Ryan Thomas

AP English—Period 5/6
Ms. Leitze
September 8, 2008

ONE FOR ALL

“I will write, as in the past, simply for the pleasure of writing, for myself alone.”

- Gustav Flaubert

When did great writing become so horrible? At some point, society shifted its

standards as to what constitutes “good writing” from the works of Hawthorne, Twain,

Poe, and Bradbury, to those of Stephanie Meyer and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Writing lost its

status as a vehicle for the reader’s outer and inner awareness, and became a showcase for

the author’s abilities to arouse appreciation or shock, for their personal artistic

expression. While this bastardization of an art form is well and good for the thousands

who earn their pay turning their emotions into our entertainment, it robs the masses of

edification, in this, the supposedly most troubled of generations. Anyone who writes

merely for him or herself wastes both their talent and the world’s time.

I do not mean to say that writing needs be unpleasant—any artist who crafts a great

work, a sculpture, perhaps, or a novel, more relevantly—will and should feel excited at

the prospect of having used their talents to their fullest extent, and having thus created a

lasting imprint of those talents. Just so, an athlete delights after straining him or herself

to exhaustion, and finding those efforts rewarded in loss of weight, creation of a more

defined, handsome physique. However, one should never regard this enjoyment as the

purpose of writing, nor the sole reason for it. Exuberance should merely indicate that one

has put their talents to good use.

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The term “good use” begs a definition, though a short one would be an

oversimplification. One must think of writing as having a distinct purpose. Though it

serves many functions, writing only fulfills its purpose when it acts as an engaging

medium thorough which readers are both morally or factually educated, and also made

aware of dangers in their culture that they may avoid or prevent once they learn of them.

Moreover, the morals, facts, and/or dangers related to the reader must be little known or

often observed; in other words, the writing should truly be novel to its audience.

Otherwise, literature offers nothing enriching, except perhaps a different perspective on

its subject—but in its own right, a new perspective is worth much less to a reader as a

new way to live.

And if writing offers no enrichment, why should it be read? Some may argue that all

enjoyment is worthwhile—I would have been among this vague grouping of “some” very

recently. However, maturation brings new insight into life, or at least, the impression that

one has gained new insight; either way, I no longer believe that empty entertainment has

any place in one’s life. Time devoid of either pure joy or true purpose is, in this clichédly

brief existence, wasted, and lost. Watching a humorous television program is certainly

energizing, and usually a relief from the daily, supposedly inescapable, stress and

depression of work, school, or even, troublingly, total inactivity. However, the time spent

on the program yields no information or insight that will improve in the least the quality

of future time—and as any broker will be swift to say, to invest without yield is the surest

measure of stupidity—clearly not a positive activity.

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Why, then, would writing fall under different standards? The fact that printed jokes

truly only vary from visual ones in that they require a larger attention span does not

justify either, but condemns both. And the fact that reading about authors’ personal

feelings and grievances gives the reader a sense of camaraderie with those authors, a

sense that their own struggles are paralleled, is also no reason to read these sentiments.

Indeed, this identification between writer and reader is actually fodder for an argument

against reading such material: it encourages readers to wallow in their disappointments or

sensitivities, as the author is doing, and in doing so, focus on life’s sorrows or ignore its

simple joys. Either of these is a crime.

Yet, most authors get away with murder – the murder, that is, of literature. As a writer,

if not an author, I know the temptations of writing what is enjoyable to write. The allure

of crafting witty or poetic phrases is more than great. Such sentences always feel

innovative, insightful, and interesting when one is writing them – and they always feel

tired, trite, and tedious to readers who have tasted the true originality of great writers.

However, that very originality is what tempts all writers to invent where invention is

excessive—every time a gold nugget is unearthed, a rush of hopeful imitators gathers.

Once, readers regarded this empty writing as the pursuit of fools, a misuse of talent.

However, the line between this emptiness and truly deep writing has vanished in the

minds of most; usually, because they have never had cause to know anything else. For

why would a child read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, when The Adventures of

Captain Underpants are available? Thus enjoyable writing begins to pass for great

reading, and both a writer who could have depicted a less exciting, but more
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edifying, subject, and a reader who would otherwise set his or her sights on a classic

novel settles for an “instant classic”. (Funnily enough, a term intended to grade books as

obvious successors to the true classics actually describes them, very aptly, as cheap

substitutes for classics, just as instant soup has none of the qualities of its natural

counterpart.)

Writers who allow themselves to fall into this trap too often lure others into it – not

other writers, but readers whose minds become limited by the writer’s self-absorbed

creations. In this way all people slowly become trapped, unable to learn or live,

surrounded by cheap playthings that lose their appeal after they wear in the least.

Luckily, true substance remains alive in the classics—however, they will soon vanish

beneath the pile of highly acclaimed rubbish that grows higher every day. The only hope

lies in writers abandoning their pretension, and once again creating substantive art, with

purpose and the power to change readers for the better. When most writings are just

distractions, folly soon becomes life’s substance – and with such a weak substance, lives

are sure to crumble. But if writers once again create meaningful works, society will have

the chance to turn its attentions once again to such literature, and in doing so, gain some

semblance of wisdom and real happiness. In the hope that I might help make this the

case, I write, unlike in my past, never simply for myself.