Nurturing the Write Mind
By David Corbett | July 11, 2017 |
Something Keith Cronin mentioned in a comment a few months back struck me as incredibly insightful, and that impression has only deepened in the months since. I’ve worked on a variety of writing projects with his remark in mind, and it’s changed some old habits I didn’t realize beforehand might need addressing.
I’m going to paraphrase what he said, and hopefully not butcher it in the process. (Keith—feel free to step in to correct me.)
He mentioned a teacher he had as a musician who emphasized not just mastering technique but gaining a sense of the state of mind you enter when you know you’re playing or practicing well. At the risk of relying on a tired cliché, that state of mind might be called “the groove.”
The term in Taoism is wu wei, which translates literally as “non-action.” It means performing a task naturally, the way water flows along a stream bed, without any effort to control or force matters. This way of putting it has a special new relevance for me, as I’ve returned to studying tai chi after a forty-year hiatus.
But I also encountered something similar when I studied acting. Constantin Stanislavski refers to it as “unconscious creativeness through conscious technique:”
“[A]sk an actor, after some great performance, how he felt while on the stage, and what he did there. He will not be able to answer because he was not aware of what he lived through, and does not remember many of the more significant moments. All you will get from him is that he felt comfortable on the stage, that he was in easy relationship to the other actors. Beyond that, he will be able to tell you nothing.
“You will astonish him by your description of his acting. He will gradually come to realize things about his performance of which he had been entirely unconscious.”
As I’ve worked these past few months, I’ve tried now and then to take momentary notice of my mindset when the writing is going well. And more and more I recognize the calm, centered focus I acquire, as though I’ve entered a curiously silent hum. It’s a special kind of mindfulness, to borrow another Eastern term.
I’ve also become more aware of what ruptures that state, and how easily—and frequently—I give in to it.
Focusing on a creative state of mind may seem like a luxury given the innumerable distractions that arise in any given workday, not to mention the anxiety over the worth of the work (or its creator), deadline pressure, word count concerns, etc.
And yet, as one learns in meditation, there’s no need to grasp at these distractions—be aware of them, recognize them as inessential (even counterproductive) for the moment, and let them go, returning again to the work.
This technique, of recognizing your “groove state,” the better to return to it when distractions are inevitable, is particularly helpful when real-world concerns—that pesky, greedy, selfish family of yours, the goddamn day job, lumbers, painters, the death of western civilization, puppies on Facebook, GAME OF THRONES!!—diverts the mental stream like a giant meteor slamming into the Mississippi.
Sometimes (all too often, actually), that stuff can’t wait (well, not the FB puppies or GoT). But if you’re aware of how it feels, physically as well as mentally, to be grounded, centered, in the right frame of mind to create, and how important it is, it can be easier to slip back into it when chaos subsides and you can return to your desk, if only for a brief period.
Interestingly, the more I’ve become aware of my “groove,” the more I’ve noticed several bad habits I always just accepted as my “process.” Now I’m not so sure.
Almost all of these concern actions that break the creative flow. Many serve a need for perfection, rather than creative continuity. Others are, somewhat embarrassingly, simple fear reactions, though I never recognized them as such until recently. I just thought I had a busy mind. That busy-ness was a form of anxiety, a fear of going deeper, getting closer to the core, the source.
One such habit is suffering over the mot juste. Instead of just marking that place with several asterisks or TKK or some other clear marker so I can come back later, I pore through my Thesaurus, or try to conjure an apt analogy for something unique and surprising. I’m noticing now what other writers have said but I dismissed as “not pertaining to me.” I get jammed up on the word, which then forces me to backtrack a few sentences, read through them again to regain that sense of flow, then move on.
This is a symptom of a larger problem: revising as I go. I used to cling to this as part of my process—I am known for writing clean early drafts—and sometimes I can feel that the revision is, in fact, taking me deeper as I move forward. The flow remains unbroken. Other times, however, I can sense that I’ve digressed into a pettier, crankier, less receptive state of mind.
Another related bad habit is needless research while writing an early draft. Again, this is something other writers warned against, but I stubbornly stuck to my perfectionist ways. Once I paid more attention to my focus while writing, I became aware, as with revising as I go, of the different mental states that relate to active creativity on the one hand and information-gathering and fact-checking on the other. The first is deeper, quieter, more intuitive. The latter is more aggressive, questioning, challenging. (That said, research as you go can sometimes spare you having to go back and rewrite an entire section that you premised on a fundamental misunderstanding of what was true.)
The last bad habit, of course, is venturing into the chatterbox echo chamber otherwise known as the Internet. (And yes, even Writer Unboxed can qualify.) Social media is the worst, but even a casual glance at the news can be hopelessly disruptive. Once you notice what it feels like in your body and mind to be in a state of creative flow, that sudden rupture of the mood can seem incredibly jarring. It’s also hard to get back to that deeper, calmer, more focused state. The mind is a monkey. Once it starts to yammer, all the other monkeys chime in.
