Creativity & Quiet (In The Word Cellar)

A few weeks ago I wrote about creativity and time, about such inconvenient facts as these: 

Ideas don't come down the conveyor belt in perfect succession, spaced apart just so. 

. . .

Creative work needs time and space to breathe.

This week I've been pondering the silence that our creative spirits need.

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Creativity craves a chapel.

"A chapel," writes Pico Iyer, "is where you can hear something beating below your heart."

This is why I need to write in silence: no music, no background chatter, not even a clock ticking too loudly. I need to be able to hear the words trying to come through me. I need the quiet so I can hear the melody of the language.

This isn't to say that one can only write in literal silence. I could, if given the chance, write to the sound of the ocean surf. I know writers who do some of their best work while sitting in a café listening to music through their headphones. For each of us, there are sounds that allow us to tap into the chapels of our creativity, sounds that enable us to hear the rhythm of our hearts and something beating below that. We need whatever version of sound or silence permits us entrance to the stories waiting for us to tell them.

Eudora Welty said it beautifully. She wrote that she hears a literal voice when she reads and when she writes.

It is the voice of the story or the poem itself. The cadence, whatever it is that asks you to believe, the feeling that resides in the printed word, reaches me through the reader-voice. I have supposed, but never found out, that this is the case with all readers ― to read as listeners ― and with all writers, to write as listeners. It may be part of the desire to write. The sound of what falls on the page begins the process of testing it for truth, for me. Whether I am right to trust so far I don’t know. By now I don’t know whether I could do either one, reading or writing, without the other.

My own words, when I am at work on a story, I hear too as they go, in the same voice that I hear when I read in books. When I write and the sound of it comes back to my ears, then I act to make my changes. I have always trusted this voice.

Welty is also known for saying that she listened for stories. 

Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it's an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.....

I don't know how Eudora listened for her stories when she was on her own. I don't know if she sat in silence, but I know that she didn't have the same temptations I face when I sit down to write on my laptop. She may have been distracted or tempted away from the page by many things, but she never had to fend off the siren songs of the Internet.

Oh Lord, this little white box on my lap and its magical, invisible companion, WiFi. Was there ever anything so marvelous and so terrible? I love this white keyboard (and my high school typing teacher) for the gift of being able to capture my thoughts in nearly real-time. I love the connection this device gives me to the world, real connections that break the bounds of anything virtual. It is ease and comfort and connection, all wrapped up in silicone and hard drive. And yet...

I know that when I hop around the Web, watch YouTube videos, surf the TV set, I turn away and feel agitated. I go for a walk, enjoy a real conversation with a friend, turn off the lights and listen to Bach or Leonard Cohen, and I feel palpably richer, deeper, fuller, happier.

Happiness is absorption, being entirely yourself and entirely in one place. That is the chapel that we crave. ~Pico Iyer

I like the chatter. I like tweeting and updating and commenting and posting. I even believe them to be one way I feed my creative spirit. But too easily I can get caught up in the noise of it all, in the twitchy, buzzy, fuzziness that doesn't make me happy, that doesn't deepen my thoughts.

If I want to write more consistently, I know that I have to invite in the quiet that I crave. I could go for a walk, or sit in the dark listening to music, as Iyer describes. I could read. (I constantly have to remind myself that reading is part of my creative process. I think I'm still incredulous that something I love so much could be so good ― even necessary ― for my artform. But really, could it be any other way?)  I could stare out the window and daydream. All of these things restore me to myself, which, in turn, restores my creativity to me. 

It turns out that I need silence not only when I'm writing, but in the spaces in-between the acts of creation. The silence is part of the "time and space" that our ideas need to breathe.

I sense that I have so much more to write about this. But my cat is currently banging a kitchen cupboard door, which is his noisy way of asking for what he craves (the food inside). Also, it is late, and if there's one other thing I need as much a silence, it is sleep. And so I'll stop here, but I'd love to know: What does your creativity need? What is your kind of silence? What is your chapel?

