On Writing

Thoughts on Writing

Informal commentary on the writing process

5-13-08

Finding the time to write (revise, edit, conduct research, research markets, etc.) can be as difficult as writing itself, especially when the writer must cope with time-consuming responsibilities. I’m not talking about the typical ones like mowing the lawn or driving into work every day—I’m talking about those that demand your time and attention, like raising children, or caring for an elderly relative, responsibilities that have the potential to consume all of your free time.

When this onslaught of new responsibilities happens the writer has the potential to react in one of three ways: first, to ignore their responsibilities and continue writing, second, to fulfill his or her responsibilities to the detriment (or exclusion) of their writing, or third, to take an inventory of his or her available time and design a way to include writing in their day.

The first alternative is the selfish one; for the writer choosing this position, I wish him or her the best of luck living with their conscience. There will always be some who choose to abdicate these responsibilities and concentrate on their own interests, but most people (I say optimistically) are compelled by love, or at least a sense of duty, to fulfill them in the best way possible.

The second alternative is one which may prove inevitable for some; not everyone is capable of finding creative energy while in the middle of difficult emotional circumstances. This is a sad, but understandable reality of the human condition, but it doesn’t have to remain a permanent situation. I believe with a little effort most people mired in this second alternative could move to the third.

The third alternative is the one I hope most writers are able to embrace; inventorying their available time and using this time (whether large or small amounts of it) in which to write (or revise or etc.). Inventorying your available time is the most important part of this third method of writing (while meeting time-consuming responsibilities) because most writers don’t realize how much time they actually do have available to them until they consciously map its locations.

Let me say this, though, before continuing: in order to maintain regular writing production under these circumstances the writer must be willing to adjust his or her habits and expectations. This means that rising early in the morning to write must become a viable option, even if the writer has never done it before; writing in small pockets of time must become a way of life (if only temporarily) rather than an occasional practice; and writing through interruptions (inevitable if you are caring for someone) must cease be an ‘annoyance’ and become essentially unremarkable.

These are challenging, but necessary, mental adjustments to embrace if the writer is to maintain a consistent production of words. Writing, after all, is an activity that most people choose to do, rather than have to do (despite all romantic counter-arguments). So if the love of writing compels you to keep writing through difficult circumstances you’ll find a way.

First and foremost the writer must recognize all the impertinent time-wasters in his or her life (watching television, playing computer games, or just lazing around wasting enormous amounts of time on ennui) and reassign those times to writing activities. Certainly not to the point where he or she burns out from constant activity, but enough to accumulate significant amounts of work. If time is at a premium, for instance, revise or write during your lunch or dinner hour at home or work (learn to eat fast and write in the remaining time). If you’re particularly agile and won’t submerge your copy, revise while in the bathtub. If you find it necessary to sit outside for a few minutes of fresh air, take your laptop with you and write a few lines.

The writer must then find a way to do the seemingly impossible—he or she must incorporate their writing into their responsibilities.

Only the individual writer can determine whether this is really possible. Sometimes personal responsibilities take precedence in the writer’s life, or at least it seems so, and sometimes emotional stress demands that external interests become casualties of his or her time. Too often, though, a person will submit unnecessarily to stress, anxiety or weariness and simply retreat from other interests. But with a little determination, and a lot of willpower, the writer can find a way to incorporate writing into his or her responsibilities and keep their literary life from stagnating.

The best way to do this is by breaking down larger writing assignments into smaller pieces of work. If a piece if writing needs revision the writer can attack one section of the piece at a time in the time available at any given part of the day. If the writer is sitting in a waiting room, he or she can certainly open a folder and edit a page or two, or even write a paragraph or two on a legal pad (carried along for just that purpose). Note-making is a prime activity for waiting rooms, since all that’s required is a paper and pen or pencil. The writer can also develop the habit of carrying a laptop computer around and open files expediently for spot work. If time is severely allotted in the writer’s life, he or she may designate a thirty minute block specifically for writing first draft copy (or however much time the writer may have).

These small pieces of work eventually combine to complete long projects (or at least time-consuming ones). It only takes a little self-training to fall into the habit of writing in small increments of time. If the writer is determined to keep writing in his or her life no matter the circumstances, then he or she will adapt to the time that presents itself. When asked if he believed in inspiration, Somerset Maugham is reported to have said that, yes, he does, but fortunately he’s inspired every morning at nine. This is a valuable philosophy to embrace when time determines when inspiration can walk through the writer’s door.

