on Monday you’re gonna have to deal with professionalism, called into question! Have fun with that!”

We Davidsons also don’t like Sunday evenings as a rule because they mean the weekend is over and we have to head back to work so the paranoia really settles in and starts chewing like some hungry caterpillar meaning I can’t focus on any task that’s going to take longer than thirty seconds unless it’s dish-washing, my go-to for consuming nervous energy and thanks be to my children who left a LOT of dirty dishes that needed to be taken care of.



I also listened to Christmas music. Lots of Christmas music minus most of the modern stuff and the stuff that came out of Motown. Because that also sorta calms me down.

So I’m washing dishes and testily yelling at Alexa – I have to have the volume loud so I can hear the music over the clatter of dishes – and none of that is really helping the stress/paranoia fade. Good thing I had a Diet Pepsi so the calming effects of caffeine could kick in as well.

Nevertheless, as I went to bed that night, I said a little prayer, adding in the request that my back would be strengthened to bear the burdens that would be placed up on it.

Then the dogs whined a lot that night. Michelle took one of them out at one point. But then that same dog was concerned/upset I wasn’t getting up at the regular time (nevermind that I was getting up at the regular time for a Monday) so I sneaked in another 20 minutes of sleep on the couch after putting the dogs out.

Then I get to work and the first email I see is from the fella who was calling my professionalism in question. And it was:

Nothing.

Nothing.



Just a few comments on stuff. Stuff he should be commenting on, not the stuff that would have brought my professionalism into question. None of that.

Good thing I didn’t pack that around with me all weekend.

Which leads me to wondering: I’m pretty sure autism, at various points on the spectrum, gallops in my family. As does this paranoia/depression thing. If any Davidson tells you otherwise, we’re probably lying. What can be done about it? Clinically, I’m Schultz on this: I know nothing. I’m being treated for high blood pressure, and that’s about it. The rest? Who needs the doctor bills to discover what’s already obvious and likely?

And will I remember to get the under-sink supply lines and the Drano on the way home from work tonight? I certainly hope so.

To summarize: Me, trying to get rid of those paranoid thoughts:

So, You're A Hack Writer

NOTE: This is another sample argumentative synthesis essay I'm working on for the English classes I teach. Part One. I'm also using it to help jump-start my brain into finishing the novel I'm working on.

So, you’re a hack writer.

Worse yet, a hack writer on the seventeenth – yes, seventeenth – revision of your first novel, the genesis of which you wrote for National Novel Writing Month in, oh, it doesn’t matter. Mid-aughts. And you’ve “won” a few times since then. But nothing’s published.

What matters is you’re stuck.

Or I’m stuck.

Or I suck.

Because you may not be a hack writer, or on your seventeenth revision. But I am. And that’s a problem.

It’s a problem of ego. A friend of mine has published three novels in the time it’s taken me to get to the seventeenth revision. Not that I should be comparing myself to my friends. Because I don’t know how many revisions he made to his books.

It’s a problem of organization. I am, in the parlance of writers, a “pantser,” meaning I do not outline, but write by the seat of my pants. Hence the mess of a novel I’ve got.

It’s a problem of self-doubt. Writer and critic Dorothy Parker was right when she wrote the immortal words: “Four be the things I'd have been better without: Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt” (Parker). Doubt can be crippling for writers new and old, or so I’m learning and so I’ve been told.

“I have gone as high as 18 revisions, did so on Starbird II,” says Robert Schultz, the aforementioned three-noveled friend. “There is nothing wrong with that many revisions. The problem comes from how deep those revisions are. If you’ve been at the novel for ten years, then you’re taking too long to do your revisions and it’s time to accept the fact that your children have flaws, and they’re always going to have flaws” (Schultz).

I have to believe he’s right. He’s published three novels, all science fiction.

Then there’s the advice offered by Lisa Benwitz, a self-employed scopist, which is an editor who also has a flair for looking at a story as a whole and seeing what works and what doesn’t.

“The number of times you edit, in large part, depends upon your particular process,” she says. “There are so many things to look for. Some writers agonize over every word in every sentence; others prefer to go through for style first and then again for substance. So I think the answer to that question is different for everyone. I think, as writers, we also know when we're growing too obsessive about it! However, that being said, 17 times is definitely too many. You're at great risk of turning your book into something entirely different. Sometimes our first instincts turn out to be our best.”

So my problem might be: I need to get off my duff and figure out what the next step is.

Works Cited

Parker, Dorothy, “Inventory,” The Complete Poems of Dorothy Parker, Penguin Classics, April 2010.

Schultz, Robert, personal interview by the author, September 30, 2019.

Benwitz, Lisa, personal interview by the author, October 2, 2019.

Facebook Jail, Folks.

If you're interested:

I used the term "white trash." That's the comment they're worried about.

And the post they're worried about? I gave a screenshot of Facebook's message on my forbidden word and said, "Facebook has trouble with [thoughtcrime deleted]. Who knew?"

Just so you know, Facebook jail feels like this:

Also, it's clear Facebook can't count. My number of sins? Three. The number they tell me about? Two.

Slight ironic update: I'm back on Facebook, such as it is.

They wouldn't let me do anything there for 24 hours but the following:

1. Accidentally "like" an ad.

2. Show me targeted advertising for the company handling my 401k after I visited their website.

Buncha weenies.

