So, a friend of mine linked to a blog post on Facebook (written by someone else, whom I have at least met several times). I read the blog post and pointed out that even though I thought the author made some good points, I had to find some of them amid the grammar and syntax errors in his writing. Another commenter said that the post was written for "family and friends" and that, in effect, my plea for at least reading over one's work before publishing it was setting too high a standard. I responded in turn that anything written on the web was being written for public consumption (for example, having someone link to a blog post instantly exposes it to many, perhaps hundreds, of people). Why not apply the same standards as for any other form of public writing?
This prompted the commenter to send me an email, stating he had deleted the comments. What would happen if the blogger had read what I wrote? And if I was so concerned about unedited blogs, I should offer to edit them for free.
Well, guess what: I do edit blog posts for free, when asked. I do it for several reasons. Firstly, because generally, I think the writers have something valid to say, and I don't mind helping make their arguments clearer. Secondly, just call it my public service - making better writing makes a better web. (I don't do much volunteer work. I teach budo, but one of my main reasons is selfish - I need people to practice with, and many points of my own practice become clearer when I have to teach them to someone else. I admit there's some ego satisfaction in it too. But then again, my students are getting the benefit of my experience. So it's a win-win all around.)
I have always voluntarily edited stuff for people when I have been asked - for years. I edited articles back when there were paper journals, I have also made writing suggestions for some authors whose stuff I thought was weak (not surprisingly, not everyone agreed with my assessment, but that was their privilege). Having been through the crucible of academic criticism (and trust me, some people simply enjoy being mean), I am always polite. I am never mean, though I can be plain-spoken, as it were.
Sadly, paper journals are all but gone, and the ones that still exist tend to be written for an exclusive audience. What we do have is tons of blogs on every imaginable topic. And while the volume of writing has increased, the quality has declined, to put it nicely.
Taking up the challenge of my interlocutor from Facebook, however, since I really don't have time to edit the world's blogs (and I am not the type to put out comments like, "I love your stuff, but your writing sucks, let me help you!"), I can put out some tips for bloggers.
1. Since blog posts are generally short, you probably don't need an outline; however, you should carefully consider your topic. The most effective blog posts have very bounded topics. Pick a subject you can write five coherent paragraphs on, and stick to it. Save your other brilliant ideas for another post.
2. Martial your arguments in short sentences. I am the queen of run-ons - endless sentences that jump from one subtopic to the next. Break those suckers into individual paragraphs. It makes your argument clearer and more precise.
3. Do what lots of authors of note suggest - read good writing. In the case of blogging, read good blogs - the NY Times has a slew of them; I particularly like their Disunion series about the American Civil War, in part because there are so many contributors and, correspondingly, different writing styles. But if you think the Times is too liberal, or whatever, read something else, as long as it's good. There are probably well-written blogs on subjects that interest you. Find them, and read them.
4. Run the spell check. Please.
5. Learn the difference between "there", "their" and "they're." And while we're at it, develop the habit of pronoun agreement - "A person" is "he/she" (or "her/him"), NOT "they." (Can you tell this one drives me nuts? Here's an example: "When a person tells me they are a published writer, I have a hard time believing them.") I understand that some people feel it's un-PC to use the universal pronoun "he," so if you don't want to use "/", alternate pronouns. That's what I do. No one has complained yet; at least, not about that.
5. Read over your work. In the old days, people actually used to rewrite letters, even to friends and relatives. In the age of the pencil, people used the eraser. If you don't feel you can competently read your own work, send it to a friend in draft form. You don't have to agree with him/her, but if the friend, who knows you, can't follow your argument, it might be time for a rethink.
6. Don't post and forget it. I often read over my posts days, weeks or months later. If I find so much as a typo, I fix it. I rewrite parts that I suddenly realize are unclear. I am shocked - shocked - sometimes, at my incoherence. So I fix it. Or I delete it.
