Question Everything*: The Benefits of Questioning in Writing…and in Life

Asking Questions

For months I’ve had this statement written on the whiteboard in my office: “An editor asks questions.” I had initially written it down while brainstorming for a different blog post, but I ended up leaving it up as something simply to ponder.

The statement took on new meaning recently when I received feedback from a journal editor on a story I had submitted (the editor was offering me a chance to revise and resubmit). Much of the editor’s feedback was in the form of questions, asking for clarity on certain aspects, e.g., setting. The questions, though, weren’t simplistic questions; they were, instead, questions of depth that showed very clearly how the editor was understanding my piece. They were analytical and detail-oriented. And, most importantly, without explicitly telling me what to fix or how to fix anything, the questions allowed me to re-envision the story and create a more cohesive structure for it. Re-envision = revision. (The story was ultimately accepted by the journal.)

Benefit 1: Astute questioning can help a writer re-envision their piece.

That palpably satisfying revision experience has prompted me to reflect on my own critique process: Do I ask enough questions? What can I improve on as a reader/reviewer/editor in this respect?

It also prompted me to think of less satisfying experiences I’ve had (as a writer) with feedback. For example, consider this feedback: “There’s no story arc.” Without additional explanation or follow-up questions, such feedback is relatively unhelpful. I’ve received such feedback many times in the past in writing workshop (critique) groups and never quite knew what to do with it. In most cases, the only thing that kind of feedback tells me is that the story hasn’t lived up to the reader’s expectations, which may or may not be a problem. Perhaps the bigger issue, though, is that such feedback is generic and doesn’t tell me what the reader understood—how they interpreted the piece—so it doesn’t give me (as the writer) a clear strategy for revision.

The purpose of a writing workshop group is generally to help give writers strategies for revision. That being said, in many creative writing workshops, the readers are reading on the spot and may not necessarily have adequate time to fully analyze a piece; this lack of time/analysis tends to be reflected in the feedback, so it’s natural for some suggestions to be short and/or generic. But such generic feedback is still problematic.

In general, if you are a reader providing feedback to a writer, it’s important to note that effective feedback is crafted specifically toward the piece at hand. If you are finding yourself (as a reader/reviewer) giving different people the same feedback, for example, I would urge you to look a little deeper at the piece and try to form specific questions that will show the writer just how you are reading/interpreting their piece. Such questions allow a writer to ponder the incongruity between how the reader is responding and what their own intention is with the piece, thereby allowing the writer to re-envision the piece without the weight of prescriptive (and sometimes generic) advice. A writers’ workshop is not a substitute for an editor; the goal is to help the writer know how others are understanding their work, thus giving them an idea of how to approach the revision process.

Along those same lines, I recently ran across this article, which talks about when “errors” aren’t actually errors. (If you don’t want to read the whole article, I urge you to at least jump to the “Takeaway” section.) As an editor, I’m trained to consider different nuances in writing–to consider the overall voice and tone of a piece, but not every reader is, which is why prescriptive advice from general readers can sometimes be problematic for a writer who is trying to figure out how to approach revision.

Benefit 2: Questioning helps you learn.

I once had an exchange with a fellow writer in which they (the fellow writer) stated that one must learn something new when they write: that is the purpose of writing. That is to say, if someone (e.g., a researcher) is merely recording information, stating facts or opinions, without depth or analysis, that person isn’t really writing. And analysis often requires asking questions.

In her book The Death of “Why?” (Berrett-Koehler Publishers, 2009), author Andrea Batista Schlesinger writes, “If you cannot formulate a question to learn more about what you have read, you aren’t really paying attention” (p. 170). When I used to teach academic reading classes, I would tell my students something similar, though it wasn’t so much about not paying attention as it was about not thinking critically/analyzing. I asked a lot of these kinds of questions: “How can you apply the information from article X to what you’ve learned in article Y?”

Synthesis. Analysis. It’s not just for academic reading (or writing).

Similarly, I often used freewriting with my academic writing students to help them think more deeply about the topics they were writing about (or that they wanted to write about). And asking “Why?” is extremely useful in academic writing scenarios.

Student: I want to write about why [subject] is harmful.

Me: Okay. Why is [subject] harmful?