Sources:

"A Chapel Is Where You Can Hear Something Beating Below Your Heart" by Pico Iyer, originally published in Portland, Winter 2012, reprinted in The Best Spiritual Writing 2012, Philip Zaleski, editor

One Writer's Beginnings, by Eudora Welty

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

Creativity & Time (In The Word Cellar)

The last "In The Word Cellar" post wrapped up the MFA mini-series. That said, I'm happy to add to it if you have questions, so just let me know. This week I'm thinking about creativity and time. I'd like to write a beautiful, meditative essay about this topic, but that's going to take more time than I have right now. So for now here's an off-the-cuff post instead.

Doing stuff takes time. Doing creative stuff can take a lot of time. It can also make time go all wonky, contracting and expanding it, making it refuse to play by the normal hourly rules.

Scenario #1: You sit down to write and the words won't come. You tell yourself, I'll sit here for one hour and do nothing else but focus on writing. Time limps, drags, scrapes by until you're begging for mercy, aching to stand up and do something more pleasurable, like wash dishes. 

Scenario #2: You set out to write (or paint or dance or take photos) and you shimmy into a sweet groove. You are in the zone. You look up and zip! You've "lost" an hour or two or five.

Scenario #3: This is the in-between scenario: You write something, maybe a blog post. You think it will take about an hour to write it, edit it, proofread it, add a photo to it, and hit "publish." Sometimes it takes an hour. Sometimes it takes three. It's not that time zipped or dragged, it's just that the process was more involved and consuming than you thought it would be.

I was talking about creativity and time with a client the other day. She was feeling frustrated because Scenario #3 happens to her a lot. It happens to me a lot, too. Things often take much longer than I think they will. (Except when they don't, of course. Sometimes I put off doing something because I'm sure it will be difficult and a major time-suck. And then it ends up being easy-peasy and taking five minutes, and I feel like a schmuck, albeit a productive schmuck.)

I've been thinking about the nature of creative work, and how it forces us to play by different rules than if we were just making widgets on an assembly line. Creative work isn't so regulated, so orderly, so perfectly timed.

Ideas don't come down the conveyor belt in perfect succession, spaced apart just so. 

Developing an idea doesn't happen in an orderly, assembly line fashion. It's messy. Things do not always proceed in a linear direction. There is much doubling back, doubling up, rearranging, redoing. I have to remember this every time I start writing a new essay or developing curriculum for a new course. Each time I do it I learn something new, but the learning never stops.

The most important thing I keep learning about creative work is that it needs time and space to breathe. If I sit down to write, I want to be writing--actively. I want to see words filling up the blank page. Letter after letter, word after word, line after line, punctuation mark after punctuation mark. Progress! I worry that if I'm not typing, I'm not doing anything. And if I'm not doing anything, then I must be lazy or stupid or creatively blocked. But no, this is not so. Idling is a good and necessary part of the creative process. Let your mind wander. Daydream. Doodle. Give yourself -- and your work -- time and space to breathe. I mean this literally (meditation, yoga, deep breathing, taking walks -- all good things), and more metaphorically. Let things steep and simmer for awhile. It adds flavor and depth, like a good soup. (Not everything needs -- or can wait for -- a lot of marinating, of course. This blog post, for example, won't get a lot of breathing room. It's a bit more slapdash than that. But the essay I'm working on this week is getting a lot of breathing room. I've been noodling with it since August. This frustrates me, but I also know that it needed this long to come into being and to come into its own.)

Creative work is like window caulking: It needs time to set-up and cure. Or compare it to wine and men: It needs plenty of time to mature. (My apologies to the men. And the grapes.)

(Those jokes probably won't make it into the meditative essay I want to write about creativity and time, so thanks for indulging me here.)

What about you? How does time fit into your creative process?