The writer, too, must break away from programmed thoughts on creation and understand that a person doesn’t have to have large, segregated blocks of time in order to be productive. Small pieces of time can also add up to significant literary accomplishments, if the writer applies himself or herself consistently to the task at hand. Life will always present us with challenges and responsibilities, and our free time will continue to vary throughout our lives. Whatever time we have for literary pursuits is the only time we have to indulge our creative spirits, and to turn away from it because it doesn’t fit some stereotypical concept of the ‘undisturbed writer at work’ is a waste.

Too often the writer’s first response to growing responsibilities is an emotional tirade against the injustices of God or the universe. But once this complaint is exhausted the only options left to the writer are to abdicate his or her responsibilities or to find a way to keep writing in spite of them. This is the test of the writer’s spirit and desire to live a writing life. Writing can never take the place of life’s responsibilities—it can only weave its way through them and remain as a background music that permeates everything else in life.

4-2-08

A phenomenon that has puzzled me over the years, and one I believe nearly every writer has experienced at one time or another, is the curious effect of creative inertia.

I don’t mean the inertia a writer experiences while beginning a piece of writing after a period of inactivity (that phenomenon is typical, much easier to explain and much simpler to overcome). I’m speaking of an inertia that seems to function contrary to examples of inertia seen in physical models.

The best example of this problem can be found in the experience of the writer who is thoroughly organized, has made copious notes, and has freed up sufficient time at his or her desk for a stint of uninterrupted work. And yet, very little or nothing gets written. Realizing the unacceptability of this sad state affairs, the writer marshals his or her mettle and carefully charts a schedule that must be followed, will be followed and God help anyone or anything that stands in the way. And still nothing gets written. Pledges are made, promises and oaths, the writer rises at 5am to begin the work day far ahead of other activities, and once again at the end of the day—nothing.

The harder the writer tries, the less seems to get written. Why?

In the figurative sense, it seems like the more strident demands the writer makes of the creative mind, the less the creative mind seems to co-operate. This is counter to the physical model—the more we push against an unmoving object the greater chance we have of moving it (provided we apply enough force). But no matter how much psychic force we apply to our creative faculties, the less inclined they seem to co-operate.

If our creative abilities don’t function similarly to the physical model, what exactly is going on in our minds and why can’t we seem to get anything done through sheer force of will?

You may already be ahead of me on this, but the all-important variable in this equation is our subconscious.

And if there is one ‘machine’ that human beings don’t really understand on a practical level (writers included, no matter how canny we may be as a group), it’s the subconscious. That’s because the subconscious, and the creative aspects found within it, does not function in a linear way. At least, not visibly, so that we understand what parts of the machine are being engaged during its use. That’s why neurologists and psychologists use figurative terms in describing psychological functions. Thoughts, learned behaviors and personal experience are complex psychological variables, and all play a part in the mechanics of the creative mind.

Creativity, born in childhood and redressed as ‘adult’ activities like writing, design and fine art, rests deep in our psychological history and responds to the same stimulus as it did in infancy. In childhood, play is a part of the development of the mind, and the incentive for play is joy (call this happiness, satisfaction, achievement, or etc.). The stimulus is still a feeling of exhilaration that encourages more play and more exhilaration, a psychological loop that is more or less permanent as we age. What gives us exhilaration may change, but the mechanism does not.

But when this early ‘play’ mechanism evolves into artistic expression, it can easily attract other psychological subroutines that take it out of the old loop (play is joy) and drop it into a completely different one (this form of play is now work), and engages any number of other psychological routines that heavily influence our artistic productivity (since writing is work, and I’d rather play than work, I think I’ll ignore the work and try to find something fun to play with). This may be why television, old movies, computer games, crossword puzzles and other diversions suddenly seem to receive more time and attention from the writer than the creative work at hand.

Combine this convoluted re-orchestration of the meaning of creative play with the fact that the writer must also face other practical work (an outside job, for instance) and the brain locks down tighter than Fort Knox during a run on gold.

