The Art Of Nonfiction: A Guide For Writers And Readers Part 7

Having examined the three basic requirements of a book review, I next want to mention two errors that reviewers often make.

The first error is to tell the author how he should have written his book. Never Never do this. You can offer criticisms without telling the author what he should have done. This error takes the form: "If the author had done so and so," or even: "The author should have done so and so." That is no longer a report or evaluation, but the att.i.tude of a bad editor. (A good editor never tells an author how to rewrite a book; he merely indicates the flaws he finds.) It is permissible to say, for example, "The author has stated such and such, but he has not touched on these aspects." That is not the same as saying "The author should have included these aspects." do this. You can offer criticisms without telling the author what he should have done. This error takes the form: "If the author had done so and so," or even: "The author should have done so and so." That is no longer a report or evaluation, but the att.i.tude of a bad editor. (A good editor never tells an author how to rewrite a book; he merely indicates the flaws he finds.) It is permissible to say, for example, "The author has stated such and such, but he has not touched on these aspects." That is not the same as saying "The author should have included these aspects."

This is not merely a semantic issue. The impropriety is not only the form you use, but your intention. Telling an author what he should have done is so inappropriate that any writer should resent it. I resent it every time I encounter it, even if the book is bad, because it is presumptuous and patronizing. A reviewer's job is to report on a book and evaluate it, not to set himself up as a collaborator and to tell the author or the public how a given book should have been written. He cannot hold as the author's fault the fact that the author has a different philosophical outlook, even if it is wrong. A reviewer must inform the reader about the author's viewpoint, not subst.i.tute his own. Moreover, to say what a marvelous book you would have written is entirely inappropriate; and a reader's immediate reaction is: "Why didn't you write it?" Therefore, avoid telling the author what he should have done. (If you write, "The author claims it is appropriate for the government to interfere; I, however, disagree," you are not implying the author should have rewritten the line. For you are not saying the author should have accepted your views, or even known of them.) This leads me to the second error: the failure to keep a strict line between what the author says and what the reviewer says. This problem enters into every review, because you should not entirely isolate the description from the evaluation; you must make parenthetical value judgments as you proceed. The best way to avoid the error is by explicit statement. You say, in effect, "This is the author's viewpoint ; and now this is me, the reviewer, talking."

When you are synopsizing the author, you need not constantly remind the reader that you are doing so. But at occasional intervals, when you want to stress that this is something you have gathered from the book, write: "as the author states" or the like. And after every aside in which you have expressed an opinion, indicate your return to the presentation of the author's views.

In a negative review, you have to tell the reader why the book is bad and what kinds of errors the author commits (e.g., he suppresses or distorts facts, or he draws the wrong conclusions from them). But there too, be sure to keep your views separate from the narrative material. First, present the essentials of the book, and of the author's viewpoint, as clearly and fairly as possible. Then say, for example, "I think this is a bad book because the author distorts the evidence on such and such facts," and cite the proof of his misrepresentations. Then say, "From these facts he draws the following conclusion, and here is what is wrong with it." But at no time should your motive be to show the stupid author how much cleverer you are than he (which is not much of an achievement if the book is that bad). A review is not a contest between you and the author.

Your own philosophy should not be your primary focus. For instance, you write: "The author distorts facts A, B, and C, and he draws the collectivist conclusion X, which is wrong. Free enterprise did not lead to the evils he a.s.serts; the cause was Y." Here, your own pro-capitalist viewpoint is implied. You can even, when appropriate, state it openly. But always remember that it is not your purpose to use a book to propagandize for capitalism or whatever your views might be. If the a.s.signment is to report on a given book, that is what you should do. If the magazine did not hire you to write a hymn to capitalism, do not write one. (If that was what the editors wanted, they would have asked you for an article, not a review.) Never use a bad book for some improper or irrelevant purpose, just because your your purpose is "good." The end does not justify the means. This is what left-wing reviewers try to do. They may even know they are being dishonest and slanting their reviews, but they argue: "The author is for capitalism, therefore he is evil; I am doing this for collectivism, therefore I am good and my distortions are justified." That is the psychology of leftist reviewers, and you must not accept any part of it. purpose is "good." The end does not justify the means. This is what left-wing reviewers try to do. They may even know they are being dishonest and slanting their reviews, but they argue: "The author is for capitalism, therefore he is evil; I am doing this for collectivism, therefore I am good and my distortions are justified." That is the psychology of leftist reviewers, and you must not accept any part of it.

Unfortunately, the opportunity to review good fiction will rarely come up. I wish there were more fiction books to plug, but there are not. There may be in the future, however, so you should know how to handle such a happy contingency.

The three main elements to cover in nonfiction reviewing-the nature of the book, its value, and its flaws-apply also to fiction reviewing, but with certain variations.

In regard to the first point, when you review fiction, indicate the nature and progression of the story, but not its climax or resolution. This is not an absolute. Sometimes the climax illuminates the whole book, so you need to discuss it. But usually it is better to build up the suspense and then, in effect, tell the reader, "If you want to know how it turns out, read the book." If your review is positive, it serves as a "movie trailer" for the book. A movie trailer selects what will arouse the viewer's interest, and presents him with a brief montage of the film. The same principle applies to a positive review of fiction. Indicate what the story is about and some of its progression, but do not give away everything. Make the reader interested enough to read the book.

In mystery reviews it is an unwritten law that a reviewer must never give away the solution. In a certain sense, this applies to any serious work of fiction. If you give the reader an exact summary of the book, you destroy the suspense, particularly if it is a book with a good plot.

Always indicate the four main elements of a novel: plot, theme, characterization, and style.46 But do not present them one at a time, like a cla.s.sroom a.n.a.lysis. Skillfully integrate all' of them. For example, when you present a paragraph about interesting events that start the plot, at the same time indicate what kind of characters enact it. This is not always possible, but it should be your goal. But do not present them one at a time, like a cla.s.sroom a.n.a.lysis. Skillfully integrate all' of them. For example, when you present a paragraph about interesting events that start the plot, at the same time indicate what kind of characters enact it. This is not always possible, but it should be your goal.