7. If you borrow anything from another writer or publication, cite it, cite it, CITE IT. I recently read someone's blog post in which he copyrighted his piece, but the post contained photos taken in the 1960's. In Japan. I was fairly certain he was not in Japan in the '60's, and that he had not taken the photos. Moreover, I would have liked to have known who took them. When I remarked to the person who put up the link that I didn't think it was appropriate for the blogger to copyright someone else's photos, the response was that it was probably a "blanket" copyright notice for the blog and the writer did not "mean" to copyright someone else's photos. Nevertheless, I never did find out who took the photos. Please don't do this. I am a fair use advocate, but there's a limit. This does not have to be a big, Chicago Manual-style deal. The NYT Disunion blog lists sources at the ends of the individual posts. It's not just polite, it's useful: if I want to know something further about a blog post, I can look up some of the sources and further pursue the topic.
8. Keep at it. Write about what you love, even if you are not the next Hemingway. Some of my pieces are definitely stronger than others. The only way to write better is to keep writing.
If you follow the above 8 steps, I may not agree with what you have to say, but I will deeply appreciate the way you have said it.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Friday, April 4, 2014
Putting the Buddha in Budo
Spring has finally come to the Northeast after a very bad winter. Next week is the traditional date for Buddha's birthday (April 8), so I find myself reflecting on a few stories that I think are helpful for budo practice. Here's one:
The Buddha was meditating by the side of a lake (or a stream; I forget which). At one point in his meditation, he reached into the water, and pulled out his reflection. The reflection, as it is pulled out, takes on physical form and they stare at each other. Many years ago, when I first started training, one of the sempai warned me that some time in the first six months of practice I would be faced with a dilemma that would make me want to quit. He said it always seemed to happen - people who lasted through the first six months were likely to last much longer, but most people would quit short of six months. He could not say what might happen to make me rethink my decision to start training, he just knew it would happen. And he was right. Something did happen which made me rethink my decision, and I decided to stay on. Now, 28 years later, I am happy with my decision, though there have been times when I have doubted it.
Since then, I have seen many students come to the same point. I remember one in particular, an actor and fight choreographer, who was quite talented. For about the first four months he was enthusiastic and advanced very well. But after that, I could sense his unease. I talked with him about it. Since he was an actor and "movement person," he was able to acutely observe what everyone was doing during practice. He was especially good at being able to observe the quality of his own movement. He knew, probably better than anyone else I ever trained, the difference between what he was observing of the senior students, and what he himself was doing. Somehow he felt he was never going to get past whatever limitations he could see in himself, and he found it very frustrating. In spite of my offered encouragement, he eventually decided he did not have enough time to devote to what he felt he needed in order to perfect his technique, and moved on. (Many years later, he invited me to a production of a Shakespeare play he had directed and choreographed. I was really pleased, not just to see him, but to see some very theatrically satisfying fight choreography. Even though it was not "budo" in the literal sense, he had made the best of what he had learned, and he was proud to show it to me.)
The thing about the Buddha gazing at his own reflection to the point where it was real enough to pull out of the water, I think, is this: not many people want to really look at themselves. We glimpse reflections of ourselves in shop windows, bathroom mirrors, fitting rooms. In the case of any kind of movement practice, we often use the studio mirrors - is my posture correct, are those annoying habits sensei pointed out starting to disappear? But we don't often really look. Being able to truly look at how I truly am - a middle aged person who could stand to lose some weight, who has made some good choices, and more dubious ones, who sometimes chooses to let the elevator door close rather than hold it open for someone else (as one example) - well, you get the idea.
Some people never look, of course. Or if they see limitations, they have excuses - I'm too busy, my spouse doesn't want me to pursue this, my kids need to be shuttled around, my parents need financial help - or they blame other people - family members, bosses - for their inadequacies. As my teacher used to say, "If you want to do [something], you will do it. You will find a way."
It's not comfortable to look at oneself. Very often the picture is not that pretty, but I would be wrong, as well, to see only the limitations and faults. In a way, that's as false as not seeing anything wrong. Sensei used to say that in addition to examining oneself, one had to forgive oneself for making stupid mistakes, and forgive others for whatever slights (or downright evil) they might have done. One time, at a prayer service, the priest chanted a prayer that wished everyone to be "well, peaceful, and happy." After going through the list of family, friends, and others I might have expected (including countrymen in general, as well as political leaders), the prayer became more challenging. Towards the end, the priest included the words, "may my enemies be well, peaceful and happy." Especially at that time, I had a hell of a time accepting that part of the prayer. But I didn't forget it. Certainly, I have friends who can make a cosmic argument in favor of forgiveness, but the fact is that it's the only way to heal oneself; and it's a tall order. Like many people, I enjoy a good wallow in self-pity; but it's no way to live.
