TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAYS: the talking wounded

“I’m one of your talking wounded,” the narrator of James Fenton’s poem “In Paris With You” says.

He’s not talking about writing and writers. (He’s in Paris with “you,” so presumably he has better poisson to fry.) But he could be.

Many of us love to talk about our writing, especially in the early years of our careers. I talked for hours about my works in progress when I first began. To this day, I'm sure there are still people in Manhattan who would duck into doorways rather than hear me explain one more of my book ideas. If any of those folks happen to be reading this, mea very very culpa.

Over the years, I’ve learned not to talk about my writing in progress much, not so much out of fears for my already idiosyncratic social life but because it sours my writing. For me, talking about a book doesn’t get the book written. In fact, once I’ve hashed out an emerging story out over coffee, I no longer feel a compelling need to sit down and actually write it. I always write more, and better, when I don’t drain off any of the tension or curiosity that draws me to a piece by letting it escape into conversation. I guess you could sum up my personal rules on this subject like this.

Rule 1: Talk about writing and other writers often. Talking about writing other than our own connects us to our tribe, our craft, our colleagues, our inspirations. It’s fun, and it fires me up.

Rule 2: Talk about your own work in progress very little. Any and all words even possibly related to that subject don't belong in our mouths; they belong on the page.

Are you one of the writerly "talking wounded"? What are you personal strategies for keeping your energy on the page?

WRITERLY RESPITE, part one

At the first, lively meeting of the new BookStrategy Writers Group, the issue of writerly dry spells came up a lot. One writer was tired and disheartened from the publishing process, another feeling hampered by too much consciousness of writing lessons and rules, yet another happily focused on non-writing tasks like grandkids. Two of us had also experienced multiple bereavements which silenced us for a time.

In theory, we tend to expect ourselves to write regularly and productively, turning out new pages and new books on a consistent, unwavering schedule. In reality, that just doesn't happen. Every writer's life has lulls and low points, lapses or even silences. Sometimes these times of block are temporary glitches—mid-book blues, for example—that can be ended by soldiering on; a few days of "bad" writing later, they resolve themselves. But just as often, the problem is deeper than that, and forcing ourselves to write is at best painful and at worst utterly counterproductive.

How do you know the difference? You don't, at least at first. You have to pay some sustained but gentle attention to the problem to figure it out. You have to regard it with openness and without judgment. You have to be more curious than condemning.

Take a moment to ask and to observe. What does your particular dry spell feel like? When did it start? What is going on with your life as a whole—how energetic and nourished do you feel there? What is going on with your work in progress...where are you in your writing itself? What does your intuition tell you is wrong? What does your gut tell you to do?

I'll deal with other forms of block or lull in later posts. For now, here are a few strategies that may help if you just feel creatively depleted--not an uncommon experience in our go-go-go lives.

1. Rest. Most of us live lives that are what a friend of mine calls "Burnout Central." It's surprising what a day off or a few extra naps can do to recharge your batteries. Some really nourishing food, eaten slowly, can do wonders too.

2. Read. Return to classics you love. Check out some masters in your genre with whose work you're not yet familiar. Search out great writing in some form you rarely read. I often read poetry when I'm feeling creatively depleted. It reminds me of how much I love language, and it's brief enough that reading it doesn't feel like yet another chore.

3. Find inspiration from non-writing sources. I am inspired by looking at visual art, talking to interesting people, watching documentary films, listening to instrumental music, making jewelry, walking, staring up at the sky, and watching the brief talks by brilliant people in many fields collected at TED (http://www.ted.com/). What deeply inspires and nurtures you? Make time to reach out for it. And savor it fully, one thing at a time.

4. Take an evening or two as an "electric (and electronic) sabbath." For a specified amount of time one evening (two or three hours works best for me) turn off or silence all electric and electronic devices. Turn off the electric lights, too, and light some candles instead. You might be surprised at how totally different your time will feel. You won't be able to multi-task. You won't be able to push yourself to get something else done. You won't be subject to the incredible overstimulation that is a fact of modern life. You'll be able to read, or chat, or play a board game with your family. You'll probably feel antsy at first, addicted as most of us are to 24/7 input from our devices, but don't give up...once you get used to it, you may find it really enjoyable. And after an evening of withdrawal from external "noise," you may find yourself eager to write.

5. Take a conscious break from writing for one week, two weeks, even a month. In that time, fully commit to staying away from your writing and to staying away from any guilt or blame. Return to writing on the day you've planned and see how you feel.

CLUTCH TIME: starting to write again

Over the past few weeks I've been working on my own writing again, for the first time since a delicious residency at the Atlantic Center for the Arts last fall.

The chance to get back to my own stuff should be something to celebrate, but it doesn't quite feel that way. The pages I've already written seem at once stale and overwritten, never a combo that heartens a writer. I feel oddly distanced from them, a little as though someone else wrote them, but worse; if someone else had really written them, I wouldn't feel nearly so mean or so critical. Sometimes I sit down with them and new pages just flow. Sometimes I sit down with those new pages and the whole thing suddenly stalls. I feel a little like I did back when I was learning to drive a stick shift. It's clear that the damn car can move...it's just not clear when, or how much, or where it's all going, the Autobahn or the ditch.

I know from experience that this discomfort will pass, and that some of the pages I'm so jerkily writing now will turn out to be at least a little bit better than they feel. At least, I'd like to think I know that. It doesn't actually sound very convincing at the moment. No matter how many times I manage to re-start my writing when it's stalled, it always seems like this latest try will be my first failure. I'll let you know how it goes--from the Autobahn, or the ditch.

