The Art of Nonfiction is a worthy companion to the earlier book edited by Robert Mayhew, The Art of Fiction. As with the previous volume, The Art of Nonfiction is compiled from a series of taped talks and discussions Ayn Rand conducted with interested students. In many ways, I found this book of even more interest and value than the first one.
In these talks, Rand covered such issues as: selecting a subject for writing and choosing a specific aspect of the topic (a theme) for analysis; the importance of audience analysis; seamlessly incorporating one's philosophical principles into one's presentation without being "preachy"; the need to create an outline with tips on how to do so; the integral role of one's subconscious in the writing process; how to deal with common writing obstacles; editing one's work; and the meaning and use of a distinctive writing style.
Secondary topics dealt with in this book are: how to approach book reviews and introductions for books; the differences in focus and requirements between writing an article and a full-length book; how to select a title that best encapsulates one's theme; and, finally, how to discover things to write about.
For all of those who distort and dismiss Ayn Rand's personality and her ideas as mere dogma and intolerance, The Art of Nonfiction provides a refreshing glimpse into the thought processes of one of the Twentieth Century's greatest writers of both fiction and nonfiction. Consider the very first paragraph of Chapter 1:
This initial caveat, however, does not mean that Rand was a closet-proponent of subjectivism. There are certain principles to be observed in every area of life. How one implements those ideas, however, must take into consideration the specific context of the person(s) involved. Even when dealing with one's own thoughts, values, assumptions, and reactions, one can still be objective.
Indeed, when you address such "subjective" aspects of yourself is when you are most in need of true objectivity. If you are interacting with others, there is often ample opportunity for outside correction of errors in what you say or do. In the private realms of your own ideas and judgments, however, that task falls solely upon you, the individual.
To be objective in regard to your internal processes means -- no more and no less -- that you take into account all the information available to you, that you seek to integrate the various facets of your self with one another, and, furthermore, that you accept no contradictions between that inner unity and the external world.
An important theme throughout The Art of Nonfiction is the significance of the subconscious -- that great integrator of our psyche -- in the writing process. As Rand points out, "when you sit down to write...you must regard yourself as perfect, omniscient, and omnipotent." (p. 1) What this actually means, she explains, is that you must believe that you are, indeed, capable of writing, that you are able to mold your work to match your intentions.
To begin writing while focused on the fact that your work will be imperfect; that the process itself may be difficult and challenging; and that you must be patient in achieving your goals; to be too consciously aware of these issues is to short-circuit the work of the subconscious and its role in automatizing complex actions, whether those be physical or mental.
(For an easy illustration of this principle, try to type while concentrating on your fingers and each and every key. Or try consciously to attend to your body and club while golfing. Or consciously and deliberately pick each word as you talk. While such direct focus is necessary in learning such skills, to continue such overt awareness while performing those actions is to find your fingers fumbling over one another on the keyboard, to watch your golf ball hooking viciously into the woods [if you manage to hit it, at all], and to become tongue-tied.)
Though this reliance upon the subconscious automatization of complicated connections may seem "mystical" to someone observing the behavior, writing is -- as is any skill -- something that can be learned. Of course, some practitioners will be more adept and talented than others, but Rand wants would-be writers to realize that being a writer is not an issue of "divine inspiration" or mystery. In this way, she has more confidence in the average person than do many teachers: "...[A]ny person who can speak English grammatically can learn to write nonfiction. Nonfiction writing is not difficult, though it is a technical skill. Its only difficulty pertains to a person's method of thinking..." (p. 2)
This is an essential requirement for being able to rely upon your subconscious rather than being betrayed by it. Rand's "orderly method of thinking" (p. 2) is, unfortunately, not a priority in today's society. Indeed, dependence upon "emotions" and "desires" and "opinions" marks the bulk of nonfiction writing in even major newspapers and magazines. Facts, reason, logic, and integration are sacrificed upon the altar of expediency.
"Don't confuse me with the facts" is evident in much of what passes for journalism and commentary when such topics as guns, tobacco, the environment, education, medicine, or recreational drugs are evaluated. Even so-called scientific research in many of these politically-charged fields of study is tainted and colored by elevating ends over means.
