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A review by tim_ohearn
On Writing Well: The Classic Guide to Writing Nonfiction by William Zinsser
5.0
Writing is an art and William Zinsser was Michaelangelo. After spending his career writing mostly incredibly about mostly everything, On Writing Well is a testament to his genius. It’s a keepsake from a career spent mastering a craft.
The primary audience member is the writer. I didn’t use the adjective aspiring because people don’t think that lowly of themselves anymore. Writer is a title, which, today, is claimed liberally. Zinsser had every reason to be cynical but his critiques were balanced. While he bemoaned the state of sportswriting (in an essay that reads like it was written by Andy Rooney at his best) and helped me realize why nearly every travel blog I’ve ever read or written sucked, his advice remained upbeat and encouraging.
I’ve collected small sums of money to edit papers and resumés. It is one thing to edit for correctness and and another thing to edit for goodness. Exceptional writers do both frequently and fluidly. According to Zinsser, writing well means writing as you speak.
Whenever I review a mediocre paper, a friend’s important email draft, or sift through blogs found on the twelfth page of Google results, what strikes me is a lack of voice. Most authors haven’t spent enough time developing a style for their variety of nonfiction.
This book is loaded with examples of how to gain maturity as a writer and how to prevent yourself from making common mistakes. What is amazing is that after reading thousands of works during his career, Zinsser managed to recall such ideal examples. I’m sure it’s been recounted elsewhere, but the writing sample about Turkey was unforgettable. I won’t ruin it for you.
Zinsser advocates for practicality in writing. He dislikes big words, redundant words, long sentences, and anything else that obfuscates meaning. “Hey,” you might stutter, “what about the classics?” He touches on this briefly, but the prevailing wisdom is that the time will come for you to freely integrate a distinct style into your work. Until that day, you must be disciplined like one of the apprentices in Jiro Dreams of Sushi, making rice for three years straight before you get to touch the fish.
I’ve been writing for longer than I’ve been doing anything else of significance. This book helped me realize how much more I must practice. It provided helpful tips for me to do just that. It provided hope seasoned with realistic expectations. And, in a world where writers no longer aspire, Zinsser makes a powerful distinction between being a critic and a reviewer. Zinsser was a master; his warmth and wit compel you to keep this book within close reach.
The primary audience member is the writer. I didn’t use the adjective aspiring because people don’t think that lowly of themselves anymore. Writer is a title, which, today, is claimed liberally. Zinsser had every reason to be cynical but his critiques were balanced. While he bemoaned the state of sportswriting (in an essay that reads like it was written by Andy Rooney at his best) and helped me realize why nearly every travel blog I’ve ever read or written sucked, his advice remained upbeat and encouraging.
I’ve collected small sums of money to edit papers and resumés. It is one thing to edit for correctness and and another thing to edit for goodness. Exceptional writers do both frequently and fluidly. According to Zinsser, writing well means writing as you speak.
Whenever I review a mediocre paper, a friend’s important email draft, or sift through blogs found on the twelfth page of Google results, what strikes me is a lack of voice. Most authors haven’t spent enough time developing a style for their variety of nonfiction.
This book is loaded with examples of how to gain maturity as a writer and how to prevent yourself from making common mistakes. What is amazing is that after reading thousands of works during his career, Zinsser managed to recall such ideal examples. I’m sure it’s been recounted elsewhere, but the writing sample about Turkey was unforgettable. I won’t ruin it for you.
Zinsser advocates for practicality in writing. He dislikes big words, redundant words, long sentences, and anything else that obfuscates meaning. “Hey,” you might stutter, “what about the classics?” He touches on this briefly, but the prevailing wisdom is that the time will come for you to freely integrate a distinct style into your work. Until that day, you must be disciplined like one of the apprentices in Jiro Dreams of Sushi, making rice for three years straight before you get to touch the fish.
I’ve been writing for longer than I’ve been doing anything else of significance. This book helped me realize how much more I must practice. It provided helpful tips for me to do just that. It provided hope seasoned with realistic expectations. And, in a world where writers no longer aspire, Zinsser makes a powerful distinction between being a critic and a reviewer. Zinsser was a master; his warmth and wit compel you to keep this book within close reach.