Writing  Strategies  (Adapted  from  the  book,  The  Act  of  Writing)  

By:  Daniel  Chandler    

Short  Bio:  Dr.  Daniel  Chandler  is  a  lecturer  in  the  Department  of  Theatre,  Film  and  Television  Studies   at  the  University  of  Wales,  Aberystwyth.  Co-­‐editor  of  Computers  and  Literacy  (Open  University   Press)  and  author  of  Semiotics:  The  Basics  (Routledge),  he  has  published  extensively  and  lectured  in   many  countries  on  this  topic  since  1981.  

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                       My  typification  of  composing  strategies  is  based  on  an  extensive  review  of  the   published  self-­‐  reports  of  writers.  For  obvious  reasons,  such  reports  tend  to  be   mainly  those  of  ‘literary'  writers:  novelists,  poets,  playwrights,  essayists  and   biographers,  although  I  have  also  assembled  a  collection  of  the  rather  more   scattered  accounts  of  academic  writers.  I  have  also  surveyed  107  academic  writers,   86%  of  whom  reported  frequent  use  of  one  or  more  of  the  strategies  derived  from   these  sources  (Chandler  1992  &  1993).  

Architectural  strategy  

  The  metaphor  of  the  writer  as  'architect'  is  prominent  in  Neo-­‐Classical   literary  theory,  emphasizing,  of  course,  conscious  planning  and  design  (Abrams   1953,  pp.  166-­‐7,  201).  I  have  not  uncovered  a  direct  reference  to  the  strategy  as   'architectural'  by  modern  writers  who  use  it  (perhaps  an  indication  of  how   pervasive  Romanticism  still  is),  but  Gertrude  Stein  does  refer  dismissively  to  writing   which  comes  'out  of  an  architectural  drawing  of  the  thing  you  are  doing'  (Ghiselin   1952,  pp.  159-­‐60).  Of  course,  no  such  dismissiveness  is  intended  here.  

  Academic  writers  in  my  study  who  used  this  very  common  plan-­‐write-­‐edit   strategy  reported  that  they  consciously  chose  their  writing  strategies.  They  were   less  likely  than  others  to  see  writing  as  a  way  of  thinking.  Whilst  most  writers   agreed  that  they  wrote  better  when  concentrating  on  the  topic  rather  than  on  the   way  they  were  writing,  frequent  users  of  this  strategy  showed  this  tendency  more   strongly  than  other  writers.  All  this  suggests  a  'rationalist'  approach.  However,  they   showed  an  implicit  awareness  of  the  role  of  the  unconscious  insofar  as  they   exhibited  the  strongest  tendency  amongst  all  groups  to  think  that  it  helped  to  leave   their  evolving  texts  and  to  return  to  them  later.  They  showed  less  of  a  sense  of   writing  as  intrinsically  rewarding  than  other  writers  did;  they  were  perhaps  among   the  most  pragmatic  writers.  They  showed  a  slight  tendency  to  be  interlinear  editors:   that  is,  to  add  annotations  between  lines  of  text  on  paper.  Those  who  were  word   processor  users  showed  a  far  stronger  tendency  than  other  writers  not  to  find  the   size  of  the  word  processor  screen  restrictive.  

Bricklaying  strategy  

  I  encountered  examples  of  the  metaphor  of  bricklaying  in  my  review  of   writers'  accounts  of  their  composing  styles.  Most  explicitly,  William  Zinsser  said:  'I   have  to  get  every  paragraph  as  nearly  right  as  possible  before  I  go  onto  the  next  

paragraph.  I'm  somewhat  like  a  bricklayer:  I  build  very  slowly,  not  adding  a  new   row  until  I  feel  that  the  foundation  is  solid  enough  to  hold  up  the  house.  I'm  the   exact  opposite  of  the  writer  who  dashes  off  his  entire  first  draft,  not  caring  how   sloppy  it  looks  or  how  badly  it's  written'  (Zinsser  1983,  p.  97).  