A GOOD WRITER, ON BAD WRITING

Laura Miller's May 11 essay for Salon.com, "Bad Writing: What Is It Good For?" drew me in immediately, not only with the counterintuitive idea that lousy writing might serve some redeeming purpose but also with its subtitle: "crappy prose is our most abundant resource, so let's put it to work." No one with my snarky sense of humor could possibly fail to read on.

Okay, I was a little disappointed not to find suggestions about some really tangible use for bad writing. I've been wondering, for example, if there isn't some way to stuff novelists' first drafts, instead of golf balls and rubber tire shreds, into the unstoppable ex-oil well currently making the the waters of the Gulf as murky as The Talented Mr. Ripley's soul. Talk about your "Junk Shot"!*

Nevertheless, the always intelligent Miller is true to form here, describing one defining characteristic of bad writing as the fact that the writer doesn't doubt its quality, yet also reminding us that what writers think is their worst writing isn't, or at least isn't always. (Cases in point: Kafka, who Miller mentions, and Virginia Woolf, whom she doesn't.) If you're intrigued by the mystery of bad writing, your own or anyone else's, her piece is well worth a read.

*For the record: I am not making fun of the terrible catastrophe afflicting the Gulf and all of those entities, both human and -non, being injured by it. But I admit that I am making fun of the names BP gives its proposed fixes, which make already questionable plans sound even more implausible.

TWO WEEKS AND AN OVEN TIMER: creating writing time

When it comes to our goals, many of are felled not by laziness but by ambition, by our own grandiosity. We don't exercise for ten minutes because we don't have the hour we believe we should spend. We don't say no to the one little pizza slice because we're just about to go on a great big diet. We don't put our one just-used coffee cup in the sink because we really need to clean up the whole ten-room house.

And we don't write for fifteen minutes because in our mind, our writing sessions should be two hours and we should have them every day. We can't find that two hours most days, much less every day, and so we write little or not at all. This is completely natural. I fall into this trap a lot, and most other writers do too. But it's also two other things. First, it's idiotic. Would you refuse to take a snapshot of your kids at Thanksgiving because you should really be filming the whole thing?

And second, it's totally counterproductive. It trains your creative brain to see writing as some big hairy deal, rather than as a natural outgrowth of your interest in the story or project you're working on. It trains you to wait to write until perfect conditions are achieved for writing, and ignores the reality that perfect conditions are almost never available.

If you're bedeviled by this problem, here's a possible solution.

Decide on a place to write. Your desk, your dining room, your garden. Put your basic writing tools there, ready. Basic: laptop, pen and paper, pencil and notebook. You won't need your Compact Oxford English Dictionary or the rough draft of the seven hundred pages you've already drafted for this exercise.

Set the oven timer for fifteen minutes. I say oven timer because just about everyone has one. But you could use your microwave timer, iPhone timer, or any other clock you want. The point isn't the mechanism, it's the precision of the fifteen minutes.

Now sit down at your spot and write. Keep your hand(s) moving the whole fifteen minutes. It doesn't matter if what you write is illegible crap or genius worthy of Shakespeare. Just write. And when the timer goes off, stop. Even if you're having fun and channeling Shakespeare. Stop. You can finish your sentence, but that's it. Stop. Get up. Do something else.

Do this every single day for fourteen days, at more or less the same time if you can. But if you can't, do it anyway: some time, some place, but every single day, and for no more and no less than fifteen minutes.

Congratulations. You have now trained your brain to believe that (a) you do have time to write and (b) you can be trusted not just to write but also to stop and (c) you have plenty to say and would actually enjoy sitting down and writing more often.

If you want, you might try the optional follow-up: using the same basic structure and rules, write exactly thirty minutes, four days a week. But don't try this until you've done the first challenge.

Whether or not you ever do either exercise, here's the point. A page a day that you actually write is better than five pages a day that you never get to.

The way to accumulate writing is to write one page regularly, not write a whole book never.

THE BRONTË SISTERS ACTION FIGURES: Kick Some Victorian Butt, Charlotte!

Words can't express the delight this "advertisement," made in 1998 by Phil Lord and Chris Miller, gave me. And...once we have Emily, Anne, and Charlotte B. as Power Dolls, can Jane A., Virginia W., and Emily D. be far behind?

STORY STARTERS: Why did the rubber chicken cross the road?

Sometimes getting yourself out of a dreary writing rut (block, lull, coma, quagmire, blackout, hiatus, respite, suspension, layoff, tantrum: call it what you will) requires a bit of playfulness. Therefore: write a five hundred word short short story based on this image. For extra credit, consider having not just the mo-pedding chicken but also the bus play a role. For immediate induction into the Writers' Hall of Fame, post your short short below as a comment. (I was going to end that line by telling you not to be a chicken. But even for someone with my dopey sense of humor, that joke's a rotten egg.)

EVERY-DAY WRITERS (those lying scum)

There are two kinds of writers in the world.

The ones who don’t write every single day.

And the ones who lie.

Virtually every writer you hear claiming that they do write every day is in the second category. The truth is that they don’t write the day they have brain surgery. They don’t write the day their daughter gets married. They don’t write the day their loved one dies (if it’s anticipated) or the day after their loved one dies (if it’s not).

And you know what? They shouldn’t write on those days. There are some days when you owe more to your life than you do to your writing.

It's okay not to write for a bit. But didn't your mommy ever tell you it's not okay to lie?