Intentions

The word "intention" can mean a number of things. Its etymology suggests a "stretching towards", perhaps a "reaching out". In phenomenology, "intentionality" is the "directedness" of consciousness towards its object. We talk about intentions as our reasons for doing something, e.g., "I intended no harm". But even in that sense we could also say, "I didn't mean to do it." So our intentions are in an important sense related to what we mean. "I didn't intend it as an insult." "I didn't mean it that way."

The "intentional fallacy" in literary criticism consists of answering questions about what a particular text says by telling us what its author meant. As a limit to literary interpretation, I think the intentional fallacy is a perfectly good rule (a "don't" of literary criticism). But when you are writing, there are good reason to insist on your intentions.

Granted, it is not enough to want-to-say something. You have to ask yourself whether your readers can reasonably infer your meaning from the prose you set before them, and it is all too easy to commit the intentional fallacy when reading and editing your own work. If you are writing in a second language, as many of my authors do, this can be especially difficult.

That's where editors, peer-reviewers, colleagues, and friends offer a useful service. They can tell you what they think you mean with the words you have written. Keep in mind that they are people too, and theirs is not the only possible interpretation of your work. But if you have received several very different interpretations from different readers, don't let that be a sign that all readings are arbitrarily related to your intentions. It probably means that your text is too open to the imposition of the reader's opinions.

A text should restrict the space of possible interpretations. I find it easier to edit a text that is obviously motivated by its author's sincere desire to say something very specific, even if is written in very broken English, than to edit even a grammatically flawless text that isn't trying to say anything in particular.

This is obviously also true of writing. I find it much easier to write when I am definitely trying to say something. It allows me to ask, first, "What am I trying to say?" and, second, "How could this be misunderstood?" (In a sense, the second question is, "What would my readers prefer I had said?") You then write words down to accomplish the former and avoid the latter. This is the space in which you "stretch out" your text; it is also the space between your reader and your object, i.e., the space between the possiblity of being misunderstood and what you want to say.