Friday, January 25, 2013

A Pen That Annoys


 It’s like writing with a rickety fire tower or construction scaffolding, the mechanical components of the pen shifting loosely inside.
Using an awkward pen like this one this morning, a fountain pen with a dazzling rim of rhinestones and a jet-black exterior—all polish and shine promising a swift writing experience but instead a toppling tower in my handthe sensation is that various pieces are falling apart, that writing is falling apart, the tower is about to fall over, the pen cap jiggling, the components rattling, the ink well needing to be pushed to work, only to cause huge beads of ink which threaten to drop onto the notebook. 

This pen is some sort of fire tower, an observation tower. It helps me be aware. It gives me a view of the edge of mindfulness. It simulates that sensation of being on the very edge of writing—standing close to the state of flow but being held back by the details of the present moment, including its irritations—the sense of still being myself, still being aware of myself. It helps. Why? 

Because it also duplicates that moment of restlessness I often feel right before “getting an idea right” or “finding an idea.” It is as jagged and rusty as a sentence fragment, as unfinished as a phrase, cropped by the unconscious, passing through my mindand so it is part of the construction of a whole. Anything that heightens my awareness of the act of writing, the physical side of writing, including a pen that doesn’t let me forget its presence, well, that helps.

Friday, January 11, 2013

For Students at the Start of a Semester

Since some of us are beginning a new semester, I'm returning to this post from August--slightly reshaped.
I can look around the room on the first day of a semester and get a pretty good sense of who is deeply unhappy to be in Comp I or Comp II (or any writing class). What I notice is how many students are not actually perceiving me in my recently laundered Ann Taylor suit but who are instead staring at a stack of teachers immediately behind me. They’re all the teachers and critics from their past.
The quick overview of the syllabus and the fly-by past upcoming writing assignments ratchets these students’ tension levels deadline by deadline, date by date, and the voices and gestures of those teachers-behind-me get louder, more dramatic, and occasionally, I’m sure, obscene.

For some students, no matter what I do or say, I won't actually be present the entire course. Instead, their seventh-grade English teacher who liked to give part of exam questions in Old English is in the room. Or the one who crossed out whole lines of their poems in red ink. Or the professor who told them during office hours that their writing gave him a headache to read.
For most of us, teachers have been our primary readers throughout our lives because we don’t share our writing with other types of people and also because most of our writing is initiated by teachers and their assignments, as Peter Elbow, writing theorist, has pointed out. 

Teachers have become our main association with writing.

Though it’s not always teachers that people are carrying around—could be a parent, maybe one who looked over your shoulder as you wrote every high school essay, or an unhelpful friend, jealous colleague or spouse, or a disorganized boss who couldn’t clearly explain what he wanted and so sent you into a tailspin of drafts and rewrites.

When most of us write, even if we are not students, a similar thing happens. We start writing to imaginary people.

We’re usually completely alone but yet we think that our Reader is sitting right in front of us, capable of reading our words as soon as we type them…or even of hearing our thoughts! These Readers don’t delay with giving us their feedback—doesn’t take them weeks to return a mid-term paper. No, they give us their input on-the-spot, judging our fetal thesis statement, the last four nouns we used, the length of our sentences, whether we breathe through our mouths or our nostrils, our understanding of the chapter reading, and the next ten papers we’ll write in the future. We think or scribble something down, and it’s like a factory assembly line—it travels a few inches to the right for delivery to the Reader on her stool for her immediate critique.

We don’t see what’s actually going on in our present moment.

The teacher is not your audience. The teacher may be your eventual audience, but there’s a big difference between the two. If I am your teacher, for instance, I am not (and may I add, Thank God) perched on your university-provided dorm room desk, my legs crossed, sipping at my Starbucks iced coffee, watching you and the posters which are already slipping off the cinder block walls. The Reader in your head is also not your audience.

I don’t care how nasty this Reader was (and we’ve all had them). I don’t care if she actually sacrificed your hamsters for their blood to fill her enormous red-inked fountain pens or if she rejected your manuscript from her prestigious journal by putting it through a shredder and sending it back to you in your self-addressed stamped envelope.

I also don’t care how well you know this eventual audience, this person you’re supposedly writing for. Barring an extremely rare exam-like occasion in which the recipient of your words literally watches as you write and awaits your words two seconds after they’re born, you are completely and totally alone.

Any ideas you have of your Reader’s response are 100% in your head and of your own making.

People often think they’re not very creative, but yet when they sit down to write, they make up whole scenarios and plot lines complete with dialog and action in order to talk to that imaginary Reader. Most people, no matter what they’re trying to write, no matter if it’s as hum-drum as a memo or as seemingly uncreative as a five-paragraph essay, are actually great screen play writers.

