Loud & Clear

“We're all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding.” ― Rudyard Kipling, The Light That Failed

When we casually say, “I read you loud and clear,” do we know what we mean?

How legible are we? More importantly, how legible have we ever been?

To be read is one thing; to be read loud and clear—almost obscene.

After all, we don’t generally wish to be misread. Unread? You might as well be dead.

But casual summaries will usually suffice. You don’t have to have the whole thing read.

Most of the early chapters are shit. I wasn’t sure what I was writing; I just wanted to be read.

The later stuff is better, sure. But then I had a plan. Or several at once, in most cases. I was read.

Not widely, sure. Not too well, either. But I had time. I was quite sure I soon would be, well, read.

Well insofar as I would have time to read much more, and also, I would be read as I was not.

Before--with understanding of the parts and how they make a whole

From phrases to pages, I’d be read, then known—then understood

That third bit is the hardest and it must always be third

Before it arrives, the others know what they are doing, but not why

They strut and fret at length until, eventually, they die—we’ve read them, but not well—I mean

Just between us, we knew them well enough to know we knew enough;

You know, based on what we’ve skimmed so far

We should see the novel shrinking to the size of a haiku, just as we figure out what it is we’re trying to do

Don’t panic, though: when your word count exceeds the maximum, just make what’s shorter, better

Review. Then, revise.

Remember: words are limited; don't make every letter new.

Know why you are writing, and you’ll be read, well…reviewed.