Mindful Writing Exercise (In The Word Cellar)

 
The Chocolate Room, Brooklyn, April 2010

 Last summer, I declared that I was learning to write badly:

I am learning to write badly. Don't misunderstand me: I can write badly. Very badly, in fact. But I hate doing it. I hate to write when it's hard and cumbersome and ugly. I hate to write when the words aren't flowing easily and every sentence feels like a Herculean effort laden with clichés. I hate to write when I don't know what I want to say or can't get to the heart of what I mean. And since I'm all about pleasure, I avoid the writing when it's hard and bad. But this doesn't help me as a writer. So today, and tomorrow and tomorrow for however long it takes for it to become more natural, I'm practicing writing badly. I'm practicing sticking with it even when I can hardly stand it. I'm practicing the writing process, no matter what the product looks like. I'm learning to write badly so that I can write well more often.

In the eight months since then, I have indeed learned to write badly more often. This is a triumph! I still have days when the words don't flow and I just want to stop trying until inspiration (that elusive lover) returns. But now, the difference is that I have more staying power to sit still and keep writing rather than fleeing to more palatable tasks like doing laundry or watching videos of adorable kittens online. I wouldn't go so far as to say my discipline has improved, but I guess that's one way to view it. (I've written about my preference for the term "enthusiasm" rather than "discipline.")

Of course, the end goal isn't to write badly. It's to keep writing, to keep honing my craft and using my skills, so that the good stuff has time and room to come out on the page. By increasing my commitment and quantity, I've also improved my quality. By working through the rough patches, I've opened up new fields where I can play and have fun with words.

This struggle with writing reminds me of the way people often describe the challenges of meditation. When I practice sitting calmly and try to clear my mind, it wants to get up and run around, showing me all of the things I should think about or attend to. My internal dialogue is similar for both writing and meditation. It goes something like this.

Okay, I'm concentrating. (Oh look, laundry!) Come back to the page. (This is hard. Wah!) Breathe in and out. (I need cute kitten videos right now!) Write a few more words. (Don't wanna!) Breathe and be still. (I need to call the pet groomer tomorrow.) Write.

Writing and meditation both require a certain paradoxical level of mindfulness and detachment. In meditation, I try to notice the thoughts that float through my mind and then let them go without attachment or analysis. In writing, I notice my resistance, and then I write another sentence without judgment. Meditation and writing both require ongoing practice. Breath by breath. Word by word.

Here's a mindful writing exercise for you to try.

The next time you sit down to write, notice how you feel if it seems to be going badly. How long does it take you to feel frustrated? What do you feel compelled to do instead of write? How can you bring your attention back to the story at hand? What helps you to push through and to keep writing?

Try this exercise a few times over the coming weeks and see if it becomes easier to be committed even when you don't feel the magic of inspiration. Notice if there is a certain point at which the magic shows up for you in the writing practice. Does this tell you anything about how you process or pursue your creativity?

I'd love to hear how your writing practice is going. Are you feeling enthusiastic? Meditative? Like you're engaged in a wrestling match? Please consider sharing your thoughts in the comments or sending me an email.

**I'll be answering community questions in the coming weeks. Send your writing questions to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com with "In The Word Cellar" as the subject line.**

In The Word Cellar (normally) runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other articles in the series here. (Apologies for this post being one day late. Clearly, I have some lessons to learn about discipline. But I remain enthusiastic.)

Who Needs Rules? Writers & Readers Do. (In The Word Cellar)

image by Horia Varlan

In general, I have a complicated relationship with rules. On the one hand, I tend to be a goody-two-shoes who obeys the rules because I'm afraid of getting in trouble. On the other hand, I long to rebel, to break out and do my own thing, rules be damned!

And so it is with my writing. I use this tension between rule following nerd and raucous rebel to my benefit. When we know the rules, we can decide when and why to break them. This enables us to use language, grammar, and punctuation more effectively.

But why must we writers bother with rules in the first place? Maybe you're thinking, "Isn't writing all about creative self-expression?" Yes. But as long as you're writing something for other people to read, you need to care about the rules.

Why? Because the rules of grammar, word usage, and punctuation are a form of etiquette between you and the reader. Writing is communication. An essay, blog post, story, or novel is an interactive entity. You may write it when you're alone, and a reader may read it on her own, but you both need to understand the rules of the game in order for the piece of writing to work.

