Coded Messages

Each of us lives a life
of solitude, islands
separated from each other
by the sea.

Our words are like flashing
lights, coded messages sent
across the spaces between us,
attempts, however feeble,
to connect.

Language is the glue
that holds us together,
the way we create stories
and poems to overcome
the distance,
which disappears
in an instant--
the moment we hear
one word,
then another.

Each word is like
a hand reaching
across the water,
a light dispersing
the darkness
and silence
of solitude,

a message
telling us this:
you are not alone.

Inside, Outside

In order to write, I need to go inside.

Not literally inside a room or a building but inside myself.

I spend weeks, months, and often years on a project learning how to do this, how to get past my outer self and step into the inner imaginary world that I'm trying to create.

It doesn't happen automatically. Even after years of writing, this process takes time and thought, and the willingness to go into solitude, to leave behind the outer world and the people in it and enter this inner space alone.

It’s in solitude, inside this inner space, that I can lower my guard. But to reach this space, I have to be willing (and able) to shed my shell, to meet life without any armor, without defenses, so that I can absorb life in all its variety without anything coming between life and my skin.

Learning to write without any defenses--no judgment, no expectations, no assumptions-- means learning to listen, the kind of listening that can occur only if I've managed to shed my armor in order to welcome life's trials and challenges and joys and triumphs without a protective shield. 

Whenever I leave this inner space and set foot outside, I am conscious of leaving this inside world and returning to the outside world, a world filled with conversations and tv and internet and college football games and NBA basketball and handymen re-tiling the shower and bank statements and publishers and agents and errands and food shopping, all the stuff of life.

It's always a strange feeling to emerge from this inner state of mind, to let go of the images and voices in my head, and find myself in this outer world again. It's like stepping from the darkness of a movie into the bright light outside the theater. 

Does every writer share this same demarcation line between inside and outside? And when you attend a writing conference, do you notice how it's harder to return to that inside world after spending time in the outside world?

Writing conferences like the Rutgers One-on-One Plus in New Brunswick NJ that I attended a few weeks ago offer wonderful ways of exploring the outside world of publishing and help writers make connections to the world inhabited by agents and editors who are always looking for new and compelling work.

But to create that work, a writer has to leave that world behind.

If we want to write, we need to shut the door to that world, cross over the line between outside and inside, and remove the armor that we had to put on in order to step into that world so that we can look inward again.

It's what we have to do as writers.

As much as we might enjoy spending time with others and delighting in life on the outside, if we want to write, we need to pull ourselves away --pull ourselves inside the theater of our imaginations—and listen closely for the words waiting inside us to be written.  

Diving Off the Boat

Think of writing this way: every time you pick up your pen or begin typing away at your computer, you are preparing to dive.

You’re not pulling on snorkel gear, or hauling a heavy oxygen tank over your shoulders, or stepping into a pressure-sealed suit, but you’re still preparing to dive.

And like every other diver, you have to learn how to flip backwards off the side of the boat into the water and plunge alone beneath the surface to do your work.

One of the greatest gifts of diving is this alone-time, which begins the moment you’re under water and nobody else can see what you’re doing.

You are completely alone, free to explore, to go in whatever direction you choose, even if it looks like a dead-end. With only your thoughts and the sound of your heart to keep you company, you can search the deep for the discoveries that you'll want to carry back to the boat for others to enjoy.

From the deck of the boat, your shipmates may be able to see air bubbles or an occasional ripple if you decide to stay near the surface that day.

But beneath the surface your actions are hidden from view, and you can dive into your imagination without interruption, except for the occasional shark that might swim too close, or the unexpected tug from the person holding the oxygen line signaling that your time is almost up.

Then, you resurface to breathe, to get more oxygen, and to re-orient yourself before going back over the side or deciding to call it a day.

Even though each of us dives alone, we have a team on-board to help us get into the water each day. Someone who makes sure our oxygen tank is full and the line is clear. Someone who steers the boat while we’re busy diving.