Would that those who deliberately seek to obscure their message in order to make it more palatable to a government-brainwashed populace followed Rand's advice. What does she view as the most important elements of nonfiction writing? "...clarity, clarity, and clarity." (p. 2, emphasis in original)
Rand's desire to encourage potential writers, to help them avoid self-doubt, and to aid them in overcoming various pitfalls (such as varieties of writer's block; see Chapter 6, "Writing the Draft: The Primacy of the Subconscious") may surprise some of her critics. Rand, however, is not advocating an "anything goes" approach. In keeping with her objective orientation, she recognizes the reality of what it means to be a writer and how each individual must implement her advice in ways that best fits his personal circumstances.
What is important is not a slavish imitation of a one-size-fits-all attitude, but a professional mind-set that accepts that writing is a job that demands a "hard-headed, reality orientation." (p. 4) As she says, "I cannot literally teach you to write. I can provide only a set of shortcuts that are helpful as general principles." (p. 62) "Use all that you have learned in this course, not as rigid rules, but as abstract principles to be applied by your independent thinking to your particular problems." (p. 182)
Those who seek a follow-the-numbers guide to writing or philosophy will not find it here. Rand's statement that, "Philosophy cannot give you a set of dogmas to be applied automatically....The dogmatic Objectivist desperately tries to reduce principles to concrete rules that can be applied automatically, like a ritual, so as to bypass the responsibility of thinking and of moral analysis" (p. 30) applies just as well to her advice on writing.
Rand identifies three broad types of (short) nonfiction writing: journalistic reporting, "middle range" articles of analysis and commentary, and theoretical writing dealing with very general, fundamental principles. In The Art of Nonfiction she concentrates primarily on middle range writing (the kind she most enjoyed writing). This type of article consists "of the application of abstractions to concretes." (p. 5) An example would be applying the principle of property rights to efforts to ban smoking in "public" places. (See my "Smoking [Out] Fascists" in Laissez Faire City Times for an example of this.)
Since there are a semi-infinite number of topics and angles that one could conceivably focus upon, a crucial aspect of writing is learning to be selective. One has only so much space in which to cover an issue. To take a kitchen-sink approach in which one seeks to include every relevant fact -- no matter how tangential -- is to drown in a morass of mounting material. As a writer, one seeks to lead one's readers, not to bury them in a suffocating pile of facts, overly-intricate explanations, and displays of erudition. Even a book can only be so long.
When writing middle range pieces, a writer should shine a laser beam upon one facet of the problem under discussion. Another time, he may explore a different component of the topic. But to blast a floodlight upon the issue does not provide illumination for the reader. It merely blinds him.
As Rand points out, "In an article, you do not prove your theme, you demonstrate it." (p. 8, emphasis in original) To a large extent, you take for granted the truth of your position. For those readers with active minds, your connecting of the abstract with the concrete (or the general with the specific) may provide them insights they might have missed upon their own. As Rand says, you "...present [your point] and indicate its proof..." (p. 8, emphasis in original) Since you cannot force the minds of your readers to work logically and rationally, you must not set yourself the impossible task of presenting an "unanswerable argument."
No matter how brilliant you are, no matter how tightly you argue your case, no matter how careful you are in your presentation, the capacity of some readers to misinterpret your words, to blow minor points out of proportion, and to use your work as a springboard for their own obsessions is boundless. Accept that reality, and you will find writing a far less frustrating endeavor than it might otherwise be.
Introspection (knowing what you do or do not know and why you want to write upon a particular subject) and perspective-taking (deciding what will be of interest to your intended audience, how much they know, and what they believe about the topic) are also necessary for directing your work. While you can never know for certain the exact composition of your audience, no such fuzziness is acceptable regarding your self, your knowledge, or your choice of words.
As Rand says, "The great majority of writing problems come from approximations in one's mind. The subconscious does not work through approximations. It is more absolutist than your conscious mind..." (p. 17) "Your conscious mind ensures that you are in focus, know what you are writing about, and are driving in the right direction. But for the execution of your purpose, you rely on your subconscious." (p. 57, emphasis in original)
In many ways, The Art of Nonfiction is primarily an exploration of how to think. And since telepathy does not exist, a writer has one and only one means for conveying the invisible ideas in his head: words. How he selects those words, how he organizes them, and how he conveys them determine the success of his communicative goals.
The time for you to join the fight for freedom by committing your thoughts to paper is now. There surely is no shortage of advocates on the other side.