In regard to the second and third points of book reviewing, concerning evaluation, do not read fiction as if it were merely the means to an ideological end. It will be a long time before anyone attempts what I did in Atlas Atlas Shrugged, Shrugged, where reviewers would be semi-justified in thinking the fiction is merely a springboard for presenting a philosophy. That is not the way Atlas was written, but it is a very philosophical book. Therefore, if a reviewer decided that this is primarily a philosophical treatise with the fiction as an excuse, I could not blame him much objectively-though I would hate him personally, because it is not true. While most fiction is not as philosophical, any serious work will have where reviewers would be semi-justified in thinking the fiction is merely a springboard for presenting a philosophy. That is not the way Atlas was written, but it is a very philosophical book. Therefore, if a reviewer decided that this is primarily a philosophical treatise with the fiction as an excuse, I could not blame him much objectively-though I would hate him personally, because it is not true. While most fiction is not as philosophical, any serious work will have some some philosophical meaning. philosophical meaning.

But if you stress that a book is wonderful ideologically, you commit a first-cla.s.s offense against the author as a fiction writer. You invert the proper hierarchy of values when you review fiction exclusively or predominantly from the viewpoint of its philosophical value. That it has some valuable ideas must be treated as pure gravy. So review fiction primarily as literature.

The main requirement for a review of fiction pertains to drama and color. If you want to recommend the book, your review must be dramatic and colorful enough to communicate to the reader some of the literary quality of the book, though in smaller scale. This is a matter of careful integration. In this regard, quotations are helpful if they are succinct and representative. They can indicate the drama, color, and style of the author.

Do not praise a book if only a few lines are good. At The Objectivist, The Objectivist, a reader once sent me a children's book, recommending that I review it. She quoted a couple of lines to indicate why she thought it was wonderful. It was a poem about dinosaurs, and the gist of what she quoted was that dinosaurs perished because they did not use their brains. But the book was dreadful. It concentrated mainly on which animals were eating which, and it presented a terrible jungle atmosphere, which is certainly not for six-year-olds (the book's intended audience). It actually said nothing about the importance of the brain. The mistake this reader made was taking the few lines about the dinosaur's brain as the meaning of the whole book. a reader once sent me a children's book, recommending that I review it. She quoted a couple of lines to indicate why she thought it was wonderful. It was a poem about dinosaurs, and the gist of what she quoted was that dinosaurs perished because they did not use their brains. But the book was dreadful. It concentrated mainly on which animals were eating which, and it presented a terrible jungle atmosphere, which is certainly not for six-year-olds (the book's intended audience). It actually said nothing about the importance of the brain. The mistake this reader made was taking the few lines about the dinosaur's brain as the meaning of the whole book.

Many people are so glad these days to see one sensible touch that, dropping the context, they forget the rest and decide a book is good. But you should do the opposite: you must be most severe precisely when you think a book contains something valuable. It is fine to enjoy good pa.s.sages apart from the total context. Nevertheless, in judging an entire book, you must remain objective.

Similarly, with respect to the indication of flaws, do not exaggerate exaggerate some touch that you dislike into the meaning of the whole. Do not condemn a book simply because some lines may be wrong. some touch that you dislike into the meaning of the whole. Do not condemn a book simply because some lines may be wrong.

Never overpraise or overcriticize a book. In reviewing both fiction and nonfiction, but especially fiction, you need to preserve a clear view of the total in order to p.r.o.nounce judgment. You need the full context of the book to judge fairly and objectively its virtues and its flaws (if any), and whether the virtues are more significant than the flaws. Always ask yourself whether you covered all the essentials of the book, or merely took an incomplete view and thus misrepresented it.

Turning now to writing introductions to books, the main rule is to take the word "introduction" seriously. Not all books need introductions; but if you write one, you must convey information to the reader which is relevant to a book, but is not part of it. This applies to writing an introduction to somebody else's work-whether to a cla.s.sic or the work of an unknown author-or to a work of your own.

When the book is your own, the one fairly absolute rule is that the introduction must contain material which is not appropriate to the book itself, but which the reader needs to know-for example, acknowledgments.

I wrote introductions to all my collections of essays.47 Since they are collections and not written in book form, introductions were necessary. There were two things I had to provide in these introductions: technical explanations, e.g., where the articles came from, or (where applicable) who the other contributors are; and an indication of the intellectual content. I made general remarks about the essays, which served as an integration of the total-an indication to the reader of what the book is about. Since they are collections and not written in book form, introductions were necessary. There were two things I had to provide in these introductions: technical explanations, e.g., where the articles came from, or (where applicable) who the other contributors are; and an indication of the intellectual content. I made general remarks about the essays, which served as an integration of the total-an indication to the reader of what the book is about.

Your approach must be somewhat different if you are asked to write an introduction to somebody else's book. If it is a living author, you do what you would for a book of your own, i.e., include some general remarks about the subject of the book. But here you have more freedom than you would in an introduction to your own book, because the purpose is to state what the author cannot appropriately say himself, namely, why the book is important. This is why an introduction to the work of a living author is written by someone better known professionally than the author. It carries the judgment and prestige of that person, who tells the reader why he should read this book by an unknown author.48 If you write an introduction to a cla.s.sic (e.g., my introduction to Victor Hugo's Ninety-Three Ninety-Three49), here too you must present a generalized, integrating statement about the nature and importance of the book. Only your position is reversed: instead of relying on the prestige of your name, you must be sure not to push yourself forward too much. Your job is not to do a favor to the cla.s.sic-it has already succeeded on its own. It is usually advisable, but not mandatory, to include something about the history of the book which may be of interest to a modem reader. But above all, the purpose is to tie the nature and theme of the cla.s.sic to contemporary culture-to tell a contemporary reader why the book is important to him.

Do not feature yourself when you write an introduction to a cla.s.sic. This issue never would have occurred to me if not for the fact that modem introductions do just that. There are all kinds of miserable little pipsqueaks who write introductions to cla.s.sics in a patronizing manner, without saying anything about the book. The introduction serves only as an opportunity to show off the writer's own supposed erudition. A contemptible instance of this is Edward Albee's introduction to three plays by Noel Coward.50 (Coward was living at the time, but was already a cla.s.sic.) Albee patronizingly says, in effect, that although there is some value in Coward's plays, he does not know his job as well as Albee does. Now, if Albee wrote for two centuries, he would not be able to come near the worst play of Noel Coward's. But it is Albee's approach that I want you to notice and avoid. (Coward was living at the time, but was already a cla.s.sic.) Albee patronizingly says, in effect, that although there is some value in Coward's plays, he does not know his job as well as Albee does. Now, if Albee wrote for two centuries, he would not be able to come near the worst play of Noel Coward's. But it is Albee's approach that I want you to notice and avoid.