Each of us have shipmates--friends, family, sometimes even strangers--who help us dive.

Editors and agents are shipmates, too, and some of them can help us dive further and deeper than we might dive on our own.

But you have to be careful who you invite aboard your ship.

Because diving’s kind of tricky.

You need nurturing and support when you dive, especially during those early, exploratory dives when mistakes and confusion are common.

A nurturing, supportive shipmate gives you the freedom to dive where you need to dive and encourages you to explore the world in the way that you need to explore it. A critical shipmate only tangles the lines, preventing you from going where you need to go... offering his or her own plan or view of the world in place of your own.

When asking someone--an editor, an agent, a teacher, even a member of your writing workshop--to serve as one of your shipmates, you might want to find out before asking them for help if they believe in nurturing and supporting... or criticizing and advising.

That’s because the process of diving--the time you spend underwater, and the process of going down and coming back up again, often empty-handed--requires a great deal of nurturing and support.

Only after you come up from the deep with a full basket--your first or second or third draft in hand--is it time to ask for criticism or advice.

Some shipmates understand this process of alone-time as crucial to successful diving, while others are more interested in the final product (and want a hand in shaping the product) rather than in the process of discovery.

That’s fine--there's a time for seeking out and accepting criticism and advice--but these critics should be kept on the dock, waiting for the ship’s return, not on-board, in positions that can ultimately undermine the diver’s confidence and joy in the process.

For more thoughts on discovery and the creative process, visit:

http://www.scarletstarstudios.com/blog/archives/2005/09/notes_on_making.html
http://www.ndoylefineart.com/artmaking.html

And for more advice on the writing process, check out this site listing the Top 100 Creative Writing blogs:

http://www.bestcollegesonline.com/blog/2009/02/05/top-100-creative-writing-blogs/

(Note: If you scroll down, you'll notice Wordswimmer included among them.)

Writing Alone

Writing in the earliest stages of a project--and the process of thinking about these drafts as they come into the world--demands that I do it alone, out of sight, far from the company of other people.

This aloofness--this physical and psychic distance--is a necessary part of the process so that I can hear my own voice without interruptions or the intrusion of other voices.

When I'm alone, thoughts emerge differently. I don't worry about what others may think about what I have to say. I don't worry about anything but finding out what I think.

The moment I begin to share these thoughts with people, though, I worry about being judged and about seeming stupid, and these worries shape how I think in a way that's different than when I'm alone.

I'll even take it a step further and say that sharing these thoughts too soon can ruin the outcome of a story--if not destroy it altogether--because I'm inclined to censor my thoughts depending on what I think will please people, and I'll evaluate the "worth" of my ideas based on their responses.

Writing alone, though, I'm able to evaluate the "worth" of my own words without worrying about how the words are heard outside my room. I'm free to think whatever I want without concern about the opinions of others

Not worrying about how one's words are received may seem at odds with the notion of the storyteller's job of pleasing readers. (If you don't please readers, after all, you won't have many readers.)

Is it, though?

If I think about what pleases me most as a reader, I have to say it's finding an author who has plumbed the depth of her soul without worrying whether what she finds might please (or displease) anyone else.

The most satisfying stories are those that come directly out of an author's deep need to discover something, and which offer the reader a chance to experience that discovery through the words that the author has labored to put down on paper.

Those words are the result of solitary work.

It's as solitary creatures, I suspect, that we create our most meaningful work.

That's because out of solitude comes a human cry for connection... a need for solace... and a plea for understanding.

Solitude is what enables us, even as we struggle against being alone, to reach out to others and make connections.

The time that we spend alone gives us the chance to explore our thoughts freely, take risks, and experiment without fear of public ridicule or disparagement.

Alone, we can fall and get up and fall again as we wrestle with words, trying to bring something rare and never before seen into the world.

Surprisingly, in the end--if we go deep enough into our solitude--we may find that we're not writing alone after all.

Rather, through the magic of words and stories and the human heart, we may discover that we're connected to something much larger than ourselves.