For those of you who have read Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art, you’ll recognize these some of habits as forms of Resistance, which he defines as the negative force that favors immediate gratification over long-term growth and creativity.
“The more important a call or action is to our soul’s evolution, the more Resistance we will feel toward pursuing it.”
[BTW: This is why, in my teaching, I now use Resistance as the umbrella term for the weaknesses, wounds, limitations, and flaws that keep the character from fulfilling her yearning.]
It’s all well and good to have a quick mind—great trait for cocktail parties. But one also has to be aware that quick minds are particularly susceptible to distraction. Yes, it’s important to keep “the butt in the chair.” But it’s even more important to keep the imagination engaged with the work.
Like most posts that center on creativity rather than the business side of writing, this may seem like a bunch of artsy-fartsy twaddle. But whenever I’m tempted to succumb to such a view, I remember one of my favorite writer quotes, this one from John LeCarré:
“When the writing is going well, the money doesn’t matter; and when it’s going badly, the money doesn’t help.”
Are you aware of a certain mental-physical state that best defines your most creative moments? How would you describe that state? Do you need music, silence, white noise, incense, preliminary chanting (or anything else) to induce or maintain it? What bad habits or routine distractions take you out of that “groove”? Have you changed your habits as you’ve grown as a writer to minimize such ruptures of the creative flow? What in particular disrupts your creative process? Why? How do you combat it?
David Corbett (he/him) is the author of seven novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar, Do They Know I’m Running?, The Mercy of the Night, The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday, and The Truth Against the World. He has also published the story collection Thirteen Confessions and the novella The Devil Prayed and Darkness Fell.
David’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in a broad array of magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for Best American Mystery Stories.
His non-fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Narrative, Zyzzyva, MovieMaker, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest.
He has taught both online and in classroom settings through the UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program, Book Passage, LitReactor, 826 Valencia, The Grotto in San Francisco, and at numerous writing conferences across the US, Canada, and Mexico. In January 2013 Penguin published his textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character (“A writer’s bible that will lead to your character’s soul.” —Elizabeth Brundage), and Writer’s Digest published his follow-up, The Compass of Character, in October 2019.
I love so much about this post, David. Your words have filled me with both a renewed enthusiasm and a profound sense of calm.
We have two teenage nieces visiting from Colorado now. And since they’re teens in summer plus normally on Mountain Time, now stuck in the Eastern zone, they tend to keep us ole folk up later than usual. The other night, while mostly talking, I was flipping through the channels and came across the original Karate Kid. The kids (shockingly, to us ole folk) had never seen it. It was in the early going, and it managed to captivate all of us.
In watching the movie (which has its issues), I was struck by what a profound lesson it offers to young people. Daniel has to wax cars, paint the house, stain the fence, all trusting that he will gain something he imagines will be “taught” to him *after* he finishes these chores. He has no idea that Mr. Miyagi is already teaching him patience, and to trust the process. And in that process, he’s learning to ditch the monkey mind, all unwittingly to the pupil.
One of the most satisfying scenes comes (I presume we don’t need a spoiler warning for a thirty-plus year old movie) when Daniel confronts his mentor, wanting him to “pay up” – to actually begin teaching him karate. Mr. Miyagi asks him to perform the motions of the various chores, and goes through various hits and kicks, showing Daniel that he already has the muscle memory of a semi-trained fighter.
Daniel had been awash with fret and angst over the bullies, his infatuation with Allie, living in a new place, mom’s new job, etc, etc. He needed to be taken out of that mindset to find his center – to achieve Mr. Miyagi’s version of balance. It reminds me of the importance of patience, of making my office into my dojo (by the way, just looked it up – in Japanese, dojo means “the place of the way”). I need to take my mindset from my worry about bullies in the news, my infatuation with my bride, etc, etc.
Oh, and I too am a fuss-for-perfection-as-I-go writer. Yeah, need to nip that and focus on forward progress. You’re right, it’s a fear-rooted stall. Thanks again for a great post, David. So many gems here.
Daniel confronted Mr. Miyagi and wanted him to “pay up” and teach him karate? Say it ain’t so! I stopped my VHS at that part back in 1985 and had it slated for viewing later tonight.
Thanks, Vaughn.
Wait till I tell you what happens in Cool Hand Luke.
You made me laugh, Tom. Yeah, there’s a lesson or two in Moby Dick. Here, let me tell you the story.
If it’s anything like “Finding Nemo,” I’ll love it!
Hi, Vaughn:
Your example reminded me of something Pema Chödrön says in “When Things Fall Apart.” Every time she began to get comfortable in her meditation routine, her master would change it, returning her to a state of confusion, frustration, and uncertainty. It finally took a while, but she realized that was the lesson. The comfort of routine was an illusion. She needed to accept the frustration and uncertainty as the natural way of things. Only then could she go deeper.