Of course, as in the case of book reviews, when you write an introduction, you have to indicate what aspects of the book you disagree with, if any. Otherwise there is an implicit sanction, which would be improper with respect to your own views. Mention as clearly, briefly, and politely as possible what you disagree with or consider a flaw, but do not start a polemic with the author, and do not tell him how he should have written his book-particularly if he is not around to answer you.

If you disagree with an author more than you agree, do not write the introduction. But if the disagreement is minor, or you agree with more aspects of the book than you disagree, then you mention any disagreements un.o.btrusively, toward the end. Do not make them the major focus of your introduction.

Remember that "the book's the thing." An introduction is supposed to be a service to the reader and to the book. It cannot be an end in itself. So be sure your views are always relevant to and justified by the content of the book. If they are, it is appropriate to express them; do not be inhibited or humble. But it is inappropriate to use an introduction as an occasion to air views which have nothing to do with the book's content.

10

Writing a Book

A detailed account of how to write a book would itself take a book. Here, I will discuss only how to apply certain principles of article-writing to a book. detailed account of how to write a book would itself take a book. Here, I will discuss only how to apply certain principles of article-writing to a book.

The basic principles of the two are the same. The only significant difference is scale scale. A beginning writer may not know how to apply what he has learned about writing an article to a whole book. So he must step back, abstract, and discover the equivalents. What in an article is a section or sequence, in a book may be a chapter or more; what is a paragraph in an article may be a sequence or even a chapter in a book.

There are no rules about a book's length. It can range from a monograph to a work of several volumes. Nor are there rules about how to divide a book into various parts, chapters, or sequences. All of this is determined by the nature of the subject. But in general, the purpose of subdividing a book is to aid the reader in absorbing the content, and to achieve clarity of presentation. The need for divisions is based on the fact that a mind cannot absorb everything at once (i.e., the "crow epistemology"). By breaking your material into segments, you direct the order in which the reader's mind will absorb it.

The same subject can be treated in an article, a book, or a set of books. The difference will be the level of abstraction, i.e., the degree of specificity. For example, I have often presented Objectivism in five minutes,51 but that is not the same as the presentation in but that is not the same as the presentation in Atlas Shrugged. Atlas Shrugged. I do not present a different philosophy; if one followed all the implications of my brief presentation, one would arrive at I do not present a different philosophy; if one followed all the implications of my brief presentation, one would arrive at Atlas Atlas (though it would take years). Any subject can be communicated very abstractly or in minute detail, and the length of a work depends on the level one chooses. (though it would take years). Any subject can be communicated very abstractly or in minute detail, and the length of a work depends on the level one chooses.

In an article, it is difficult to communicate ideas very abstractly. The higher the level of abstraction at which you write, the wider the concepts you deal with. Therefore, the difficulty in presenting something briefly-which you must do in an article-is to state your abstractions in a form clear enough to differentiate your viewpoint from any other. There is always the risk of presenting floating abstractions. (This is one reason I am concerned whenever someone, particularly a non-Objectivist, synopsizes Objectivism.) For instance, if you said Objectivism is a philosophy that stands for the good, that would be worse than a floating abstraction-it is floating smoke-because every philosophy claims this. In a certain certain sense it is true of Objectivism-only it is so generalized that it could apply to anything, and therefore is worthless as an abstraction. sense it is true of Objectivism-only it is so generalized that it could apply to anything, and therefore is worthless as an abstraction.

In regard to a book, however, the danger is the tendency to expand your presentation into an encyclopedia. I said [in chapter 2] that you must delimit your subject when you write an article, despite the temptation to digress. That danger is much greater in a book. Since a book permits more detailed statements of a subject than does an article, a beginner might get the idea that he has the s.p.a.ce to say anything-which quickly becomes everything. This kind of expansion is particularly problematic when your theme is broad; the broader your theme, the greater the temptation to include increasingly more subdivisions. The fact that a book does permit a certain lat.i.tude-the fact that it is like a complex orchestration with a central theme, the development of which permits a great many sub-themes-can make your book spread into total shapelessness.

Therefore, as important as an outline is for an article, it is a hundred times more important for a book. No book-fictionor nonfiction-can be written properly without an outline. There are fiction writers who claim to write inspirationally, without an outline, and it shows in their books, which are plotless and shapeless. But I know of no nonfiction nonfiction writer who claims he can write a book that way. This is an absolute: a nonfiction book cannot be written inspirationally, because it is supposed to deal with ideas. It does not even have the excuse-which is only an excuse-that someone might offer for fiction, namely, that it deals with emotions. A nonfiction book is primarily educational; it conveys information. You cannot throw ideas at the reader and hope he will untangle them. writer who claims he can write a book that way. This is an absolute: a nonfiction book cannot be written inspirationally, because it is supposed to deal with ideas. It does not even have the excuse-which is only an excuse-that someone might offer for fiction, namely, that it deals with emotions. A nonfiction book is primarily educational; it conveys information. You cannot throw ideas at the reader and hope he will untangle them. You You must present must present them them so that the progression is logical and clear. so that the progression is logical and clear.

When you create an outline for a book, first make a general one indicating which parts of your argument will go into each chapter, and in what order. Then, as you come to each chapter, make a more detailed outline, as detailed as you would for an article. If you make the general outline too detailed, you will be unable to hold the total in your mind. But if you do not create the more detailed chapter outlines, you will be unable to determine the specific order of points, or to achieve a clarity of presentation, for each chapter.

In writing a book, integration of the total is very important. One young writer I know made the following mistake: he thought that one integrates a given chapter to the preceding chapter only. Consequently, in spite of a good general outline, he found it difficult to decide what to include in his second chapter. He was relating chapter 2 to chapter 1 alone, as if the integration worked backwards only. He thought that if he kept in mind what he had written in chapter 1, he could determine what would proceed from it in chapter 2 (which in a sense is true). But of course, what should constantly be in a writer's mind-and what should direct him at every stage-is the book as a whole. as a whole.

