Auntie Mimi’s Rules for Writing

Even though all my children are now adults, I still have the pleasure of getting to know some people in their kid phase. Including Moira, my (unofficial) niece. When Moira asked, “Please Auntie Mimi, will you come talk my grade 5 class about writing?” of course I said, “Yes!”

But what would I say to her class?

I’m confident and enthusiastic when speaking most emerging writers—but they’re usually older. People with larger measures of autonomy. Even by high school, people have had more time to recognize who they want to be and to define their own goals.

This was a very different audience. In grade 5 (a time I don’t particularly like to remember), the messages about doing things “right” are coming from all directions, pressing themselves into you like a seal into pliable wax.

Moira’s teacher—who is warm and considerate and clearly loves teaching these kids—told me that the students were struggling with editing their work. Sometimes lacking the patience to return to what they’d made. Sometimes starting out with enthusiasm, but no plan, and having to do a lot of work to shape their stories.

And the push-back-on-authority part of me was like, Yeah. So what? Why should they? And then I’d think, But I’m supposed to be the authority here.

I know, I know—I was overthinking it. It was just a little classroom visit. A volunteer appearance, not even a professional one. But not only did I want to show up for Moira, I had a sense of wanting to do some good. Of wanting to say to those still-impressionable people, the things that I wish someone had said to me, in a way that I would have remembered.

Because my life falls clearly into categories of years when I’ve written, and those years before I allowed myself to write. Because I didn’t think I “could.”

On the day of the virtual visit, I sat at my desk with pages of notes—written and rewritten.

And also a few props.

I showed the students a piece of embroidery I was working on. How delicate and precise it looked on the surface. Then I flipped it around and showed them the back. All the knots. All the tangles I’d made. The back of the embroidery was kind of like writing, I said. The front was the rewritten work.

I showed them my book of short stories.

I showed them the files and files of notes and research for my current novel and a battered cardboard box overflowing with previous drafts.  Those weren’t just a bunch of mistakes, I told them. They were the writing I was doing on the way to making a polished story. This was the work that no one would see when they read the published book. This was my writing. The published book would be my rewriting.

Then I told them Auntie Mimi’s Rules for Writing:

1) There Are No Rules for Writing

2) There Are Rules for Rewriting—Lots of Them

I told them that writing is just a kind of storytelling. You’re doing it all the time. Whether it’s telling how you got a goal in street hockey, or trying to convince your friend to come over to your house.

Telling stories comes naturally to us. Writing stories can too. Writing is just a way of putting stories into words that are written down. And it doesn’t matter how you write a story. There is no one correct way.

There Are No Rules for Writing

You can plan the story out first, and then write it down. Or you can just start writing, and find your ideas as you go—see what the story becomes. There are people who write whole books without knowing what their story is going to be about, until they get to the end. And there are people who plan everything that’s going to happen in that story before they write down a single word.

You can record yourself telling a story, and then listen to those words and write them out. That counts as writing too. Lots of famous writers have done that. Before we had phones, and tape recorders, people used secretaries to write down what the writers said.

You can make a lot of mistakes, including spelling mistakes. You don’t have to be a good speller to be a good writer! Lots of professional writers have trouble with spelling. It’s just that they go back and fix the mistakes they make—often with help from an editor.

Maybe your writing comes out very tidy. Maybe it comes out messy as can be. It doesn’t matter. Because you’re just getting the words out. That’s the writing part. Do it however you want. There are no rules for writing.

There Are Rules for Rewriting

Rewriting is getting your story ready for other people. The people who will read it or hear it. Those people are your audience.

The trick to rewriting is knowing who your audience is, and what they need you to do to help them appreciate your story. Knowing the “rules” for rewriting is really just knowing what your audience needs and expects. And making your story suit them.

Different audiences need different things from your writing. Different rules to make your story a “good” one.

If you go to school all day in English, but at home your family only knows how to speak French, what language will you use to tell them about your day? French, of course. Because your family is your audience, and you want to tell the story in a way they understand. The rule here: Adjust your language to suit your audience.

If you’re writing an assignment for school, your audience is your teacher. And what your teacher needs to know is what you’ve learned. She’s reading to find out: Did you do the assignment the way she asked you to? Did you correct your spelling? Are you using proper punctuation? Can she read your handwriting? So the rules for rewriting are: follow the assignment, correct your spelling and punctuation, and make sure your printing is neat and tidy.

But those aren’t the rules for rewriting a story for your friends to read, or for telling a good story on the schoolyard. Maybe then, the way to keep your audience listening or reading is to make it funny. So—depending on your friends’ sense of humour—the rule might be: Add a lot of jokes about underwear. Because saying “underwear” is something that makes your friends laugh.

Your teacher, not so much.

Different audiences = different rules.

Any questions?

There were questions, of course—prepared in advance. And the kids seemed attentive. But who can tell over video call?

The next week I got a package in the mail. A thank you note from every student—the kind that have the formality expected, but actually sound like kids wrote them. Which is just what this audience wanted.

There were a number (many from boys) saying how much they liked to hear that good writing and good spelling weren’t the same thing. One kid wrote to say they were thinking up a story, even while I was talking. (Inspired? Inattentive? Who cared?! I loved it.) One child said she thought I was a good mom. At my kitchen table, resident daughter (and resident expert in my parenting skills) concurred, which was nice. There was also a note from the teacher, thanking me for—among other things—making the underwear distinction!

And then, there was this. You’re welcome, Moira. I hope you keep writing your stories—however you want.