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

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If you'd like to explore your own creative process and give yourself the time, space, and permission to write, I invite you to join me for Alchemy Inspiration: Start Writing. This fun, gentle, and encouraging 4-week ecourse is perfect for anyone who wants to start writing for the first time or the first time in a long time. Alchemy Inspiration runs February 6 - March 2, and registration is open.

MFA Alternatives (In The Word Cellar)

This installment of In The Word Cellar is a bit late, either by a few days or a whole month, depending on how you're counting. I started it in December and then lost it when Squarespace hiccupped and deleted it. I put it on hold until last week, and I'd intended to have it up on Wednesday, but I was sucked down the vortex of project planning as I whirled and twirled like a dervish to get my new courses and workshops ready. (Last week's column was all about overcoming my sticking points between brainstorming and implementation. I'm happy to have forged ahead through the sticky parts.) And now, onward to this week's column! 

So you've read about my road to MFA-ville, pondered why someone might pursue a graduate degree in writing, looked at how to research and choose a program, and learned all about the low-residency model. Maybe you've started your own list of prospective schools or put the MFA experience on your bucket list.

On the other hand, maybe you've decided hell-no-I-don't-want-to-go-to-grad-school! Or maybe it's just not a feasible option for you right now. Well then, this post is for you.

As I've said all along, I don't believe that you must get a degree to become a better writer or to be published. I knew that I could have found everything I wanted (a writing community, feedback on my writing, craft lessons, and connection to the writing world) inside an MFA program or outside of it. I chose one possible path, but there are many others.

Here are my suggestions for alternatives to getting an MFA in writing. (These also serve as reminders for myself, post-MFA, of what I can do to keep growing and learning and writing.)

Read. Read a lot. Read literature. Read in your genre and far outside of it. Read for pleasure. Read for osmosis.

Reading good literature—the kind we'd like to write—infuses us with a knowledge that goes beyond what we may learn from textbooks or lectures: good literature settles deep within us so, when we write, we can summon what we've received from our predecessors—to emulate, to build. ~ Renee Ronika Kluug, "On Writing: Why Reading Matters," guest post on Rogue Writer

Read books about the craft of writing and about the writing life. (Randy Susan Meyers' post "My Homemade MFA" on Beyond the Margins has a nice collection of quotes of writing advice.)

Learn to read like a writer. This is one of the most important skills I've acquired. How do you read like a writer? Ask yourself why you like a piece of writing. What do you admire in it or dislike? What do you want to do in your own work? Try to see how an author does what she does. I know this sounds techical and like I'm telling you to kill the joy and magic of the written word, but it's not like that. Study other writers as the artists and the technicians that they are. Identify authors' strengths, and turn to them when you need help with something in particular. Let your bookshelf be your writing apothecary. Are you struggling with structure, voice, or incorporating humor into your work? Read the authors who do these things well. Learn from them through osmosis and through conscious study.

Get critical and respond like a writer. One way you can learn to read like a writer is to write critical responses to or papers on a piece of writing. (Yes, write papers for yourself.) I explain what critical means here in this post; here's an excerpt from it: 

First off, it's not nearly as dry, boring, or terrible as it sounds. Part of the MFA program is learning to read as a writer; to dive into another author's work and begin to figure out how she made the magic happen on the page. This is learning to look at creative work with a critical eye. Not critical in the sense of being harsh or belittling. Rather, this is about applying critical thinking skills to the craft of writing.

[Keep reading here (scroll down to the subheading called "The critical work."]

Read critical and craft essays in publications such as The Writer's Chronicle and Hunger Mountain's The Writing Life.

Write. I know this should go without saying, but I'm saying it because I need to hear it. Write. A lot. Keep writing. And do it again the next day.

If you write a bad story, the way to make it better is to write three more. Then look at the first one. You will have grown in understanding, in honesty. You will know what to do to it. And to yourself. ~Brenda Ueland, If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit

Mind the gap. There's always a gap between who we are and who we're becoming, between our current skill level and what is possible. Jen Lee talks about the gap in The Emerging Icon Series. Ira Glass (from "This American Life") talks about the gap between your ability and your taste. Don't let the gap stop you from creating. Be aware of it and keep forging ahead.