You're A Genius. You Know the Atlas.

So writer (and particularly editor) friends: I have a request that is a cipher wrapped in an enigma, smothered in secret sauce.

I’d like answers to the two following questions:

1. How many times is too many times to edit a novel? Explain your answer.
2. What would a writer do to best spend his/her time during the editing process?

My purpose in asking these questions is twofold:

1. I teach a basic English writing course at BYU-Idaho, where we spend about ¾ of the semester on an “argumentative synthesis” paper, which calls for the students to identify a problem, explain why it’s a significant problem, explore solutions, and then propose the best solution. I want to show them that writing about problems they’re facing in their own life will lead to a better paper than writing about the Big Three topics they always want to write about: Gun control, abortion, and overuse of social media (if they happen to have a personal, rather than general, connection to these topics, that’s fine, but most of them just want to write about a Big Problem, and that leads to boring, boring papers.
2. I’m a hack fantasy novelist on his 17th revision to his first novel and would like to get it out of Limboland and into a form presentable for querying. (I’m trying to show my students that I use the argumentative synthesis process to fix problems in my own life, so they’ll want to do the same.)
Because the paper I’m writing requires evidence of research, I would like permission to use your names, titles, etc., as I write this sample paper to show to my students. I may also publish the results on my personal blog which has an audience of mostly relatives, some students, and Chinese bots.

I may contact you for further edification as I work on this paper. You would be under no obligation, however, to read my novel – in other words, I’m not fishing for hours of free work. Just a little bit of free advice mostly to help my students out. I can reciprocate with any number of consultations in my areas of expertise which include MASH and Simpsons quotes and – believe it or not – a lot of writing experience, just not with novels.

I have a ten-year background in newspaper journalism, followed up by more than a decade’s worth of technical writing, so I’m not averse to correction or criticism.

And since I am prone to offering nonsensical answers to serious queries, I fully expect to see a few of them here. That’s all good. I fully expect things like this too:

Dave: I made a small error in judgment.

Mr. James: A small error in judgment... What exactly would that be, Dave? Would that be Matthew's desk, or the dinner with Matthew, or the dinner with Lisa or the second dinner with Lisa?

Dave: Okay, I may have made three or four small errors in judgment.

Mr. James: No, they weren't errors, Dave. They were decisions and that's your job. No, the only error I see is that you're letting your people push you around and make you second-guess your decisions.

Dave: Of course, you're right.

Mr. James: And now you're letting me do it. Want my advice?

Dave: Yes.

Mr. James: Well, I'm not gonna give it to you.

The Phantom Tollbooth, IRL

In Norton Juster’s “The Phantom Tollbooth,” we meet the Terrible Trivium: A demon with a long list of beguiling, trivial tasks meant to keep those doing them from accomplishing something better. He sets Milo to moving an enormous pile of sand using only a pair of tweezers. To the eager Humbug, he gives a needle with the direction to use it to dig a tunnel through a cliff. To the scoffing Tock, he gives an eye dropper, with the instructions to use it to empty a well.

Tock quickly sees the uselessness of their tasks and drags Milo and the Humbug away, with the Terrible Trivium chasing them, hoping to take them back to their useless tasks.



Now, I know useless. How many hours have I spent filing marginally unimportant papers or scrolling through social media when I could be working on Doleful Creatures? Far too many, meaning a social media fast* is in order. I’ve dragged this book out for far too long. Time to finish it.

And there are other people who know uselessness too. Like the folks at Pioneer.

Put simply, Pioneer appears to be a business incubator enveloped inside a game. Many of the tasks the budding entrepreneurs can do to gain points and statue and maybe the attention of those deciding who gets the investment funding to bring their idea into the light, appear useless, even to those striving for the monetary goal.

From the article:

For Anton Samoylov, a software engineer who’s been playing Pioneer since April, this was the most gripping aspect of the tournament. “I went crazy," Samoylov recalls, laughing. "When I see points that I can earn and increase my position on the leaderboard, I can't resist.

“I see I have, like, 1,300 points, and then I see a quest: Submit a one-minute video about yourself and your project and get another 50 points? Obviously, I’m going to do that,” he says. “Sign up for our Discord … channel and get another 25 points? Again, I will do that.”

The contest quickly consumed his life. Samoylov asserts that his obsession with points and standings made him more productive than he thought was possible. His desire to win motivated him to complete difficult tasks and set impressive goals, he says. Before Pioneer, his project—an app, which, like Pioneer, uses gamification tools to help users meet their goals—was little more than an idea. 

Pioneer helped him turn it into a reality. Now, the app is available on the Google Play store and has a few dozen users, he says.

But playing Pioneer has its costs, he says. Samoylov spends an hour or two each Monday ranking other players’ progress updates. He points out that the anticipation of feedback from other players and the pressure to maintain a high score stressed him out to the point where it affected his sleep. “It can be used as a motivation boost, but at the same time it has its costs in terms of stress, in terms of additional time spent … and also in terms of focus lost.”

What he’s experiencing epitomizes what I’m experiencing with my writing. I keep putting it off in favor of less-important tasks (and while some of them are important, like being with my family, keeping up with my teaching, etc., much of what I do is, in fact, trivial and useless. Downtime has its virtues, but they fade when all you have is downtime.

*I’m not going to cut myself off completely but limit myself to fifteen minutes or less a day.