Good luck with those night owl-nieces.
“The comfort of routine was an illusion. She needed to accept the frustration and uncertainty as the natural way of things.”
That is what I have been learning these past 9 years trying to write with a kid. :)
There is a special place in heaven for moms who write. Dads, too. But the better enchiladas are in the Mom section.
Laughing. Yeah, nothing teaches one patience than children.
I’m going to call you on the “mom’s make better enchiladas.” I know a dad who is hard to compete with when it comes to cooking, including enchiladas.
There is already way too much sexist stereotyping in the definitions of moms and dads, anyway. Not trying to be a pain in the ass, just merely pointing out the obvious, that we all as writers including myself need and have a responsibility to be aware of…
I didn’t say the moms MADE the enchiladas. It’s heaven. The angels do the cooking.
But I get your point.
Thanks for this, David.
These flow moments are what I live for, and yes, I recognize them. I find that the more I practice stillness, the easier these moment come, so these days, I practice yoga, meditate, and then make myself go to my table and write.
Most days I produce crap, but once I’m writing a novel-draft, I find this method works the best for me. The flow becomes more accessible over time, and towards the end of the draft, it stays within reach even as I go about my life, till all I want to and am capable of doing, is finishing the story. It gathers a momentum all its own, and no distraction is big enough to stop it.
Thanks also, and once again, for your wisdom and immense patience in your Litreactor class last year. It helped me finish my draft and get into a state of flow so much faster than earlier. The Art of Character notes are with me as I set about the first draft of another novel.
Hi, Damyanti:
That’s a very sweet note, thank you so much. You have no idea what it means to me to know that one of my students has benefited from my class, and has found it genuinely useful in her writing. I’m doubly grateful that The Art of Character has served you well.
I have sometimes considered meditating before writing, and yet I’m afraid that, for me, it would be one more digression, a way to not write. So instead I simply sit at my desk, ground myself, seek out that centered state of mind, and begin. But I think whatever one does to enter and sustain that state is viable. I’m glad you’ve found your own way to it.
And the teacher in me would be remiss if I did not add, “You do not write “crap.” Writing is rewriting, and you can’t rewrite what you haven’t written.” One of the most profound things I’ve ever heard about writing came from Josh Mohr: “Learn to respect the pages the reader will never see.”
Thanks so much for chiming in.
Thanks, David. Joshua Mohr’s Litreactor class was gold too. I built on his plaracterization till I came to your Art of Character class.
I just find revision very difficult: I often rewrite. Often, it is easier to write the first draft than the second or third –but I try and do them in a meditative state as well. I can’t read and revise as I write, which can have its own perils.
Sometimes I feel that writing is meditation. It is one part of me watching the other part write–it is like witnessing waves of thought crash on the shores of my mind.
Love your work as a writer and a teacher. I was so fortunate to get in to one of your classes, and have since recommended it to others. Hope you hold another one soon.
I have a new Litreactor class beginning in August, just a few weeks away. I’d love to see you there — and if you don’t mind, please spread the word.
I’m looking it up rightaway and will definitely shout about it from the rooftops.
Yes, thank you, David. I was just re-re-revising the opening of my synopsis, canoodling once again over the first three sentences, even though I promised myself I would forge ahead today. Doing this is a different mindset from writing the actual novel, so I’m having to switch hats, which is challenging. But what’s the same, and you made me see this today, is the mental space one enters when one works. The groove, the flow, the mojo. I never know I’ve been in it until I come out of it and several hours have passed me by and I feel certain something has happened to the clocks. The trick is getting there in the first place, making the conscious effort to shut out the world. There’s a phrase I love that I heard from a mediation teacher. “There is nothing you need to hold.” When I heard that, it made me feel weightless.
The other thing you made me think about was how confused and chaotic I always feel after I’ve immerse myself in learning craft and technique. It takes about a month, maybe more, before I realize that I’ve internalized things and am doing them without thinking. Building muscle memory, if you will. Thank you for the inspiration. Now I’m going to ignore my first three sentences and move on. Wax on. Wax off.
Hi, Susan:
I love that: “There is nothing you need to hold.”
Although I trust you on the point that the revising was a “productive distraction,” I often find that revising the previous day’s work is a decent way to get into the “write mindset.” Because in revising I often find myself going deeper–seeing the scene in more specific detail, honoring the deeper, unspoken needs and emotions more directly. Once I’m at the “write depth” (do I know how to milk a metaphor or what?), it carries through to the empty page.
Actually, on reflection, let me say that what I just said isn’t entirely true. A blank page is its own unique problem, and creates its own unique anxieties. Revising is much simpler than writing, because the latter requires dredging up words from the silence of an image, or an idea, of how the scene should begin and proceed.
Interesting. You just taught me something. Another old habit that changed its hue once observed more carefully in the light.
Thanks!
