Writing as Discovery, or, We're All Normal (In The Word Cellar)

beach stairs, nantucket (cell phone camera; photo by Bee)

I sit down at the keyboard. I'm following a snippet of a scene, a hazy idea whispering in maddening mumbles at the back of my brain. I have an impression, an inkling, a vague image that I need to uncover and discover.

I sit down at the keyboard and start a conversation with the words. I slide down rabbit holes, jump over fences, take a bold leap into the bright, high sky.

This is writing.

At least, it is for me.

A lot of the time I have no clear idea what I'm trying to write about until I'm elbow deep in a piece. For me, writing is a process of discovery. I write to know what I think. I write to discover how I feel. I write to create a cohesive whole from jumbled sections of thought floating around inside my mind.

As a result of this approach, my writing process includes a lot of editing and rewriting. I forge ahead, I double back. I tinker. I twiddle. I give and I take. This is writing. (This may also be why I fully believe that editing is a creative act.)

For a long time, I thought my natural writing process meant I wasn't a very good writer. In fact, I worried that it meant I wasn't a "real writer" at all.

I'd thought that "real writers" had an easy time writing. I'd thought that they came to the page pregnant with stories and ready to burst at the seams. I'd thought that this is how it worked for real writers every single time.

Boy howdy, was I wrong. There are times when we writers are ripe with words. Those are the joyful times. But there are other times when we writers have to dig and scratch in the dirt, like a dog or a chicken, looking for words like a bone or an insect, unearthing the story. (There are times when metaphors get fuddled.)

What sweet relief when I realized that my writing process is valid and true. When I embrace this idea of writing as a process of discovery, I can stop struggling so mightily with both with my identity as a writer and with the writing itself. When I realize that the story emerges during the process of writing, I allow myself to relax and do what comes naturally.

*  *  *

Turns out, all of this may be due to my natural preference as an extravert.

Stay with me now.

During a planning phone call with my Writing Lab panel for Blogher '10, the organization's co-founder Elisa Camahort brought up an interesting point about the way different personality types write. She said that she's heard that introverts and extraverts have different writing processes. While introverts tend to write a piece in their heads and come to the page with a nearly fully-formed piece, extraverts tend to do a lot more rewriting.

When I take the Myers-Briggs personality assessment, I always land on the extravert side, but just barely. Of all the M-B metrics, I'm most balanced on this one. In general, this means that to feel grounded I need large amounts of time alone as well as large amounts of social interaction. I need time to dream by myself, but I also need to brainstorm and hash out ideas with other people. As a writer, I tend to need a lot of quiet time to write, but during that time I engage in conversation with the page. By Elisa's definition, I'm definitely an extraverted writer. Occasionally I start writing with a clear story in my head, but usually I'm following breadcrumbs through a shadowy forest or running after the glint of sea glass strewn along the beach.

An unscientific, anecdotal study of other writers leads me to believe that there's something to this intro/extra process idea. (Chime in below and let us know if it holds true for you.)

*  *  *

One of the worst things we do to ourselves, both as artists and as humans, is to compare ourselves to other people. A lot of times this shows up in comparisons of how good or bad we think our work or life is compared to those around us. But we also tend to judge our processes against other people's processes. We think there's a bona fide norm to which we should aspire.

I thought that I had to master a particular writing process in order to consider myself a good or real writer. My mistake was believing in this elusive idea of the norm. 

I make that mistake in other areas, too.

I often make dinner after 10:00 at night because my husband's job forces him to keep odd hours. I'm a natural night owl who can set her own hours, so usually it's not a problem. But instead of reveling in the freedom to make this strange schedule work for us, I used to worry that we were weird and deviant, as though eating dinner at 11:00 p.m. somehow made me less of a mature, responsible adult and contributing member of society. But now I'm beginning to see that this is simply our norm for this time in our life. When I worked a traditional nine-to-five job, my husband and I rarely ate dinner together. Now that I can set my own schedule, I can choose to have dinner with my partner long after some of my friends have gone to bed. And then I sleep for hours and hours after they've gotten up the next day. This doesn't make me lazy. I'm just on a different program, one that works for me.

So I eat dinner during the nightly news, sleep till noon, and pick my way through words blindfolded. Maybe you like to eat dinner during the evening news, get up at dawn, and write whole stories in your head before you ever touch a keyboard or pen. We are each of us our own version of normal. As long as we stay true to that, we'll all be alright.

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

The first In The Word Cellar online writing course for creative souls is coming soon! Learn more about Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing.

Tips on Inspiration (In The Word Cellar)

at the bottom of my yard (Diana F+, Kodak 400VC-3)

Thanks to everyone who's asked a writing question so far. Remember: Ask a question by the end of July to be entered to win a copy of Lanterns: A Gathering of Stories. Just leave a comment on this post or email me: jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com. I'll choose the winner randomly, and there's no limit on the number of questions you can ask.

This week's topic comes from Dani who asked, "How do you stay inspired? How do you write when you're not?"

Inspiration is the creative ingredient with that je ne s'ais quoi quality. It comes. It goes. It's one fickle little imp. So I don't exactly know how to stay inspired; it's like catching the Tooth Fairy in action. Some days I feel it, some days I don't. But I'm practicing being committed to and enthusiastic about my creative work even when my mojo feels flat. I do know that these things usually help me to feel inspired:

• getting out into the world instead of being a hermit;
• having good conversations with people I love;
• making tangible things such as paintings, photographs, or yummy meals; and
• reading good books, listening to good music, and watching good movies.

But there are still plenty of days when everything I try to write bores me. This is when I remind myself to keep doing the work no matter how enthusiastic or inspired I might feel. Back in March I wrote a post called "How to Keep Creating" for this column. That list was all about approaching your creative work with kindness and a sense of honor of getting to do the work, while acknowledging the hard parts of creating. It's a rather philosophical post, albeit with a few handy tactics like, "When you look at the blank page and panic, type the first ten words that come to mind, no matter what they are. Then type ten more."

But what else can we do to approximate inspiration? Where are the practical tips, dammit?! (This is totally the voice inside my head. Not question-asker Dani's voice.)

Here are a three ideas.

1. Emulation (a.k.a. imitation)

Reading works you love can help to fuel your own writing. For one thing, it immerses your mind in the world of words and ideas, which can spark your own creativity. When I read a piece of writing that makes me think, "I wish I could write like that," I try to figure out why I love it and what the writer did to make it so wonderful.

And sometimes, I copy out a passage that I like and then imitate it as an exercise. I follow the general pattern set by the original author, substituting my own topic and words. This is a fun way to feel how the author has structured her sentences, how the language and rhythm work, how the theme stays focused or jumps around.

But, this practice method borders on unfair use and plagiarism, so I don't advocate using it for something you plan to publish as your own. As I said, consider this an exercise. In the end, you may find snippets of what you've written that you can use in another way. And if you do want to publish something that you've written in this way, be sure to credit the original author and her work. But again, I think you should treat this as a private exercise.

Here's an example so you can see how this works.

2. To Prompt or Not To Prompt?

I have mixed feelings about writing prompts. On one hand, I agree with poet Mary Ruefle (who is one of my MFA faculty members) who says that we don't need prompts devised by someone else. "The world is your prompt!" she said during a recent workshop. On the other hand, I think they can come in handy when you're really feeling stuck. After Mary declared prompts unnecessary, she then caved in and offered us this prompt, which she credited to fellow VCFA faculty member and poet Ralph Angel:

Walk in any direction for five to seven minutes. (You can do this outside or you can roam around inside a building.) Stop. Notice what surrounds you and write about it for the same length of time that you walked. Put your notes away. The next day, look at what you wrote and circle where the language is hot, where something interesting is happening. Put just those circled words on another piece of paper and use your own language as a writing prompt.

I think of this as the prompt of all prompts, like a meta-prompt. You create your own prompt organically. It's really just a formal method for drawing inspiration from the world around you.

3. Make Lists, Make Leaps

Not knowing what to write about is one thing. Prompts and emulation can help with that. But not knowing how to continue with a specific piece of writing is something else entirely. This is when I brainstorm and freewrite. For example, I'm writing an essay about whales right now. I know the essay isn't done, but I haven't figured out where it wants to go next. So I started a list of everything I could think of about whales. (A sampling: Jonah and Whale, Pinocchio, cultures that eat raw blubber.) I see if anything on the list sparks a thought-trail.

I also try freewriting on the topic, which is just me writing furiously, with no regard to coherency, grammar, spelling, or structure. I go as fast as I can and make any leap that comes to mind, no matter how crazy it is, just to see where it takes me. Essentially, I'm trying to trick myself into finding inspiration. I get stuck fairly often, so I use this technique a lot. Sometimes it takes a few tries, but eventually I find the thread and can move forward.

