What Bladesmithing Taught Me About Writing
I recently watched a few episodes of Forged in Fire and found myself fascinated by the bladesmiths.
I’ve always had an interest in bladesmithing, although I’ve never swung a hammer at a glowing piece of steel. Maybe it’s the fire and machinery, or maybe it’s the history. But watching these craftspeople work, I realized the attraction runs deeper.
It’s the attention.
A good blade doesn’t emerge simply because someone has heated a piece of steel and hammered it into the approximate shape of a knife. Every step matters. The steel is heated, folded or layered, hammered, ground, heat-treated, sharpened and refined. A small decision early in the process can reveal itself much later. Rush something, and the finished blade lets you know.
There is something deeply satisfying about this kind of work, and somewhere during the show it occurred to me that I understand the feeling better than I thought.
I get it when I write.
I can spend an unreasonable amount of time finessing a single word or phrase, not because the original was necessarily wrong, but because it just didn’t sound right.
The Writer’s Inner Ear
Writers develop an inner ear. A sentence can be grammatically sound and still feel clumsy. Another can contain precisely the right information but delivers no impact. Sometimes changing one word alters the rhythm of the entire paragraph.
So I change it and read the sentence again, sometimes aloud. I remove something, put it back, move a phrase, shorten the sentence or replace a perfectly serviceable word with another that somehow fits the thought more precisely. Eventually there is a small internal click.
There it is.
I imagine a bladesmith experiences something similar while watching a bevel take shape beneath a grinder, or looking along the edge of a blade and seeing that the geometry is finally right.
William Zinsser understood this kind of craftsmanship in writing. Much of his advice in On Writing Well comes down to respecting the reader enough to do the work: remove clutter, simplify, choose words carefully, rewrite relentlessly and pay attention to how the language sounds.
Good writing rarely appears fully formed. It is worked, like hot metal.
Grinding Away the Excess
That may be why the bladesmithing analogy resonates with me. Zinsser’s insistence on removing unnecessary words isn't far removed from grinding away excess steel. You keep taking material away until what remains has purpose. Too much steel in the wrong place makes a blade cumbersome; too many words do the same thing to a sentence.
But reduction alone isn't craftsmanship. A bladesmith isn't simply trying to produce the smallest possible knife, and a writer isn't trying to produce the shortest possible sentence. The goal is proportion: strength where strength is needed, a clean edge, no unnecessary weight and nothing ornamental that weakens the function.
And, ideally, a little beauty.
There is another parallel I like: you cannot fake the final stages. A roughly shaped piece of steel may look impressive while it is still glowing orange beneath a hammer, but the real test comes later, when it has cooled, hardened, been ground and sharpened.
Writing is much the same. The first draft has heat. It contains the initial idea and usually some enthusiasm, which matters – but enthusiasm isn't enough.
The Work After the First Draft
Then comes the work of cutting, reshaping and testing: listening to how words sit beside one another, hearing the cadence of a sentence, finding the weak spots and taking another pass.
I have occasionally spent more time revising a few paragraphs than it took to write the entire first draft. That might seem inefficient, but I don't experience it that way. I enjoy it. There is satisfaction in watching something become more precise.
This is also why I have little interest in writing commodity content. Working against the clock for a miserly rate puts the emphasis on speed rather than care, and the final product usually provides about as little satisfaction as it does revenue.
Why Craft Still Matters
Perhaps that is one reason craftsmanship still has such appeal in a world increasingly built around velocity. We are surrounded by tools promising to make everything faster, easier and more automatic, and some of them are extraordinarily useful.
But efficiency isn't the only thing worth optimizing.
I find value in knowing that I paid attention, that I stayed with the work long enough to notice the small details, and that I didn't stop when it was “good enough.”
I don't know whether I will ever forge a blade, although I suspect I would enjoy trying. Watching those bladesmiths reminded me that I already understand something about the impulse behind their craft.
My material just happens to be words.
And every so often, after enough cutting, shaping and polishing, a sentence develops an edge. I can feel it.
Neil Moore is a communications specialist, freelance journalist, masters athlete, and family man who believes that excellence has no expiry date.
Statements made on this website have not been evaluated by any regulatory agency or body. The information and opinions provided by this website is information obtained by and the opinion of Neil Moore and in the case of health and wellness subjects is not a substitute for the direct, individual medical treatment or advice provided to you by a healthcare provider. As well, the products or procedures mentioned on this website are not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease. It is the responsibility of you and your healthcare providers to make all decisions regarding your health.
NeilMoore.ca recommends that any decision with respect to your health and wellness or the diagnosis and treatment of any disease or condition is a decision made in consultation with your healthcare provider. Please also review the Terms and Conditions of NeilMoore.ca with respect to this website not providing professional or specialist advice.
Comments