joefentonart.com
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.
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