Some Max Perkins' Guidelines to Editors

Naturally, Max Perkins was a complex man. But any editor will see him as basically: Max the editor.

Maybe the most important words he left for young, old, and middle editors were these: “Don’t ever get to feeling important about yourself, because an editor at most releases energy. He creates nothing.”

“Releasing energy” is no small deal. Any writer know the benefit of that external boost of energy to one’s writing. For Max, it was smart energy. It was an energy based on extraordinary care. It was said of him often that he cared as much for the work as the author did.

Max, who lived and breathed a love for words and their upending and enduring value when used well, had many of his own words for editors and for living

• Generalizations are of no use. Focus on the specific—and draw out the action. 

• ·       Revere the writer, for he or she is “under the compulsion of genius.”

• ·       (On the importance of content) Pack a sentence with dimension and intensity; make the paragraph carry a heavy load. 
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• ·       (On choosing a career) If a man [or woman] will only stick to the thing he or she loves most, he will do it right and end right.

• ·       (On parenting) The only rule I knew was not ever to let hostility grow between you and your child whatever happened.

• ·       (On the editor’s place) The editor at best serves as handmaiden to authors.

• ·       (On the writer) The book belongs to the author. A writer’s best work comes entirely from himself or herself.

• ·       (On politics—in the 1940s) My opinion is that we’ll never know a really peaceful time again. What of it. What is life but taking a licking. 

Not a pessimist, but a realist; Max demanded the utmost reach of his writers—and the same utmost from the writers’ “handmaidens.”

Good Reminder: Use Orwell's Six Rules for Writing

It’s always time to refer to Orwell’s timeless Rules for Writing in the English Language—

1.     Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.

2.     Never use a long word where a short one will do.

3.     If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.

4.     Never use the passive where you can use the active.

5.     Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.

6.     Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

Next a look at the Max Perkins’ legacy for editors.

What do our own stories teach us?

We can tell stories about food, but food is not a narrative. In its meal form, food does have a beginning, middle, and end. But we have this human capacity to transform practical experiences - peeling carrots, unwrapping onions, reconstructing tofu - into a story. How much more do we use this capacity for seeing story in those things that really matter to us - the death of a spouse, the sight of sheer cruelty to the young or vulnerable, the hope in a wedding, the solace in a friendship.

Where do we find such stories in our lives - where are they hidden in our gestures and conversations? Stories structure our lives: we may tell a story at the dinner table, we may read the story, see it on TV or in a film. But the way story structures our lives is way more internal than reading, watching, or hearing a story. We get up each day in media res-in the middle of things. We usually remember our pasts, even if it's only yesterday, and with each dawn we head toward our future. Our routine of past, present, and future keeps us in a story mode of operation.

It's when we stop to configure a story - put it into words, letter, article, film - that we make something concrete out of something fleeting from our ongoing storying. Jim Hull, in his film analyses in Narrative First, calls this story-making a construct that most humans use for the purpose of better understanding.

Why is it a good thing to configure a story, or create a construct? The story gives shape to scattered events. The shape stops the kaleidoscope from spinning. It points to the patterns. The sequencing of a plot sharpens decision-making. Story opens a path to understanding.

Our stories teach us and push us to fuller understanding. This human capacity to story is so woven through our lives that we can use it on superficial experience or on deeply moving events. The stories we tell most often come from our attempts to make sense of our world - of things that happen to us or to others. In other words, the story we stop to configure is our response to our practical and extraordinary experiences in time. That story allows us to see one, two, or many points of view and reminds us of the paradoxes we live with, decide on, and travel by.

To create these stories, we often use the literary tradition: we remember and quote from others' stories. By doing so, philosophers tell us, we serve the memory of past human beings and past events: Mark Twain's humor, Toni Morrison's haunting reaches into history, Elie Wiesel's experiences, Abraham Lincoln's courage. We use figurative language such as metaphor to widen the scope of one experience and connect to many - the way a cup contains morning coffee, the newspaper holds our daily start, or the way a poem acts, as Robert Frost said, to remind us of "what it would impoverish us to forget."

