A personal reflection on "How to Write a Sentence" ch.1

It was in the trash while I was still writing it on the page. Or so an account of my writing might be cleverly crafted by John Updike, a cleverer craftsman than me. I can say honestly that not only do I not know how to write a sentence, but I haven't really cared to learn. Well, I hadn't cared to learn. That is until I made the decision to pursue a degree, and career, that would condemn me to a life sentence of sentences.

Stanley Fish sets out in the first chapter of his book How To Write A Sentence, to establish the importance and value of a well-written sentence. He takes his readers on a fast paced tour of some of his favorite sentences written by seminal wordsmiths, supreme court justices and of course, fourth graders. The examples provided by Fish drown the reader in awe and appreciation of just how powerful words can be when effectively applied. He further spells out how important first sentences can be in drawing the reader in, and establishing interest and excitement at what is about to be said. After devouring the chapter, I became curious as to how Mr. Fish himself had whet my appetite in the first sentence of this book. You see, just one chapter in this book took me on my own little journey: When the journey began, a sentence was only a vessel carrying art to me. It seemed to me to be only the frame holding the beautiful work of art. By the end of the chapter my view of the sentence had changed. Now, the frame became part of the art, not just it's forgotten and overlooked holder. Mr. Fish began:

"In her book, The Writing Life (1989) Annie Dillard tells the story of a fellow writer who was asked by a student, "Do you think I could be a writer?""

At first, it didn't seem like anything special. But upon further inspection, I realized why it had caused me to have read so ravenously. This question, twice retold, encapsulated the very reason I was reading the book. It made tangible the unspoken thought buried deep in my soul: Can I really be a writer? The question was followed by another asking me, through the guise of this unnamed student, if I had the required love of sentences necessary to become a writer. But before I was allowed to become discouraged at my deficiency in sentence love, he began to tell of her beauty and sing of her grace, and suddenly I thought to myself: I think I could be a writer.