First of all, using proper punctuation and grammar shows readers that you use language with authority. This helps them to put their trust in you and what you're writing. Have you ever read something pockmarked with mistakes? It's hard to give the author or the material much credibility when that happens. Second, following established rules is a way to give readers signposts and signals about the rhythm and meaning of your writing. If you suddenly made up new punctuation marks or used a comma when you should have used a question mark, you risk diminishing your authority while also confusing readers.

Consider capitalization, another device that helps to direct readers. We capitalize the beginnings of sentences to show that a new "unit" or thought has begun. Likewise, we capitalize proper nouns to indicate that we're referring to a particular person or place. Look at the following sentences.

I walked to sandy shores.

I walked to Sandy Shores.

In the first example, I'm telling the reader (in a rather poetic voice) that I walked to some shores that are sandy. In the second sentence, I indicate that I walked to a specific place called Sandy Shores. Depending on the context of the sentence, this could be an important point for the reader to know. (For example, maybe Sandy Shores is five miles away or is just around the corner. Maybe the narrator's red hot lover or estranged mother lives in Sandy Shores. Maybe Sandy Shores is the name of a Christian missionary house or a seedy bar. Either way, "Sandy Shores" tells us something different than "sandy shores.")

These are basic examples of why writing rules matter. Now, let's talk about rule breaking!

Last week I wrote a blog post using all lowercase letters. I ignored the rules of capitlization because I wanted to create a feeling of intimacy with the reader. I also wanted the words to show visually that I felt tired and small. Of course, the poet e.e. cummings is known for his use of lowercase letters, and I referenced him at the beginning of my post. I invoked cummings' name for several reasons. First, I was making a bit of a joke. But I also wanted people to know that I was aware of breaking the rules and to show that I was doing it on purpose. I felt confident that my readers could follow this tiny act of rebellion.

When I decided to use lowercase letters, I decided to let my desired style trump the established rules. I didn't do it wrong simply because I didn't know any better. Rather, I made a conscious choice to do something different. In this case, I'm comfortable with that risk. This doesn't mean that all rule breaking, even conscious rule breaking, will work well or to your advantage.

Rule breaking is one of those grey areas in writing that depend on the author, the intended audience, the format, the desired effect, style, tone, and the individual piece of writing. You should make the decision to go against a rule based on all of these factors. For example, writing for a blog may be different than writing for a major magazine. Different rules of style may apply, but you should always be in control of your writing. (In other words, informal writing isn't an excuse to be sloppy.)

So. Does that help to clear things up or just create more confusion? (See how I made a whole sentence out of the word "so"? I'm breaking rules all over the place!)

This post just grazes the surface of rules and rule breaking in writing. Let's get a discussion going in the comments. Are you a stickler for rules? Do you hate them? What are your rule breaking questions?

**I'll be answering community questions in the coming weeks. Send your writing questions to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com with "In The Word Cellar" as the subject line.**

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other articles in the series here.

How To Keep Creating (In The Word Cellar)

Ligonier Country Market, summer 2007

This week's In The Word Cellar column is an interlude of inspiration. I almost titled this post "Things I've Been Telling Myself (which you may or may not find useful, too)." I had intended to write about the rules of writing this week, but apparently I needed an affirmation of my creative powers instead. Writing has been slow going for the past two weeks, even downright painful at times. So here's a little shot in the arm to keep you -- and me -- going. Come back in two weeks for what I hope will become a rousing discussion on the topic of when it's okay to break the rules of grammar, sentence structure, and punctuation. Fun times!

• When you sit down to write and there are no words, listen.
• 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. It might hurt, but keep typing until you find the thread of some story, even if it's not a story you knew you needed to tell.
• When you open a jumbled mess of a document to rewrite it and feel physically repulsed by what you are sure is hard core evidence of your shortcomings, breathe.
• When the call to create becomes a burden, shift your energy from a place of duty to a place of privilege. Stop saying "I have to," and start saying "I get to."
• When every single word or brush stroke or click of the shutter feels like a slow and clumsy slog through the mud, take a break. And then go back to slogging until you can find an easier way. If the way doesn't get easier, only you can really know if you're on the wrong path or if this is simply a time of learning and strengthening for you. Be honest and proceed accordingly.
• When you feel certain that your success is behind you and all future attempts will fail, try to chuckle at your own mix of pride and insecurity. And take comfort in the knowledge that other artists have this same mix inside of them, too.
• When you don't know what to create, ask yourself what you love. Then make that.
• When all of this fails, remind yourself to create out of a sense of love, not fear.
• When you feel overwhelmed and sick to your stomach with other people's smarmy inspiration, take these words (and all aphorisms) with the clichéd grain of salt. Then find your own way to keep creating. (And tell us about it in the comments.)

Can Writing Be Taught? (In The Word Cellar)

This week we kick off the first In The Word Cellar feature with a basic -- and often touchy -- question: Can creative writing be taught?

Here's my short answer: Yes.

Of course, there's also a longer answer.

I'm drawn to kitchen analogies lately, so for a minute, let's think of writing as cooking. Can cooking be taught? Of course it can. In order to cook, we need to learn about different kinds of ingredients, how they react to various cooking methods, and how their flavors interact with each other. We need to know about utensils, how to tell when produce is ripe, the best way to chop an onion. To cook, we learn how to measure things, how to read a recipe, and eventually how to improvise without one. In order to create a tasty dish, we need to understand the ingredients, the method, and the art of seasoning something just so. Yes, cooking can be taught. This isn't to say that everyone will have the same cooking style, will excel at preparing the same dishes, or will become master chefs. After all, I did say the art of seasoning. But the building blocks of cooking can be taught.

I feel the same way about writing. Yes, there is a difference between natural talent and learned skill. And yes, I believe that both exist and will impact the way we write. But we won't get very far on the page if we focus too much on innate ability and neglect the learned skills part of the picture.

What is the basis of writing? Language. That's simple, but it gets tricky. Because we use language everyday, it's easy to believe that we can automatically master the art of writing. But being an excellent writer is much more than knowing how to use words to communicate. We need to know how words interact with each other; how to structure a sentence, paragraph, and passage to create the best effect; how to use various writing techniques to create a powerful and beautiful story. Things like grammar and verb tenses matter. They matter because they help us to understand the building blocks of our craft.

Now, if all of this sounds cold and clinical to you, don't worry. I also believe that writing is an art, full of mystery, magic, and serendipity. I'm not an either-or kind of girl. I believe in both-and. Writing is both a science and an art. An excellent piece of writing is the product of learned skills and natural talent. The process of writing is something to be examined and enjoyed.

As we explore the nature of writing here In The Word Cellar, I hope you'll remember this: You can learn to be a better writer. I can't do anything about your natural level of talent, and frankly, neither can you. So why worry about it now? Besides, we're terrible judges of our own abilities. Let's focus on the parts we can control. Let's learn the techniques of good writing, and let's give ourselves over to the joy of creation. By learning about the ingredients, method, and art of writing, each of us can create something lovely.

What do you think? Do you believe creative writing can be taught? Are you ready to learn? Let us know in the comments.

**I'll be answering community questions in the coming weeks. Send your writing questions to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com with "In The Word Cellar" as the subject line.**

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other articles in the series here.

I'll be answering community questions in the coming weeks.

Enough, already.

image from Jenna Carver

Things I don't do often enough:

• Blog
• Exercise
• Weed the garden
• Write
• Laundry
• Dishes
• Vacuum
• Floss
• Dust
• Shave my legs

The list goes on, on, on. Does yours do that, too?

Superhero Andrea has a recent blog post about doing enough by choosing what enough is. The idea came to her after reading Chris Guillebeau's 279 Days to Success Overnight manifesto, which I discovered a few weeks ago and love. Andrea sums up some things that have been swirling around in my head for awhile now. She says it beautifully, so I hope you'll read her post.

As a work-at-home freelance writer, I have a lot of time on my hands to play with. By this I mean that I can shape my days in almost any way I choose. This is a huge blessing in my life and I don't want to go back to a traditional work schedule. But the downside is that without a set schedule, writing work and domestic work start to meld together. Any time feels like a perfect time to work on a project or to do chores. As such, I'm constantly fighting off the feeling that I'm not doing what I should -- or could -- be doing. Because I haven't set specific goals (exercise three times a week) or allocated exact times for tasks (work on client projects from 1:00 - 5:00), I rarely feel like I've accomplished the day's goals.

I chafe against order and structure. I tend toward chaos. But in my heart, I know that I need a schedule -- as long as it's one that I have devised. I've been trying to do this for awhile now. I finally have some things in place that will help me create order. I'm intrigued to see if I can finally feel like I've done enough by defining what enough is.

What works for you?