Set goals, deadlines, and dreams. If you, like me, are not to be trusted to hold yourself accountable, call in back-up. Support and accountability are priceless in all of life, and your writing life is no exception. Do you need external deadlines to make sure you get shit done? Do you need people to ask you what you're working on? Do you need project and submission deadlines to make sure you actually write? I do. I wish it weren't that way, but it is. Forget the shame and guilt of how you think a writer is supposed to operate, and do what works for you. If it works for you, then it's working. If you're writing, then there's no need for guilt or shame about not writing.

Share your work. Support and accountability, baby. Share your drafts with writers and readers that you trust. It's a good exercise in courage, and it's a good way to learn about your blind spots. And that leads me to the next point...

Workshopping is a verb. Share your work with trusted writer-peers and get their input on what's working well and what isn't working as well in your writing. Words are wonderful and slippery things. They will mean different things to different people. You don't have to change things based on another person's vision or opinion, but if nobody in the group understands that your main character is a ghost, and you wanted readers to understand that your main character is a ghost, well, it's time to rethink how you present Ghosty. (I've written more about dealing with feedback here.) (If you're looking for a small group to workshop with, I'm facilitating one here.)

Give good feedback. This is still about sharing your work and workshopping with other writers -- and about reading/responding like a writer. Practicing giving useful, respectful feedback on your peers' work will deepen your own understanding of your craft. It will make you a better writer.

Submit. Send your work out into the world. Publish it on a blog. Submit to magazines, newspapers, literary journals.

Literary journals! Read them, subscribe to them, and send your work to them. Volunteer with them. If you don't know much about lit journals (I didn't just a few years ago), check out NewPages.com to get the lay of the land. (Are you interested in learning more about lit journals? Should I write a separate post about them?)

Find a mentor. Living or dead, real or imaginary.

Attend conferences and readings.

Take writing classes (online or in person).

Go on a writing retreat.

Travel. Seek adventures. Do stuff. Write about it.

I'm getting a little punchy here at the end of this list, but it's all advice that I myself need to hear. 

What about you? What MFA alternatives can you share with us? Please chime in below.

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

How The Low-Res MFA Works (In The Word Cellar)

This is Part 4 of an "In The Word Cellar" mini-series about MFA in writing programs. You can read the other posts at the links listed below:

• Part 1: The Road to MFA-ville gives you a short introduction to the mini-series.
• Part 2: Why Get an MFA in Writing? chronicles my decision to apply to graduate school and explores what I was looking for in a program.
• Part 3: Researching & Choosing an MFA Program is a long, meaty post that details how I chose which programs to apply to. It also includes helpful resources and suggestions for anyone considering or applying to an MFA program.

In that last post, I offered an overview of how low-residency programs work and why I liked being in one. First, I'll reprint what I wrote about that, and then I'll get into more details about the logistics of low-res programs, including how the feedback process works and what "critical" work really means in the context of a creative writing program.

How low-res programs work...

Low-res programs usually take four semesters to complete. A semester is six months, so you're basically working on the degree for two years straight. Twice a year you spend about 10 days on campus. (This is the residency part.) During residencies you'll attend lectures, workshops, and readings with faculty members and other students. I found that residencies were like an alternate reality: total immersion in the world of writing. The "real world" of home and work fade away and seem quite distant very quickly. Frankly, it's pretty fantastic to be immersed in the world of writing and the company of other writers.

The rest of the semester is spent off-campus. So it's just you and your writing wherever you live. Each program may be a bit different, but most work like this: Once a month you send packets of writing to your faculty advisor, who will then respond with detailed feedback and recommendations.

A low-res program culminates in the completion of a creative thesis, just as in traditional programs. This is essentially a collection of creative writing you've done over the course of the program. Mine had to be at least 75 pages. It included a collection of essays that belong together plus one "random" essay that wasn't part of the same set. Your creative thesis could be part (or all) of a memoir, a novel, a collection of short stories, or a poetry collection. (The page count for poets is always much shorter, it seems.) My other graduation requirements included writing a critical thesis and writing and delivering a 45-minute lecture.

...and why I think they're great.

It's often said that the low-res model more closely mirrors a writer's life than does a traditional program, and I think that's true. Most of the time, being a writer means sitting down alone and writing. Then you might share your work and get feedback from an editor or your peers, and maybe get together with some fellow writers at a retreat or conference a few times a year. And then it's back to the page. This is how I spent my two years in a low-residency program, which seems to be good training for my post-grad writing life. I'm still working on writing consistently, but I'm so much better at it than I was before grad school. The experience of having monthly deadlines has helped me to become more consistent in my writing. It's also reinforced my need for external deadlines, which I now feed by making commitments with friends to swap work or deciding to send my work to lit journals.

And now for some new material. Please keep in mind that I'm writing from the perspective of my experience with Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA). There will be a lot of similarities with other low-res programs, but not all programs work exactly the same way. (If you've gone through a different low-res program, I invite you to leave a comment telling us how your experience was the same or different.)

The advisors
Each semester, a student works with one faculty member as an advisor. Students usually work with a different advisor each semester (for a total of four advisors), but occasionally students will petition the program and ask to work with the same advisor two semesters in a row (usually the last two semesters).

At VCFA, students get a say in who they work with, but it's not guaranteed that they'll work with any particular faculty member. You get more say as you progress through the semesters. As a first semester student you circle a certain number of names of faculty members, with no system for ranking your preference. For example, if there are eight faculty members who teach in your genre, you may be asked to circle six of them that you'd be willing to work with. Starting in your second semester you get to list faculty members by preference. Students in later semesters have more clout in this process, and by your final semester you usually get your first choice. I always ended up working with one of my top two choices for the semester.

The packets (and feedback)
As I mentioned above, each month I sent a packet of work to my advisor. Some advisors request that these be sent via regular mail, while others accept material via email. Either way, my packets consisted of a combination of creative and critical work. (More on what "critical" means below.)

A standard packet consists of 30 pages of writing (often a combination of new and revised material), plus a "cover letter." The term cover letter confuses a lot of people, and sounds like something you'd send with a resume. Not so. This letter to your advisor is an opportunity to ask them questions and to update them on how you're doing creatively. Think of it as a monthly check-in,  a written version of what you'd talk about if you met with your advisor during office hours. In return, your advisor will write you a letter, answering your questions, addressing your concerns, and offering writing and reading suggestions.

In addition to this letter, your advisor will provide detailed feedback on the work you submitted. Each advisor has his or her own way of doing this. Some will leave detailed line notes on your work. Others include the bulk of their comments in their main letter or in mini-letters at the end of each piece of writing. Some work electronically (using Word's "track changes" feature to leave comments and line edits on the electronic documents), some work on hard copies, and some may do a combination of both. I know of one faculty member who gives students feedback via audio recording, which sounds strange, but his students usually love it.

You can get a sense, in advance, of how faculty members work and what they like to focus on (which genres or subgenres; do they focus on "big picture" issues such as theme and structure or more detailed items such as language usage, grammar, and word choice). You learn this by reading their teaching statements, getting to know them through their lectures, talking to other students, and by talking directly with the faculty members during group "speed-dating" sessions.

A note about feedback
Just as every faculty member has a different process for giving feedback, each will have a unique perspective and opinion on your writing. This means that you sometimes receive conflicting advice. At first this can be frustrating and confusing, but in the end, I believe it's a gift and an invitation to find your own artistic vision. I've written a separate post on this called Dealing with Feedback.

The "critical" work
Let's talk about what critical work means in the context of a creative writing program.