We constantly hear the mantra of "self-improvement" as a goal of budo practice. As I have said before, there are many paths up the mountain to self-improvement. But in budo, like everything else, realizing both gifts and limitations is the first step to attaining the freedom to improve.
The Buddha was meditating by the side of a lake (or a stream; I forget which). At one point in his meditation, he reached into the water, and pulled out his reflection. The reflection, as it is pulled out, takes on physical form and they stare at each other. Many years ago, when I first started training, one of the sempai warned me that some time in the first six months of practice I would be faced with a dilemma that would make me want to quit. He said it always seemed to happen - people who lasted through the first six months were likely to last much longer, but most people would quit short of six months. He could not say what might happen to make me rethink my decision to start training, he just knew it would happen. And he was right. Something did happen which made me rethink my decision, and I decided to stay on. Now, 28 years later, I am happy with my decision, though there have been times when I have doubted it.
Since then, I have seen many students come to the same point. I remember one in particular, an actor and fight choreographer, who was quite talented. For about the first four months he was enthusiastic and advanced very well. But after that, I could sense his unease. I talked with him about it. Since he was an actor and "movement person," he was able to acutely observe what everyone was doing during practice. He was especially good at being able to observe the quality of his own movement. He knew, probably better than anyone else I ever trained, the difference between what he was observing of the senior students, and what he himself was doing. Somehow he felt he was never going to get past whatever limitations he could see in himself, and he found it very frustrating. In spite of my offered encouragement, he eventually decided he did not have enough time to devote to what he felt he needed in order to perfect his technique, and moved on. (Many years later, he invited me to a production of a Shakespeare play he had directed and choreographed. I was really pleased, not just to see him, but to see some very theatrically satisfying fight choreography. Even though it was not "budo" in the literal sense, he had made the best of what he had learned, and he was proud to show it to me.)
The thing about the Buddha gazing at his own reflection to the point where it was real enough to pull out of the water, I think, is this: not many people want to really look at themselves. We glimpse reflections of ourselves in shop windows, bathroom mirrors, fitting rooms. In the case of any kind of movement practice, we often use the studio mirrors - is my posture correct, are those annoying habits sensei pointed out starting to disappear? But we don't often really look. Being able to truly look at how I truly am - a middle aged person who could stand to lose some weight, who has made some good choices, and more dubious ones, who sometimes chooses to let the elevator door close rather than hold it open for someone else (as one example) - well, you get the idea.
Some people never look, of course. Or if they see limitations, they have excuses - I'm too busy, my spouse doesn't want me to pursue this, my kids need to be shuttled around, my parents need financial help - or they blame other people - family members, bosses - for their inadequacies. As my teacher used to say, "If you want to do [something], you will do it. You will find a way."
It's not comfortable to look at oneself. Very often the picture is not that pretty, but I would be wrong, as well, to see only the limitations and faults. In a way, that's as false as not seeing anything wrong. Sensei used to say that in addition to examining oneself, one had to forgive oneself for making stupid mistakes, and forgive others for whatever slights (or downright evil) they might have done. One time, at a prayer service, the priest chanted a prayer that wished everyone to be "well, peaceful, and happy." After going through the list of family, friends, and others I might have expected (including countrymen in general, as well as political leaders), the prayer became more challenging. Towards the end, the priest included the words, "may my enemies be well, peaceful and happy." Especially at that time, I had a hell of a time accepting that part of the prayer. But I didn't forget it. Certainly, I have friends who can make a cosmic argument in favor of forgiveness, but the fact is that it's the only way to heal oneself; and it's a tall order. Like many people, I enjoy a good wallow in self-pity; but it's no way to live.
We constantly hear the mantra of "self-improvement" as a goal of budo practice. As I have said before, there are many paths up the mountain to self-improvement. But in budo, like everything else, realizing both gifts and limitations is the first step to attaining the freedom to improve.
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