David, having matched every outfit I own to that “pettier, crankier, less receptive state of mind,” I have much soul porridge to take away from your post. I had one of those (sadly, all too rare) flow states while writing a quick essay yesterday, which came out all of a piece, on the fly.
I have that wretched habit of editing while I write, even cleaving my mind over monumental matters like punctuation issues, so when the river winds merrily along its course instead, that’s a state of grace.
I’ve long loved the sense of wu wei from early readings of Taoist (and Buddhist) literature. Though my non-action state these days might be rum related, I fully appreciate your counsel here on finding your groove-state. And not peppering it with questions while the grooving is good.
Hey, Tom.
If you want to suffer over punctuation, take a poetry class.
I think its a balance. Sometimes the urge to revise responds to an inner call that is telling you: Not yet. If it’s coming from a place that feels like it intends to honor the scene, I think it’s okay. It’s when it yanks you by the scruff, pulls you out of the scene, and has you rearranging deck chairs–that’s when you need to notice and say, “Not now,” and get back to the forward flow.
David,
I could relate to every single paragraph in this article. I’m guilty of them all. And meditation is a part of my “process.”
Distractions hound me — so much so, I took a year-long mindfulness-based therapeutic lifestyle course to overcome them. “Overcome them.” Ha. But I am better at recognizing the distractions, and when sitting down to begin, I’ve learned to first center myself, breathe mindfully, and shut out the world to enter my “groove.”
This quote was gold: “Others are, somewhat embarrassingly, simple fear reactions, though I never recognized them as such until recently. I just thought I had a busy mind. That busy-ness was a form of anxiety, a fear of going deeper, getting closer to the core, the source.”
That dadgum fear and anxiety. They can be crippling. Thus, the meditative breathing.
Thanks for an article that was truly “mind-full.”
HI, Mike:
I admire anyone so self aware that a year-long course on meditative mindfulness seemed wise. Once you tap into how much unproductive, even self-negating or even destructive behavior is simply responding to urges that, if you’re aware, you could simply notice and stop, life becomes so much simpler. I say that as someone still snagging those urges as they swim past. It’s easy to feel like a failure, and you’re not. Struggling to learn is not failing. So hard to accept that.
Thanks for the insightful comment.
Even your comment is quotable gold. Yes, the key is knowing the difference between being reactive vs. proactive.
I’m referring to the verb, not the acne cleanser.
A good writing day needs nothing but me focussing. If only I could always write for THE BOOK and not for the world of PUBLISHING. Maybe my work will only be mine, but at least it will be authentic and what I want on the page. Thanks for reminding me of Pressfield’s words: “The more important a call or action is to our soul’s evolution, the more Resistance we will feel toward pursuing it.”
Boy, Beth, you tapped into something that could be an entire post — or a year of posts — in and of itself.
Publishing sometimes feels like high school. If you want to be a cool kid, you have to… Except the stakes are deadlier.
Here’s to the good days. May there be many.
Thanks, David. It struck me as I read your post. If I remembered the hoped-for final goal, my fingers might freeze on the keys. Happy writing.
I think I find that place, that flow when I have dammed things up long enough. It doesn’t so much matter where or when I write if I have let the story build up enough behind the dam of not-writing.
My most “flowy” time, if you will, was January-February of 2014 when I wrote the entire (92,000+ word) first draft of a novel in just 65 days. How’d I do it? I’d spent the entirety of 2013 in background reading, research, and some basic outlining despite being more of a pantser. No revision, just full-speed-ahead writing. There were countless revisions later, but writing has never felt so effortless as it did those bleak winter months.
Hi Erin:
That’s really intriguing — and insightful. I often need to do a lot of “writing about the writing” — research, backstory, anguishing over the story, outlining, plotting, re-outlining — precisely so the story is “in my bones” when it comes time to write. In particular, it’s not until I have a deep intuitive understanding of the characters, especially what they need (yearning) and why they don’t have it (resistance), that I feel truly ready to write.
I mentioned yesterday in a response to Sophie Masson’s post that I finished my most recent novel in Norway, due to jet lag. I’d wake up at 2 AM while everyone else was asleep (or, if my wife was also awake, she’d be reading) and I’d make a pot of coffee, sit down at the dining room table, and get going, often getting in as many as eight hours. It’s not always pleasant — filling that empty screen is always a form of delicious torture — but having that luxury of wintry darkness and silence was a blessing. Who knew winter was the season of creativity?
Yes, winter truly is the best season for me when it comes to writing. Everything exterior is frozen, and yet the mind is like the river running beneath the ice.
“I get jammed up on the word, which then forces me to backtrack a few sentences, read through them again to regain that sense of flow, then move on.”
That struck a nerve.
I had to switch from composing on a computer to using pen and paper because I’d get too stuck on typing “the right phrase” and not get any new material crafted. While pen-and-paper composition helped quiet my inner critic and let me actually complete a manuscript draft, I still spend too much of my drafting time trying to be perfect.
