The following was syndicated from Quora for The Fatherly Forum, a community of parents and influencers with insights about work, family, and life. If you’d like to join the Forum, drop us a line at TheForum@Fatherly.com.
How do I tell my 15-year-old daughter she is awful at writing?
When my son was 8, I taught him to play chess. That is, I taught him the moves, even some fine points and a few tricks like en passant and fool’s mate. I told him that he was a very very bad chess player but I was careful to specify that I was a very bad chess player. He first beat me at a game when he was 13. Now he’s 31 and he can beat me consistently.
He is a bad chess player these days and he would probably be better at it, as would I, if we played more often — preferably with people better at it than we are. We don’t have time for such nonsense because we’ve got jobs. He’s a doctor and I make up stories. Arguably, my job is more complex than his, but we’re both much better at what we do for a living than at playing chess, and we don’t much mind that.
As it turns out, he’s a pretty good writer and I’m clueless about doctoring. I suspect he’s a good writer because I actually taught him and his sister (and anyone else who’ll listen) how to write. You don’t learn that stuff in school, although you should. Teaching it takes about 2 hours, followed by unending years of practice. Here’s how it works:
How to Teach Kids To Write
Writing is about the structure of thought. You can express and support any single idea — true, false, ridiculous, it doesn’t matter — in 3 sentences. You must present those sentences in the progression of a statement, an explanation and an illustration. Statement, explanation, or ill
Humans receive information in only one way, and that is in the form of a story. We are hard-wired to do so. When we try to convey information in the unstudied, slipshod manner that we are inclined to present before we stop for a moment and organize it coherently, our readers fill in the blanks we leave behind with their assumptions rather than our logic. So people conclude, quite accurately, that we are bad writers, that we make no sense. We are bad writers when the readers and the hearers don’t understand what we are trying to tell them.
Look at any good essay or story — any effective joke or magic trick, for that matter. You’ll find that structure in it if you pick it apart a little. Every editorial in a newspaper is 3 or 4 paragraphs. The first is a statement, presenting its premise. The second, the explanation, is an expansion on that premise, a case for it in macrocosm. The third is an illustration, a specific microcosmic example of the generalities that the first 2 paragraphs expressed. Maybe there are a few illustrations, each supporting the initial premise. Maybe there’s a concluding paragraph that simply restates the premise in light of the case that the essay has made.
Lincoln learned this stuff on the judicial circuit in Illinois. He read law books and told long silly stories on the road, as the legends hold, but he also read and studied Euclid and he applied geometric principles to non-mathematical ideas. Everything he wrote and pretty much anything he said by the time he burst into the popular consciousness in 1858 — every state of the union report, every throwaway aphorism — fits snugly into that structure.
Jefferson knew it too, although I have no idea where he picked it up. The Declaration of Independence is probably the most effective essay written in the English language. It starts with a statement of purpose, talk about rights and natural law and the fact that we are separating from the kingdom that first planted us here. It goes on to expand that into a series of generalities about self-evident truths, an expression of philosophy.
And Jefferson follows that with a series of 29 specific illustrations of the king’s overstepping of his privileges under that premise, supporting — necessitating, in fact – the establishment of an independent state. He concludes by restating the premise in the strongest, most poetic terms he can muster. Not only did young Jefferson get the structure, but it is clear that he practiced a lot along the way. He knew, by the age of 33, how to apply the poetry.
That’s the thumbnail version of my 2-hour routine on writing.
You need to tell your daughter this stuff. You need to tell your daughter’s teachers this stuff. My daughter is 24 these days, and a terrific writer. She wasn’t when she was 15 but she figured it out. I’m still working on getting her to try her hand at chess.
Elliot S. Maggin writes about movies, comics, and parenting. Read more from Quora: