Writing Lessons

Until fairly recently, becoming a writer seemed like an unattainable dream to me. The huge “woulda, coulda, shoulda” of my life. The (disordered) thinking went: if only I had more time, or more talent, or more training. As the years passed, the “reasons” not to write multiplied and my confidence waned. There were intermittent short periods when I was able to break through my resistance and start a project, but all were invariably overcome by the brutal skepticism of my misinformed inner critic. Healing and growing and finding myself with a considerable amount of extra time to fill (thanks, pandemic) are what allowed me to, finally, gently say “With all due respect, Christine, you’re full of shit”. Because it’s really simple: a writer is someone who sits their ass in a chair (or stands at their treadmill desk) and writes. And a writer improves by doing this consistently over a long period of time.

So I started doing that. Almost every day. With intention. I began work on a project (which has since evolved several times) and I’m chagrined to admit that I initially applied my rigid taskmaster sensibility to the endeavor. But whatever works, I guess, because almost a year and a half later, as I’ve put in my chair time, I’m happy to report that I’ve loosened my grip, which has resulted in both leaps in enjoyment and a profusion of new ideas. I used to think I knew a lot about writing, probably because I read every how-to book written but never followed through. Finally, I’m learning by doing, both about writing and about myself.

Here, in no particular order, are a few of the nuggets I’ve gleaned over the past year:

It’s the process! Previously, I wanted to be a writer but I didn’t want to write. In other words, I was solely focused on the end result. I thought that having a book published would allow me to call myself a writer, which would fill the gaping hole in my self-esteem. And it would “show them”. This faulty logic was compounded by my delusional desire to make a living from writing. It was the perfect recipe for a vicious cycle of crippling procrastination: how could I justify spending time on something that didn’t make money, especially when I had little hope of being published?

Finally, because the urge to write has haunted me from my earliest memory, I decided to try to just enjoy it. To take it seriously, yes, but to stop obsessing over the end result. In addition to giving myself a much-needed break, I’ve discovered that I actually love the process of writing. That I love developing and articulating an idea, finding just the right word, seeing connections, adding and subtracting. I’m enchanted by the fact that the process is fluid and individual and deeply engaging.

A walk always helps. Sometimes it’s a walk with the crazy little dog, sometimes a longer trek to the beach and back, sometimes it’s just down the driveway to get the mail. Something about stepping away and taking in other stimuli while your feet are rhythmically moving is magic. Ideas are generated, problems are solved, and brainwaves are reset.

Just start! I’ve lost track of the times I toyed with a project idea that I was initially excited about but eventually abandoned. I would become paralyzed by the idea that I had to have the whole thing mapped out. That I had to research extensively (also known, in my case, as procrastinating by falling down rabbit holes). I realize that many writers work this way and that some idea of where you’re going is always helpful, but the truth is that many of us don’t know exactly where we’re going until we start writing. That what you thought you wanted to say might not be what you want to say once you’ve put some time in. So now instead of obsessing over form I’m focusing on content: saying what I have to say and seeing where that leads. Yes, this will undoubtedly lead to extra work in producing a book, but given how much I now love the process, it doesn’t feel like a burden.

Revision is fun. Once I stopped obsessing about a product and embraced the process, I grew to especially love revising. Not proofreading, which of course is helpful, but opening my mind to all the ways that a change would strengthen a piece of writing. A different angle, more dialogue, less snark? Two excellent craft tips I recently picked up are using the “read aloud” function and retyping, rather than line-editing, a first draft. And setting a piece aside, even if it’s only for a short time as a deadline looms, is a must for me.

Writer’s block is bullshit. I bought the fallacy of writer’s block for years. But truly, it’s just another way of saying “I’m a fucking mess right now and I just can’t concentrate”. Once I could admit that and take responsibility for cleaning up the mess, things changed. There is no malady specific to writers; there is simply a conscious choice, made repeatedly, to outwit the demons (for me, doubt, fear, and chaos) that might try to wreak havoc. So now I might write about what’s clamoring for my attention. I might write until I solve a problem or just get sick of listening to myself whine. I might read or research until something piques my interest. I might write an email or a list. And if all else fails, I go for a walk.

Diversity helps. As someone who is easily distracted, I used to imagine that I needed to put blinders on and grind away on one project at a time. So I was delighted to learn that having an alternate project pays such huge dividends. I’ve found that working on more than one project simultaneously not only leads to greater productivity but also provides much-needed breaks which in turn result in leaps in flexibility and creativity. I imagine these benefits would be exponential when working in multiple genres, a theory I’m eager to test.

I can trust myself. When I first started getting serious about my writing, I had a tendency to torture myself. I insisted on rigidly adhering to my schedule no matter what. I was so afraid that one missed day would set me on the slippery slope to sloth; that I’d give up as I had so many times before. Over time, as I established a record of keeping my promises to myself, I began to be able to trust myself. I could listen to that inner voice telling me that a rest or a walk would be the best use of my time; that I might not write as much as I’d hoped that day, but I’d return refreshed and more effective the next. Not coincidentally, this discovery that I could trust myself played out in other areas of my life simultaneously.

Letting go is key. Just as letting go has been crucial to much of my healing and growth, it’s been a revelation in my writing. Letting go of preconceived notions, of gimmicks or structures that don’t quite work, of “my darlings” (phrases I love because they’re just so clever). I’ve let go of reams of writing when a project changed direction and let go of or temporarily tabled other projects entirely. And I’m still working on what I find the most difficult yet most important letting go: the desire for external validation of my writing.

Writing always leads to growth. It’s difficult to quantify the many ways writing has enhanced this wild ride I’ve been on. First and foremost, it’s been instrumental in sorting myself out; in processing a lifetime of events and my thoughts and feelings about them. Although a solitary act, writing, for me, has been a bridge to community. Through my writing I’ve connected not just with other writers but with people who share my passions. Miraculously, my website has reconnected me with several dear friends with whom I’d lost touch due to time, distance, or the vagaries of life. These renewed conversations with people who knew me forever ago are especially nourishing and mean the world to me. I think the greatest marker of growth for me, though, has been my new drive to pay it forward; to let my story provide encouragement for someone struggling with similar issues. Knowing that I’ve helped someone else is its own form of healing.

***

Pro tip: Shortly after writing this, I came across an excerpt of an interview with the amazing Neil Gaiman (if you haven’t read American Gods, what are you waiting for?) in which he said that when it’s time to write, he goes to his work area, and he can either write or not write. He doesn’t have to write, but he can’t do a crossword puzzle or phone a friend or read his email; the only other option is to not write. Which he said gets pretty boring after five minutes or so. This is so simple yet profound, and I’m immediately implementing it.

Let’s talk! Do you write? If so, what have you learned about writing? If not, would you like to? Is there something stopping you?