Praise is a potent force.
By Peter P. Jacobi
This
is about editing and teaching.
This is about Roger Rosenblatt, Romeo
and Juliet, a Liberian mask-carver, Franz Liszt, and a pianist named
Andor Foldes.
As teacher of writing courses for journalism
students, I am, of course, an editor. Recently, as teacher/editor, I had
just returned a set of features with multitudinous scrawls in red
plastered over copy. And I had reminded the class about problems that
seemed to pervade: failure to carefully consider for whom the story was
written, with the result that the approach used to get into the subject
seemed faulty; leads that fell short on enticement or that didn't get
the story properly underway; lack of a thesis telling potential readers
what the forthcoming story was about; flawed structure or no clearly
evident sense of direction; the absence of detail, making points far
less persuasive or comprehensible than they might have been; poor
transitions; verbal and/or informational choppiness; deficient flow of
copy resulting from the writer not having read the copy aloud; opinions
where there should have been none, and so forth.
Subtle,
Graceful Instruction
I had also just read Roger Rosenblatt's
just-published re-creation of a writing class, the remembrance in
narrative form of a semester spent with a dozen students at Stony Brook
University, where he is a distinguished professor of English and
writing. Rosenblatt's book is titled Unless It Moves the Human Heart,
The Craft and Art of Writing (ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins).
This
is a relaxed little volume, comfortably, almost subtly, instructive. One
will find in its pages, amidst accounts of class conversations, wisdoms
like this: "I believe in spare writing. Precise and restrained writing.
I like short sentences. Fragmented sentences, sometimes. I enjoy
dropping in exotic words from time to time. Either they put off readers
or drive them to the dictionary. I do it anyway. "
And
wisdoms like this: "Most of my students suffer bouts of throat clearing
-- overwriting and hesitating at the beginning of a piece, instead of
plunging in. The mistake derives from their not knowing what they mean
to say."
I enjoyed the book. You may, too.
Which
leads me to say: I may not always offer my own students such advice so
gracefully or gently as Professor Rosenblatt, but I do offer it. Just
as, I'm sure, you do to those who work with you in creating your
publications.
Constructive Criticism
At the same
time I returned that set of student papers, I received more, these being
reviews of a local production of Shakespeare's glorious tragedy, Romeo
and Juliet. The assignment, as part of a class in "Reporting the
Arts," was to write the review on a two-and-a-half hour deadline. I had
at that point not yet read the results carefully but merely glanced at
what the students produced under pressure. I noticed the usual flaws. I
noticed evidence of rush. I noticed some good ideas and good ideas well
phrased.
I also noticed some diatribes voiced against a
production that, I admit, had a number of weaknesses but also a
here-and-there strength. To give you just one example: "On Sunday
night's closing performance of Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet,
the death of the star-crossed lovers could not have come sooner. Never
before had I seen the Bard's most noted tragedy bawdier, more bombastic
or miscast than the ... Company's rendition." And that was only the
start of an expressed opinion which included words like hopeless,
disagreeable, and obnoxious.
I told the students that I had
skimmed their reviews and, as result, wanted to share with them a quote,
that of a Liberian mask-carver expressing an emotion felt on observing
his own handiwork: "It is not possible to see anything more wonderful in
this world," noted the mask-carver. "His face is shining. He looks this
way and that, and all the people wonder about this beautiful and
terrible thing. To me, it is like what I see when I am dreaming. I say
to myself, this is what my neme [spirit] has brought to mind. I have
made this. How can a man make such a thing? It is a fearful thing that I
can do. No other man can do it unless he has the right knowledge. No
woman can do it. I feel that I have borne children."
Then I
paused and said, "Why would I have read that quote to you?"
There
was silence, for quite a spell. "Why, I ask you?"
There
was more silence and, finally, a raised hand. One student ventured,
"Maybe we were too negative, too strongly opinionated? Maybe we forgot
the hard work that went into the show, even though some of us didn't
like the results?"
"Indeed," I responded. "And thank you.
There are opinions and there are opinions. There is negativity and there
is negativity. There are ways of saying things and there are ways of
saying things. It's not just what you write but how. You must be honest
when you share an opinion. You must say what you feel needs to be said.
But keep in mind that motivated and hard-working folks are at the other
end of your published views. To teach them what you know, do you need to
rip and tear?"
Silently, all the while, I reminded myself
that as teacher (and as editor), I need to be honest and frank and clear
in my reactions to the work of my students, but also I must remember
they have feelings and they're still learning and they (most of them
most of the time, at least) are doing their best, flawed thought their
work might be.
So, I need to avoid diatribes from me to them. And
I suggest to you, as editor/teacher, that the overly sharp, the
reproachful rather than helpful reaction to what a colleague of yours
produces may result in less improvement, less of a solution to the
problem, than a clearly stated yet measured edit, with instructive
comments added.
Praise Is Potent
And that's where
Franz Liszt comes in. In covering my classical music beat for the local
paper, I've been listening to more of Liszt's music of late in concert
and on CDs; this is the 200th anniversary year of his birth. That and
the above-discussed events reminded me of a brief item that ran in the Reader's
Digest some years ago, written by the pianist Andor Foldes, who has
since passed away. He wrote of a master class he had given for young
pianists in Germany. One student, he said he felt, "would do even better
if given a pat on the back. I praised him before the whole class for
what distinguished his playing. He immediately outdid himself, to his
amazement and that of the group."
Foldes recalled a crisis
moment in his life when, at 16, he had differences with his music
teacher. By chance, he had the opportunity to play for Emil von Sauer,
at that time Liszt's last surviving pupil. Sauer listened to the boy
play Bach's "Toccata in C Major" and asked for more. Andor Foldes played
Beethoven's "Pathétique" Sonata and, then, Schumann's "Papillons."
"Finally,"
wrote Foldes, then in his seventies, "von Sauer rose and kissed me on
the forehead. 'My son,' he said, 'when I was your age, I became a
student of Liszt. He kissed me on the forehead after my first lesson,
saying, 'Take good care of this kiss -- it comes from Beethoven, who
gave it to me after hearing me play.' I have waited for years to pass on
this sacred heritage, but now I feel you deserve it."
Concluded
Foldes: "Nothing in my life has meant as much to me as von Sauer's
praise. Beethoven's kiss miraculously lifted me out of my crisis and
helped me become the pianist I am today. Soon I, in turn, will pass it
on to the one who most deserves it. Praise is a potent force, a candle
in a dark room."
We need to remember: along with the slaps
on the wrist, a once-in-a-while kiss can go a long way.
Peter
P. Jacobi is a Professor Emeritus at Indiana University. He is a writing
and editing consultant for numerous associations and magazines, speech
coach, and workshop leader for various institutions and corporations. He
can be reached at 812-334-0063.
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