even when they are stilted in
their own manner of expression, they will warm to the man whose style
achieves strength through its ease and naturalness. They will quickly
make note of any young officer who is making progress in this
direction and will want to have him around. He is a rare bird in the
services, and for that reason his opportunities are far above the
average. Staff work could not be carried forward at any of its levels
if it were not for this particular talent, and command would lose a
great part of its magnetism.

Toward the building of a career, the best break that can come to any
young man is to have three or four places bidding simultaneously for
his services. There are possibly better arguments than that as to why
perfection in writing should be a main pursuit of the service officer,
such as the sense of personal attainment which comes of it.

Any man who has the brain to qualify for commission can make of
himself a competent writer. Because of natural limitations, he may
never come to excel in this art. But if he has had average schooling,
knows how to open a dictionary, can find his way to a library, is
willing to commit himself to long study and practice, particularly in
nonduty hours, and will finally free himself of the superstition that
writing is a game only for specialists, he can acquire all the skill
that is necessary to further his advance within the military
profession.

That is the great difference between writing ability and specialized
knowledge in such fields as electronics and atomic research.

But where should work begin? How about a little practical advice?

The only way to learn to write is to write. That is it--there is no
other secret than hard, unremitting practice. Most writers at the
start are mentally muscle-bound, and poorly coordinated. They have
thoughts in their heads. They think they can develop them clearly. But
when they try to apply a largely dormant vocabulary to the expression
of these thoughts, the result is stiff and selfconscious.

The only cure for this is constant mental exercise, with one's pen, or
over one's typewriter. After a man has written perhaps a half million
relatively useless words there comes, sometimes almost in a flash, and
at other times gradually, a mastery not only of words, but of phrases,
sentences and the composition of ideas. It is a kind of rhythmic
process, like learning to swim, or to row a boat, or navigate an
airplane. When a wr