Mark Tredinnick’s The Little Red Writing Book, in my own subjective view of it, is only seldom useful. Its ultimate conclusion is that writing is a great many things, but chiefly sentence craft – the way words can be carefully orchestrated and linked together to drive even the most dried up tear ducts into openly weeping. I’m not saying that the conclusion is wrong, I’m just saying it’s not particularly helpful.
Structurally, The Little Red Writing Book is somewhere between a self-help book and a school textbook. More often than not, you are left alone with a generous quotation from what the author considers to be good literature, and implored to see it in much the same light. It’s usually accompanied by a brief explainer as to the literary or stylistic device it’s putting on display, or some conclusion the author has managed to extract from between its lines. Whether or not you agree with him is often the point of contention, if not THE point of contention for the whole book.
Tredinnick makes an attempt to differentiate writing into its subsets – what I would humorously call commercially viable and commercial non-viable writing. There’s writing you do on the job. There’s writing you do as part of academia. There’s writing you do as a labour of love. There’s corporate writing, marketing, political statements, minutes, journaling, etc. It’s all writing, but each subset is just that little bit different. The Little Red Writing Book attempts to sporadically cater to them all, if even for just a brief moment. I personally question the usefulness of such an all-encompassing and encyclopedic view of writing, since I can scarcely think of a person who juggles that many hats at any given time. What I mean to say is: If you’re a writer, you’re most likely engaging in only one or two, at most three of these fields. In my case, I write non-fiction by way of critique, and fiction by way of a serialised novel. Capable as I am of abstract thought, I can certainly gleam some nuggets of wisdom from passages that are about how to write a corporate email or write recollections about the birth of my child, which remains yet to be conceived. However, I am often led to question the practicality of some of the provided exercises. Mainly, because I fail to see how my experimenting in those disparate domains, without any external oversight, would lead to any epiphanies.
Where I think The Little Red Writing Book is best, is in the scant few times it actually gives advice in no uncertain terms. When it tells you how Churchill famously stated, “Broadly speaking, the short words are the best, and the old words when short are best of all”. When it tells you to focus on who is doing an action within any given sentence, and avoid passivity. When it tells you that most writing is done away from a keyboard or a sheet of paper. When it tells you of all the ways you can establish pace and tempo, by varying sentence length and complexity. When it tells you that writing should sing and should sound like it ought to be spoken.
Intentionally or not, I find myself using some of the techniques it has taught me even now, as I describe it to you. To say that the book has not had a net positive effect on me would be selling it short. Yet, I don’t think that should distract you from the fact that, should you read it, a lot of this book will seem meaningless and heavily padded. It is a reader, annotated in in a very eloquent and conversational manner. For some, that might be a refreshing departure from the cold and sterile language common to academic literature, but for others it might be a mildly infuriating and slightly too colloquial book of juvenile humour and witticisms that don’t necessarily hold much water in practice. Even for a grown man-child like myself, the chapter about writing “the good SEX” was an embarrassing read. Funny, at first, but eventually every innuendo finds itself stretched out for far too long. This is no exception.
Now that I have (S)tated and (E)xplained, adherence to The Little Red Writing Book’s dogma states that I ought to (X)plore. I think I will go do so elsewhere. Maybe Orwell’s “Why I Write” or Murakami’s “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running”. Maybe in my own works as well (one would certainly hope).
P.S. I’d like to thank internet broadcaster Cody Hargreaves for introducing me to this book, many a moon ago, on a short-lived show called “Writing with Profanity”.