Brig PS Gothra (Retd)
“Pure shit!” That was my mentor’s verdict after reading the first ten pages of my first novel’s manuscript.
It hurt. I had spent months writing it. I had hoped for praise, perhaps a few corrections. Instead, I had received a literary court-martial.
I summoned my courage. “Sir, at least tell me why.”
“First, your vocabulary. Why use words that send the reader reaching for a dictionary? Are you writing a novel or conducting an English examination?”
He had a point. Somewhere during my education, I had acquired the belief that difficult words made a man appear learned. Apparently, I had mistaken vocabulary for wisdom.
“Second, your sentences are too long. By the time the reader reaches the end, he has forgotten the beginning.”
“But, Sir, I am trying to explain everything.”
“Have you ever tried filling a spoon under a fast-running tap?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What happens?”
“Most of the water spills.”
“Exactly! Your sentences are the tap. The reader’s mind is the spoon. You pour words faster than he can absorb them. Most of what you write simply flows away.”
He saw the tutti-frutti-flavoured confusion on my face.
“And third, you write as though you are sitting on a mountain of knowledge and your reader is somewhere down in the valley.”
“But, Sir, water flows from a higher level to a lower level!”
He smiled. “Let us assume you and your reader are two cups. Yours is full. His is empty. Now pour your water into his cup from two feet above. What happens?”
“Some spills over the sides.”
“And some splashes out. Worse, the reader must struggle to catch what you are pouring. Why make him work so hard? Bring your cup close. Pour gently, something like pouring beer in the mug.”
I was beginning to feel less like a novelist and more like a bartender.
“Remember,” he continued, “you are not writing to prove how intelligent you are. You are writing to communicate.”
Then came my first assignment.
“Write something. Simple words. Short sentences. No showing off.”
I worked for a week, removing difficult words, shortening sentences and sacrificing expressions I had considered literary masterpieces.
He read my revised effort.
“Achha hai.”
My heart leapt.
“But it has no feeling.”
My heart returned to its original position.
“Sir, now what?”
“Writing should be like good ice cream. You finish eating it, but the taste lingers. Your reader should be left with a smile, a tear, anger, regret—something!”
He handed me another assignment. “Write one or two sentences each on stupidity, regret, royalty and achievement. Don’t describe the emotion. Make the reader feel it.”
A week later, I returned with four examples drawn from military life. He read them and shook his head.
“These convey your feelings as a soldier. Remember, everyone is not a soldier! Even your fellow soldiers may not have had the same experiences. Your reader may be a teacher, a shopkeeper, a homemaker or a child. Find experiences everyone understands.”
Another week. Another attempt. This time, I abandoned the battlefield and searched for inspiration in everyday life. I handed him my revised answers.
Stupidity: The feeling I got as a child when I stood on a chair, leaned against its backrest and brought the whole thing crashing down. You surely feel stupid if it’s a repetition.
Regret: The feeling when you step into dog shit and realise that looking where you were going would have been considerably easier than cleaning your shoe.
Royalty: The feeling of sitting on the toilet in the morning, newspaper in hand, with nobody to disturb you. For those precious minutes, you are the undisputed ruler of your kingdom.
Achievement: The satisfaction of cleaning your ear with a cotton swab and discovering a generous deposit of earwax on its tip. Proof that your efforts had produced results.
He read them.
A smile appeared. Then a chuckle.
Finally, he put the paper down.
“Now you are fit to write.”
I had spent months trying to impress him with difficult words, elaborate sentences and profound thoughts.
And what finally earned his approval?
Dog shit, a toilet and earwax. That day, I learnt something no university had taught me: good writing is not about using difficult words. It is about using simple words to create feelings that refuse to go away.
Jai Hind!