Every aspect of a work has to be integrated into the total, whether paragraphs into a chapter or chapters into a book. The book should be one unified whole when you finish. So integrate each chapter not only with the preceding one, but also with the following ones-i.e., with the total of your book, which is not yet written. Train your subconscious to do this. It can be difficult, which is one reason the outline is so crucial.

Just as a sentence in your mind does not exist until it is on paper, so the unwritten chapters do not exist until they are written. Before then, what exists is only your outline-the abstractions which tell you what you will will discuss. But the actual words are not yet there. Therefore, until your final chapters are done, little in your earlier ones has to be considered an absolute. The only absolute while you are writing is your abstract outline. You cannot depart from it discuss. But the actual words are not yet there. Therefore, until your final chapters are done, little in your earlier ones has to be considered an absolute. The only absolute while you are writing is your abstract outline. You cannot depart from it (unless (unless some essential omission or addition occurs to you, in which case you stop and redo your outline). But as you present the concrete material within each chapter, an incalculable number of options open up to you. For example, regarding some point of second- or third-rank importance, the question often arises: where should you discuss it-in chapter 2, say, or in chapter 4? While the overall, logical presentation of your subject is set in advance, you may not be able to resolve such narrow issues without the full, final context. The principle, therefore, is to view what you have written as open to correction until you finish the book. Your book must not become an absolute in your mind, in regard to its concrete content, until your final editing. some essential omission or addition occurs to you, in which case you stop and redo your outline). But as you present the concrete material within each chapter, an incalculable number of options open up to you. For example, regarding some point of second- or third-rank importance, the question often arises: where should you discuss it-in chapter 2, say, or in chapter 4? While the overall, logical presentation of your subject is set in advance, you may not be able to resolve such narrow issues without the full, final context. The principle, therefore, is to view what you have written as open to correction until you finish the book. Your book must not become an absolute in your mind, in regard to its concrete content, until your final editing.

Often you find certain sequences so good that you know know you will keep them; but even this is not an absolute. If you are that pleased with a pa.s.sage, you will probably turn out to be right. But without becoming a relativist, be a good contextualist: do not set any such absolutes until you finish the whole book. This requires a difficult combination of absolutism about your value judgments and, at the same time, flexibility about your writing. Your premise should be: "This seems right to me within my present context of knowledge, but three-quarters of my book, say, does not yet exist, and therefore I allow for the possibility of making changes." you will keep them; but even this is not an absolute. If you are that pleased with a pa.s.sage, you will probably turn out to be right. But without becoming a relativist, be a good contextualist: do not set any such absolutes until you finish the whole book. This requires a difficult combination of absolutism about your value judgments and, at the same time, flexibility about your writing. Your premise should be: "This seems right to me within my present context of knowledge, but three-quarters of my book, say, does not yet exist, and therefore I allow for the possibility of making changes."

Of course, the real absolute is the page proofs or galleys. A lot of editing will be done in galleys; when you see your work in print, it acquires an objectivity which a typewritten ma.n.u.script does not possess. A typewritten ma.n.u.script is too open to your corrections, and your subconscious knows it. Your mind remembers how many times you made corrections, and how many possibilities there were. Therefore, everything is still somewhat provisional. But when you see what you have written in cold print, set by somebody else, it acquires a more objective finality, and some new corrections or improvements might then strike you.

Regard your book as finished only after you have gone over it as one integrated whole. Keeping in mind all the complicated threads and issues involved, you can then see whether your provisional integrations were correct.

Someone once said that a writer's most important tool is scissors, by which he meant that a writer should never be afraid to cut his own work when necessary. I have never sympathized with this att.i.tude, because I hold this premise as such an absolute that I do not think one should boast about it. Courage is not required if your purpose is to write a good article or book, and some beautiful pa.s.sage does not fit into the total context. In such a case, there is no choice involved: of course, you make the cut. Acquire that kind of ruthlessness. Make your central value the total job, not any particular pa.s.sage.

Here is an example from my own experience. The Fountainhead The Fountainhead is a long book with a complex theme. There were numerous sub-themes (which, in a nonfiction book, I call issues of second- or third-rank importance). I determined in my outline what incidents of the plot would dramatize which steps of the major theme. But on many lesser issues or subsidiary ill.u.s.trations, it was difficult to decide the best place. When I started submitting the book to publishers, I had written part 1 and about a third of part 2. In this material, I had several scenes which were well-written, but repet.i.tive. They dramatized the same issue. Nevertheless, I could not yet decide which of them fit better, and in which part of the book they belonged. I decided I would keep every uncertain scene until I saw the total, at which time I would choose which to save. I knew that the reason I could not decide at the time was that I needed the total context. When I submitted the material to Bobbs-Merrill, I gave Archie Ogden, the editor, an estimated number of words. He pointed out that part 1 then seemed too long. I explained to him my method, and said that in the final version a third of part 1 would be cut. And that is exactly what happened. I even cut an entire, very interesting, character- Vesta Dunning-from part 1. I felt a moment's sadness and a mild regret, and then felt nothing, because cutting her was necessary: it was that character or the total novel. is a long book with a complex theme. There were numerous sub-themes (which, in a nonfiction book, I call issues of second- or third-rank importance). I determined in my outline what incidents of the plot would dramatize which steps of the major theme. But on many lesser issues or subsidiary ill.u.s.trations, it was difficult to decide the best place. When I started submitting the book to publishers, I had written part 1 and about a third of part 2. In this material, I had several scenes which were well-written, but repet.i.tive. They dramatized the same issue. Nevertheless, I could not yet decide which of them fit better, and in which part of the book they belonged. I decided I would keep every uncertain scene until I saw the total, at which time I would choose which to save. I knew that the reason I could not decide at the time was that I needed the total context. When I submitted the material to Bobbs-Merrill, I gave Archie Ogden, the editor, an estimated number of words. He pointed out that part 1 then seemed too long. I explained to him my method, and said that in the final version a third of part 1 would be cut. And that is exactly what happened. I even cut an entire, very interesting, character- Vesta Dunning-from part 1. I felt a moment's sadness and a mild regret, and then felt nothing, because cutting her was necessary: it was that character or the total novel.52 This is what I mean by flexibility. It is not relativism or whim-wors.h.i.+p. There are pa.s.sages you cannot integrate into an unwritten whole, and therefore you should leave them in provisionally.

