Do you remember that old Gary Larson cartoon? The one about 'what dogs hear'? The punchline was that the only thing the dogs heard was their names. Your readers are like that.

One day, I was watching a fascinating video presentation by Edward Ball, the prize-winning author of Slaves in the Family. If you haven't read that book, I recommend it. This journalist did beautiful research, and shared it magnificently. He started from his own curiosity about the lore in his family about their shady ancestors. As it turns out, they were slaveholders in South Carolina for 170 years. Ball turned this horrible historical burden into a mandate to search for the truth, and came up with a story of outrage and healing. As I said, it's an important read.

Ball does a great presentation, as well. You can watch it here. When you do, I defy you not to laugh out loud at the author's public reading of his fan mail. It's hilarious stuff.

As Ball points out, he wrote a book about the history of slavery in the US. He was hoping to open a dialogue about a vital topic – and he did. But the first letter he reads, frankly, sounds like one written by a particularly obtuse member of Peer Review. It lists all the typos in the book.

Another letter goes on for six pages about the Elias Ball commode the correspondent happened to buy in an antique sale. Great stuff. Yet another concerns the monstrous injustice of Edward Ball’s referring to the viola da gamba as the 'precursor to the cello'. Again, one is reminded of Peer Review. Sorry, we can't help it…

The crowning jewel of the collection, for me, was the one in which the letter writer remarked on how Elias Ball, the first in the family to become a slaveholder, came from beautiful Devon, the home of the letter writer… At this point, the audience is laughing pretty hard. I hate to bring it up, but who does this sound like?

You can write about whatever you like. But the reader is going to hear 'blah blah Ginger'. The reader is going to seize on the familiar detail – Devon, viola da gamba, typos – and think about that. There's not a lot you can do about it, either, except write what you know, and hope somebody, somewhere, finally pays attention.

But Ball's experience does teach us something, besides how to roll with the feedback punches. It shows us that mentioning the familiar will snag the reader's attention. Why not use this? If you know your intended audience, you can pick up on the reader's concerns. Draw on that to capture, and hold, the reader's attention. And if you feel it flagging, just throw in another one. Say, 'Ginger', and their ears will prick up – metaphorically speaking, of course.

How do you do that? Are you writing for mothers? Throw in details that will be familiar to them: what the children in the story are doing or saying, what toys they left in the living room. Hunters? A telling detail about the duck blind as the hero moves past the lake…Mention a professional detail for the lawyers, doctors, or engineers out there. Those sorts of things get attention.

Not everyone will notice everything. But every little bit helps. Is your incident taking place a few years in the past? Go look up a song from that year – it takes 45 seconds on google – and throw it in. Somebody will be humming that song all day, and not know why.

Whatever you do, don't get too discouraged by irrelevant feedback. Sure, you were writing about the history of slavery. And sure, the lady from the wine magazine wrote to ask you for an article about 'landscape'. Frankly, I'd have recommended a great title for him: 'Sipping Thunderbird from the Back of the Pick-Up, Down in the Rice Paddy'. Instead, the author went on to write another well-researched book about Edward Muybridge.

When people bring up marginalia like that, smile politely. Have a bit of private fun at their expense. And then go out and write some more. Remember, the dog's name is Ginger.

Writing Right with Dmitri Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

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