How writing works for me

This is how writing works for me.

I start writing. 

I don't have a plan. 

I simply start with whatever is given to me. 

A question. A thought. A memory. 

And I see where it leads. 

It's like stepping into the unknown, following a dark path without a flashlight.

It's like stepping off the edge of a cliff, unsure if I can fly--thinking I can't fly--but stepping into the air anyway, urged by some inner compulsion to test gravity and the rules of the universe.

The words that come from my pen onto the page serve as wings. They keep me aloft. They're like a bridge taking me from one thought to another across the dark chasm of unknowing.

I never know before stepping into the void whether I'll fly, whether I'll make it to the other side without falling into the mire.

Maybe that's one of the reasons I keep taking that step: curious to see what happens, wanting to know if I can still fly, or just wondering where the step will take me today. 

Each day is different. I see the world differently each day.

Yet each day is the same: the fear and doubts never go away. 

What am I doing? Why am I doing it? 

Questions and more questions. 

A blank page. 

A pen in hand. 

How will I answer these questions today? 

Where will the path lead? 

And will I have the courage to carve a new path out of the silence, to follow wherever it leads?

Sometimes I need to slow down, to put my pen away, to take the moments in the morning that I'd spend writing to think instead or read or just watch as thoughts drift by like clouds that pass... 

Sometimes I'll simply hold my pen, not writing, wanting to regain my strength and faith in the process of writing. 

It's the process of writing each day that gives me the chance to discover what I need to say. 

Time and Patience

Writing takes time 

and patience. You wait 

for words, hoping they'll come 

from wherever they come and 

fill the page with whatever 

is hidden in your heart.

Some days they find their way 

to the page; some days the page 

remains blank. You can't know 

ahead of time what you'll find or 

what might appear.

Some days it's like playing 

hide-and-seek: I see you. 

No you don't. Catch me if you can! 

And what you wish you'd written 

remains just beyond your reach, 

still wordless, waiting for another time 

to reveal itself to you.

And so you keep writing, waiting,

hoping whatever is hidden in

your heart will fill the page 

with words.

If you stay in bed

This morning I lay in bed before
the alarm went off wondering about
the shape of my day and what would
happen if I didn't go to my desk to
write before doing anything else.

It was the first time in months
that I thought about switching
my routine.

I lay there thinking
I don't have anything to say,
so why bother to get up and
sit at my desk with pen in hand
waiting for words that will never come?

But then my alarm went off and
out of habit I went to my desk
and sat down and took a pen in hand
and opened my journal to a blank page
and found the words waiting there
I couldn't see while lying in bed.

Maybe I'm just inherently lazy?

Or maybe it's just an illusion,
and you can't see it as an illusion
(that's the nature of an illusion)
until you get out of bed?

Or maybe writing comes down to habit--
a routine, a reminder to sit at your desk,
a need to find, through the familiar,
what's not yet known?

You don't know what you'll write
until you pick up your pen and begin.

If you stay in bed or go for a walk
instead of sitting down to write,
you'll never know what words are
waiting to give themselves to you.

Savor the silence

Take a moment to breathe.
Just wait before touching
your pen to the page

and let the blankness
of the empty journal
wash over you

like the waves of the sea,
like the silence of an empty house,
like the pause between breaths.

Just listen for a moment to
how the white page, not yet
filled with words,

sounds like walking through
falling snow, and not a single
footprint marks a path

and the possibilities
of where you might go
are endless.

Take a moment to breathe,
to savor the silence of
the empty page.

Just wait before touching
your pen to the page,
and then begin...

Wondering About Words

On some mornings I sit down to write wondering where words come from and, if they come, why they come to me or to anyone else, really.

I wonder if words come from some secret place hidden beneath our feet—somewhere deep under the earth, perhaps?— or from somewhere high above, way beyond the clouds, way beyond the moon and the stars?

I wonder if words are simply invisible until they appear on the page, which is the reason why we can’t see them floating through space like foreign objects that come to earth carrying a message from another planet sent especially to us.

I wonder how we find the words we need to express what’s hidden in our hearts, words that describe the mix of thoughts and feelings swirling inside us.

I wonder if maybe it isn’t that we find words but that words find us, as if we’re magnets that can draw to us the words we need to help us explain how it feels today or how it felt yesterday to inhabit this body, to dive into the unknown not knowing what we’ll find, just hoping words will appear to help us understand what we need and who we are and where we belong.

I wonder every morning — or whatever time of day I sit down to write — if the page is really blank or if it’s filled with words I can’t yet see and which only come into being the moment I begin writing. 

I wonder if words are inside us, locked in some mysterious storehouse, and how we’re supposed to find the key, and then I wonder if words are all around us, waiting for us to catch them, how a writer is born with a net in his or her hand to capture them like butterflies before they get away.

I wonder about words which flow on some days like a steady stream and on other days like a trickle and I wonder how on other days there's nothing more than a dry creek bed where words once flowed.

I wonder how words became as much a part of our lives as the water we drink, the

air we breathe, and equally necessary for our survival.