What are your tips for staying inspired? How do you find it when it's missing in action? Is inspiration overrated or is it essential? Leave your thoughts (and writing questions) in the comments.

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

Three Lessons on Writing (In The Word Cellar)

I just started the third semester of my MFA program. Here's some of what I've learned so far. (And scroll down for a giveaway!)

Lesson One: Write with your body

At my first on-campus residency last summer, I realized that I'd been writing almost completely from my head. I'd been ignoring the five senses on the page, writing about my observations and interior life nearly devoid of sight, smell, taste, touch, and sound. When I heard people read work that mesmerized me, I realized that they were describing things in the physical world. Fancy that!

This simple concept revolutionized my writing. I started writing not just with my head, but with my eyes, nose, mouth, skin, and ears. I discovered a lyric writing voice I'd never suspected I had -- or  that I'd even wanted. I fell in love with this new way of writing down the world.

Lesson Two: Choose your own story (and your voice)

By my second residency last winter, I was practicing my new voice and playing around with various writing styles and topics. I'd written a few lyric essays that were related to each other, but I didn't have a real direction with my work. When I realized that I'd need at least 75 pages for a final collection in order to graduate, I panicked. Those 75 pages didn't have to be related, but wouldn't it be nice if they were? It was time to choose a direction.

On top of it all, my advisors were encouraging me to write about a true story from my life that I did not want to write. "I'm just not interested in telling that story," I'd say.

They'd counter with: "But there's so much good stuff in there!"

I knew they were right: There is good stuff in there. And I knew I wanted a cohesive collection of 75 pages for my portfolio. So I started writing that story. I wrote 30 pages. I hated most of them. I hated the process of telling that particular story in that particular way.

But I'm so glad that my advisors encouraged me to try it, because those 30 pages showed me exactly what I didn't want to write, which finally illuminated what I did want to write.

I realized that my lyric essays had been trying to tell a similar story as those pages of memoir, but I hadn't seen it until I took a detour. By showing me what I didn't want to do, those 30 pages illuminated the story I did want to tell and how I wanted to tell it.

The only way to keep writing (and to keep making art of any kind) is to be true to our creative visions, to honor our passions and quirks. Sometimes it takes a detour to show us our true path. That's just part of the process.

In the end, you get to choose the story you tell, and how you tell it.

Lesson Three: Let the writing take over

I got back from my third residency last week. While I was there, the message all around me was this: Go deeper. Be wilder. Let the writing take over. Stop worrying about appearing normal to other people.

Within a few days of receiving this message from the universe, the first challenge to it smacked me in the chest and sent me to my knees. Circumstances conspired to make this going deeper and being wilder seem too risky. I contemplated scrapping my soul-baring lyric essays and instead writing about coffee or kittens -- anything to avoid letting the writing take over. Anything to avoid telling my story in my voice. Anything to avoid going deeper.

For two days I cried to friends and teared up when anyone asked me how I was. I looked for loopholes, tangents, escape routes -- anything to avoid the work of my artistic calling: to be true, no matter the consequences (real or imagined).

I don't know what going deeper and wilder will look like. I'm excited and afraid. I'm also utterly convinced that there is no other way forward.

*  *  *

Giveaway
Ask a writing question. Be entered to win a copy of Lanterns.

For the rest of July, anyone who emails me a writing question or leaves one in the comment will be entered to win a copy of Lanterns: A Gathering of Stories. I'll choose the winner randomly, and there's no limit to how many questions you can ask.

Leave your questions in the comments of this post or email them to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com. Small questions and big ones. Vague questions and the very specific. Questions on the writing life, the writing process, and the craft of writing. Send them all!

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

Editing is a Creative Act (In The Word Cellar)

Diana+ (Kodak 400-VC3)

"We generally go for a pretty straight definitive version of what the song sounds like it should be, and then, deconstruct it a little bit to see if there's some more exciting way to approach it. There's no reason -- at all -- not to destroy it. We made it, so it's ours to destroy. And that's liberating and exciting in a really creative way." ~Jeff Tweedy, singer/songwriter (in "I am trying to break your heart," a documentary film about the band Wilco)

The writer's worst nightmare: The blank page.

The writer's other worst nightmare: The editing process.

