Write something worth reading.

In the early noughties, while studying at the University of Canberra (ostensibly completing a Marketing and Advertising degree, but honestly just learning how to?think), I crashed into a few brilliant professors. Each left a permanent dent in my brain:

Richard Buddle, whose Advertising 101 lectures kicked off with a warning: “You must always remember that you are?not?the everyman.” (This was, of course, good advice for life?and?advertising – especially for a bunch of self-obsessed 18-year-olds).

Prof C, whose Communications lectures comprised hour-long rants regarding the inherent design flaws in most research into human behaviour; he got particularly heated over how TV ratings are recorded and that ‘Bobo Doll’ experiment regarding aggression in small children. His modules on attention and memory, however, rather satisfyingly stuck to the grey matter. (Which seems appropriate.)

Then there was Paul.

I don’t remember his last name - I’m not sure he ever offered it.

Through Paul’s Literary Studies lectures, I was introduced to many new friends including Margaret Atwood, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Constantine P. Cavafy, Ernest Vincent Wright and Leo Tolstoy. Our texts included a novel that had been composed in a prisoner of war camp (and mentally rehearsed until the day it could finally be written down), poetry so skilfully hewn from universal ideas, it survived even translation from the original Greek and a novel written as an exercise in avoiding the letter ‘E’.

Paul took an extraordinarily holistic approach to the whole thing; we didn’t just touch on the main themes of the texts. He insisted on marinating us in context, that we might wander about in the world the main characters inhabited – their politics, their pop culture, their most pressing fears, and therefore their motivations.

Walk into one of his lectures and there’d be a contemporary artwork on the overhead projector and an opera or well-chosen hit song from the period playing over the sound system. He’d share firsthand accounts of major events, artefacts and lesser-known details of the author’s personal lives and sufferings.

With all these clues on the evidence board, we’d be left to play detective; running strings between data points in the hope that we might see where they all intersected.

In short, Paul insisted we not merely read the books, but also?understand?them.

Despite being attached to my Lit Studies minor, rather than my marketing and advertising-related classes, Paul ended up gifting me one of my most applicable writing lessons.

As I stood at his office door, wondering how on earth I would ever write a paper on “What is more real than reality?”, he offered this wisdom:

“Carolyn, there are two ways to ace any project: A) do exactly what’s expected of you. Paint by numbers and I’m forced to give you a Distinction because you’ll have met all the marking criteria. But there’s also option B): do something original. If you’re brave enough, forget about ticking boxes and find an unexplored angle – define your own problem to solve. Sure, it’s a risky move; there’s probably a 50/50 chance you’ll fail. But pull this off and you’ll write something worth reading.”

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People like to say that nobody reads anymore, but that’s complete and utter horse poo. No one has ever wanted to read fluffy guff or long, constipated copy bloated with weasel words.

But write something fearless, original, and engaging and the reader rediscovers their appetite for words. And that means you’ve cleared that first hurdle; you’ve written something worth reading.

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