I wonder why we wait and wait and wait, never knowing if anything will appear on the page in front of us, until one day a word appears… and then another.

This Is How Writing Works

This is how writing works for me, which is going to be different than how it might work for you since each of us holds a pen in our own unique way, or types by applying our own subtle or not-so-subtle pressure with our finger pads to the keyboard, or looks through our own lens at a blank sheet of paper or computer screen.

You might think that writing starts with a blank sheet of paper, but it doesn't, not for me anyway, although that sheet of paper is foremost in my mind (not the paper itself so much as its blankness). I know, of course, that sheet of blank paper is waiting for my words to fill it, even though I’m not yet at my desk. But, even so, writing doesn't start with that blank sheet of paper.

It starts with fear. 

I can be in the bathroom washing my face and thinking about that piece of paper or I can be lifting my head off the pillow after a good night’s sleep and suddenly, before I blink my eyes awake, that blank sheet of paper can flit into my thoughts, and along with it comes the fear that always accompanies writing, or, on some days, not writing.

See the way it works? Writing starts not, as you might think, with a blank sheet of paper, but with a choice: to face this fear of emptiness, of blankness, or run away. Sensing this fear is the way writing begins for me long before I sit down at my desk. It doesn't matter what I plan on writing. It only becomes a day of writing if I’m able to overcome this fear and choose to write.

This fear is such a large part of my being. It seems to accompany me everywhere—into the shower or to the bathroom when I brush my teeth or on my morning walk or while I’m eating breakfast or as I’m checking e-mail or making lunch or during my late afternoon run or even after dinner when I’m reading or stealing a few minutes watching Netflix. And feeling these moments of fear means that I'm constantly feeling the need to make a choice--to go to my desk to write or to get into the car and go to the beach to avoid writing; to sit down in front of my computer or to go back to bed; to take my journal and pen to a quiet nook in the library or to retreat to a local nature sanctuary to go birdwatching.

Writing starts with fear, and if you don’t feel this fear before you begin to write, you’re one of the lucky ones. I've felt this fear in many different forms ever since I started putting words on paper in high school. The fear that I won’t have anything to say. Or the fear that what I do have to say is utterly worthless. Or the fear that what I say will sound stupid and inane and ridiculous. People will think I’m silly. You’re a writer? They’ll ask this question innocently but with such an undertone of disdain and disbelief in their voices that I’ll begin to doubt myself. Me? A writer? Who am I kidding? Just because I happen to be holding a pen and notebook in my hand? Oh, how funny!

So, this is how it works (for me): writing begins with fear and with learning anew each day (each moment) how to deal with this fear—to face it, to put it in its place, or to step over it without disturbing it while it quietly sleeps—so that I can get to the page and begin writing.

But here’s the thing: getting to the page doesn't mean I've accomplished my mission. Sneaking past fear isn’t enough. Once I reach the page, I’ve got to deal with my own doubts and lack of self-confidence to get words on the page. You may think it’s easy once I get to the page, but it's not. Waiting for me on the page are the demeaning voices that I hear in my head and that can distract me and pull me off course if I let them. I need to shut them out if I’m going to write. Doubt, lack of confidence, insecurity, fear—these are all obstacles that can keep me from writing unless I learn how to hurdle over them or crash through them or subdue them if I want to write anything.

What I've learned over time, though, is that words have great power to dispel fear and doubts. When I finally get to the blank sheet of paper and start writing, in spite of the fear and despite the voices warning me to stay away from the page, suddenly I discover—because it’s the way my brain works—what I’m thinking. It's like magic. A light bulb goes on as soon as my pen starts moving across the page. It’s as if the keyboard lets me slip past my fears and doubts once I start typing. This is how I discover what I’m thinking, and I don’t really know what I’m thinking until I start writing. (Believe it or not, I had no idea I was going to write about fear when I started writing this morning).

I would love to be able to compose sentences and paragraphs and whole stories in my head. But I’m not that kind of writer. I’m the kind of writer who needs paper and pen. I need a keyboard and a screen. There’s something about moving my fingers and seeing my hand move, or just turning a page, or hitting the “return” key, something about these small actions, that, for some reason, bring out my thoughts.

Without paper and pen, I’m mute. 

Words come slowly, often with a struggle. Rarely do they flow out of me. Each sentence, each paragraph, is shaped on paper, by paper and by pen.

What about you? Do you struggle with fear? Do you prefer a pen, pencil, or keyboard? Do you compose in your head, or are you the kind of writer who needs to write in order to discover what you think? 

One of my teachers, Joy Chute, told me years ago that ultimately whatever method you use to write is irrelevant as long as you get the words on paper.  If a particular method fails you, abandon it. If it works, embrace it... and write!

For more information on how writing works, visit:

https://www.nownovel.com/blog/the-writing-process/

https://writingcenter.gmu.edu/articles/9215

http://www.songwritersonprocess.com/

https://www.brainpickings.org/2012/11/20/daily-routines-writers/

https://www.brainpickings.org/2013/05/03/advice-on-writing/