It was just after two in the afternoon on Thursday when I finally said to myself, “enough”.  I had “finished” an appellate brief the previous Friday, yet couldn’t stop looking back at it.  It had been proofread half a dozen times for typographical errors, grammatical mistakes and clarity.  Each time, something was found that could be corrected or improved.

Many people surmise that this blawg reflects my skills as a writer, or lack thereof.  Despite my efforts to explain, the notion persists that writing is writing is writing.  As they read what I write, they believe they have insight into my writing.  What this blawg reflects is, generally, a solid ten minutes of effort, once through and then the computer’s spellcheck takes a final pass.  After that, it’s in the hands of readers.  A few friends will email me to let me know of a typo or mistake, which I will correct as quickly as possible, but I never proof the posts myself.

Others proof it to death.  I don’t.  It’s just my approach, based on the nature of this format.  It’s informal, conversational and, occasionally replete with typos.  I do it quick and dirty, a means of getting some of the words rumbling around inside my head onto a white screen.  It’s not meant as an insult to the finer minds that read it, but in the hopes that they can appreciate a blawg post for what it is.  Others see it differently.

Formal writing, on the other hand, is a world apart.  I agonize over every word.  The passive tense makes me nuts, and I eliminate it wherever it’s found.  There is no excuse for misspelling a word in a brief, though it still happens on occasion even after it’s passed through a few other hands to give fresh eyes to the task.  But it kills me to find a typo.

Reading lines for the tenth time, I still find superfluous words.  Any word that is not necessary is deleted.  It’s not enough that it’s acceptable, but has to be necessary.  If a word has no specific, articulable purpose for inclusion, then it’s out.  Whole sentences are eliminated when, in retrospect, their inclusion failed to serve a purpose. 

Many writers think that length is a virtue.  It’s not.  It’s wasted words, boring or confusing the reader and often undermining your argument.  In my best of writing worlds, the reader will understand my point with precision and clarity.  There is no other purpose to a brief.  The shorter the argument, the greater the clarity and the easier it is for the reader to comprehend my point.  Persuading the reader doesn’t involve forcing the reader to wade through pointless words, sentences or paragraphs.  Any wasted word can be a bomb waiting to explode. 

As I read through, however, I have never found writing that I do not think can be improved.  From the time when I “finished” the brief to a few minutes after two on Thursday, I made another dozen changes.  Not huge ones, but tiny little tweaks, a word here or there.  Each time, honing it down with greater precision, a better or word perhaps, or an adjective that should never be there.  If I continued to look at the brief, I would continue to edit.  There is no point when I believe it’s perfect.  Years later when I look back on a brief I’ve written, I always see something I could have done better.  Always.  I’m never satisfied with myself.

Eventually, however, it has to stop.  Eventually, it must be sent to the printers.  Eventually, it must fulfill its purpose in life to be an appellate brief.  It’s like sending a child off to war, but I had to steel myself and do it.

Blawg posts are, for the most part, fun and, occasionally interesting or provocative.  No client is harmed in the making.  When writing in the course of my representation of a client, it’s another world.  Just as we can work in the garden in jeans and a t-shirt on a summer day, or wear a suit and tie to appear before a tribunal, never confuse what happens here with what happens there.  It’s a wholly different endeavor, and like every other lawyer who strives for excellence in the representation of a client, I dress for success.