First off, it's not nearly as dry, boring, or terrible as it sounds. Part of the MFA program is learning to read as a writer; to dive into another author's work and begin to figure out how she made the magic happen on the page. This is learning to look at creative work with a critical eye. Not critical in the sense of being harsh or belittling. Rather, this is about applying critical thinking skills to the craft of writing.

During my first two semesters, my critical work consisted of essays in which I examined how a particular writer or writers used a specific writing device or achieved a particular effect. I looked at a lot of different things in these pieces, including the following: how David Sedaris uses humor to convey deeper truths; how Annie Dillard uses poetic and rhetorical devices to create meaning and mood; and how various authors use details to create lyric intimacy. I also wrote a review of a published memoir, noting what worked and what didn't work in it.

These essays served as the training ground and warm-up for my third and fourth semesters, when I had to complete larger critical projects. In my third semester I wrote a critical thesis entitled "Spinning a Web of Wonder: Capturing and Conveying Awe on the Page," an in-depth examination of how several authors do this, and suggestions on general principles the rest of us can apply to achieve the same effect. For my final semester I had to write (and then present) a lecture. Mine was called "The Secret Life of Language" (description here).

Doing this kind of "critical" reading and writing is a huge part of why my writing improved so much during the program. It was completely different from the literature papers I wrote as an undergrad. It opened my creative eyes to the art and craft of writing. This way of seeing didn't come automatically; it felt awkward at first. But now that I have the hang of it, it's an indispensable skill.

Thankfully, it hasn't taken the joy out of reading at all. Many people -- including me -- tend to worry that this might happen when they start to read and think about writing in this new way. But for me, and the people I know, it's simply enhanced our experience of books. I can pretty much turn the critical faculty on and off as I need to.

Plus, I haven't lost access to the inspiration side of writing. When I write a first draft (and maybe the second and third drafts, too), I'm not usually thinking critically about it. I'm still tapped into the creative, intuitive side of things. But when I come up against a passage that's not working, I can apply this other way of thinking to it and see how I can solve the problem.

Of course, it's not really so bifurcated as this, either. As I learn more about the craft techniques of writing, they become part of my creative psyche, so a lot of the work begins to happen subconsciously as my creative mind applies the critical principles I've learned. It's actually really cool.

What else? 
If you'd like to read about low-res programs from the perspective of a faculty member, check out this article by David Jauss, an outstanding author and mentor who teaches at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock and in the low-res program at VCFA. (Note: The link above takes you to the VCFA site where you can request the article via email. The article, entitled "The Real Story Behind Low-Residency MFAs" was originally published in the February 2011 issue of Writer's Digest.)

I've tried to give you more than just a peek into how low-res programs work in general, and how the VCFA program works in particular. What have I missed?

Please chime-in below with your questions or observations about MFA in writing programs, either low-res or traditional.

***For future posts in this MFA mini-series, I'm considering offering a primer on how writing workshops function, and possible alternatives to the MFA program. Do those topics interest you? What else would you like me to address about writing, graduate programs, and the writing life? Let me know in the comments or by email, and I'll consider your questions for future In The Word Cellar columns.  

{See all In The Word Cellar posts here.}

How do I know if it's any good? (In The Word Cellar)

This week for "In The Word Cellar" I'm taking a short break from the MFA mini-series. I'll be back next time with more tips on choosing (or not) an MFA in creative writing.

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A few weeks ago a student in the current session of Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing asked me a question that froze me in my tracks:

I've been thinking about writing  a novel for a long time. But each time, I've pushed it out of my head because I didn't think I had the time or skill required for such a big project. I've come back to it recently because the urge to do it seems insistent. 

How can a writer gauge if his or her plot is any good?

Holy crap. It's a good question, right?

Substitute any number of words for "plot" and you have the crux of the writers' existential question: How do I know if my _______* is any good?

{*plot, idea, voice, essay, poem, story, novel, play, writing}

How do we know?

