The writer's commitment is a matter of planning, and is unique with each project. Such planning involves answering the following questions: | | How much does the reader know? | | | How much has the writer learned? | | | How much does the reader want to learn? | | | How much does the writer want to tell? |
Each of these questions pushes at the boundaries of the writer's task. I don't know of any method of writing that can turn a half-done, grudgingly written draft into a satisfying product. Readers immediately sense a tone of resistance, a lack of structure, a failure to explain or illustrate. Writing without commitment is the writer's curse. You have to find some way of making every topic unleash your energy and conviction. Otherwise, the process will be remorselessly painful, for both writer and reader. In our scenario, then, I am writing for the dean of my college, a man for whom I have some respect, who is both creative and timid to the same degree as most of us. We are friendly, but not close; we know almost nothing about each other personally. I'm not sure how he feels about a competency exam, and I don't want to alienate him unnecessarily. Yet he has asked for my opinion as a teacher of writing, and I do have to respond. My own attitude prevents me from cranking out meaningless writing simply to get the job done. Even if I have reservations, I know from experience that if my initial goal is to figure out what I think about this issue, I will learn something. If I can manage the writing process so that I approximate in words what I think and feel, then I will strengthen my writing skills as well. Beyond that, if I can get the reader engaged in my words, I will be especially pleased. It may well be that however committed I am to the subject, my reader will disagree and take an action I oppose; no one ever claimed that if you write well everyone will agree with you. But a writer can learn, and then tell readers what he or she has learned.
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