This paradox—and for the professional it is a very real and entirely frustrating one—can turn the writer’s brain to mush, cause careers to stall, bring on inexplicable blocks, and otherwise bring the creative flow down to a mere trickle. And all because the subconscious has to be so annoyingly complex.

Of course, without a complex subconscious (from where springs much of the creative imagination), we wouldn’t have much to write about, either, so it is also a matter of taking the bad with the good. But in this case, the bad is bad indeed, and trying to understanding the direction of wheels within wheels can drive the writer crazy.

The writer’s only hope of escaping endless repetitions of push, push, push for little return is to disengage the psychological mechanism of ‘work’ and re-engage the mechanism of ‘play’. This, for most, is easier said then done, since the writing itself has come to mean so much more to the mature writer than just a fun way to pass the time. The writer has heavy psychological investments in the product of his or her creative imagination, and like it or not sometimes the writing is work, not play. In this circumstance, how can the writer regain the joy of writing without losing productivity?

Once again, the solution to the problem can’t be found in any linear approach (or, subsequently, any logical problem-solving exercise). That is the nature of a paradox—the seemingly illogical existence of a set off competing circumstances. What our subconscious wants—to play—has been converted into something it doesn’t want—to work. That is because we converted it. We turned something that once brought us unbridled joy—writing—and made it into a distasteful activity that we’ve trained ourselves to avoid—work. The only way to free our creativity once again is to cease thinking of writing as work and once again think of it as play.

Once the writer sees writing only as play, then he or she will want to do more and more of it for the sake of the enjoyment it provides. Any other way of looking at writing is only another version of the phenomenon of inertia I described at the beginning of this essay, and will only result in some variation of the ‘push, push, push with little result’ scenario.

But how does the writer coax the genie back into the bottle once it’s loose in the world? How does one alter the psychological mechanism to once again see writing as play? It seems impossible, given all the meaning that writers impart to their work. Not only does writing represent potential income, but also personal prestige, self-validation, personal achievement and any number of other symbols we’ve chosen to burden it with. How do we abandon all these and once again engage writing as play?

One of the best ways I’ve found to do this is to simply realize that you don’t have to write.

Consider this a moment: you can wake up tomorrow and tell yourself, today I won’t write. I don’t have to write, writing’s not imperative to my life at the moment, I just plain don’t have to do it.

And for most writers this is absolutely true, because most writers don’t rely on their writing for their livelihood. They have another job (the work they keep telling themselves is interfering with their writing), so they won’t starve or get kicked out of their apartment. When a writer truly realizes that he or she doesn’t have to write at all—that he or she chooses to write—then writing ceases to be a chore, a badge of honor, an escape—and becomes again what it was to begin with—a joy.

So the solution to the problem of creative inertia is ultimately counter-intuitive, but absolutely effective: command yourself not to write. Declare writing a nonessential activity. Believe it is. Give up writing for a day, two days, a week. Force yourself not to write with all the will you possess—and suddenly you’ll find yourself missing it so much that you may wake up the next morning more anxious to write than ever. Being denied doing something you love only increases your desire to want to do it. And once that happens you’ll find you’ve altered the nature of the mechanism; you’ve recreated the mechanism entirely. But you have to believe it sincerely; it will never work if you only pretend to give up on writing. The subconscious knows the difference, believe me. And while you’re at it, give up all those symbols of self-validation that are making your life miserable as well.

As for those professionals who actually do rely on their writing for income—well, keep in mind that you’ve chosen this profession and can always choose another. If writing has become a professional burden to you, find other employment and continue writing for the enjoyment of it. This may seem like an absurd statement, but writing is an activity we choose to do, it isn’t a prison sentence. If the writer wants to enjoy writing again he or she need only remove it from the circumstances that make it something it was never meant to be. This is serious stuff; it’s important to cultivate the joy in your life, and if writing contributes to that joy it’s incumbent on us as intelligent people to make certain it remains so.

Sometimes the creative mind puzzles us now and again, and sometimes our own psychological paradoxes try our patience. But writers operate from basic psychological principles like all people. It’s up to us to unravel these principles when they begin to negatively affect our work and weave them into something meaningful again.

3-12-08

Distractions are more damaging to the writing routine than for many other professions, and for some very subtle reasons.

