A perfect bookshelf showpiece, On Writing Well starts off sounding superficial. The first thirty pages burglarize boredom, as if we needed a Cibachrome of the crime scene. A tiresome William Zinsser drones on about sleep, his “most potent of competitors.” An aside on shampoo and shaving slips in shortly after a condemnation of clutter. Diatribes turn luxuriant for Zinsser as he soaks in puddles of self-made blasphemy. Asking odd questions, his over-pondered mind pumps out decades of sewage: Is boredom the paradoxic result of reading? Is writing actually fun?
Reading lamp aglow, Moleskine and Montblanc posed cautiously nearby, even your desk notices this book. But honestly, this book should impress your friends, because Zinsser strips the writing process naked, from the lead on down. On Writing Well takes the art of page turning and elevates it, by example, with examples. Chapters seven onward read superbly. “It would probably be pushing my luck to describe a man who compulsively visits circus sideshows as a freak freak.” Such outstanding observations titillate your eyeballs for hours.
Chapter eleven suggests that World War II drew readers to nonfiction with facts. “People who saw reality every evening in their living room (on TV) lost patience with the slower rhythms and glancing allusions of the novelist.” On Writing Well, now in its sixth edition, barely hides its decades of stretch marks. The book huffs to keep up. Meanwhile, technology and language charge on. The IBM PC is over 25 years old. Zinsser is still raving about word processing. Yes, this book is timeless, but it’s already on life-support.
Zinsser wrote the book on writing. In his kingdom of words he hates clichés, the “kiss of death.” He thinks like Picasso who supposedly said: “If you like it, paint over it.” The familiar lacks freshness. “Freshness is crucial.” Cliché comes easily. The “voice of a hack” blissfully uses “the same old chestnuts.” These “familiar friends” are “the enemy of taste.” Now we know why he said writing is hard. Distrusting drafts, “endlessly rewriting what I had endlessly rewritten,” Zinsser doesn’t seem to mind. His perfectionist shellac tycoon father gave him this ethic.
So, this book doesn’t save you much time. But, the chapter on “Unity” might save you some stress. “Every writing project must be reduced before you start to write.” Even the longest nonfiction merely approximates the truth, so relax. Bill talks about enjoyment too. He reasons that a reader will feel good when the writer feels good, or at least pretends. Some final advice: Write for yourself. “Final product” tunnel vision makes writing a chore, unnecessarily. Writing can satisfy. On Writing Well proves it.