Don’t Write What You Don’t Know: The Importance of Socratic Ignorance in Writing
Writing 101 is not fooling yourself into thinking you know more than you do
Don’t write what you don’t know — this might just seem like the stupidest sentence you read today. But is it?
A few weeks ago, our college Committee required students to send write-ups on designated topics that were to be published in our brochure later. The duty of going through the write-ups to see if there was anything in it we could use fell upon me.
Now, I’m no Margaret Atwood but, like most of us, I know good writing when I see it. And, like some of us, I get a little crazy when I don’t. Imagine the feeling when you yourself haven’t quite gotten the hang of bowling a perfect yorker but are prepared with a few choice words of advice for the poor professional bowler on the national cricket team when he messes up the throw just so? Something like that. Anyway, I looked. I looked through the pages repeatedly and could only reach one conclusion. The stuff needed major editing. The significance of this incident struck me only recently when I was in the middle of Anne Lamott’s gem of a book, Bird by Bird.
Cultivating Socratic ignorance
When I say don’t write something you don’t know, I mean don’t delude yourself into thinking you know something you don’t. Consider Socratic ignorance.
Socratic ignorance, or Socratic wisdom as it is also called, refers to a person’s knowledge when she admits exactly what she does and does not know. When Socrates’ friend Chaerephon told him the Delphic oracle thought him (Socrates) to be the wisest human of all, he (Socrates) probably burst a nerve laughing, for he was convinced without false modesty that there were brighter lamps in the street. Ultimately, after visits to several ‘learned’ greats, Socrates came to the conclusion that if the question was about being humble enough to admit what one does not know, he was probably the wisest.
Now, how does one apply this wisdom to writing?
Taking my initial example forward, when I proposed to the Committee to draft a set of guidelines to be sent to the submitters for them to then edit and resend, I was shown the green signal. Not to publicly air dirty laundry, but I think I could have phrased myself better. One of the guidelines ended up like this:
If the use of a word or phrase is unclear to you, kindly refrain from using it. We would appreciate honest and clear sentences.
And one of the re-submitters responded with:
I would like to point out that no one would write sentences which are ‘unclear’ to them. It is a bit of common sense.
I went through surprise, annoyance and indignation in the space of 0.01 seconds. But then I realised that what I was seeing was less of a snide comeback and more of a common misconception. Truth be told, it is not common sense.
Most of the time we don’t know what the hell we are doing, in life as well as on paper. But the absolute worst we can do is to believe we do, leaving no room for a compassionate word of advice or any improvement. We read articles encouraging us to write like the devil because that is the only way you would get anywhere. We read excellent pieces on how writing even a page every day can give us the practice we — being fresh-faced writers — need. Quite often though, we see articles telling us to write from the heart; about the first thing that comes to mind. And so we write with abandon.
All that is great. For a first draft.
The problem is, so many of us write thinking ourselves to be the rightful heir to Shakesphere’s title, confident we would get it right on the first try and then move on to better things. I say that because I myself thought I must be a prodigy of some sort when I realised I could successfully string more than four words together to make half an interesting sentence. But that feeling lasted about as long as a moth’s life.
Pick up any piece you wrote a while back. Nine times out of ten you will cringe, read the stuff in disbelief, and cringe again. If you look closely, you’ll realise that what you had written so confidently then does not really match up on retrospection. Maybe the usage of some word was incorrect, or you seriously misapplied an analogy. Perhaps every argument you made now seems baseless and ignorant-sounding.
This is where Socratic wisdom comes in — it requires a dogmatic questioning of everything one knows until deep-felt scepticism starts to creep in. Crudely speaking, you must write with the knowledge that every single thing you write may be questioned. Be a harsh critic of your own work, because a google search for synonyms might not always supply a word suited to the context you’re looking for.
It is not about not being confident about your work. It is about being confident enough to leave minimal scope for rejection, or future censure.
Checklist to follow
Here’s a little checklist you can follow. You will automatically expand it once you cultivate Socratic wisdom.
- Stop fooling yourself, because you’re not fooling anyone else. If you’re not sure about a word or phrase, context, slang, etc. then either don’t use it or research more on it. It is always better to sound commonplace than like a second-hand Byron. This is a continuous learning process.
- Get off your diet. If you are not writing well, it may be because you are low on your vocabulary reserve. Read more, and read variety. If you’re like me, then after you read fantasy or humour or horror the next thing you write reflects the same, respectively. Write everything, but publish only if you're feelin’ it. And reading voraciously will help you determine if you are, in fact, feelin’ it.
- Sweat a little. Be prepared to do, re-do, and re-re-do. If your internal buzzer doesn’t bleat a shrill ehh! on your first draft, then check with your technician.
- Be honest with your motivations and how you got there. This is something I always emphasize: truthfulness is the first step to glorious lying. If fiction writing is your thing, then this is your mantra. Start with a fundamental truth, something you know for a fact exists, before giving way to imaginative absurdity.
- Thou shalt not sacrifice clarity for elegance to save your life. Remember that, and the battle is half won.
Parting note
Most of what you want to say is already out there somewhere — how you serve the old porridge to make it look like toast and taste like soma is upon you.
What is good writing? Here’s a passage from Judith McNaught’s A Kingdom of Dreams:
Behind them, the armourer clapped his hands slowly — twice. The smith joined in. Then a dozen more serfs. By the time Royce had guided her up the wide steps leading to the hall doors where Stefan and Friar Gregory were waiting, the entire bailey was thundering with steady clapping — not the sort of uninhibited, spontaneous salute that marks heartfelt enthusiasm, but rather the rhythmic response of the spellbound who are awed by a power too potent to resist.
There’s something so well put together in these sentences that you find yourself stopping for a second to admire it. Every word seems to be there for a reason, the reason being to awe the reader and pull her in this make-believe world of dashing heroes and spitfire heroines and grey villans. And that’s what good writing is. If it makes you feel like cheating on the last good piece you read and have been contently living with, you’ve probably found your new bedmate.
The first step? Knowing that the only thing you know is that you know nothing, and starting from there.
(That being said, don’t compromise on your style. Not everything has to go according to the rules.)