Part of that is caused by a lack of confidence in my abilities to see and fix the flaws in my work. I can invent new catastrophes for my characters easily. Drafting those scenes in my notebook is pure joy.
Figuring out which of those ideas is most useful to the story, what needs to be cleaned up, and where to make the cuts once I’m revising the transcribed pages… That’s the hard work of writing for me. I haven’t found a way to get into the flow of it.
I’m going to approach my revision time more thoughtfully now and see if I can figure out where and why I keep losing that flow. Thank you for the inspiration.
Hi, Ruth:
That’s interesting that you saw a need to change methods drastically to solve a problem. Shame it didn’t work completely but your commitment and inventiveness are admirable.
I’m a firm believer in changing things up if you hit a snag — or a wall.
Also, don’t be dismayed by the difficulty of revision. You’re not alone in that.
Wow, David – I’m humbled that my comment had such an impact.
Funnily enough, I never thought to try to capture (and recreate) the feeling of being “in the groove” as a writer – I’ve only applied that to my life as a musician. That said, I’ve been far too lax in trying to maintain any sort of writing routine in recent years, whereas both of my novels were written during a far more disciplined period in my life. I might not have been consciously trying to get in the groove, but at least I had a far more steady writing routine, with a consistent time and place for doing my work.
Thanks for the reminder that it’s time to get back in the groove!
Hey, Keith:
I love the fact that I may have premised this entire post on misunderstanding what you meant.
That’s, like, me all over.
Good luck getting your writing groove back.
No, you got it right. I just hadn’t applied that concept to my writing. Now I’m gonna try.
Thanks!
Wow! David, I related to so much in this post. Keith’s “groove” or the “zone” or the “sacred land” whatever you call it, I have come to believe in its existence.
The other thing I have learned, and only fairly recently, is the entrance is not as hidden as I used to believe. I’m not quite at that place where I can click my heels 3 times and mutter “There’s no place like home”, but I’ve definitely been able to follow the map.
All those writing exercises that I once believed led nowhere have developed a muscle memory. Like Vaughn stated, Mr. Miyagi was on to something. There is method to the madness of honing one’s skill.
Thanks for this.
The more you do, the better you get. That muscle memory is always building.
I know what helps to get in the groove–a clean kitchen, bills paid, the chores done–and I do better writing after doing those other things. If I’ve done a good bit of writing, I allow some distractions, like being here on WU. But I have to fight the temptation to do *everything* before I write because then I wouldn’t write. Luckily, my life is very simple so there’s not much I worry about. My good husband bears most of the burden. And the very chores that I feel I must do, like walking the dog, are so pleasant, it’s win-win.
But I am a slow writer, editing as I go, and I wish I could turn off my internal editor. I love it best when I don’t have to think about the sentences and they just flow. Most stories don’t come to me fully formed; they come with a million questions, but it’s in the writing I discover the answers. It is a lot of wax on, wax off (thanks Vaughan) and I’m so grateful I can spend several hours a day reading, writing, praying. How many people can have this life of leisure?
Oh, and right now I have multiple projects in the drafting stage and I’m finding that it’s inhibiting flow. I’m making little progress. Time to focus on just one for a little while, I think.
Hi, Vijaya:
I do the dishes to start the day but that’s only because I don’t want my wife waking up to a dirty reminder of last night’s dinner. I get your point though — feeling like things are “cluttered” can inhibit the peace of mind needed to create.
The other revise-as-you-go problems do sound as though you’re not giving yourself permission to fail. I speak from personal experience, so I may be reading my own experience into yours. If so, I apologize. However, I also totally understand that slow patient crafting of moving word to word, phrase by phrase — and if in doing that you honor the creative flow as you understand it, I see nothing wrong or counter-productive. IN some way, flow requires acceptance of ourselves, and that includes acceptance of our own process. There’s a decision to make — disrupt everything to change that process or maximize its potential despite its flaws.
As for multiple projects–if you can’t love all your darlings all at once, yes, you have to choose one, and hope the others will be patient. You may find you select the one most important to you, and later on the others will reveal themselves as not as enticing as they once seemed.
You’re right of course, about the perfectionist streak that is the enemy of the good. And HS Stavropolous hit upon the core of the problem–FEAR.
I always have to remember that perfect love casts out fear, and the only perfect love is that of God. I need to get out of my own way sometimes and let the magic happen. Be the pencil in God’s hands (stolen from Mother Teresa).
Wow David this was incredible! I know that groove when I’m in it; when time stands still between the wing beat of a humming bird. The words flow and I’m ‘in’ the story.
Fear is the true distraction for me. Fear of not being a good writer. Fear of being good. Fear of being a phony. Fear of being successful. Fear. Fear. Fear.
If it’s any consolation, you’re not alone.
But when it comes to fear, it isn’t really consolation we need. It’s courage. And sometimes courage is a very simple, even gentle thing. Simply persist in the face of that fear.