Writers who believe, consciously or subconsciously, in an "ideal," Platonic archetype of a book would never use this method, and so would torture themselves needlessly. Such writers believe there is an abstract rule somewhere in infinity that indicates which sequences should remain and which should be cut; but, of course, they fail ever to discover it.

A book is a creative product, and the possibilities are incalculable. If at some point you do not know what choice to make, it simply means all the evidence is not in, and so you postpone the decision without any self-doubt. Every piece of writing involves new problems. Reason and reality are the only absolutes, and the theme and the outline are the sub-absolutes. Everything else is up to you. Many issues are optional, and it is no reflection on you if you sometimes hesitate or are uncertain.

In fact, hesitation is often a good sign in regard to the development of your subconscious writing premises. A child writing a story will not have the choices you do as an adult writing a book. He might write inspirationally and produce, for his context, a good piece of work. But he would not yet know that there are questions over which one can hesitate. So if you hesitate, it may be that your knowledge is broad and you have grasped numerous possibilities. Finally, remember that if there was no indecisiveness, there would be no pleasure in solving a problem, nor in writing anything. Therefore, take the bitter with the sweet (which is a bromide I would kill you for using in writing).

Let us turn to a related point: do not regard your chapters as separate articles. This can be tricky, because in one sense you do need to regard them as separate ent.i.ties. (In this respect, do not take my my nonfiction books as patterns, because most of them are collections of articles. Even so, I did a lot of editing to eliminate repet.i.tion and bring the articles into a greater unity. However, we are not discussing anthologies, but nonfiction books written from scratch.) nonfiction books as patterns, because most of them are collections of articles. Even so, I did a lot of editing to eliminate repet.i.tion and bring the articles into a greater unity. However, we are not discussing anthologies, but nonfiction books written from scratch.) Your subject and theme are not completely covered in each chapter, only in the whole book. Therefore, you must regard your chapters as steps in an overall progression. The end is the total. The comparison to steps is accurate, because it is by means of dividing your complex subject and theme and covering them in installments that you achieve a progression which is integrated into a total presentation. But the chapters must be steps. steps. Each has to be an ent.i.ty in its own right-not an independent essay, but a part of your book that has covered a certain distance. At the same time, each chapter must serve as a base for the chapters that follow. It is particularly in your early chapters that you have to plan a great many future ones which will carry you through the total of the book. In that way, each is a means to the next chapter Each has to be an ent.i.ty in its own right-not an independent essay, but a part of your book that has covered a certain distance. At the same time, each chapter must serve as a base for the chapters that follow. It is particularly in your early chapters that you have to plan a great many future ones which will carry you through the total of the book. In that way, each is a means to the next chapter and and to the total. to the total.

The best ill.u.s.tration of this process (only as a metaphor) is the pa.s.sage from Atlas Shrugged Atlas Shrugged in which Dagny has quit the railroad for the first time, and is thinking about the aimlessness of her days. She says that the proper progression of a man's life resembles stations on the way to a final terminal. Man must have an overall purpose-a career-which is in turn broken up into particular purposes. A career consists of certain goals, and each one opens the way for wider goals-for wider achievements. If you are a writer, you do not write one book and then stop; you grow with every book. If you are a properly developing writer, you do not coast on what you have learned, but attempt ever harder subjects. This same principle applies to the book itself. Each chapter is a station reached-a part of your book which has achieved something. But you do not stop at one chapter. It is not an end in itself, but the means to the final terminal, i.e., the completed book. in which Dagny has quit the railroad for the first time, and is thinking about the aimlessness of her days. She says that the proper progression of a man's life resembles stations on the way to a final terminal. Man must have an overall purpose-a career-which is in turn broken up into particular purposes. A career consists of certain goals, and each one opens the way for wider goals-for wider achievements. If you are a writer, you do not write one book and then stop; you grow with every book. If you are a properly developing writer, you do not coast on what you have learned, but attempt ever harder subjects. This same principle applies to the book itself. Each chapter is a station reached-a part of your book which has achieved something. But you do not stop at one chapter. It is not an end in itself, but the means to the final terminal, i.e., the completed book.

Do not, however, regard your chapters as one long, uninterrupted lecture; do not begin each chapter by picking up from the last line of the prior one. A book is not a continuous speech. So regard each chapter as a little whole, as an end in itself-not in content, but in form. form. The breaking of a book into chapters gives the reader a chance to absorb distinct subdivisions of your total presentation. You do not merely give him the chance to rest involved in a blank page, and then continue. You regard a completed chapter as an. end in itself formally; like the book as a whole, it has a beginning, a logical development, and a conclusion-and you start the next chapter, in form, as if it were a new essay. The same principle applies to the structure of a paragraph. You indicate what you are starting with, you lead the thought to a certain conclusion, and, when that conclusion is reached, you start a new paragraph. In The breaking of a book into chapters gives the reader a chance to absorb distinct subdivisions of your total presentation. You do not merely give him the chance to rest involved in a blank page, and then continue. You regard a completed chapter as an. end in itself formally; like the book as a whole, it has a beginning, a logical development, and a conclusion-and you start the next chapter, in form, as if it were a new essay. The same principle applies to the structure of a paragraph. You indicate what you are starting with, you lead the thought to a certain conclusion, and, when that conclusion is reached, you start a new paragraph. In content, content, however, remember that each chapter and paragraph must be a (completed) part of a whole-a way station, not a terminal. however, remember that each chapter and paragraph must be a (completed) part of a whole-a way station, not a terminal.

Here are a few suggestions about some lesser aspects of writing books.

Do not constantly repeat yourself for fear that your readers will forget something or go out of focus. For instance, if you depart briefly from your main subject and then return to it, do not say, "As I already discussed ..." Trust your reader to remember and to integrate what you have written. If he does not, reminders will not bring order to his mind. If he is out of focus, your writing will not put him into focus, no matter how good you are. If you write clearly, on a level of knowledge appropriate to your reader, you must count on his focus and his ability to carry the progression in his mind.

