Foreword

“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.” These are the words that have been falsely attributed to Franz Kafka for nearly a quarter century. They were in fact the words of the modern gothic novelist Anne Rice, who penned them in a 1995 preface to a newly republished collection of Kafka’s stories and miscellany. Words, sentences, and writing itself are both an art and a science—we are given tools of precision to undertake an action, and rules to follow in order to make that action clear, communicable, and understood; yet it is in our own mental spheres to articulate something beautiful, transformative, even transcendent, or so we hope. When we write, though, we risk succumbing to the narratives of the day or those subsequent years that may confuse or blend or upset the reality of the language one writes—like attributing Anne Rice’s words to Kafka: how Kafkan!

Consider that writing has origins not just in us, but among us and our environments. Good writing, especially, is hard to come by. It is an art that blossoms from the same ‘merciless obsessions’ that Ms. Rice herself speaks of here, but obsession does not always good writing make! There is a subtle need to drive hard at revision, especially among the modern craftsmen (or persons) of the articulated word, because as many writers, authors, and wordsmiths know, we can nearly always write things better with a little more finessing and editing. This also makes us recognize that writing is neither unilateral nor uniform in its content, style, or delivery, because even if there is one writer, there are many influences upon that writer, as well as editors, teachers, and publishers, who have populated the mental and real realms of that person. Furthermore, there are multitudes of literary categories and genres, of fiction, literature, non-fiction, creative prose, poetry, and whatnot. And there are a plethora of formulae, best practices by academic discipline, and an aggregated desire for consensus on how to write best in one area or another. Yet, there rarely is consensus, even in the days since the great “Samuels”—Johnson or Pepys—or more recently the venerable Strunk and White, the doyens and militant syntacticians of twentieth century American English. Language and writing are evolving within the parameters of Latin’s intractable legacy on English grammar.

Why can’t we split infinitives?—blame Carlyle! Why can’t we end a sentence with a preposition?—Cicero would have chafed! Why mustn’t we use the passive voice (which I find both deliciously poetic, and functionally useless and evasive, but which I admit to being a shameless employer)—Because it’s a Nixonian vaguery! Rules are meant to guide us to help us communicate in ways that other people can understand what we are trying to convey, and in so doing, this helps with clarity and precision. We can sometime break those rules, but only when it serves a purpose, and when we understand the rules, or why those rules were implemented in the first place. In theological writing we find an excellent and unique example in the framing of thoughts and the articulation of language, because this kind of writing is an expansive expression of the human spirit that extends its poetics and prosaic wings, like Hegel’s owl of Minerva, which only flies at dusk—an analogy that for us means that we only fully understand our writing (and especially our theological writing) once we’ve completed it.

Jane Lenz Elder, Duane Harbin, and David Schmersal have presented us with a timely and most useful work that stands out in this genre and category of writing. As Minerva’s owl takes flight in the dusk of this long process, we see how the fruits of both the work’s production and writing itself have ripened into an exceptional volume. The aptly and comically titled The Antediluvian Librarians’ Secret to Success will be a most welcome addition to this genre of “writing help” books. It is also of importance for us here at Bridwell, because it has been undertaken by highly trained and experienced staff, who have long been in the trenches of theological writing training and stewardship. What this work does, and how it differs from any other works, is that it provides a thoughtful, intuitive, and empathic approach to theological writing. In many ways it is a palliative grammar of the writing soul, a primer on how to prepare your approach to both writing and the seminary experience. This pedagogy is long overdue, but will be most appreciated by its users. The lexical content is complemented graciously by the magnificent art of Rebecca Howdeshell, which is abstract and linear in form, while aesthetically provocative and stimulating. The choice of this combination will surely mark this volume as significant and the work itself will stand out as an important addition to the canon of books on writing practice. The Antediluvian Librarians’ Secret to Success is also among the first—in fact, THE first—new publications in our rebooted academic publications series at Bridwell Library, and published as an e-book for greater accessibility and reach. Our history is a long one—the library itself has published more than 150 titles in 60 years—and with this, we launch the Bridwell Academic Press and its ancillary Bridwell Digital Press, which is finely tuned to present greater access for more users in the coming years.

We are proud of our colleagues and those who have brought this to fruition and happy to share this new work with all of you. We hope you enjoy and find it most rewarding and helpful in your journey to better writing. As Kafka actually said: “All human errors are impatience . . .,” so we must take time, be deliberate, and pay attention to the wisdom of this excellent volume.

Anthony J. Elia

Director, Bridwell Library