For more views on writing alone, visit:
http://jamesmaxey.blogspot.com/2007/11/you-never-write-alone.html
http://saralewisholmes.blogspot.com/2008/07/retreat-musings-alone-time.html
http://www.mildaharris.com/2008/02/finding-inspiration-when-youre-all.html
https://www.msu.edu/~jamesda1/SLWPSolo.html
http://www.thewriterscoin.com/2008/03/17/working-alone-vs-as-a-team/
http://www.helium.com/items/656723-writing-with-a-partner-the-benefits-of-tag-team-writing

Also, check out this book, Writing Alone and with Others by Pat Schneider:
http://www.oup.com/us/catalog/general/subject/LiteratureEnglish/Writing/CreativeWriting/~~/dmlldz11c2EmY2k9OTc4MDE5NTE2NTczOQ==

Swimming Alone

In the beginning, when I first started searching for words, diving in the hope of discovering hidden stories somewhere inside myself, I was sure that I was swimming alone.

Even though I knew other writers were swimming in the water around me, each diving for his or her own unique stories, I didn't yet know how closely the process of writing--and reading-- linked us to each other.

There's a belief--and I don't know where it comes from--that writers must do all their work alone, struggling in solitude, learning the craft of writing and story-telling through a painful process of self-education that is all the more difficult because of the solitude.

For years I bought into this belief thinking that if I was a true writer, I had to prove it by finding what I needed to know about writing without anyone's help.

Somehow I succumbed to the myth that words would shoot down from the sky like bolts of lightening and flash through my pen onto the paper like magic--Hollywood magic--only if I worked alone. Through hundreds of pages I struggled this way, floundering in words.

I didn't realize--because of the blindness of youth--that I was never really swimming alone.

Once I learned to open my eyes in the water, I could see writers everywhere... working together... sharing what they'd learned on the pages of the very books that I held in my hands.

Now I hold onto the pages of books as if the stories they contain are rafts thrown to save my life.

In stories I discover companions who share their deepest secrets with me. Heart to heart. Soul to soul.

It took years for me to see through this myth of the solitary writer.

Yes, writers must work alone. Writing is a solitary pursuit, and solitude is essential for the work to be done. How else can we put our words down on paper? But we don't need to work in solitary confinement.

To understand this notion, I think I needed, first, to demystify the process of writing, and, more importantly, to become a person.

This notion of becoming a person before we can put true words on paper is described in Talent Is Not Enough, a collection of essays on writing by the Scottish children's novelist, Molly Hunter.

"The child that was myself was born with a little talent," writes Hunter, "and I have worked hard, hard, hard, to shape it. Yet even this could not have made me a writer, for there is no book can tell anything worth saying unless life itself has first said it to the person who conceived that book. A philosophy has to be hammered out, a mind shaped, a spirit tempered. This is true for all of the craft. It is the basic process which must happen before literature can be created."

Before "anything worth saying" can be written, we must become... ourselves.

Writing, then, isn't only about putting words on paper.

It's about living...and sharing ideas... and thinking about our words aloud... and taking risks (and sometimes failing) in the pursuit of our stories.

In time, if we keep at it... keep swimming and stay in the water... we are given a gift, of sorts: a clearer understanding of the world and ourselves.

This understanding may come in solitude.

Or it may come through an ongoing process of interacting with people and engaging with life.

It depends on which process works best for you... at any given moment in your life.

So, read and think deeply about words. Let the stories of other writers sink into you like hot coals, and watch as your own stories boil and rise to the surface.

And don't be afraid of swimming through the myth of solitude to share what you've learned about writing and life with others.

None of us are swimming alone.

P.S - A special note of thanks to Wordswimmer's guest authors to date--J. Irvin Kuns, Sarah Dessen, and Steven Schnur--who so graciously shared lessons that they've learned from their own works- and lives-in-progress, and, of course, to the many thoughtful writers who have swum through the myth of solitude to post their comments.