Writing Process Redux

A process is a fluid thing, ebbing and flowing like a tide, changing course like a river.

A few months ago, I wrote at length about my writing process as part of a "writing process blog tour" that's been making it's way around the internet. I was originally invited to participate by a friend from grad school. Last week, Meredith Winn, a blogging friend and colleague, invited me again.

Process is a fluid thing, and mine has changed somewhat in the last six months. So I'm answering the same four questions again. Some of the answers are different, some are the same as before. All of them are true — and subject to change.

{psst...If you're interested in exploring and shaping your own writing process, registration for a new session of The Writing Life: Rituals, Rhythms, & Practices has just opened!}

1) What are you working on?

I have several books in various stages of undress in my mind:

• a collection of linked essays called For All We Learned, The Sea, which explores spirituality, landscape, and the longing for home in all its many forms;
• a novel about genetics, geography, and why we love what we love;
• a memoir about the year I lived and worked in a London YMCA;
• a memoir about falling in love with (and having my heart broken by) two men—one who was five years my senior, and one who lived 2,000 years ago;
• a novel about an American named Anna and a Scotsman named Ian (who comes from a sheep farm and is a puppeteer); and
• a middle grade or young adult story about a girl with an English mother, a Japanese father, and bucket loads of moxie, hijinks, and adventures. 

I'm always working on other random essays, as well. And if the weather is right, I might write a poem or work on a story to tell on-stage.

I used to suffer from having too few ideas. Having a multitude of options feels like gorgeous creative opulence, but I often get stuck in indecision about what to focus on. Right now, I'm focusing on writing essays (that may or may not be part of For All We Learned, The Sea), plus early research for one of the novels. I'm also looking for and working on freelance writing assignments for magazines and publications. (Being both a freelancer and a creative writer requires some shuffling and hustling.)

2) How does your work differ from others of its genre?

To answer this question, I'll stick with how I approach writing essays and literary nonfiction.

My writing style is different than a lot of personal writing (essays, memoir, etc.). Most of the essays in my collection are not straight narrative. I joke that I write essays in which nothing happens. These pieces are often non-chronological and non-narrative. I think of them as the written equivalents of Polaroids, snippets or vignettes that capture a moment in time, a mood, a thought, a feeling, a question. I also love to braid together disparate elements, to play with structure and form, and to make unexpected connections.

I think my attention to language is a bit unusual compared to some other literary nonfiction writers. Since I often write in a more meditative or lyric style, I'm more concerned with the rhythm and sound of the language than some (though not all) narrative nonfiction writers are. Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually a poet who writes paragraphs. I'm as interested in how words sound and taste as I am in what they mean.

 3) Why do you write what you do?

The existential answer:

I write what I write because that's what comes to me. What else can I do?

The practical answer:

I write what I write because that's what comes to me. What else can I do?

4) What is your writing process?

I have traditionally had terrible writing habits: scattershot and inconsistent. Within the last month, I've begun to try out a new rhythm: two-hour writing sessions, three times per week. These sessions are reserved for my creative writing projects. Any writing that I need to do for articles or blog posts aren't part of that time. The aim is to be more prolific and to make steady progress toward at least one finished manuscript.

This new rhythm has me focusing on process goals rather than product goals. I'll have more to say about this — and how it might be a game changer for me — in an upcoming blog post.

I've written before about how I've had to learn to write badly and how writing is a process of discovery for me. Last January, I had some pretty major epiphanies about how I write the kinds of essays in For All We Learned, The Sea. It's a slow and languorous process that requires a lot of time and white space to let the essays' elements coalesce. This realization has helped me to see that I need to be working on several things in any given month, be that multiple essays, or essays plus something else entirely (such as a novel).

So while having a lot of writing projects going on at once could be distracting, I'm experimenting with whether it can help me to write with more consistency and ease.

What about you? 

How do you write? Do tell!

** ** **

I tagged these writers, who answered the questions for themselves:

Karen Dietrich is the author of a memoir, The Girl Factory (Globe Pequot, 2013), as well as three chapbooks: Understory (dancing girl press, 2013), Girl Years (Matter Press, 2012), and Anchor Glass (Finishing Line Press, 2011). Her writing has appeared in Specter, Bellingham Review, PANK, and elsewhere. Read about her writing process here.

Ross McMeekin's fiction appears in Shenandoah, Passages North, Folio, PANK, Hobart, Tin House Flash Fiction Fridays, and elsewhere. He edits the literary journal Spartan. He’' the recipient of a 2013-14 Made at Hugo House Fellowship and lives in Seattle. Read about his writing process here.

** ** **

If you're interested in exploring your creative process, please consider joining me for The Writing Life: Rituals, Rhythms, & Practices, June 30 - July 25, 2014.

In this online class you'll unravel the misconceptions and myths of what being a "Real Writer" looks like. You'll tap into your creative energy and unleash it in a sustainable way. You'll learn techniques for transforming your perceived weaknesses into the strengths of your writing life. You'll figure out what it will take for you to write more. And you'll probably start to have a lot more fun while writing!

Full details and registration are available here. I hope you'll join me!

You Don't Have to Keep a Journal!

You don't have to keep a journal.

You don't have to write "morning pages."

You don't have to fill a notebook in a month.

If these things don't support your writing life, you don't have to do them.

How would it feel to let go of these things?

* * *

During a coaching call on Skype this week, a writer told me that after she finishes writing in her journal for the day, she often has little energy or interest left over to work on her fiction.

I asked her if she likes to write in her journal. I saw a look of puzzlement come over her face. "That's a good question," she said slowly. She thought about it for a moment and then admitted that no, she doesn't really love writing in her journal.

"So, what if you just stopped?" I asked her. "What if you just let that go?"

A different kind of puzzlement came over her face. This was the kind of puzzlement mixed with hope and possibility, the kind that says, Really? I could do that?!

Yes! You could do that.

When your creative practice becomes a prison, it's time to rethink your creative rhythms.

{click to Tweet}

You can let go of the "must-haves" and "should-dos" of being a writer if they don't support and nourish your writing life.

You can let go of the myth of the "real writer."

This is a theme that comes up again and again with my students and my coaching clients. Your writing life and practices don't have to look like anyone else's. Creating a vibrant writing life means figuring out what works and letting go of the rest.

Personally, writing in a journal is sometimes good for my writing life, and sometimes not. It often serves as a way for me to quiet my monkey mind, as a place to dump my fears and worries, or as a practice to check-in with myself and reconnect with what I want to create. But at other times, it ends up taking the place of the writing I really want to be doing that day, and I end up feeling just like my client does: too drained to write anything else. 

Sometimes journaling enables me to write more, and sometimes it gets in the way of my writing.

My responsibility is to figure out what I need on any given day to best support my writing life (and all the parts of my life). Maybe I need to journal. Maybe I need to work on my book. Maybe I need to blog. Maybe I need to do all of those. Or maybe I need to go for a walk and let my mind meander. 

No creative practice is necessarily good or bad on its own. There's not a right way and a wrong way to create. As writers and artists, we need to build lives that support and inspire our work.

Go ahead: Do what works. Let the rest go. Get out of jail free.

---

The Writing Life: Rituals, Rhythms, & Practices
(online class, with ebook & community)
Next session: June 30 - July 25, 2014

In this online class you'll discover and embrace YOUR creative process. Find out what works for you and your writing. Unravel the misconceptions and myths of what being a "Real Writer" looks like. Figure out what it will take for you to write more. (And have a lot more fun while writing!) Registration is open.

How to be alone with your writing (#1)

 

How to be alone with your writing, a non-comprehensive, ever-growing list.

(I expect to post new additions to this list from time to time. Feel free to add your tips in the comments.)

Turn off distractions.

Put your cell phone on "silent." Then turn it face down so you don't see it light up with new text messages. Finally, stick the damn thing in a drawer and do your best to forget about it. It might take some practice, but eventually you'll untether yourself from that slim electronic brick of light and mayhem. You may even begin to leave the room or the building without it from time to time.

Let yourself wonder.

When the urge hits to check social media and email, or to conduct random Google searches for things you must know RIGHT THIS MINUTE, turn off you computer's WiFi. Do it. Facts and news and updates can wait. Let yourself wonder a little longer. Let your mind wander a little further on the page. Sit in the questions; they make for the best writing.

Make friends with your fear.

Afraid you won't be able to write anything good? Afraid you won't be able to write anything at all? That's okay. Shake hands with your fear, pour it a metaphorical cup of hot tea (spiked with whiskey if necessary), and tell it that you've got this. You do. Fear can chill out. You will be fine.

Acknowledge -- and then ignore -- any urges to flee the scene.

Is the laundry calling your name? Are you overwhelmed by an intense desire to weed the garden? Do your toenails need clipping or painting? Fair enough, but your dirty gutchies, the weeds, and your ten little piggies can all wait. Your job right now is to sit and write. Do your job.

Reframe to privilege and joy.

Do you have to write or do you get to write? Maybe it's both. If you can string words together in the service of art, beauty, meaning, connection, or whatever else matters to you, this is a privilege. You might not feel joyful in the moments when writing is difficult, but you can always be looking toward joy in the work. Reframe your mindset to the privilege and joy it is to make stories.

Stay seated. Stand up. Stretch. Sit back down. Write.

Repeat as necessary.

Spring: I believe.

haystack rock, cannon beach, oregon (march 2010) If you live in many parts of the northern U.S., you've probably been saying to your friends, "Winter was hard this year, wasn't it?" And your friends have been nodding their heads, squinting their eyes, and pulling their sweaters closer around them. Those of us in the northeastern states still look pale and shellshocked from all the snow, the ice, the darkness, the Polar Vortex, the fear that maybe this time spring really wouldn't come. Starting a few weeks ago, we began to see photos from our friends down south and in more moderate climes -- all those soft, bright blooms! It was too much to bear. Yes, April: that cruellest month, mixing memory and desire, hyacinths, hope, and apprehension. But quick now, here now, always: the daffodils are beginning to peek out. The buds on the pear tree are undeniably about to pop into petals. And despite the snow that dusted us here in Pennsylvania just two days ago (it always snows in April), despite it all: I believe. I believe in spring, in the return of the light, in warmth, in love, in second chances. Some days I'm tempted to sit down and list out exactly what I do believe, side-by-side with all of the beliefs that I've lost along the way, just to see which list is longer. Where, I wonder, is the Life we have lost in living? But to tell you the truth, I'm not sure I want -- or need -- to know, becuase what we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.**

So in honor of endings and beginnings, in honor of spring, here's a little blessing that I wrote a few years ago. (When I read it, I like to imagine that I'm standing at the sea, which is the land's edge.)

A Springtime Blessing

May you be rooted like rock
That reaches down beneath the constant tide
And pushes tall into the air.
May you shimmer like sun-skimmed sand
Along white, white waves.
May a line of footprints lead you
To adventure and home and back again.
May your perspective be one of compassion and beauty.
May you ruffle your wings in the water
And flutter them dry on the breeze,
Plump with the knowledge that you are as permanent
And as temporary
As this land.

 

**Italicized words, plus references to April as the cruellest month and hyacinths, from T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land," Four Quartets, and The Rock. (It seems I can't go a spring season without quoting at least one of these.)

Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

This is what I'm going to practice doing this weekend (and always), on the page and off.