Then There’s the Writing: Three Revisited Notions to Help the Stuck get Unstuck

Lately, I’ve been distracted.

The blog, (this blog) has become too much my writerly meat and potatoes. The blog’s immediate gratification of suggested audience, quick feedback and casual commitment has engrossed me to a fault. Meanwhile, on the back burner simmers my bigger project, that laborious, and at times, slow-going process of writing my book.

Lately, I’ve had to revisit and relearn old lessons. As I’ve blown the dust from my neglected manuscript three significant points have helped my otherwise blocked pen begin to leak ink once again.

1. Practice Makes Better

I won’t lie to you. Finding time to write as a new (working, albeit part-time) mother is a challenge–especially when you lack, what they call in some circles: focus.

Pre-Baby, it’s fair to say, I was a philanderer of the pen, writing whatever felt good at the time, indulging in storms of inspiration only to walk away as soon as the going got unpleasant. I’ve abandoned good stories, raw, unedited to start anew. (Beginnings are always my favorite part)

This past weekend, my sister-in-law ran in a marathon. The rumor is that a year ago she struggled to sustain a run over ten minutes. Now her runs stretch over hours.

Sports stories can be very sentimental and yet inspiring.

“She’s had to work at it,” my in-laws tell me. “She’s always been disciplined like that.”

For months (and months) my sister-in-law has invested her time and effort into a routine of exercise. What, at first, I’m sure seemed unlikely, if not impossible, is now a reality. Sport stories are great for their inspiring aftertaste, and I was left with a renewed sense of purpose and dedication.

“If you want to be good (I would say “your best”) at something, you have to invest time into it. No matter what it is,” my husband told his sixteen year old (my step son) after a round of skateboarding.

The romanticism of genius, the legendary effortless act of perfection proves destructive if taken too seriously (Read an interesting and brief overview of the “genius debate” here). While I continue to uphold an affectionate belief in the mystery shrouding a work of Art, I am willing to let mysteries lie where they fall. I define art as a framed (I use the term “frame” loosely) collusion between the objective and subjective, the irrational and the ordered (this definition of mine is largely inspired by Plato’s definition of beauty). There is something about the work of art that is out of the artist’s control. This aspect is transcendent to the ordinary and that is what sources its timeless power.

I am no genius, but I consider myself capable of making the occasional work of art–that said, one can get lazy relying on the muse. One can get all out useless waiting on her (or him or it) to show her (or his or its) arousing face.

It is far more productive and beneficial to focus on the controllable: the work, the practice, the commitment, the craft; and to proceed as if that’s all that matters. Forget the muse, the muse will come on its own.

2. Letting Go is More than Just Self-Help

I’ve titled my book (in progress) “The Abortionist”. The novel is on its second and a half draft and the damned thing just won’t stay still. It prefers this structure only to insist on another some months later.

This past week, I’ve had to let go of over fifty pages of work.

Some people would call Walt Whitman a "perfectionist."

They say one of the most challenging things for a painter is to know when to stop. I’m not sure if this principle holds true for the writer, verbatim. Some writers never walk away and their work does not seem to suffer. Take Walt Whitman, for example. His Leaves of Grass underwent around nine published editions.  “Walt Whitman spent his entire life writing Leaves of Grass” writes one of Whitman’s biographers, James E. Miller.

Although it is generally necessary to end a piece of writing, perhaps the real equivalent of the visual artist’s “walk away” is the writer’s “letting go”. A line may be beautiful, a paragraph may be brilliant, but if the text does not support, progress or better the writing as a whole, than that text should most likely be eliminated.

The task of writing resembles a communist organization, in this way. Each part of the text, down to the word, should serve some role/function for the betterment of the greater group. This tends to lead to a lot of courageous (though painful) cutting.

To make it easier on myself, I’ve created a text document where I dump all that abandoned “brilliance.” I feel peace knowing that a particular phrasing is not lost forever–and I may return to it in order to pluck it from its garbage pile and restore it via some other more appropriate story, essay, poem, or longer fiction.

3. As Ben Affleck Once Said (In Bounce): It’s Not Brave, If You’re Not Scared

Mothering, alone, is not a courageous act. All it takes is sex, a nine month (give or take) gestation period and a successful delivery–but inhabiting that motherhood as a caring parent takes courage. Love takes courage. Parenting takes courage. Letting go takes courage.

Similarly, writing words, even writing a story requires no bravery–but to write honestly, to write vulnerably, to write well requires such a formidable amount of courage, more often then not, the writer misses the mark.

I never thought I'd get the chance to quote Ben Affleck.

 

Take My Inconvenient Body for example. Since I began writing the blog around eight months ago, my pursuit of sincerity in all its ugly parts has diminished due to fear of disapproval, offending loved ones (among others) and plain old judgement.

It takes courage to be honest and it takes courage to try to be honest. It takes courage to invest in anything you care about because always there’s the chance of (dare I write it?!) failure.

But, just as I was thrust in to the brave task of motherhood embodied, I am thrust into the art of writing. I cannot turn away from it lest I feel myself spoil like abandoned milk.

I have little choice but to write. I have little choice but to mother and I might as well summon the courage to do both well (as well as I can), or else, what’s the point? When all is said and done, what would be the point of all that half-assed living?