Hi, David. I love this post; so much of my time seems to be spent chasing the elusive groove. One thing that sometimes works for me is to switch things up — write at a different time than usual (although I’ve never tried the jet lag technique), stand, go to a cafe (usually the ambient noise bugs me), work on a long distance train, try short spurts instead long ones. Anything to trick my squirrel mind into hiding.
Self-doubt and worry are the big things that mess with my ability to write. I alternate between journaling, putting aside specific time to worry, and just telling the self-doubt to shut up and give it a rest. Jury’s out on whether any of this works.
Hi, Shizuka:
So nice to hear from you. You’re solutions to the problem of distraction seem almost as distracting as the problem itself. Especially since, by your own admission, the problem is self-doubt. You can’t run from that. Maybe it’s time to simply sit and find a way to work through the doubt. Persist in the face of the worry. You’re gifted enough that self-doubt, which all writers have, should not be paralyzing.
Well, I am just going to flat out and blame you for this morning’s procrastination! (laughing out loud as I think about getting jammed up searching for the right word in the thesaurus) I too dwell upon writing the right metaphor. I also easily slip down the rabbit hole of research – particularly location. Right now my characters are hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu meditating and doing yoga in view of the Milky Way. How is this hike transforming the mood of my anxiety ridden character. Is this Odyssey changing him? The research may have hindered “progress” in the number of written words put down on paper (or my Word Doc as it be), BUT this process of procrastination immerses me further in the story with the character and puts me in their shoes, so rather than the omniscient voice, I am there with them. Which all in all is better than the most destructive time suck, the black hole of Social Media. Did I wish my friends a Happy Birthday? Did I thank new fans for their friendship?
Have I read today’s WU essay? Recalling the words of David Foster Wallace, (interview with Charlie Rose 1997) “I’ll write an hour a day and spend 8 hours a day biting my knuckle and worrying about not writing,” I believe that the time spent in the Thesaurus, finding the right metaphor and simile, and especially researching character – Which nail salon does Sofia go to in Beverly Hills? What recipe is Nico using to make empanadas, What does Luna wear to the awards dinner, Etro or Cavalli? What song is Nico playing on the guitar? When he arrives in Cuzco he is alone and anxious. The server brings him a beer and it overflows. What does the restaurant look like – it overlooks the street and a tourist, no an actress he recognizes, is being filmed while learning how to spin wool. Oh dear, I have to know what does that look like? Let’s go to YouTube! All this is better than watching the puppies — something DFW didn’t have. I put my headphones on and tune into Liquid Mind, on Pandora – it immediately triggers my meditative state as it begins to play my favorite meditative non-lyrical recordings described in the book when Luna first enters Nico’s yoga studio. I have since turned off all the social media notification (by the way WU doesn’t have any which does make it disappointing to not know if you comment on my comment or any such delight) and I never count the number of words I have written. As always, thank you for your post.
Don’t forget Google Earth. Get street-level video of any location in the US and a whole lot elsewhere. One the great classic “productive time sucks” ever.
Yes! I use Google Earth and the street view feature all the time. Just the other day, i was roaming around the Plaza de Armas in Cusco, Peru! Thanks so much!
Good post and good responses. I call it “the zone,” and I get into it most easily when I know the general shape of the scene that’s coming. One of the interesting things about the zone is that the writing you do in there often seems later to be a bit unfamiliar. I’ll be reading over a draft and think, “Who the hell wrote that?”
That echoes back to the Stanislavski quote in the post. Yeah. I’ve had this same experience.
Insightful post that seems to be ringing true for a lot of us. What I am noticing about my writing is that the only time I seem to get in the “zone flow”,anymore is when I am composing a post for my blog. Those posts are usually personal reflections (combined with drinking beer, so maybe there’s the answer)…but when I start one, I will type and revise for hours on end. Happily.,until it’s done and out there. Unlike my novel in the works. My turtle pace is starting to make me think writing fiction is not in my cards…but it’s also a project 3 years in the making, so maybe I’m just bored. I don’t know. In any case, good to know i am not alone in my more unproductive habits…
Three years? That’s a month in novel time (especially if its a first novel). You may need to find a way to get charged up about the project again.
In 2011, I took a part-time job as a reporter, covering specific meetings for a local newspaper. While I had no background in journalism, the editor was willing to take a chance because I could write ‘well enough’, but mostly because I had extensive background and experience with government, especially local governments and their budgets (okay, I am a wonk). It was my ability to understand and explain those arcane documents and the processes that produced them that landed me the job.
The first meeting I covered began at 7pm on a Thursday. My copy was due on the editor’s desk (email) at 10am the following Monday, which I soon learned is an eternity for a reporter. I had to work my ‘real’ job on Friday, but I had all weekend to write a 500 word article, so wasn’t too concerned. Needless to say, after working on it all day Saturday and Sunday, at 11 pm Sunday it still wasn’t done and I was a wreck: why can’t I write 500 GD words? I got up at 4:30 Monday morning and started again.