There are exceptions to this principle. If you return to a topic only after making some other point at great length, you may need to remind your reader of that topic. If it has been, say, a hundred pages since you last made some point, a reminder may be called for (though you should not re-prove re-prove the point). Nevertheless, in general, there is nothing wrong with a reader having to look back; it is not your job to prevent that from happening. In fact, every reader of a nonfiction book will need to do it-with the frequency depending on his level of focus and, even more, on his knowledge of the subject. For example, if you write a book on philosophy, an intelligent layman may need to check back more times than a philosophy major. Of course, you must write so that even the layman will understand it, though he might have to do more thinking, and read more slowly, than the philosophy major. the point). Nevertheless, in general, there is nothing wrong with a reader having to look back; it is not your job to prevent that from happening. In fact, every reader of a nonfiction book will need to do it-with the frequency depending on his level of focus and, even more, on his knowledge of the subject. For example, if you write a book on philosophy, an intelligent layman may need to check back more times than a philosophy major. Of course, you must write so that even the layman will understand it, though he might have to do more thinking, and read more slowly, than the philosophy major.

This point about not repeating yourself is particularly important in bringing out a crucial difference between writing and teaching.

The purpose of teaching is not only to communicate knowledge, but also to instill a rational psycho-epistemology in one's students. If you a.n.a.lyze what a good teacher is doing, and why his students get so much out of his cla.s.s, you will find that he is communicating the material in a certain order, which, by implication, trains his cla.s.s to absorb knowledge rationally. In that process, he must adjust his presentation, to some extent, to the level of a particular cla.s.s, since some cla.s.ses are brighter or more attentive than others. Even within a given cla.s.s, the teacher may repeat certain things to help the slower or less focused students. So a greater lat.i.tude is possible to him. Obviously, the best teacher cannot force a student to understand if the student wants to be out of focus, and just sits there doing nothing; the consciousness of one man is never responsible for that of another. But to the degree to which one can help another, that is what good teachers do.

These cla.s.sroom methods are applicable, to some some degree, to writing a textbook, where many subdivisions and repet.i.tions are permissible. But textbooks aside, when you write a nonfiction book, you are not a teacher (except in the metaphorical sense of presenting certain information to your readers). You are a broadcaster, and you aim at the best receiving set for the kind of frequency on which you are broadcasting. But the choice of whether to tune in, and of how good the receiving sets are, is up to the audience. Therefore, you cannot present a subject by hammering it, through repet.i.tion, into your readers. If a teacher sees the cla.s.s attention wandering, he should do something to recapture it. But it is never proper for a writer to adjust his writing in antic.i.p.ation of such deficiencies on the part of the reader. degree, to writing a textbook, where many subdivisions and repet.i.tions are permissible. But textbooks aside, when you write a nonfiction book, you are not a teacher (except in the metaphorical sense of presenting certain information to your readers). You are a broadcaster, and you aim at the best receiving set for the kind of frequency on which you are broadcasting. But the choice of whether to tune in, and of how good the receiving sets are, is up to the audience. Therefore, you cannot present a subject by hammering it, through repet.i.tion, into your readers. If a teacher sees the cla.s.s attention wandering, he should do something to recapture it. But it is never proper for a writer to adjust his writing in antic.i.p.ation of such deficiencies on the part of the reader.

Another problem that often occurs-particularly on a first book-is the trap of the first chapter. When a writer starts a book, the first chapter is more of a revelation to him than to any reader-a revelation not in content, but in regard to the power of writing. When you start a book-and particularly your first-yougrow with every chapter. By the time you finish chapter 1, you have learned so much that, as a rule, the beginning of your chapter no longer satisfies you. You now know how to improve it-and by the time you finish redoing it, you will have learned still more.

If you are a beginner, you often feel as if you are going to spend the rest of your life on chapter 1. If whenever you feel you can do better, you thus start rewriting the whole chapter, you would be caught in an infinite regress, because you always learn from the process of writing. If you are not a hack or a one-book author, you improve constantly, to the end of your career. Therefore, you cannot cannot stop each time you write a first chapter-or a tenth, for that matter. Even when you feel as if you can dance with words rather than drag them along painfully and ploddingly, you cannot keep rewriting chapter 1. Otherwise, you will never get to chapter 2. stop each time you write a first chapter-or a tenth, for that matter. Even when you feel as if you can dance with words rather than drag them along painfully and ploddingly, you cannot keep rewriting chapter 1. Otherwise, you will never get to chapter 2.

This temptation is understandable; it is quite proper to stop and edit the whole chapter once or twice. But after that, go on unhesitatingly to chapter 2. Accept the fact that you are growing and that you must stop each chapter when you feel that at present, at present, this is the best you can do, i.e., knowing that you will be able to do better, but not now. So do not limit your development to your first chapter. You must proceed. this is the best you can do, i.e., knowing that you will be able to do better, but not now. So do not limit your development to your first chapter. You must proceed.

Let your subconscious take its course. Do not stand in its way by attempting endless improvements. In the end, you will have plenty of opportunity to adjust the beginning. There will be a stage by about the middle of the book when, because you are much more in control of the writing, you will feel that your first chapters must be terrible. By the time you finish the book, however, you will have acquired perspective (particularly if you do not reread it constantly), and you will discover just how good the first chapters actually are. Editorial improvements will always be necessary, because you have learned so much, but they will be minor.

If the first chapters had really been bad, you would have been stopped by legitimate problems long before you finished.

11

Selecting a t.i.tle

When you select a t.i.tle, ninety percent of your consideration should be appropriateness, five percent clarity (and if it is appropriate it will be clear), and if possible, the other five percent should be drama or intrigue. As always, do not aim at drama directly.

Selecting a t.i.tle is difficult because it should grow out of an integration of all your material and must apply to the work's essence. It must come more or less inspirationally-through the same process by which you get colorful touches in writing; it can rarely be arrived at consciously.

If you think I am good at t.i.tles, I a.s.sure you I am not. I find it difficult to come up with good t.i.tles, which is a common complaint of writers. As a rule, but not as an absolute, I let a t.i.tle grow out of my material. Sometimes I start an article with a provisional working t.i.tle, and as the material develops, some written phrase strikes me and suggests a better t.i.tle. At other times, as I am writing and focusing on the subject, something that condenses the essence suddenly occurs to me (which is not a phrase in the work itself).

You may find it useful to hear how I arrived at the t.i.tles of The Fountainhead of The Fountainhead and and Atlas Shrugged. Atlas Shrugged.