Both have a reputation for intimidating writers and making us long to get up and do some laundry. Personally, I think the blank page is way scarier than editing. The beginning of a project -- those moments (or years) before a word is written -- can paralyze me with possibility. I'm working on changing that, trying to see the blank canvas as an invitation rather than a terrifying wasteland.

Maybe you think revision is worse. Maybe you consider it a dark monolith squatting between you and the joy of a finished piece of writing. I say it's not so! I like revising. All those written words to cover the blank page! All those sentences and punctuation marks to ward off bright white panic! Revising is often one of my favorite parts of the writing process.

Look at the word revision: Re-vision. That's not so scary. In fact, it's rather nice. I think of it as rewriting. No matter what you call it, editing is a creative act.

Yes, there are two different mojos that go into the writing process -- the creative and the critical -- but I think both can be creative acts. On one hand, you have the purely creative mojo, during which you should quiet your inner critic and analyst and let the words fly. On the other hand, there is a time for your editorial, critical eye to rove over your work. But I don't mean critical in a mean-spirited way. I mean critical in a creative way; use your thinking skills to make the work rock.

The only thing your critic and analyst should be doing is helping your creative mojo to better serve the work. If they start ranting or whispering about the value of the work -- about how good or bad it is -- rejigger their wiring until they understand that they're part of the creative process, not part of a panel of judges. This will quiet their cynicism and bitterness, and engage them in the process of making art, which is probably what they've secretly wanted.

Reshaping a work after the first pass of creation is part of the creative process. You move paragraphs around, change words, delete sentences and then sometimes put them back in. You play with the words as though you're shaping wet clay into something beautiful. Until the very end stage of proofreading, all editing is simply rewriting, or, writing again.

Don't be afraid to dig into your writing. Get your soft writer's hands dirty. Plunge them down into the loam of your words, all the way up to your wrists or elbows, however far you need to go. Stop fearing the rewriting process. It's all writing. Dig and move and sing in the pages of your creation. Own the editing process. Be brave enough to change things. You created it. Allow yourself to deconstruct it and put it together again in a new, more interesting way.

A word on a practical issue: Keep copies of vastly different revisions, in case you want to pull something from one version into another.

One word of caution: You could rewrite forever. Don't. Allow yourself to finish things and enjoy them.

I've completely revamped essays four or five times before I began to find their true shape and the story they were trying to tell. I loved the process of rewriting them, of unearthing something new and true, of discovering the art as I was making it.

I know some of you are still having a hard time believing me, but I invite you to try re-envisioning what the editing process can look like. During your next editing session, tell yourself that you're just writing again.

And let me know how it goes.

**Post your writing questions in the comments or send them to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com.

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

Ways to Enliven Your Writing (In The Word Cellar)

Carousel beneath Space Needle, Seattle (Diana+; Kodak GC400)

This week's nitty gritty writing tips are short and sweet, or maybe they're quick and dirty. (You decide which cliché you like better.)

How can you make your writing more lively? If you're bogged down in a section of writing that drags its feet and bores you, try a few of these tips to perk it up. In fact, they're good techniques to use all the time.

1. Avoid clichés. Wait, that tip itself is rather cliché, isn't it? Sometimes a cliché can be funny or drive home a point as a sort of cultural shorthand. But if you use one, be aware of it. Use it because it's the best way to say something, not because it's the easiest and quickest way to say it.
2. Use active voice. In active voice, the subject of the sentence does the action. In passive voice, the action of the sentence happens to the object. This is passive voice: The omelette was dropped on the floor by the chef. This is active voice: The chef dropped the omelette on the floor. Passive: The baseball was thrown by me. Active: I threw the baseball.
3. Use good verbs, not adverbs. Strong writing uses strong verbs, not weak verbs modified by adverbs. Don't run quickly out the door; sprint or dash out the door. Don't cry profusely; weep or wail. Don't call out angrily; shout or yell or scold. Some writers swear against adverbs at all costs. I'm not that strict, but I believe in the power of lively verbs to strengthen writing.
4. Use fewer "to be" verbs. To be verbs include the following: be, am is, are, was, and were. Sometimes you need to use a to be verb. But often you can find a much more interesting way to write the sentence.
5. Avoid word bloat. You probably need fewer words than you think you do. Remove unnecessary phrases or replace them with shorter, more direct phrases. Less is more. (Hey look, another cliché!)

Do you have any favorite tips for enlivening your writing? Any questions on how to handle specific sluggish sections? Share in the comments or email me: jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com.

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.