5:30, 6:30, 7:30, came and went and I still didn’t have anything close to a completed article. Then, as the clock closed in on 9 am, it was over: no time left, I had to write it, and I found ‘the groove.’ I made several quick decisions, started typing, and at 9:50 I hit the ‘send’ button, submitting a little over 700 words. (One of my decisions had been to let the editor or copy editor decide what to cut. As it turned out, other than re-arranging the first paragraph, they went with all of it, exactly as I wrote it, as they did with every article I submitted after that.)
While I never cut it quite that close again, for the next two years my process was to write up my notes immediately, let the article ‘simmer’ during whatever time I had, then, depending on the length, write it up in an hour or so.
I’d written with deadlines before (homework, term papers, reports, etc.) but there was something new about a deadline with an editor on the other side of it, and knowing that what I was writing was going to be public in my small town–with my name on it–that so focused my mind I was only vaguely aware of anything else around me–and I loved it. I thought of it as being in ‘the zone’, but I think ‘groove’ also works for that state of mind.
Since turning to fiction, I’ve tried to re-create that intensity of focus, mostly by setting a timer, but it seems I have a pretty undisciplined mind. So, I’m still looking for ways to keep my wandering thoughts focused on the work.
Loved this post, David. It, and the subsequent comments (obviously) spoke to me.
Deadlines are God’s gift to the undisciplined. By which I mean: writers. (Great story.)
Coming in late here after a few hours organizing source materials: Such a good post, and such helpful comments. Thanks to David and all!
My go-to for getting into the groove, or space, does not depend on a process that I generate from within, like meditation. I take the advice of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyhi, well described in his book Flow, by focusing on a detail and becoming absorbed in that: trees or water in the setting, what a character is wearing, gestures and fragments of speech. Just playing around with such details brings me into the work and I can go on from there. That book (subtitle: The Psychology of Optimal Experience) has wonderfully useful advice for all of us–much more than I can condense here. (See also Creativity by the same author.)
I find that by following his recommendations, which are not difficult, I can quickly leave whatever agitations and distractions I arrived with and enter the world of my work.
Oh, yes: these books are well and elegantly written and are far above the common self-help style.
Thanks for the great reference, Anna (though next time pick one easier to spell :-)
I’m not sure we’re talking about different things, just going about it different ways.
Mot juste. The number of times I’ve tried to find that word and failed. I’m not joking either — one of my first editing mentors used to romanticize about Flaubert and how he would always try to find the “mon jus” — that’s how I heard it, at least, as he would sit in his chair and smoke a cigar. Many times I’ve had a chance to use that term but (since I’m prone to look an unfamiliar word up before using it) no search could find it. I was considering the sanity of that mentor until I read your post.
But in all seriousness, what a comparison to your topic. Not just finding the right word for the time, but generally the right thing our expectations tell us is what we need. How often does that lead to kicking against a wall to no avail?
There is a computer game I used to enjoy growing up, called Mineswesper. In case you’re not familiar with it, the strategy involves marking off squares you’re certain have mines under them, using deduction to click on adjacent squares you are certain cannot contain mines. Sometimes you hit a juncture where the only choice is to guess — or so you think. Instead, the insight is to not guess, but look elsewhere. Keep exploring, applying what you know to be true. Almost always, the place you thought you had to guess comes back and you can deduce with certainty.
This concept gave me perspective on problem solving in general, but I certainly use it in writing. My goal, when the timer is on, is to make progress in my story. My job is to recgnize those log jam moments and leapfrog elsewhere. Keep the flow, trust the process. Like in Minesweeper, word count happens, great writing is left behind, but I am actively creating. I am flowing.
A good added reference to your topic today would be George Mumford, who has trained many NBA superstars in an active form of meditation popularized now as a “flow state”. This applies to anyone who is performing a task. Getting in it, not thinking about it, just doing it. You’re there. In it. Doing. Cutting down the monkey chorus and sharpening the mind to the surgical precision of a more practical OM.
Good luck with Tai Chi, I’m sure that’s a great complement for a writer’s peace of mind.
Tai chi so far is much better on my peace of mind than my knees.
George Mumford, another great refrence, thanks.
If only everyone could learn from video games the way you learned form Minesweeper.
“My goal, when the timer is on, is to make progress in my story. My job is to recgnize those log jam moments and leapfrog elsewhere. Keep the flow, trust the process. Like in Minesweeper, word count happens, great writing is left behind, but I am actively creating. I am flowing.”
To which I respond, quoting Hemingway:
“There is no great writing. Only great rewriting.”
I’ve really loved the smattering of references to the martial arts in the comments–that’s exactly where my mind went, too. I’ve been studying the same traditional martial art for over 20 years, and my first instructor drilled into me this key thought: leave everything at the door. By this he meant that when you do martial arts, that is all that is in your head. I often think of that when I begin writing: leave everything but your story at the door. Mostly it works….!