  In  my  survey,  academic  writers  who  frequently  employed  a  sentence-­‐by-­‐ sentence  strategy  were  also  very  likely  to  work  on  a  paragraph-­‐by-­‐paragraph  basis.   Their  approach  was,  of  course,  largely  sequential  and  the  correction  of  linguistic   slips  tended  to  be  done  mainly  as  they  wrote.  They  showed  a  stronger  tendency   than  other  writers  not  to  complete  a  draft  in  a  single  session.  They  showed  some   tendency  to  feel  that  it  helped  to  leave  a  piece  of  writing  and  come  back  to  it  later.   They  usually  had  a  clear  idea  of  what  they  wanted  to  say  and  strongly  disagreed  that   thinking  would  be  difficult  without  writing.  They  tended  not  to  agree  that  the  more   they  were  concentrating  on  the  topic  rather  than  the  way  they  were  writing  the   better  their  writing  was.  They  showed  a  stronger  preference  for  handwritten  letters   than  did  other  writers,  and  tended  not  to  use  the  word  processor  (those  who  did  so   showed  a  strong  tendency  to  find  the  screen  size  restrictive).  

  Bricklaying  can  be  a  slow  process,  and  Malcolm  Cowley  referred  to  writers   working  in  this  way  (such  as  William  Styron)  as  'bleeders'  -­‐  perhaps  because  he   didn't  work  this  way  himself  (Cowley  1958,  p.  20).  Those  who  employ  it  often  refer   to  how  different  it  is  from  the  water-­‐colour  strategy,  and  in  my  survey  its  use  was   most  closely  allied  to  the  use  of  the  architectural  strategy.  It  may  be  worth   remarking  that  the  image  of  the  writer  as  skilful  and  intelligent  'artisan'  is  closely   allied  with  that  of  the  writer  as  architect  in  Neo-­‐  Classical  literary  theory  (Abrams   1953,  p.  166).  Many  writers  who  use  this  strategy  may  report  -­‐  because  they  do  only   one  complete  draft  -­‐  that  they  do  little  revision,  even  though  they  rework  each   chunk  of  text  a  great  deal  before  proceeding  to  the  next.  Such  remarks  can  be   misinterpreted  by  writers  who  use  other  strategies,  as  Tom  Robbins  revealed  in   describing  his  use  of  the  bricklaying  strategy:  

  In  one  of  the  first  interviews  I  ever  did  I  said  that  I  didn't  rewrite,  and   somebody  wrote  a  snotty  essay  in  which  they  brought  back  to  life  that  bitchy   remark  of  Truman  Capote's  about  Jack  Kerouac...  'That's  not  writing,  that's  typing,'   which  is  probably  the  dumbest  literary  remark  that  has  ever  been  given  any   credence.  So  I  don't  ever  say  that  anymore.  What  I  meant  is  that  I  write  so  slowly   that  I  am  rewriting  as  I  go  along.  When  you're  only  doing  two  pages  a  day,  and   you're  at  your  desk  for  up  to  six  hours  a  day  that's  not  just  typing.  I  try  never  to   leave  a  sentence  until  it's  as  perfect  as  I  can  make  it.  I'm  not  one  of  those  people  who   sits  down  and  vomits  out  20  to  30  pages  and  comes  out  with  18  rewritten  pages.  I   never  work  ahead  of  myself.  I  start  with  the  first  sentence  -­‐  usually  I  start  with  the   title;  I  write  that  on  one  page,  then  I  turn  the  page  and  write  the  first  sentence.  Then   I  write  the  second  sentence.  It's  very  linear,  very  chronological,  although  the  action   and  the  plot  might  not  be.  (Strickland  1989,  pp.  211-­‐12)    

  Tom  Robbins  clearly  distinguished  the  bricklaying  strategy  from  his  idea  of   what  other  strategies  involve  (apparently  a  combination  of  the  water-­‐colour  and  oil   painting  strategies).  

