Writing Journal - Part #3 in the Slowing the Hell Down Series

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Oh, I’m feeling it.

            I am right now in the position to fully understand the wonderful merit of slowing down.  For writing a large story it is imperative and essential. And, as I have recently discovered, it is where all the good stuff is found.

            I’d like to explain exactly what I mean by slowing down.  The words are vague, and can mean a few different things.  I think for my situation, I have to embrace all definitions of the phrase.  But as far as writing, work, and the creative process is concerned slowing down is the only way you get the emotional handshake between merely trying something and expression. It is how an activity can evolve from something you just do, to something that is a part of you.

            For years, I knew I had something to say and I had nine different ways to say it.  I tinkered and goofed around with comedy, poetry, short stories, scripts, novels, blogs, essays, and writing my podcast.  I didn’t half-ass everything, but I also don’t remember digging too deep.  I don’t remember an intensity of emotion. When I wrote my first few “longer” stories, I wanted to prove that I could do it.  I typed fast, thought fast, and put everything together fast.  What was left was a handful of neat ideas, strung together with thin strings of character development.  I had not started taking my pills yet, either.

This still feels too ethereal to explain.  I’ll keep trying. 

Yesterday, I sat down at my writing time.  The task for the day was to continue the second draft, which specifically included an overhaul of the first third of my book.  I got into the groove of writing and thinking slower after a sizable chunk of my story had been written. So the end is paced, and the beginning is a runaway freight train with huge missing pieces.

So, I knew I had to tackle a scene that I roughly fleshed out two months ago.  The lazy part of my brain wanted to breeze past it again, or even skip it altogether.  I couldn’t think of what was needed to fix the scene either.  Nothing was coming to mind.  So, I just started writing.  Purposefully and completely.  With attention to everything, including sentence structure, word repetition, as well as character development, tone, and all that good stuff.  What resulted was a half chapter of the completely unexpected.  It only comes from purposeful work.  Not hard work.  Work that matters to me.

I wasn’t painting by throwing cans of paint into a jet engine and watching it splatter on the floor.  I was painting a tree, leaf by leaf.  I was knitting a sweater, piece by piece.  I was hand-rolling 500 Swedish meatballs into identically-sized hors d’oeuvres.

I couldn’t do that with the guitar.  I couldn’t memorize all the chords and structures. I couldn’t hit the open mics five times a week to build comedy muscles. I’m not meticulous with anything I do.  When I work, I do my best to not screw up.  But with writing, I get to methodically be in control of everything, at my own speed. 

This is one of those many things in life that some people learn by the time they are eight years old.  I can’t imagine the trajectory my life would have taken if I knew what it was to slow down.  It is the focus we all look for.  It is, sociologists have discovered, what makes us truly happy.  It’s not a job you love or money or fun, it’s the ability to find something to do where the rest of the world disappears and nothing else matters.  Your brain shuts off and it’s just you and the thing.  We all get it every once in a while; being with friends or your children or throwing yourself into a project.  But it’s fleeting.  It’s not love or purpose or devotion.  It’s a connection.  Unlike anything else life can give you.

Damn, I hope this book is good.

Writing Journal - 30,000 Words, and Heeding the Advice of Stephen King

I'm willing to say, he knows a little something about the craft.

            I’ve been trying to remember the exact wording of Stephen King’s advice in On Writing.  There is a ton of great stuff in there, but he did finish up with a great line about the craft itself.  I think it was “Do not go into this lightly.”  I’m sure that’s close. I should know it by now. I've read the book three times. At least I understood the sentiment.

            Months ago I wrote about my lifelong habit of half-assing everything I had to do. I was just trying to be honest, and that is the beginning of growth.  (I think, right?) But when it came to settling down in this computer chair and beginning my fourth crack at a novel, I wanted to heed these words for once in my painfully average existence.  (Easy…I’m not taking down my life…just my attempts to do and work and be and create…) I wanted to take it completely seriously and give it everything I have.  So far, so good.

            I hit 30,000 words today. I’m not sure why that’s significant, but I’ve read my share of writing books and that specific word count total means some threshold is crossed.  I can say, they aren’t wrong.  The book feels like something now.  It was a bunch of pages before, but now it had substance; a weight to it. I like the idea of taking marble away from the sculpture, instead of, well…manufacturing the marble itself.

            Even though I’ve been here before, I feel this one is being written by a more experienced, less insane version of me.  Also, I’ve been writing all of this in the summer, which normally for me is a time to withdraw, concentrate on input, stay in the shade and count the days until the leaves change.  I built up a head of steam before the real heat kicked in, and here I am.  I’m in my shorts, (or just my drawers) with a box fan eight feet from my face.  I’m sticking to my chair, but things are happening.  It’s a fair trade.

            Back to the Stephen King quote; I guess I’ve never understood how satisfying it is to throw yourself into something if you have found that thing.  I was all in with my marriage and family, even though I never knew what I was doing.  But work was always…work.  I watched the clock, and always daydreamed of a life where I gave two shits. 

I am not going into this lightly. I’m in it.

            One of my favorite musicians, Jack White, talked about how he used to challenge himself with every album and every performance.  He would concoct new ways to make his shows more difficult to do; including purposely separating instruments on stage.  He had pianos, organs, and guitars on stands, and they were all placed in specific places to be used in the course of a single song.  (It’s what you do when you are basically the entire band.)  He would nudge the piano just a bit further away from where it needed to be. During the show, he would have to cover a slightly longer distance to get to the piano and keep time with the song he was performing. He needed this challenge to overcome. 

            I don’t need to fabricate any obstacles.  I have plenty; including a job, a home to take care of, one kid still at home, my goofy dog, and a wife who wouldn’t mind spending time with me once in a while.  It’s all part of the challenge, I assume.  It would be so easy to stop. Just walk away, like I’ve done a half dozen times before.  But something pulls me back.  One of those things, is the unexpected.

            I just wrote a little chunk that literally popped out of nowhere.  I didn’t imagine the scene beforehand. I just knew I had to get this set of characters out of one place and put them in a different place.  What I came up with was kinda beautiful.  It was downright sweet, and unexpected.  The unexpected is what we all crave in life. It is that spice, that jolt of electricity that reminds us of how cool it can be to be alive and fell what’s around you.

            (This is really a hippie-laden post.  Deal.)

Writing, (and/or throwing yourself into something) can surprise the hell out of you.  You will create things you never knew were in your brain, ready to come out. It’s happened a few times so far, and I’d forgotten how singular that feeling can be.

            “Hey.  I did this.”