That’s great advice — leave everything at the door. Sadly, the monkey in my mind come in with me. I’m getting better at leaving them outside, but they’re sneaky little critters.
I’m late, as ever, to this wonderful, wonderful post, but that’s not going to keep me from diving in. Others may love business and craft posts (which I also enjoy) but creativity theory and its application are my favorite posts.
First of all, I am also a practitioner of tai chi, and it has been by far the best practice I’ve found for quieting my crazy leaping mind. I practice every morning before I work, going through the warm up and then practicing some portion of the form. Love to see that you’ve returned to it.
I love that you took the observation to the work flow and how you were feeling. I believe in that flow, believe in stepping back and letting the work tell me when I’m off-track, but I hadn’t though to apply the observation to my physical state. I can’t wait to try it. I am in the home stretches of a rough draft, and will be eager to employ wu wei even as I am writing.
Thank you so much for this wise, thoughtful post. You are an excellent teacher!
I thought about you a lot as I was writing this, Barbara, given your recent post about plowing through the final pages of your book. Not at all surprised your another tai chi enthusiast. I’m still at the stage where they encourage us NOT to practice at home because we’ll likely just ingrain mistakes, so I can do the kata before work, but I’m hoping that day isn’t far off. Thanks for the kind words.
I fall into the revise-as-you-go camp, David. Far from torturous, the process feels deeply creative to me, cognitively like a puzzle — putting sentences together in the right order with the best words –but intuitively like music. It has to feel right, flow with a discernible rhythm. I do my best writing and revising staying with that feel.
My current WIP did not come easily. After months of research, writing about the writing, the river parted. Each day I revise what I wrote the day before, and it’s the tinkering that pulls me into that zone. I do not hear anything, see anything, – no text message dings – I’m just gone.
In that way I keep agents and publishers out of my consciousness. Once I’m there, I’m writing for the pure joy and torture of it. It’s a slow process, a two-steps-forward, one-step back approach, or more accurately, two-steps-back and half-a-step forward. But oh, the satisfaction of that step.
Thanks for a great post. I’m still plumbing the depths of your class last spring, using what I learned. You’re one terrific teacher.
Hi David,
Enjoyed your post entitled “Nurturing the Writer’s Mind.” Like many writers, I’m sure, I feel an affinity with the points you’ve brought up. For me my most creative moment is just a feeling of having arrived at a point where the story takes care of itself. Everything has been done. The distractions have all been taken care of. A professor once said about story, “let it grow in your mind. You wait. You’ll be looking at things and they fall in your lap. You’ll see.” That’s the process for you. In this state the character is comfortable in his own skin. He takes on a life of his own. It doesn’t matter where I am when this happens. It can be a small, noisy cafe or my desk at home .
The habits that I have to work through to get into this groove are almost too common to mention: lists to make, material needs that suffice somehow, writing assignments, firewood to split, romance, an aging parent or a hostile sibling, friends to take care of and personal health. I haven’t done a lot to minimize these distractions. If anything they’ve become more intense.
A particular disruption has been the difficulty in trying to get a first novel published. The number of redirection slips has been daunting. After a while the submission process can start to feel routine. There’s a risk of eroding your passion. But then I started to pay attention to all the positive encouragement I’ve received. I looked for a common thread among agents and made the decision to make that part of the story stronger. It’s like starting over. It ignites one’s passion.
Professionally I’ve always researched the entire story line before starting a first draft – and I really enjoy writing that first draft! Nagging at me is whether to put the first novel away and start something new. I always go back to the best advice I ever had about writing. Leave it!
Rick Crosby
I’m late to this, but I wanted to comment as the post really struck a nerve. I’ve been behind since last September, when my mother’s already poor health got even worse. Since she passed in April, I’ve been trying to get back to my WIP, which is past due to a very understanding publisher. I’m a plotter, but everything about this book has come so painfully. Every time I think I have the plot solid, I spot something else that won’t work, and I have to fix it. I can’t write around it no matter how hard I try. I think I run into issues because I’ll have a working synopsis and then I want to write, and I don’t spot those problems until I’m writing. So then I stop and fix. My dream is to get it right the first time. Or at least by the third try, lol.
What you said about editing as you go really strikes a chord. I loathe rough drafts because they are terrible no matter what, and I think editing is a form of resisting getting that crappy first draft on the page.
I’m definitely going to rethink some of my process because of this posts and the great comments. Thanks to everyone for sharing.
I’m afraid I’m so far away from being ready for this. Just finished Dr. with…Wow! I’ve been writing short stories for a few months now. My creative space just seems to happen
I get an idea, write it down in the Notes page of my iPhone and then I find myself just continuing to write. And when I stop I like what I’ve written. I transcribe onto a legal pad with a few minor changes…and I still like it. I certainly don’t try to do anything to bring myself into that place.