Oil  painting  strategy  

  Painting  done  in  oils  is  reworkable  over  time  in  a  way  that  painting  with   water-­‐colours  cannot  be:  in  oils,  one  may  paint  over  details  in  a  way  that  would   quickly  become  'muddy'  with  water-­‐colours.  The  surface  of  an  oil  painting  typically   has  what  is  referred  to  as  a  'painterly'  texture:  revealing  the  marks  of  the  making.   Several  examples  of  the  metaphor  of  oil  painting  appeared  in  my  review  of  the   published  self-­‐reports  of  writers.  The  novelist  Kurt  Vonnegut  reported:  'Usually  I   begin  with  several  ideas,  start  playing  with  them.  They  are  authentic  concerns  about   things  in  life  that  bother  me.  One  way  of  my  dealing  with  them  is  in  writing.  I  play   with  these  ideas  until  they  start  to  feel  right.  It's  something  like  oil  painting.  You  lay   on  paint  and  lay  on  paint.  Suddenly  you  have  something  and  you  frame  it...  It's  like   watching  a  teletype  machine  in  a  newspaper  office  to  see  what  comes  out'   (Strickland  1989,  p.  134).  And  Alberto  Moravia  used  the  same  metaphor:  'Each  book   is  worked  over  many  times.  I  like  to  compare  my  method  with  that  of  painters   centuries  ago,  proceeding,  as  it  were,  from  layer  to  layer.  This  first  draft  is  quite   crude...  After  that  I  rewrite  it  as  many  times  -­‐  apply  as  many  'layers'  -­‐  as  I  feel  to  be   necessary'  (Cowley  1958,  p.  196).  

  This  is  a  minimal  planning  and  maximal  revision  strategy.  Those  in  my  study   who  used  this  strategy  frequently  showed  a  strong  tendency  to  write  to  understand   better  what  they  thought.  Nearly  half  of  them  reported  that  they  did  not  consciously   choose  their  writing  strategies.  These  writers  were,  of  course,  major  revisers,  and   they  often  deleted  a  lot  too.  As  one  would  expect,  they  were  less  likely  than  others  to   work  sequentially.  It  is  interesting  that  many  were  in  their  20s  and  30s,  and  did  not   remember  being  given  any  guidance  about  how  to  approach  composition.  I   wondered  whether  some  writers  abandon  this  strategy  as  they  mature  or  whether   the  older  generation  simply  did  not  grow  up  using  it.  Perhaps  this  pattern  reflected   dominant  educational  ideologies  in  British  schools  about  10-­‐15  years  ago,  when   'drafting'  was  a  widespread  feature  of  educational  rhetoric  (to  some  extent  reflected   in  educational  practice),  in  contrast  to  an  earlier  obsession  with  pre-­‐planning.  There   was  some  tendency  for  frequent  users  of  this  strategy  to  agree  that  their  writing   was  better  the  more  they  concentrated  on  the  topic  rather  than  on  the  way  they   were  writing.  They  exhibited  a  strong  tendency  not  to  mind  talking  about  work  in   progress,  and  also  to  feel  that  it  helped  to  leave  a  piece  of  writing  and  to  return  to  it   later.  As  for  their  use  of  writing  tools,  they  were  evenly  divided  over  whether   handwriting  was  too  slow  for  them  (other  writers  tended  not  to  find  it  too  slow).   They  were  much  more  likely  than  other  writers  to  be  interlinear  editors.  In  my   survey  the  word  processor  showed  up  as  being  most  frequently  used  by  oil  painters:   79%  used  one  often.  They  showed  a  stronger  tendency  than  other  writers  to  report   that  they  felt  more  productive  since  they  had  begun  using  the  word  processor,  but  

they  showed  an  overwhelming  tendency  to  review  their  text  on  a  printout  rather   than  on  the  screen,  generally  finding  the  screen  size  restrictive.  