Unlike more mechanical chores, such as fixing a faucet or mowing the lawn, interruptions to active writing can have far reaching effects; after all, if one stops to answer the telephone while vacuuming the rug, the activity can be quickly resumed once the call is complete. But such distractions for the writer can be tantamount to losing the desire to write altogether for the day, or creating a terminal disruption to the project at hand.

Like many writers, I find the active writing process a deeply focused experience. Many writers compare this process to a sort of trance that blocks out all other mental perceptions. I wouldn’t be surprised if the areas of the brain used for creative acts aren’t also primarily used for dreaming. And, not unlike waking from a dream, once the writer’s trance is broken he or she may find it difficult to re-enter it again. Because of the tenuous nature of this mechanism, any interruption to it can prove disastrous.

Trying to prevent unforeseen disruptions is difficult enough; turning off the telephone, warning family members against unwelcome entreaties, taking out the garbage the night before so your morning won’t be full of time-consuming chores—but writers too often create their own disruptions, and these are the ones that can pull a writing career deep into a quicksand of wasted time.

Television is probably the biggest disruption in the writer’s life. It has the ability to insidiously siphon away time like a vampire bat slurping up the blood from unsuspecting cattle (a very deliberate analogy). Having a television playing while trying to write, revise, read, or conduct difficult research is like trying to play the trumpet while skiing down a mountain—you may produce a noise something akin to music, but its rhythm will be so disjointed that it may not be worth the effort. If the writer has exacting work to do then he or she should turn off the television and leave it off. Leisure pursuits must be religiously separated from artistic pursuits if the writer is to maximize his or her efforts.

Surfing the net and playing computer games are the next time-vampires. It’s so tempting to check the headlines, weather, sports scores, that favorite website, daily trivia, and on and on until the hours have mysteriously vanished beneath a flood of unproductive surfing. Never open the browser except for meaningful research purposes. Wait for a period of down time that won’t intrude on writing time. As for that favorite game (or games, as the case may be), leave it for a specific time of recreation. Never, never have a text document and some computer game open simultaneously on your computer screen. The temptation to ignore the work at hand for one more try at virtual glory may be just too great to prevent the day’s work from never getting done.

Are you listening to the stereo while writing? The radio? Or that nifty MP3 player with all your favorite tunes? While admittedly soothing, if you find yourself singing along to songs, your brain is not fully focused on the creative act. Music played as background noise can be useful, and may even assist production, but once the writer begins participating in the music then the world well lost (and significant writing time, too).

Any distraction that tempts the writer’s cognitive functions away from that deep level of creative focus is poison, and he or she is well advised to consciously clear away as many of these as possible from the writing area. The work will improve significantly, and the writer will find himself or herself getting more of it done.

But you say that the above analysis doesn’t apply to you? So you believe you’re the exception to the rule, that you can play computers games and write at the same time, or sing classic rock songs as lustily as you like and still accurately proofread that manuscript? You know you’ve trained your mind better than that, of course you have, you’re a veteran of the creative act, you could even do it in your sleep—

Before you disregard the above advice, try this simple experiment: play a song, any song you like, one you’ve heard a thousand times, and try to sing along to it (without missing a word) while simultaneously writing down the first line of the Gettysburg Address (you know, ‘Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal’). If you can sing the song accurately and still write down the words fluidly and without error, congratulations, you have truly learned to control your creative faculties. But, as I suspect will be the case, you discover the exercise to be entirely too frustrating for words (pun intended), then you’ve just provided yourself with the evidence that proves concurrent cognitive processes are damned difficult to maintain.

Make no mistake; when you invite these mental distractions into your writing time they will diminish your creative focus and damage your literary productivity. They can’t help not damage it, because the writing process demands a singular focus for best effect. The disruptions I’ve described are the ones the writer can easily do something about (and really should, since he or she will inevitably face interruptions of sometimes mortal significance that simply cannot be avoided). And minimizing disruptions to writing time is just one more difference between the professional and the amateur.

A pure creative focus must be the writer’s highest priority in his or her daily routine; this conduit to the deepest part of the creative subconscious is where the best work will be found, and can only be found, at times, when the writer takes the process seriously and eschews every unnecessary distraction. And a conscious awareness of the subtle and often insidious distractions to the writing routine is the first step toward training the creative mind to translate its best work into words.