A Simple Secret to Great Writing

by Erin Ensinger

My childhood shares some uncanny parallels with Laura Ingalls.’ When I turned seven, my pioneer parents packed up our Ford Escort and fled the civilization of our small paper mill town. Staking a claim in the backwoods of Maine, we lived in a trailer without running water or electricity while my father built a small cabin. Family fun time meant picking up the nails my father dropped, filling water jugs at the spring, and gathering wood for our stove.

We watched the sun rise every day while careening back down the mountain toward town, dodging moose along the way. Our destination? The one-room schoolhouse taught by my mother and her best friend. There I learned, among other things, how to yodel, braid rugs, and make lucky guesses on multiple choice tests. I remember next to nothing of the academic topics which worksheets rendered lifeless, but I do remember the books.

After the recess hour of galloping imaginary horses over the bare parking lot “playground,” we gathered in a sweaty circle around Mrs. Jamison. We could draw or crochet or just sit spellbound while she led us into the worlds of Charlotte’s Web, Johnny Tremain, and The Wind in the Willows. Waiting after school for my mother to herd her students homeward, I took Mrs. Jamison’s advice to “make a nest” of blankets in the library – a lofty name for four shelves of books in a closet-sized room.  Those narrow walls fell away as I plunged headlong into Nancy Drew, Chronicles of Narnia, and Rainbow Garden. Other times, Mrs. Jamison would slyly pass a book off to me as though it were some contraband item. I met Old Mother West Wind and Anne of Green Gables this way.

But the books weren’t limited to school. At home my mother read us the Little House series on repeat. Weekends found my brother and me riding our bikes three miles to the village for penny candy and puffing back, handlebars laden with library books—National Velvet, Misty of Chincoteague, The Wheel on the School. Before my dad drove the last nail into our cabin, he constructed the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf of my mother’s dreams. Whatever the deficiencies of my elementary education, the wealth of books provided ample compensation.

Two decades later as a freshman English composition teacher, I witnessed firsthand the results of childhood book deprivation. I nearly tore my hair out over students who had spent twelve years in school but couldn’t write a clear sentence. Explaining the elements of grammar made no difference. Patiently pointing out their errors and providing revision suggestions availed nothing. Assigning classic works on the writing process proved futile.  

When my own children approached school age, I longed to protect them from a similar fate. I had already wrestled with God about homeschooling, gradually working my way from the “You can’t be serious, Lord,” stage to tentative enthusiasm. But as I considered what I would actually do each day with my tiny scholars, I wondered, “What is education, anyway? What kind of education nurtures writers?”

We embarked on our educational journey with these questions unanswered. I simply clung to the hope that filling their days with books would somehow work wonders. As we read book after book together, a pattern started to emerge, soothing my anxiety. All the great heroes, thinkers, and writers we read about had one thing in common – excellent books. Young Ben Franklin lived on bread and butter to afford Pilgrim’s Progress. Thomas Jefferson set himself a grueling reading schedule: science books before dawn, law from 8:00 to noon, politics and history in the afternoon, and literature until bedtime. Nathaniel Hawthorne read Shakespeare and Milton for himself while still a boy.

None of these stories were new to me, but taken one after another in rapid succession, they burned an impression on my mind. The answer seemed so simple now. You can’t wring out of someone what was never poured into them. My writing students couldn’t write because good writing hadn’t saturated the atmosphere of their childhood. No writing curriculum can beat the simple act of reading, performed faithfully day after day for a lifetime.

For those of us who tend to complicate things, we may rebel against the idea of simply reading. In a frantically busy and perpetually distracted age, we may long for the convenience of a writing program that proposes distinct steps to a concrete result. But if we can free ourselves from these objections, we’ll soon discover the beauty of walking through life in the companionship of great books.

Keep in mind, though, that not just any reading will do. As my graduate school professor exhorted me, “You must read widely and deeply.” Read fiction you enjoy, certainly, but challenge yourself to a courageous reading life. If you normally read historical fiction, launch out into fantasy. If you always read contemporary works, pick up a classic. Consider C.S. Lewis’s advice: “It is a good rule, after reading a new book, never to allow yourself another new one till you have read an old one in between (“Introduction”). Libraries these days are ridding their shelves of anything written before this current century, to the great detriment of our vocabularies, intellects, and moral vision.

Read alone and read with friends. My friends and I started a simple book club which I believe has survived because of its simplicity. We meet once a month and while the children run wild, we take turns summarizing the chapters we read. Then we share observations, questions, and personal impressions. No complicated discussion questions or literary analysis techniques required.

If you didn’t have a childhood rich in books, don’t despair. Each time I sit down to read aloud with my children, I feel like I’m redeeming yet another small part of the education I never had. It’s never too late to read, and the books we missed as children can speak to us profoundly even as adults. If you, like me, are a tired mother who tends to nod off over her books, consider the advice 19th century educator Charlotte Mason passed on to us from a well-read mother: “‘I always keep three books going—a stiff book, a moderately easy book, and a novel, and I always take up the one I feel fit for! (“Mother Culture”).’”

Here are some of my favorite resources for nurturing a satisfying, challenging, adventurous, and downright fun reading life:

The Literary Life Podcast

The Literary Life Podcast

Book Girl: A Journey Through the Treasures and Transforming Power of a Reading Life, Sarah Clarkson

The Well-Educated Mind: A Guide to the Classical Education You Never Had, Susan Wise Bauer

The Read-Aloud Handbook, Jim Trelease

Citations

Lewis, C.S. “Introduction to Athanasius’ On the Incarnation.” chrome-extension://efaidnbmnnnibpcajpcglclefindmkaj/https://www.bhmc.org.uk/uploads/9/1/7/7/91773502/lewis-incarnation-intro.pdf

“Mother Culture.” The Parents’ Review, vol. 3, no. 2 (1892-93), 92-95. https://www.amblesideonline.org/PR/PR03p092MotherCulture.shtml.