Hell if I know.

I read the question and sent her a quick note saying I'd be back with a full answer just as soon as I pulled together my thoughts on the topic. And then I put off answering her for more than a week -- because I was afraid to answer it.

Why afraid? Because it's a question I ask all the time about my own writing: How do I know if it's any good? 

But eventually I faced the question and offerd up the most honest answer I knew how to give. I think it's a question that many (most?) of us creative types struggle with, so I decided to share a slightly edited version of my answer here. Let's get the question (and the ways we can answer it) out into the open and talk about it. There's safety (and comfort) in numbers, especially when it comes to the burning questions of creative doubt and fear.

Earlier this year I asked one of my mentors that very same question: How do I know if what I've written is any good? Furthermore, I wondered to him why I couldn't answer that question for myself, especially at this stage in my writing life, when I've been at it for awhile now.

He answered me by quoting from W.S. Merwin's poem "Berryman," which recounts Merwin's experience of working with his mentor (John Berryman).

I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

Isn't that wonderful and terrible?

Wonderful because even the great writers struggle with this question. So it's a natural question to have! It's also wonderful because it kind of lets us off the hook. It basically tells us: Just keep writing. Don't worry about the quality; just keep doing what you're called to do.

But it's also terrible, right? Because not being able to gauge your own work is frustrating. Plus, who wants to work at their craft their whole life without knowing if they're improving?

And so I still struggle with this question on a personal and a metaphysical level. How do we know if anything is any good?

Maybe we don't know.

Maybe we don't need to know. Maybe we're asking the wrong question. What would happen if we stopped wondering if our _________* is any good? What if we asked ourselves these questions instead:

• Is this a novel/article/book/story/essay/poem/play I want to write?
• Is this something I need to write?
• Is this something I'd want to read?
• Is this something I feel compelled to tell?
• What will I lose if I don't write this?

So I say: Write it. Writing it (whatever it is) is the only way to allow it to develop, to make sense of it, to figure out where it wants to go and what it wants to be.

On a practical note, I recommend reading and studying published works by respected authors to see how they do it. Learning to read like a writer has been the biggest thing to help me grow in my own writing. I learn so much by looking at the work of others to see how they do specific things with the craft.

Another practical thing to do, after you've written part or all of it, is to ask people you trust to read it. Ask other writers and ask people who love to read. Ask them to tell you the truth with love. Ask for specific feedback on whatever it is you need. Join a writing group, find a workshop, work with an editor or coach. Let your words out into the world at least a little bit, and see what happens.

The question of "good" is difficult when it comes to creative endeavors. It's murky water. On one hand, I don't believe it's possible (or even advisable) to directly compare and rank one piece of writing against another. Apples and oranges, so to speak. On the other hand, some apples do taste better than others. But here again, even that's not quite so simple. I prefer a very cold, crisp apple with a loud crunch and a balanced sweetness-to-tartness ratio. My husband prefers an apple with a softer bite and a sweeter taste. Which apple is better? It depends on who's eating it.

So it's all a matter of taste? No, not all. It's a matter of taste in part.

I told you the water is murky. Determining if something is "good" is subjective, and yet I do believe there are some objective standards by which we can sort (rank? judge? none of these words feel good) pieces of writing. I'm hesitant to make any sweeping claims on this right now because I need to think it through some more. (Chime in with your ideas in the comments if you'd like.)

So first and foremost, I say again: Write it. (Whatever it is.) It keeps coming back to you for a reason. I sometimes think that if we don't tend to the ideas that come our way, they'll eventually leave us and ask someone else to create them. And then we'll mourn the loss.

The only consistent way to learn to write something is to write it. Want to learn to write a novel? Write one. Ditto for essays, short stories, poems, plays. Writing is a practice of practice.

Again, how wonderful and how terrible.

I say all of this knowing that I'm preaching to/teaching myself.

What do you think?

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

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