Every writer strives to provide good reading as opposed to awful reading in their publications. Their final decisions on “good” or “unsatisfactory” works is often founded on personal criteria based on past experiences of published work, subjective taste in literary aesthetics, and the importance accorded to whatever subject that may be at stake. However, as with everything else in the considered and thoughtful life, careful and compassionate reflection on one’s basic criteria can yield deeper insights into whether or not one is true to one’s principles of truly challenging, engaging, and fulfilling a prospective reader. Good reading is reflective of good writing, and good writing can only blossom from what is nothing less than systematic, philosophical deliberation on what constitutes quality compositions.

To begin with, I pose this question: what would happen if an author substitutes the word “good” with “beneficial?” When she decides on an essay, article, or book to compose, her primary concern would suddenly be to ensure the benefit of the reader first and foremost. What needs to be expressed? What current of thought merits at least some degree of public coverage and communication? What positive change – or simply enjoyment – can this exposure bring about in the individual who chooses to give time to her publication? These questions and re-aligning of priorities is based on the presupposition that is a privilege for a fellow human being to sit down and devote even fifteen minutes of time to absorbing something that a writer feels that must be communicated. Imagine the immense honour that is, or should be, accorded to an author when a reader snuggles in bed one cold winter night with the intention to get through at least a third of her book. It is all the more extraordinary when such a book concerns philosophy and religion, what Paul Tillich called an individual’s “ultimate concern.” To touch the hand of Infinite Light, to live in accordance with the higher precepts, or simply to live a humane life – it would appear that to write of these endeavours is to contribute in a very important way to the fulfilment of such aspirations, because barring the physical destruction of civilization and the inevitable impermanence of all contingent things, religious and philosophical writings will remain of intellectual and spiritual benefit to others long after their authors have departed. Why else would such composition be written unless it was for the benefit for sentient beings? Perhaps a self-dialogue or the clarification of the writer’s own understanding, such as Shantideva’s Bodhicharayavatara, would be a wholly legitimate reason.

But even with this qualification, a clarification of the author’s own understanding through writing would correspondingly be of benefit to her.

So we have benefit as the first criterion of what can be considered worthwhile writing. Is there another criterion catering more specifically to the reader’s casual taste, namely that of entertainment? Unfortunately, good writing does not necessarily have to mean good entertainment. But perhaps that is a happy fact. To benefit a reader already entails some effort to engage them, to invite them to be interested in one’s subject matter. In works that are meant strictly to entertain, there is complete license for not only humour, but a degree of cool nonchalance that allows it to fulfil the role of entertainment, to be able to be presented in a manner that can be held on to perhaps more loosely than subjects dearer to the heart such as politics or euthanasia. Religion and certainly modern religious writing and teaching can (should?) have a degree of humour, but it cannot be the least bit nonchalant because nonchalance denotes indifference, and indifference is something to be totally avoided by all authentic religions. Religion is not intended to be an opiate, but aims to penetrate into the deepest facets of reality with the aid of narrative, metaphor and symbols, though this is far from the complete story. Religion cannot be a sentimental retreat for our good feelings about ourselves and superficial charity and witty personalities. As Thomas Merton aptly pointed out, the mark of true life is effervescence transmuted into lucid direction and passion sublimated into tranquil mysticism. We religious authors might do well take heed of his advice.

Perhaps there can only be two fundamental things that an author can control: how beneficial her composition can be to others and how closely it corresponds to a work of pure entertainment. But she must ask herself: does she merely want it to entertain? Is entertainment benefit in its strictest sense? Or is there, perhaps, a subtle distinction that can contribute to her criteria of good writing?