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Books that live on my desk

To begin with, there’s the dictionary. It’s always a good place to start. I have a thicket of dictionaries (collective noun, anyone?) scattered about my shelves, including a hefty, two volume New Shorter Oxford. But the one that’s in residence on my desk is The Macquarie Concise Dictionary. Together with The Australian Oxford Dictionary, the Macquarie is generally accepted as the standard for Australian spelling. It’s the one I refer to when copyediting and proofreading.

Next come the classy couple of Penguin Working Words and The Cambridge Australian English Style Guide. Between them, these two debonair texts tell me (almost) everything I need to know about correct and preferred language use. I could probably refer to just one or the other, but I enjoy exploring the variations in their explanations of various linguistic topics. While I may refer to them less often than my dictionary when working, I’m always enlightened by what I find in their pages.

The other two books on my desk are a little different. One is very old. The other is very new. Both are gifts from friends I cherish.

The old book is a genuine gem. It’s a small but erudite text on etymology, the study of the roots and origins of words. This text is so impressive it has not one but two semicolons in its title. In full, it is The Pupil’s Guide to English Etymology; containing the Principle Roots from the Latin, Greek, and Other Languages, with their Derivatives; together with Copious Exercises on Prefixes and Affixes by George Manson. “Copious Exercises”? Why, yes!

Published in 1848, its cover is grimed and almost worn through. The pages crackle peevishly when turned and the print is small enough to cause a hawk to squint. Even so, this book simultaneously intrigues, delights and inspires me.

It is perhaps not entirely necessary to delve into the roots of words in order to use them judiciously. However, there is power in understanding the true meaning that lies at their heart. Such knowledge can make one’s choice of words more conscious and also more creative.

The new book arrived just a few weeks ago. It is a copy of Neil Gaiman’s ‘Make Good Art’ speech, originally delivered at Philadelphia’s University of the Arts. The book is designed by Chip Kidd and features artfully arranged text in a striking palette of turquoise, red and white.

The design is engaging but the ideas presented are even more so. Gaiman’s kind and wise advice can not help but make the reader feel reassured about the value of art and effort and experimentation. Above all, this speech is a celebration of both making mistakes and making it up as you go along.

I don’t look to this book for rulings on spelling or usage. I don’t investigate it for insights into the origins of language. Instead, I open it when I’m feeling uncertain or discouraged. I read a page, then usually another, enjoying the energy of the typesetting and the encouragement in the tone of voice. When I feel better, I close the book and go on with whatever task is at hand.

It’s that simple. And it works.

These five books live amicably on my desk. They each reflect my appreciation for words and they aid me in my work. In their own ways, all affirm the extraordinary effect that well chosen and carefully crafted language can have.

They also ensure that I learn ever more about its subtlety, power and pleasure.

Now it’s your turn…

Which books do you keep near you for guidance or sustenance? Which give you the most insight and delight?

A few words on failure

It happens to the best of us. To the worst of us. To all of us. We make plans, devise resolutions. We have goals and responsibilities. Deadlines loom on not so distant horizons and obligations hover heavily upon us.

We mean well. We try hard. We begin with hope and go on with grit. But even so. Sometimes our best efforts aren’t quite enough. Sometimes other things happen and we’re utterly unable to make it work.

We fail.

It’s a human thing.

Whether our reach was too great or our grasp too slight, whether it was within our control or a capricious trick of circumstance, we fail. We do it often and messily. We do it miserably and regretfully. On some occasions we do it spectacularly. On others, more quietly and sorrowfully.

We are human so we fail. But that’s not the point.

It’s what we do next that matters.

Among the many writers I admire is an expatriate Irishman whose face in older age is an ode to endurance. He wrote some of my favourite words. Among them he wrote these:

Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

His name is Samuel Beckett, by the way. And while some might doubt his propensity as a poster boy for motivation, I personally find rugged comfort in the idea – and practice – of trying again after failing and failing again after trying.

Ultimately, I like the thought of failing better than before. It’s hopeful in strange kind of way, wouldn’t you say?

The notion of “failing better” could of course be read to suggest failing in a more definitive, defiant or flamboyant manner next time around. And why not, if that’s how you choose to do it?