When someone calls us to a meal, how often do we hear the conversation starter, "That reminds me of a story." What stories stand out for you in that daily effort toward making sense of our world?

Combine Poetry and Food: A Winning Website

For a food website created with an artful hand, do not miss The Food Poet. Its creator, Annelies Zijderveld does it all: photography, poetry, art, inspiration, humor--all in a welcome spirit.

Her photographs show food at particular angles that relish each ingredient in each stage-- prep, under the knife, in its final debut. Each photo is fresh, unusual, alerting, and leads to a recipe. Sometimes the recipe appears as poetry in the photo, but most always it can be found in its plain form for use.

It's no small deal that the poetry is indeed fine poetry. Easy on the eyes and lives in thoughts long after. Annelies Zijderveld is a serious artist of food.

Narrative and Education 1: Only About Navel Gazing?

 At the beginning and the end of the day, I’ll always believe that narrative has a solid and central place in our lives.

Eminent psychologist and educator, Jerome Bruner, has had a lot to say over the years about narrative.

In Acts of Meaning, Bruner states that “humans have a readiness or predisposition to organize experience into a narrative form, into plot structures.”

Galen Strawson, a British philosophy professor at University of Reading, reviews Jerome Bruner’s Acts of Meaning, along with Making Stories, in "Tales of the Unexpected." He criticizes Bruner for turning everything in our lives into the narrating of ourselves. Strawson suggests that Bruner believes that all "great fiction proceeds by making the familiar and ordinary strange again.” He suggests Bruner is saying that in every thought and act humans are constantly engaged in making tales out of ourselves and our lives.

I disagree with Strawson’s interpretation of Bruner’s idea of narrative. As mentioned above, I do see narrative as central to human living.

It’s not just because everyone loves a good story. Rather, narrative is front and central to humans because narrative is all about making sense of things—everyday.

Unlike Bruner, I’m not sure that we are constantly creating ourselves by way of narrative. I believe narrative is central because it gives a structure to our lives. And narrative also ferries us beyond our own small lives to connect us with wider worlds.

Because I’m convinced that narrative plays a central role in education—in how we learn—I see our readiness for narrative as a good way of becoming educable. Maybe even the best way—for we never outgrow this desire for a good story. 

I started this research into the place of narrative in our lives and in education about fifteen years ago. “Story” hasn’t let go of me since. I hope to engage here in a conversation with others interested in the reach of narrative into ways in which we learn.

Student Report: "Connect" Leads to Learning

At a recent NBC student panel airing on "Voices of a Nation," students made clear what matters most in how we learn.  See "Twenty Things Students Want the Nation to Know About Education." Seven of the twenty items students wanted the nation to know have something to do with: "connect with us."

For example:

# 3: "I can't learn from you if you are not willing to connect with me."

Or

#12: "Tell me something good that I'm doing so I can keep growing in that."

Learning somehow always connects with narrative--both the students and the teachers' narrative. Maybe even the community's narrative, too?

See some of the other twenty items the students suggested--such as #s 6, 14, 15, 18, 19.

Mind/Shift on Writing

I recently came across an interesting article, “How Technology Fuels Learning,” at KQED’s Mind/Shift.

Instead of the solo approach of teacher-directed lessons on writing, this teacher uses collaboration and peer-editing to “Jump into the 21st Century." This teacher is willing to do the work to see her students achieve deep discussions and deeper understanding in writing.

How?

She keeps quiet. First session. Second session. She lets the students struggle with surface reading, lame questions and tepid responses. Third and fourth session, as she demands students critique and help one another, each session digs in a little deeper. She perseveres.

This teacher’s approach is similar to a breaking science achievement in the news. A new study came out recently announcing excellent results dealing with stroke victims with aphasia (inability to remember words). The key: patience. This group of researchers found that waiting for the stroke victim to search and find the right word creates new neural paths, establishing faster progress toward regaining speech than those treated through a coach-and-reteach language lesson .

Waiting for the student and expecting results sounds simple, yet effective, in learning how to learn.