I received a student's final research paper from which the following sentiment flowed: "There is no ginuwine consarn for poor peoples in this country." The subject matter here is not our immediate concern as writers, but the student's attempt to state a strong opinion is. Here's a student who seems concerned about the state of poverty in this country. When I handed the paper back with the requisite editing notations, the student responded, "But I know all those words are spelled correctly. I've even got the Ginuwine CD in my car. Do you wanna see it?"

The student learned a lesson well, but she learned it incorrectly: she was applying knowledge gained from reading to her own written communication. The lesson was, unfortunately, victimized by the power of an uncritical eye.

Writers are perhaps more aware of the flood of language drowning us on a quotidian basis. Blaring from audio devices, flashing at us from video screens, assaulting us in bold and colorful fonts, the presence of written language has rarely been more ubiquitous than in our early 21st century lives. And despite the above student's imprecise encounter with that language, I suggest that in trying to use what she read, she is teaching those of us who write an important lesson: read, read, read.

August Wilson was an avid reader of The Hardy Boys series when he was growing up. Take a look at the precision of the grammar and mechanics of the Hardy texts and perhaps we can understand part of the reason why Wilson is admired for his dialogue. Wilson's creation of dialect is impressive because he recognizes the rules of grammar that govern even non-traditional dialects.

The lesson is that if you plan to write, you need also to read.

Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville were two significant American authors of the American 19th century who followed complementary paths: Hawthorne was admired but not popular, and Melville was popular but not considered too significant. However, their ensuing investment in each others' works led to one of the great literary friendships in our literature. Melville's correspondence shows just how much he not only read but also understood what the mass of readers seemed to be missing in Hawthorne 's romantic fiction: "He says NO in thunder!" he claims of bre'r Nathaniel. Indeed, testament to his reading of Hawthorne can be found in what is perhaps the great American novel, Moby Dick . Just check the dedication. By reading--closely, carefully—one another's work, Hawthorne and Melville were able to develop their own skills even more.

Look at the lingering effects of Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God had on Alice Walker, and the effect that Alice Walker had on Toni Morrison, and the effect Morrison had on a generation. Walker's dedication to relocating Hurston's novel as a significant piece of African American women's fiction led not only to a popular novel in itself, but to the awakening of a previously neglected literary movement.

Think about Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants." The dialogue speaks, the narrator practically evanesces. It's unusual--at the time it was very unusual-- though the spare narration and tantalizing subtext have become Hemingway hallmarks. Hey--what if I do the opposite? What if I subtextualize the dialogue and allow the narration to open up our awareness of the vocal silences of the book and what they mean and how they function? I can't claim that E.L. Doctorow came to such an awareness and decision in his writing of the great novel Ragtime because he read Hemingway, but the almost dialectical oppositional narrative styles could be discerned by anyone who is paying attention and reading and looking for a fresh way to tell a story. Ragtime is a story with practically no dialogue. It stands in sharp contrast to Hemingway's style, but a simple observation and decision to do the opposite can sometimes lead to revelation.

Here's a task: Read Ishmael Reed's Mumbo Jumbo . Discern what distinguishes the narrative methodology in his text. Then try to develop a theory of something that spins that methodology: Is there an "opposite"? Is there a more subtle form? Is there an equivalent that could work on stage? Is there a hybrid? Is there a more exaggerated form? These are only a few basic questions you can ask yourself about something you are reading. Just as writers can create variations on a theme--how many more Cinderella myths do we need? Writers can also create variations on a style. Why not find one particular narrative method and experiment with different ways of using it? Style and substance, form and function can all be discerned with a little study and a lot of reading. But when you begin to write your next piece, consider how someone else's writing can help you to find your own fresh narrative method by making a conscious choice not to emulate other writers, but rather to upend their own methods to satisfy your own need to write life. We need to be avid readers to be avid writers.

Lately, much as been made of Tracy Letts' play, August: Osage County . I saw it, and I sort of enjoyed it. It owes much to the grand domestic dramas of Eugene O'Neill, among other mid-century playwrights. I think why it does seem new is that Letts found a variation on something traditional that O'Neill and his cohort had done well: Instead of a turbulent nuclear family, Letts has manipulated the lives of an extended family and keeps so many balls in the air that we hardly have time to breathe before another family offshoot is dragged into the troubles. Aunts, cousins, daughters-in-law, housekeepers, nephews--Letts took all the family members who were routinely ignored in family drama and put them on stage and stuck them directly in the middle of the family's affairs. He found an unexplored aspect of what had worked elsewhere.

The challenge then is that in order to find what does work elsewhere, we have to move beyond the fictions of our own creations to see, understand, and utilize the fictions of others. We can't separate process from product. Keep reading and you'll be amazed at how much more rewarding it is to keep writing.

Donn Gagnon is an assistant professor of language and literature, a journalist, a dramatist, fiction writer, and a cat fancier. 

© 2008