First, let me tell you about the mist.i.tling of The Fountainhead. The Fountainhead. This is not the original t.i.tle, and I still do not particularly like it. The original t.i.tle was This is not the original t.i.tle, and I still do not particularly like it. The original t.i.tle was Secondhand Lives Secondhand Lives. Everyone disliked it, including my agent and all the publishers I heard from. But I wanted that t.i.tle, because it named a completely new idea featured in the book, i.e., that many people, such as Peter Keating, live by the opinions of others. Then Archie Ogden, my editor at Bobbs-Merrill, said something that changed my mind instantly: "If you use that t.i.tle, you are featuring Peter Keating." This horrified me. I had missed that implication entirely.

So now I had to search for a t.i.tle that would feature Howard Roark. The t.i.tle I chose next was The Prime Mover The Prime Mover. But my publisher objected that most people, seeing the book in a store window, would think it was about movers. He was right, though I would have taken the chance, because I do not care what superficial people might think. Still, the expression "prime mover" is not well known enough to convey the grandeur it would to someone acquainted with philosophy. Only a dedicated Aristotelian could appreciate it.

I next chose Mainspring Mainspring, but discovered it had already been used. So I took a thesaurus and started looking for words. Finally I found "fountainhead." What I dislike about it is that the metaphor is a bit too poetic for the nature of the book. Mainspring Mainspring would have been better, because it suggests engineering. would have been better, because it suggests engineering.

The most brilliant inspiration for a t.i.tle of mine is Frank's suggestion of Atlas Shrugged, Atlas Shrugged, which is almost a mystery to me. I do not know how he made that integration, but it is brilliant, because it names in two words the essence of the book. When I asked him how he came up with the t.i.tle, he could not explain it. It was purely inspirational; t.i.tles usually occur that way. which is almost a mystery to me. I do not know how he made that integration, but it is brilliant, because it names in two words the essence of the book. When I asked him how he came up with the t.i.tle, he could not explain it. It was purely inspirational; t.i.tles usually occur that way.

Atlas Shrugged was not my original t.i.tle for the book, and it was a big regret in my life that I could not use my original t.i.tle, which was was not my original t.i.tle for the book, and it was a big regret in my life that I could not use my original t.i.tle, which was The Strike. The Strike. As I wrote the book, however, I realized As I wrote the book, however, I realized "The Strike" "The Strike" gave away too much. But the drama behind that t.i.tle was this: I first conceived of the book shortly after the publication gave away too much. But the drama behind that t.i.tle was this: I first conceived of the book shortly after the publication of The Fountainhead. of The Fountainhead. This was in the heyday of the New Deal, when strikes were fas.h.i.+onable and they were This was in the heyday of the New Deal, when strikes were fas.h.i.+onable and they were all all by the Left. Today, they are pa.s.se-taken for granted. If you see pickets, you take them as part of daily life. We have a completely mixed economy, so each pressure group uses means of that type to gain something. But in those days, it was a collectivist, definitely Leftist phenomenon. At the time, I thought there would be a certain drama in having a novel with that t.i.tle by me, who after by the Left. Today, they are pa.s.se-taken for granted. If you see pickets, you take them as part of daily life. We have a completely mixed economy, so each pressure group uses means of that type to gain something. But in those days, it was a collectivist, definitely Leftist phenomenon. At the time, I thought there would be a certain drama in having a novel with that t.i.tle by me, who after The Fountainhead The Fountainhead was well known as a "reactionary." I was being slightly subjective in that I was counting on the reputation of my previous novel. The change in t.i.tle is actually a monument to how long it took me to write the book. If the novel had been published within the first five years, was well known as a "reactionary." I was being slightly subjective in that I was counting on the reputation of my previous novel. The change in t.i.tle is actually a monument to how long it took me to write the book. If the novel had been published within the first five years, The Strike The Strike might have been all right. But from the perspective of the ages, it would have been dated, and it would not be a good t.i.tle even now. But the main consideration was that might have been all right. But from the perspective of the ages, it would have been dated, and it would not be a good t.i.tle even now. But the main consideration was that The Strike The Strike gave away too much. gave away too much.

I did not change the t.i.tle to Atlas Shrugged Atlas Shrugged until about four years after Frank suggested it. I loved until about four years after Frank suggested it. I loved The Strike The Strike, and have a strong prejudice against t.i.tles with a verb in them-in this case, "shrugged." A t.i.tle is like a name, and I have always felt a t.i.tle should contain only nouns, and perhaps adjectives, but not verbs. Yet the appropriateness of this t.i.tle outweighed my particular dislike, because there can be no rule against using verbs. "Atlas Shrugged" was so right that when Frank told it to me, I felt that this was destined to be the t.i.tle. I weighed the choice carefully, but each time I considered the issue, its appropriateness and enormous condensation made me conclude that there was no better t.i.tle for the book. It names everything and gives away nothing.

I even tried the t.i.tle on Henry Blanke, the producer of the movie The Fountainhead The Fountainhead. This was around 1947. He was an intelligent man, though not a particularly profound thinker. I told him I was considering a t.i.tle for my next novel. He knew nothing about it except that it would deal with industry. I asked: "My husband suggested the following t.i.tle; how would you take it? What would it suggest to you?" Then I said: "Atlas Shrugged." He looked as if a lightbulb had appeared over his head, and he said: "Hmm." Then he shrugged his shoulders and said: "Well, there goes the world." That was an ideal reaction, and it impressed me very much.

Let me give you some general advice about selecting a t.i.tle, if you keep in mind that there are no absolute rules here.

When I say a t.i.tle should be appropriate, I mean, for instance, that if you are writing about a serious subject, your t.i.tle should not be humorous. Even here, it may sometimes be appropriate to use a humorous t.i.tle in a bitter or faintly sarcastic way. Above all, however, your t.i.tle should not be misleading.

The best example of a misleading t.i.tle is How to Think Creatively. How to Think Creatively. This excellent book is a serious psychological study of the creative process. The t.i.tle, however, suggests it is a home course on how to become a genius. The book actually contains nothing on how to think creatively; it merely describes some important aspects of the process of creative thinking. (If you were active mentally, you could get from it some valuable leads to help you think creatively, but it is not a technological book; it does not tell you what to do.) This excellent book is a serious psychological study of the creative process. The t.i.tle, however, suggests it is a home course on how to become a genius. The book actually contains nothing on how to think creatively; it merely describes some important aspects of the process of creative thinking. (If you were active mentally, you could get from it some valuable leads to help you think creatively, but it is not a technological book; it does not tell you what to do.) A great many interesting nonfiction books could be handicapped by a t.i.tle that falsely suggests something academic, statistical, or technical. On the other hand, if you write a technical book for specialists, do not call it, for example, The Coming Spring. The Coming Spring. So when you do battle with commercial publishers, which is not a happy experience, do not let them put an inappropriate t.i.tle on your book. So when you do battle with commercial publishers, which is not a happy experience, do not let them put an inappropriate t.i.tle on your book.