Students often fumbled with this question, so I would set aside time in class for them to freewrite about proposed topics. And then when they started researching, I’d ask them to write about why an article is useful for their research. Once students started writing about their topics and asking (and answering) questions, it was not unusual for them to change their stances on their chosen topics completely. And it often surprised them. But that’s what questioning does. It helps you learn.

This advice isn’t just for academic writing and researching, though.

As was noted under “Benefit 1” above, if you’re the reader/reviewer of a piece and are offering feedback about it, asking questions can show the writer what you’ve learned or understood from their piece, which benefits the writer with re-envisioning. But it also helps you as the reader better understand the piece, in general. Asking yourself why a writer wrote something in a specific order or in a particular form or included specific information can help you better understand and interpret a piece.

At this point, you might be thinking, hey, but aren’t creative writers just writing to entertain, to give me a nice beach read? Perhaps some are. But speaking only for myself, I don’t want my readers to only read my creative work for pleasure. I also hope it will prompt them to question and think and learn, even if it’s simply that they’ve stopped to consider a new perspective of the world or something in regards to human nature. And as a reader, I look for layers/depth as well. I recently finished the novel Mrs. Bridge by Evan S. Connell (1959) and was blown away by the subtle levels of depth in it; it has quickly become one of my top favorite novels, in large part because it gave me so much to think about and question.

Benefit 3: You become resilient as a writer by questioning.

In Schlesinger’s book, resilience is a pervasive theme. Schlesinger urges people to question because that is part of what makes us contributing citizens of a society—it’s part of what makes us resilient. This is true in life, in general, but it’s especially true for writers who are looking to become better at their craft. Writing is a process, sometimes a very slow process, and writers should always be learning. Consider these questions as you write/revise:

• Why are you writing?
• What are you learning (about a topic, about yourself, etc.)?
• Why are you choosing to write a certain way and not another way? This one is especially important as you grow as a writer. My own growth as a writer was spurred in a big way as I worked my way through my MFA program. Suddenly, I was challenged as a writer in a way I had never been challenged before; I was challenged to look at writing in new and exciting ways, to approach writing in new ways, and to dig deeper.

Writing is about learning—about constantly learning—and questioning. It took me many years to understand that, specifically in regards to the art and craft aspects of writing.

Experimental Writing

(For simplicity, what is meant by “experimental writing” for the purposes of this post is that which goes against convention in some way, a very broad definition.)

I recall 13 or 14 years ago or so, a writer coming to the creative writing workshop I facilitated—they said that they wrote mostly experimental fiction. I liked the sound of that, but I had no idea what it meant (I wish I would have questioned them!). I didn’t know how to approach the critique in the workshop, and I probably didn’t have many useful suggestions for the writer. I’ve learned a lot since then!

In the last three years, I have embarked on my own journey through the experimental writing landscape and have come to thoroughly embrace the experimental form (both as a writer and a reader). Many people, though, approach it much like I did 13 or 14 years ago. They don’t get it. And that’s reasonable; it’s completely valid. At the same time, though, I would encourage serious writers to dip their toes in experimental water. Stretch your writing muscles. Like questioning, it can make you more resilient as a writer—and more open to the possibilities of writing.

Schlesinger writes: “[T]o struggle with what we don’t know, we must first encounter it—and as more [people] sequester themselves in bubbles of sameness and ideological homogeneity, we’re giving ourselves fewer and fewer opportunities to do so” (p. 25). She’s talking about being contributing citizens to society, but I think it’s also true for literature. Reading (and writing) outside of our comfort zones allows us to question convention in multiple ways. It exposes us to the possibilities of life beyond what is immediately around us. That is one of the many beauties of literature, in fact—the fact that we can travel far without leaving home.

I am certainly not saying that everyone needs to drop everything and read and accept experimental work. It’s certainly not everyone’s cup of tea, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I once sent an experimental story to a fellow writer for feedback; they responded that they didn’t feel qualified to critique it because it was so different from anything they had read. I appreciated this person’s honest assessment more than they probably realized. It shows self-awareness; they know their limitations. It also shows their ability to question and analyze/think critically. They clearly read the story, and they clearly asked themselves questions throughout and afterward. It shows resilience and strength.

Questioning doesn’t mean you know it all; I think that’s the point. It means you’re willing to learn, and it means you’re willing to accept your limitations.

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*I typically suggest avoiding absolutes in writing. Even as I wrote “Question Everything,” I was questioning it. Ultimately, the word “everything” in the title is for effect; you can decide how true of a statement it is.