See the Big Picture

One reason so many people experience fear when they sit down to write is because they have not yet thought about who it is they are writing to or for. A letter to Grandma and a letter to the editor should not sound the same (unless Grandma happens to be the editor). Identifying the reader is a valuable action that can help people get over the first of many writing humps.

When you understand that you are writing for someone, you feel less alone with a piece of writing — even if the person who eventually reads what you have written is somehow intimidating, as with a teacher, a critic, or a potential employer. It is helpful in any case to realize that an actual person will be on the other end of this communication and that the job is either to inform, amuse, or persuade that person (or do all three concurrently).

So when I am writing to a customer-service representative at a motel chain about a shoddy experience I have had, I want to start out by visualizing that person. In reality, she may be someone who gets a lot of complaints but who tries to be truly responsive to them all. On the other hand, she may be someone who doesn't particularly value her work or pay much attention to what comes her way; she simply signs a form letter and encloses a coupon for a free breakfast the next time you happen to stay at the Last Resort.

Now, keep in mind that you won't know who that person is when you write your letter of complaint and you won't know how she functions in the world, but you can certainly create an ideal person — someone who is responsive, who listens, and who will act on your complaint. Creating such a prototype will inspire you to write more effectively rather than just spout and fume, which rarely does much good.

Whenever I discuss the issue of communication with writers, I can see how important and clarifying it is for them to visualize their reader. For instance, when my high-school students set out to write their college-admission essays, I ask them to imagine themselves sitting at a party next to somebody they do not know.

"How do you want that person to think of you as a communicator?" I ask them. "Do you think it wise to spout your achievements and try to impress that person with what you have accomplished? Or is it better to make a real interpersonal connection with that individual, so that he or she will be open to finding out more about you as you continue to communicate?"

The latter is always the right answer.

You can fall short on the communication front in a number of distinct ways — and it's altogether possible that your communication style could be afflicted by several of these shortcomings at the same time. Consider the following:

• The insecure communicator is the mumbler who evades your eye as he swallows his words. He has little conviction in what he has to say, so he says it as quietly as possible, often trailing off so that he won't even be noticed.

• The inconsiderate communicator does not keep her listener's needs in mind. She interrupts, does not pick up on cues, and can be strident.

• The inappropriate communicator intrudes on the space that most people try to maintain in social intercourse. He talks too close to you, reveals too much about himself, and does not know when to stop talking.

• The inaccessible communicator is aloof and comes across as cold. She doesn't connect with her listener, because she doesn't feel the need to make connections.

• The inexact communicator says one thing and means another. He gets tripped up in his own discourse, and because he cannot be counted on to keep up his end of the conversation, an exchange with him often goes nowhere.

Communication can go awry between two people in other ways, but these cover quite a few problem areas — and the interesting thing is that these problems apply to written language just as much as to spoken language.

Recently, I worked with an autistic college applicant who was mainstreamed in his high school and did very well academically. He decided to write something about the stigmatizing condition with which he had been struggling all his life. I certainly agreed that something so central to his identity should be brought into his college application, and the personal statement seemed a good place to explore this subject. We worked together on an essay about his pet lizard, Phoebe, a leopard gecko that he loved more than anything else in the world.

I had never worked with anyone who had such significant autism before and found that his writing reflected his inability to gauge appropriate social distances. In that sense, he qualified as an "inappropriate communicator," but that problem was significantly mitigated by the fact that there was something so likable and earnest about this young man that his story promised to be quite moving.

So I cut. And cut. And cut. The drafts came in at four or five times longer than they were supposed to, and there was a definite feeling of his standing too close to me and saying too much. Torrents of emotion went on for pages, and it was evident that he had very little concept of how neurotypical people communicate their feelings. But, again, he had something to say, so ultimately he was able to bring the essay home. He wrote about the lizard's shedding of its skin and his own "shedding of the skin he was born with" in order to assume a persona that helped him function in the mainstream world.

When I first talked to him about this concept of communicating with his reader, I wasn't sure how far he could go with it, as the dynamic of interpersonal communication was essentially foreign to him. He understood, however, that this was something that could be learned — and, being the good student he was, he learned it.

Identifying Your Reader

Back in 1972, I graduated from Johns Hopkins University with a baccalaureate degree in English literature. I then decided to stay on for another year to earn a master's degree in a program called Writing Seminars. That year was significant for me, as it gave me some space and financial support as I developed my identity as a writer. Upon graduation, I went to work for a few years in publishing in New York City; since then, for the rest of my life, I have made my living, such as it has been in any given year, as a freelance writer. There have been full-time jobs here and there in the world of film, but those have just been drops in the bucket. As a freelance writer, I have learned to write in many different disciplines, so I could help support my family and generally survive in a tough world.

Earlier in my career, I did my best to earn my living by writing books. I always had a rich creative project going, such as a novel, and wrote quickie books on the side for money. The latter ranged from pseudonymous historical romances to pseudonymous young adult ghost stories. Whatever. If it helped to pay the bills, I wrote it. The logistics of depending on...