                       Muriel  Harris  suggested  that  the  first  drafts  of  'multi-­‐drafters'  tend  to  be   writer-­‐based  rather  than  reader-­‐based:  that  is,  primarily  an  aid  to  the  writer's   thinking  rather  than  tailored  to  the  needs  of  readers.  Such  writers  may  delete  a   large  quantity  of  the  text  which  they  generate.  They  may  also  get  lost  in  their   evolving  texts  and  have  a  strong  need  to  re-­‐read  (Harris  1989,  p.  187).  The  oil   painting  strategy  is  not  confined  to  literary  writers.  One  leading  scientist  in  the  field   of  biochemistry  reported  that:  'I  evolve  a  paper  out  of  the  mist.  It  comes  in  pieces,   each  piece  being  smoothed  a  bit  as  it  comes  along.  And  so  it  isn't  a  linear  thing   starting  at  the  beginning  and  going  to  the  end,  but  rather  clusters.'  Another  reported   'writing  it  several  times  until  I  see  how  I'm  going  to  convey  crystallize,  and  then  sort   of  letting  the  paper  flow...  I  write  the  paper  and  let  it  come  as  it  comes...  My  first   draft  is  an  enormous,  lengthy,  amorphous  mass...  I  found  myself  crossing  out...  I  do  a   tremendous  amount  of  pruning'  (both  cited  in  Rymer  1988,  pp.  230,  231).  

Water-­‐colour  strategy  

  As  in  painting  in  water-­‐colours,  this  strategy  involves  an  attempt  to  produce   a  complete  version  at  the  first  attempt,  with  minimal  revision.  Paintings  done  in   water-­‐colours  are  typically  characterized  by  a  sense  of  freshness  and  lightness  of   touch.  James  Britton  referred  explicitly  to  this  strategy  as  'painting  in  water-­‐ colours',  stressing  -­‐  as  did  the  poet  Stephen  Spender  (1946)  -­‐  the  difference  between   this  and  the  oil  painting  strategy:  'where  one  pigment  may  be  used  to  obliterate   another.'  Britton  associated  it  with  his  notion  of  'shaping  at  the  point  of  utterance',   declaring  that  'the  initial  process  must  capture  immediately  as  much  as  possible  of   the  painter's  vision'  (Britton  1980,  p.  65).  Such  a  precipitative  approach  (in  contrast   to  writing  which  is  more  planned,  and/or  more  extensively  revised)  is  often   associated  with  novice  writers.  Carl  Bereiter  and  Marlene  Scardamalia  (1987)  refer   to  the  uncritical  'knowledge-­‐telling'  strategy  of  novices.  In  such  hands  it  can  result  in   writer-­‐  based  prose  which  is  insufficiently  adapted  to  the  needs  of  readers.  Apart   from  inexperience,  situational  factors  (such  as  deadlines  or  lack  of  motivation)  can   of  course  lead  to  the  first  draft  being  the  final  one.  However,  the  water-­‐colour   strategy  is  also  the  preferred  method  of  many  accomplished  writers.  For  literary   writers  this  may  reflect  an  attempt  to  retain  'spontaneity',  'truth  to  feeling',  or   descriptive  accuracy.  Other  writers  may  simply  feel  a  need  to  maintain  momentum.   Some  writers  refer  to  complete  texts  being  formed  in  the  mind  after  a  long  period  of   mental  'incubation'  or  'germination'.  Others  refer,  as  I  have  indicated,  to   'unpremeditated'  writing  'dictated'  by  an  inner  voice.  

  For  short  pieces  of  writing  about  which  they  feel  very  confident,  most  writers   probably  write  in  this  way.  For  some  writers  it  may  be  simply  an  initial  strategy  for   producing  a  first  draft;  sometimes  only  for  part  of  a  text.  John  Steinbeck  worked  this   way  because  he  felt  that  'rewrite  in  process...  interferes  with  flow  and  rhythm  which   can  only  come  from  a  kind  of  unconscious  association  with  the  material'  (Plimpton   1977,  p.  185).  Ray  Bradbury  similarly  reported:  'I  do  a  first  draft  as  passionately  and  

as  quickly  as  I  can.  I  believe  a  story  is  only  valid  when  it  is  immediate  and   passionate;  when  it  dances  out  of  your  subconscious.  If  you  interfere  with  it  in  any   way,  you  destroy  it'  (Strickland  1989,  p.  54).  