There is a superst.i.tion among publishers, which the better ones reject, that a t.i.tle helps or hinders a book. It does not. They think including something s.e.xy in the t.i.tle sells the book, but it does not, particularly not today. An intriguing t.i.tle does not necessarily sell a book, nor does a bad t.i.tle necessarily hamper it. A book ultimately succeeds by word of mouth, which is based on content. In nonfiction books, particularly those that deal with a journalistic subject which will be dated in five years, the t.i.tle might be important-not so much to sell the book, but to indicate that it deals with a contemporary issue.

Of course, do not have so ponderous a t.i.tle that n.o.body can retain it. For example, do not select the kind of t.i.tle that John Nelson chose for his article "Some Current Conceptions of Freedom: The 'Freedom' of the Hippie and the Yippie."53 He felt it was in the academic style, and since there is nothing wrong with it ideologically, as editor I did not want to force anything optional on him. But it is a regrettable t.i.tle; and in fact, people simply call it "The 'Freedom' of the Hippie and the Yippie." He did not have to include "Some Current Conceptions of Freedom." He felt it was in the academic style, and since there is nothing wrong with it ideologically, as editor I did not want to force anything optional on him. But it is a regrettable t.i.tle; and in fact, people simply call it "The 'Freedom' of the Hippie and the Yippie." He did not have to include "Some Current Conceptions of Freedom."

Also avoid deliberately bewildering or ungrammatical t.i.tles. Years ago some journal offered a parody on such t.i.tles which captured their essence very well. It was: Gently the Swallow Gently the Swallow. That names the whole modem style. It is a noun and an adverb, and irresistibly you want to ask: "gently what?" The issue here is fidelity to grammar. It is not intriguing or interesting to be deliberately ungrammatical. t.i.tles of that kind merely indicate that the author is muddying his waters.

When choosing a t.i.tle, do not be so detailed and academic that you call your article ."A Few Observations on the Subject of Epistemology, with Limitations ..." etc. On the other hand, do not be confusing. For instance, if you are writing on a current bill in Congress, do not call it "Of Higher Metaphysics" or "The Higher Reaches of Man."

Generally, in selecting a t.i.tle, choose one that feels right to you. This is a sense of life issue. If a t.i.tle feels right, it will be consistent with your style. Sometimes someone else, e.g., an editor, suggests a t.i.tle which grates on you, even though it is good. If you get that feeling, the t.i.tle will surely clash with the overall style of your book, because the psycho-epistemological elements at work here are the same as those at work in your style. They depend on your subconscious, automatic values and integrations.

Let us look at some examples. There is a good book that has two different t.i.tles, East Minus West Equals Zero East Minus West Equals Zero in the American edition, and in the American edition, and Are the Russians Ten Feet Tall? Are the Russians Ten Feet Tall? in the British. in the British.54 The former is an excellent t.i.tle. First, it names the essential subject and theme of the book. It indicates not only what the author discusses-Western aid to the communist East-but also his viewpoint. The form is intriguing: it is original to use a mathematical equation, but not so bewildering that no one understands it. (One minor flaw is that it could be taken as saying East = West, but most people are not so mathematically minded as to immediately translate the formula into figures. They grasp that it is a metaphor.) The former is an excellent t.i.tle. First, it names the essential subject and theme of the book. It indicates not only what the author discusses-Western aid to the communist East-but also his viewpoint. The form is intriguing: it is original to use a mathematical equation, but not so bewildering that no one understands it. (One minor flaw is that it could be taken as saying East = West, but most people are not so mathematically minded as to immediately translate the formula into figures. They grasp that it is a metaphor.) But Are the Russians Ten Feet Tall? Are the Russians Ten Feet Tall? is a bad t.i.tle. It is cheap slang, and inappropriately humorous. This expression is usually used in such a form as: "What do you think you are, ten feet tall?" and is meant to deflate somebody's pretentiousness. But this is a small issue pertaining to human vanity, and thus is not appropriate for so horrible and tragic a subject as Western aid to Soviet Russia, which is certainly not a light or funny subject. (There is a touch of humor in the first t.i.tle, but it is profoundly sarcastic.) is a bad t.i.tle. It is cheap slang, and inappropriately humorous. This expression is usually used in such a form as: "What do you think you are, ten feet tall?" and is meant to deflate somebody's pretentiousness. But this is a small issue pertaining to human vanity, and thus is not appropriate for so horrible and tragic a subject as Western aid to Soviet Russia, which is certainly not a light or funny subject. (There is a touch of humor in the first t.i.tle, but it is profoundly sarcastic.) Now what if the author had t.i.tled the book Western Aid to Soviet Economic Development? Western Aid to Soviet Economic Development? That names the subject, but it does not indicate the theme. Based on the t.i.tle, the book That names the subject, but it does not indicate the theme. Based on the t.i.tle, the book could could be anti-communist, neutral, or even pro-communist (arguing that Western countries do not give enough aid to Russia). In fact, the t.i.tle strongly suggests a boring, statistical account, with no evaluation one way or the other. While a t.i.tle cannot ultimately damage a book's sales, a neutral t.i.tle of this kind would be inadvisable. be anti-communist, neutral, or even pro-communist (arguing that Western countries do not give enough aid to Russia). In fact, the t.i.tle strongly suggests a boring, statistical account, with no evaluation one way or the other. While a t.i.tle cannot ultimately damage a book's sales, a neutral t.i.tle of this kind would be inadvisable.

As practical advice, when you are stuck, try out a t.i.tle on some intelligent friends who do not know your subject. Ask them what kind of interpretation your t.i.tle suggests, particularly if it is intriguing and must be interpreted. This might bring out connotations which have never occurred to you. You might find that although they do not understand your t.i.tle, the interpretations they give you are interesting and not the opposite of your intention. That could be a reason for keeping it.