Why Zinsser's 'On Writing Well' Still Persists

And why you should probably skim it instead of devouring it.

This is my copy. There have been many more editions since, but I don’t know why.

I came to what I call professional writing fairly late.  I didn’t take it seriously until my real life eased enough for me to give some attention to what I might want to do with the rest of my days.

After dabbling in every artistic expression of my day—needlework, crochet, macramé, pottery, ceramics, drawing in charcoal and pastels, painting in oils, acrylics, and watercolor—none of which I was particularly good at, I finally realized that my early love, writing, was the creative outlet I had been looking for all along.

I joined a local writing group and there I found William Zinsser, their anointed guru.  They couldn’t stop talking about his book, On Writing Well.  It was their bible and I, more interested in hamper-free, no-rules writing, was having none of it.  I didn’t want to be told how to write, I wanted to be told I wrote well, even when I didn’t.  That was the whole point of joining a writing group.  Or so I thought at the time.

Zinsser, when I finally opened up to him, taught me otherwise.  The lesson throughout is that good writing takes skill.  There is no easy way to acquire it, and the sooner the novice realizes it the easier it is to look at the beginnings as school—lessons, grades, apprenticeships.  And then you go to work, where you find that you don’t know everything after all, and that, as in every other profession, the learning never stops.

I’m still a dummy when it comes to grammar and sentence structure.  I’m always imagining the “Oh, God, no” reactions from the more knowledgeable people who take on the task of reading what I write. But William Zinsser gave me the reasons to write. Yes, he was a stickler for grammar and sentence structure, but his main focus was not so much on doing it right as on doing it well.

I’ve pulled out a few passages from On Writing Well (the Fifth Edition, the one I have on hand) that might inspire you or at least give us something to talk about when you’ve finished reading this:

• Trust your material if it’s taking you into unknown terrain you didn’t intend to enter but the vibrations are good.  Adjust your style and your mood accordingly and proceed to whatever destination you reach.  Don’t ever become the prisoner of a preconceived plan.  Writing is no respecter of blueprints–it’s too subjective a process, too full of surprises.

• Writing is hard work.  A clear sentence is no accident.  Very few sentences come out right the first time, or even the third time.  Remember this in moments of despair.  If you find that writing is hard, it’s because it is hard.  It’s one of the hardest things people do.

• The good writer of prose must be part poet, always listening to what he writes.  E.B White continues to be my favorite stylist because I’m conscious of being with a man who cares about the cadences and sonorities of the language.  I relish (in my ear) the pattern his words make as they fall into a sentence.  I try to surmise how in rewriting the sentence he reassembled it to the end with a phrase that will momentarily linger, or how he chose one word over another because he was after a certain emotional weight.  It’s the difference between say, “serene” and “tranquil”–one so soft, the other strangely disturbing because of the unusual n and q.

• Writing is not a contest.  Every writer is starting from a different point and is bound for a different destination. Yet many writers are paralyzed by the thought that they are competing with everyone else who is trying to write and presumably doing it better.

• (And possibly Zinsser’s most famous line:) Decide what you want to do.  Then decide to do it.  Then do it.

Most of it is good if not obvious advice now, considering how long ago it was written and how many other books on writing have been published since. It’s no-nonsense tips with many examples, but it’s surprisingly stilted writing, going against much of what Zinsser himself suggests. He likes breezy writing, for example, but admits he’s not good at it. Then, in the next paragraph, he advises against getting too frisky with the breeze.

He likes short sentences and short paragraphs, but warns us that too many short sentences in a row will drive a reader crazy. (I needed that.)

He’s a fan of imitation but only as a guide, of course. Read your favorite writers on the topics you’re choosing, but read them for their style, their cadence, their ability to tell a story in a way that lets us know it’s them. Mimic, don’t copy! (But we already knew that.)

And speaking of copying, there are still some teachers who advocate typing out full chapters of someone else’s work, with the idea that somehow you’ll retain their ease and style if you do it long enough. You won’t. You’ll only frustrate yourself when you move away from typing someone else’s sentences to trying it on your own. You will have learned nothing except that it doesn’t work.

So with all that, On Writing Well is still a worthwhile book. Its popularity is justified, but it’s not the be-all, end-all. As with any book of inspiration and rules, not everything will apply or even interest you. Don’t try to digest it all at once. You’ll feel overwhelmed and undereducated and maybe even sorry you ever thought you wanted to read it in the first place. Just take what feels right to you and work with it.

But the early chapters on simplicity, clutter, and style are well worth the time you’ll spend reading them. And at some point in this Fifth Edition, revised in 1994, he even gives a slightly stiff nod to sexism!

Which books on writing work best for you? You’ll find mine here. Let’s share!

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