But for me, failing better means doing so with a certain gentleness and grace. It means having enough courage and compassion to accept the outcomes of my efforts, whatever shape they take, and being willing to go on anyway. A better failure is one in which I’ve tried. I’ve fumbled and stumbled, recovered, and discovered something that might make my future failures easier to forgive.

This may not be what Samuel Beckett meant. But it’s how I choose to interpret his words.

I fail often, both secretly and openly. I carry my regrets with me. But as long as I try to fail better each time, I’ll keep on going. I’ll try again and fail again. And again and again and again, doing it better whenever and however I can.

I’ll go on.

And you?

Now it’s your turn…

What keeps you going following a failure? In what words or wisdom do you find solace and strength?

New year’s advice for writers

I’m not really one for making new year’s resolutions. I don’t see the point. If you’re hoping to change your habits, your activities or the whole glorious jumble of your life, why wait until 1 January?

Even so, I can’t help finding the optimism of a new year enticing. There’s that delicious feeling that this is the year you will get it right. You’ll figure it out – the system, the magic, the knack. The trick to keeping everything beautiful and smooth.

It doesn’t matter that you thought the same thing last year, or the year before that, or even (since we’re being honest here) the one before that. Nor is it important that while you’re envisioning a life brimming with grace and ease, you remain entirely aware that it’s not going to work out that way.

New years are about beginnings, however wishful, and I’m all in favour of that.

Perhaps this brightly shining new year is the one in which you will finally commit to writing that book. Or maybe 2014 will see you complete that project which has absorbed your time and your mind for so long.

If you have a resolute nature and a desire to write, you might try taking Ray Bradbury’s advice. Writing daily and reading fervently are two excellent ways to spend your days or nights in the coming year. And while delightful activities in themselves, they are also highly likely to make you a better writer. Perhaps even a better human being.

Grasp the optimism of the new year and give it a go. Then, as Bradbury says, see what happens.

My own reservations about resolutions do not stop me from making a wish for the year ahead. That wish is to assist you in whatever way I can to find the art in your words and to craft your written expression.

Artful Words is open for business in 2014.

Tell me how I can help you.

Now it’s your turn…

Do you make new year’s resolutions? Care to share? What do you resolve to create this year?

Here’s a question you won’t find popping out of a Christmas cracker any time soon: What do Winnie-the-Pooh, Japanese haiku, Tove Jansson’s Finn Family Moomintroll, Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable and the complete works of Shakespeare have in common?

At first glance, not a lot. But as it happens, they are all books that have taken up illicit residence on my shelves. Most of them belonged to my parents. Did I use the past tense there? Guilty! Over time, I have borrowed, read, enjoyed and learned from these books.

I just somehow never managed to return them.

I could pretend they are the only ones I’ve nicked, but sadly it’s just not true. There are more. Many more in fact. Strunk and White’s classic The Elements of Style is one. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf is another. I’ve got novels by Kafka, Melville and Camus, along with poems by Janet Frame, e.e. cummings and a wondrous bunch of others.

Even my trusty copy of Roget’s Thesaurus – the subject of a previous post – belongs in this list and is not, strictly speaking, mine.

I admit it. I’m a book thief. And you know, I’m not even sorry about that.

In saying this, I am in no way endorsing any raids you may be inclined to stage on the next well stocked set of shelves you find. It’s just that when I reflect on the various volumes I’ve stolen over the years, I see there’s a reason I’ve never returned them and it’s more than mere inertia.

Sure, some of these books now get contentedly left on the shelf. But others I refer to and return to often, whether I am seeking to write or just seeking delight. They’ve become my companions and I value their presence. For all their inherent treasures, they contain additional gems of discovery and memory for me.

More than anything, I think it is through this curious collection of filched literature that I first began to read like a writer. That’s a lesson worth learning but it needs repeated practice. Maybe that’s why I hang on to these books, why I keep reading them and why I treat them like my own.

It’s because each has in some way contributed to making me the writer and editor I am today.

So I’m sorry, Mum and Dad and anyone else I may have appropriated books from, but I’ll be keeping them for now. You’re welcome to borrow them of course.

Just as long as I get them back.

Now it’s your turn…

Confess. Which books do you have that are not quite entirely yours? What led you to steal them and why do you keep them? What love or learning have you found through being a book thief?