  As  one  would  expect,  users  of  this  single-­‐draft  strategy  in  my  study  of   academic  writers  were  most  unlike  those  favouring  the  oil  painting  strategy  in   showing  a  very  strong  tendency  not  to  do  a  great  deal  of  revision.  They  tended  to   work  largely  sequentially  and  showed  a  very  strong  tendency  to  correct  any  slips   mainly  as  they  wrote.  They  were  divided  over  whether  it  helped  to  leave  a  piece  of   writing  and  to  return  to  it  later.  Most  tended  to  prefer  not  to  discuss  work  in   progress.  They  also  showed  a  strong  tendency  not  to  be  interlinear  editors.  These   writers  exhibited  a  stronger  tendency  than  others  to  make  frequent  use  of  the  pen   or  pencil  but  not  of  the  word  processor.  

  Muriel  Harris  describes  the  preferences  of  'one-­‐drafters'  for  beginning  with   'a  developed  focus',  generating  limited  options  prior  to  writing,  settling  quickly  on  a   plan,  making  minimal  changes  to  the  text,  and  doing  little  re-­‐reading.  She  also   suggests  that  they  tend  to  be  intolerant  of  ambiguity,  to  need  rapid  closure,  and  in   general  to  dislike  writing.  All  this  is  in  strong  contrast  to  the  preference  of  'multi-­‐ drafters'  for  open-­‐ended  exploration,  including  beginning  at  an  exploratory  stage   (Harris  1989).  William  Lutz,  an  American  academic,  reported  that:  

  Before  I  write,  I  write  in  my  mind.  The  more  difficult  and  complex  the   writing,  the  more  time  I  need  to  think  before  I  write.  Ideas  incubate  in  my  mind.   While  I  talk,  drive,  swim  and  exercise  I  am  thinking,  planning,  writing.  I  think  about   the  introduction,  what  examples  to  use,  how  to  develop  the  main  idea,  what  kind  of   conclusion  to  use.  I  write,  revise,  agonize,  despair,  give  up,  only  to  start  all  over   again,  and  all  of  this  before  I  ever  begin  to  put  words  on  paper...  Writing  is  not  a   process  of  discovery  for  me...  The  writing  process  takes  place  in  my  mind.  Once  that   process  is  complete  the  product  emerges.  Often  I  can  write  pages  without  pause  and   with  very  little,  if  any,  revision  or  even  minor  changes.  (Waldrep  1985,  I,  pp.  186-­‐7)    

                       In  the  case  of  one  of  my  interviewees  (a  historian),  the  use  of  the  water-­‐colour   strategy  stemmed  from  his  dislike  of  writing,  and  reflected  a  desire  'to  get  it  out  of   the  way  as  soon  as  possible'  (Chandler  1992,  p.  222).  

Mixed  strategies  

  Of  the  107  academic  writers  in  my  survey,  57  were  frequent  users  of  the   architectural  strategy,  38  made  frequent  use  of  bricklaying,  33  used  oil  painting   often,  and  20  frequently  employed  the  water-­‐colour  strategy.  Only  15  of  these   writers  were  not  frequent  users  of  any  of  these  four  strategies.  It  is  tempting  to  refer   to  frequent  users  of  strategies  as  architects,  bricklayers,  oil  painters  and  water-­‐ colourists,  and  I  have  sometimes  done  so  here,  but  this  can  be  misleading  because   many  writers  make  frequent  use  of  more  than  one  strategy.  For  instance,  the   popular  British  children's  writer  Enid  Blyton  seems  to  have  written  stories  using  the   water-­‐colour  strategy,  her  autobiography  using  the  architectural  strategy,  and  

articles  using  the  oil  painting  strategy  (McKellar  1957,  p.  138).  On  the  other  hand,  a   sizeable  number  of  writers  may  well  favour  a  single  strategy:  in  this  sense  there   may  well  be  some  architects,  bricklayers,  oil  painters  and  watercolourists.  Of  my   107  academic  writers,  45  reported  frequent  use  of  only  one  of  these  strategies;  35   used  two;  9  used  three;  and  only  1  used  all  four.  Where  strategies  were  combined   amongst  these  writers,  those  most  commonly  used  together  were  bricklaying  and   architecture,  and  those  least  used  together  were:  oil  painting  and  water-­‐colour;  and   oil  painting  and  bricklaying.  In  my  survey,  all  of  the  four  strategies  showed  up   across  the  academic  subject  spectrum  (arts  -­‐  social  sciences  -­‐  science).  However,   whilst  the  architectural  strategy  was  the  one  most  commonly  used  in  all  subjects,   the  largest  proportion  of  frequent  users  (65%)  was  in  the  sciences.  The  water-­‐ colour  strategy  was  the  least  frequently  used  in  all  subjects  but  was  particularly   uncommon  in  the  sciences,  where  the  other  uncommon  strategy  was  oil  painting.  