It's like a story a friend of mine told me about a guy whose car gets stuck in a snow bank on a wintry night in Montreal:

The guy is stuck by himself beside the road in the middle of immense cold fields with only one house in sight way off in the distance. All the lights are on in the house, so the man decides to approach the house to see if someone can give him a hand (this is before cell phones). As he’s trudging, he begins to think of the future, of what might occur in the next thirty minutes. He sees himself knocking on the door of the house. He imagines a warm vestibule, dry jackets hanging on hooks, shoes and boots in a row. But what if no one answers? What if no one’s home? What sort of fool leaves all the lights on in their house if they’re not home, he thinks and frowns a bit. He keeps trudging. He rubs his cold hands together to warm them. What if he knocks on the door and the person just closes the door in his face? Well, he is a stranger after all.But then again, what sort of person (insert expletives) would not find out what’s wrong on a night like this? And so forth. By the time he actually arrives at the house and the door is opened, he yells, “Why don’t you take your stupid shovel then and shove it!”

We're constantly telling whole stories like this when write--constantly talking to non-existent audiences.

Writing anything actually enhances the sound of people talking because for one you probably are hearing your own voice say the words as you type them, you may even feel your tongue moving a bit in your mouth as though you are speaking.

When we write, however, we tend to anticipate our readers’ reactions and this impacts us in the moment of writing. We make different choices, letting our imaginary conversations affect—or even stop—our immediate writing.

Mindful writing proposes that in fact audience is always at least in some part—and especially at the beginning of writing something—imaginary. Mindfulness helps us see what’s really present—and because imaginary audience isn’t really there, we are reminded of difference between speaking and writing and are able to use our solitude to our advantage.

How do you tell if you’ve got audience-in-the-head? Well, it’s a safe bet that if you’re doing any writing, you’ve got audience-in-the-head syndrome. It’s not necessarily a bad thing; it’s part of that endless babble or “discursive thinking” that runs through our heads all the time, unless we’re on a meditation cushion.

If you’ve been hesitating to write, putting it off, suffering from a block, or even finding yourself slowing down a bit in your usual production, turn your mind toward your mind. Who have you been thinking about in the past few minutes? What sorts of bits and fragments of people (because the Reader is never a whole person but a prop, a playing-card image that we briefly sustain with our imagination) have appeared in front of your thoughts? Whose face, however abstract, has appeared on your computer screen?

Friday, January 4, 2013

The Gray Rock: Ambivalence and the Writing Process

Christine Little-English


The ability to write will lead to an ambivalence about doing it.

This phenomena is positive since it means that there isn’t a sharp dualism in the act of writing. It is neither terrific nor frightening to be engaged in writing; to write constitutes neither a success nor a potential failure. Writing is simply an act one does, something I am doing. It is a motion in time. It is as beautiful and as basic as mindfully breathing.

It is an ambivalent productivity.

The trick about experiencing this state of ambivalent productivity is that you can become doubtful of the writing because it doesn’t contain that outburst of joy and relief you might expect. You might even want those emotional sensations as a sort of reward for all your struggle. Additionally, you can start believing that what you're writing is worthless or boring because some excitement is not accompanying the ability to write. Your perception of the content of your work can be negatively affected.

It is crucial to not expect that a sensation of thrill will accompany your sudden ability to write.

It’s especially important to remember this idea after a period of time has passed in which you were (seemingly) unable to write anything.

Another quality must fuel the ability to continue the writing project: the acceptance of the way things are being expressed and a belief in the goodness of that communication. If you are entertaining the added thought that you expect a thrill, you are detracting from the writing. Any thoughts of ambition, excitement, or even disappointment are extraneous material which lessens a concentrated experience of writing. Zen master Suzuki wrote, “when you do something, you should do it with your whole body and mind; you should be concentrated on what you do. You should do it completely, like a good bonfire.”

Sometimes after a difficult stretch in which writing does not happen to my satisfaction, I have had to remind myself that what is important is to not become excited about this reappearance of my ability to write.

Instead, I should use equanimity and see how in the moment, writing is the necessary thing to do. By necessary, I do not mean that writing is special or virtuous, but instead that it is the activity which is just happening right now. Its happening is linked inextricably with that moment.

When we realize the naturalness of writing to the particular moment in our lives, we are completely absorbed by the task. We forget all worries, personal or those explicitly related to our writing goals. Hours pass. Writing hardly exhausts us because we are so at peace with it. To be exhausted by writing would be as nonsensical as being tired from just sitting in a chair.

Choices arise naturally, such as whether to add this sentence or delete that adjective.

Our hands feel warm leaning on the alphabet of the keyboard. It is often at such writing moments that totally unexpected new material and ideas arise. This is when we start to feel “inspired.” We can begin whole new creative directions after achieving ambivalence and calm in writing.

The risk is that we can overvalue this calming process in itself. We can falsely fixate upon trying to achieve calm as a vehicle to write. When writers rely on routines or addiction in order to stimulate a prolific experience, they are essentially trying to recreate that inner calm and ambivalence. To do so will inevitably cause the opposite effect, leaving the writer blocked and frustrated.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

New Year Wishes For Your Writing

Best wishes to you and your writing in this New Year.

May every moment of writing for you be a fresh arising,
may every breath be its own book,
and may you dwell in possibility.