                       It  has  been  suggested  that  the  maturity  of  the  writer  may  be  involved  in  a   preference  for  particular  strategies.  Elliott  Jacques  (1970)  argued  that  (amongst   literary  authors  at  least)  what  I  call  the  water-­‐colour  strategy  is  more  typical  of   early  adult  creativity,  whilst  the  oil  painting  strategy  is  more  typical  of  a  mature   adult  mode  (from  the  late  30s).  Neither  my  survey  of  academic  writers  nor  my   review  of  writers'  accounts  supported  this  interpretation.  

                       My  framework  is  not  dissimilar  to  that  employed  by  John  Hayes  and  Linda   Flower  (1980).  However,  they  interpreted  individual  differences  in  composing   practices  in  terms  of  differences  in  'goal  setting',  an  interpretation  which  would  be   unlikely  to  reflect  the  experiences  of  those  who  see  their  writing  in  terms  of   'discovery'.  The  architectural  strategy  is  similar  to  their  configuration  4,  bricklaying   to  configuration  1,  oil  painting  to  configuration  2  and  the  water-­‐  colour  strategy  to   configuration  3.  

                       I  have  not  dealt  here  with  what  we  could  call  writing  tactics.  These  are   practices  which  are  more  specific  to  the  kind  of  writing  involved.  In  the  context  of   academic  writing,  Judith  Riley  (1984a,  b,  c)  listed  three  basic  tasks  in  drafting   teaching  materials  at  the  Open  University:  a)  finding  and  selecting  source  material;   b)  sequencing  the  material;  and  c)  finding  the  words.  The  tactics  used  varied,  in  that   they  chose  different  starting  points  or  priorities,  putting  sources  first,  argument  first   or  writing  first.  This  is  perhaps  not  that  different  from  the  writing  of  fiction,  where   one  may  start,  for  instance,  with  characters,  plot  or  'voice'.  Riley's  metaphors  for   writing  tactics  are:  packing  a  box;  producing  a  play;  laying  a  railway  track.  Box-­‐ packers  begin  by  making  a  contents  list,  which  tends  to  keep  expanding  as  they  read   around  the  topics.  The  primary  task  is  seen  as  trying  to  fit  as  much  material  as   possible  tidily  into  some  kind  of  structure.  Theatre  producers  begin  by  assembling  a   'cast'  of  leading  authorities,  key  texts  and  quotations.  The  main  task  is  seen  as   shaping  the  text  into  a  'creative  whole'.  Track-­‐layers  begin  by  planning  a  route   through  the  material,  which  might  be  redrawn  several  times  both  before  and  after   attempts  at  writing  the  text.  Here  the  main  task  is  to  try  to  meet  the  needs  of  the   trains  (the  student  readers).  She  also  felt  that  'there  is  not  much  chance  of  people  

changing  from  one  set  to  another...  And  why  should  they?  I  have  no  reason  to  think   that  any  one  of  these  three  approaches  makes  the  job  much  easier  than  any  other  or   necessarily  yields  a  better  product'  (Riley  1979,  p.  5).  This  is  close  to  my  own  view   regarding  writing  strategies.  Riley  also  noted  that  tactics  did  not  seem  tied  to   particular  academic  disciplines:  all  three  tactics  were  found  in  the  social  sciences   and  only  box-­‐packers  seemed  lacking  in  mathematics.  Nor  did  she  find  any   relationship  with  years  of  experience  at  the  task.   References  

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                               Bereiter,  C.  &  M.  Scardamalia  (1987):  The  Psychology  of  Written  Composition.  Hillsdale,  NJ:  Erlbaum  

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