Pep Talks for Writers Page 10

  30

  ON FINDING CREATIVE FLOW

  There’s perhaps not a more contented, wonderful state of being than writing in what is called a flow state. You see it most tangibly in sports, when a player who is in the zone magically makes shot after shot, playing in a harmonious rhythm, each movement blending into a perfect state of grace.

  When athletes are interviewed after such performances, they frequently mention how time suddenly slows and they feel an otherworldly concentration. Thinking dissolves, their willed effort drops away, and they play purely in the moment, immersed in a blissful synchronization with the motions of the game. The state is similar to wu wei, or “doing without doing,” described in the teachings of Taoism: an effortless, spontaneous movement, happening with a force as natural as the planets revolving around the sun.

  Who needs to wrench words out of your skull if you can float along a rolling current?

  Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the psychologist famous for studying flow, described it as “being completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one, like playing jazz. Your whole being is involved, and you’re using your skills to the utmost.”

  Csikszentmihalyi named such a state flow because in his interviews with people, they often described their experiences using the metaphor of a water current carrying them along.

  Sounds nice, especially in regard to the anguish-filled state of writing that we all know too well. Who needs to wrench words out of your skull if you can float along a rolling current? Unfortunately, you can’t just snap your fingers to write in such a state of enchantment, but you can create the conditions for it. Csikszentmihalyi identified several elements involved in achieving flow:

  There are clear goals every step of the way.

  There is a balance between challenges and skills.

  Action and awareness are merged.

  Distractions are excluded from consciousness.

  There is no worry of failure.

  Self-consciousness disappears.

  The activity becomes an end in itself.

  National Novel Writing Month is a training ground for flow—it’s akin to a month-long meditation retreat, but instead of meditating each day in silence, you immerse yourself in writing, keenly focused on a goal, writing to explore your story, not worrying about its quality, just writing for the sake of writing. Many a NaNoWriMo writer has shown up late to work because their sense of time evaporates into the heat of their story (apologies to all employers).

  Not every month is November, though, so you need to think about what you can do to set up similar creative conditions. I sometimes target a Saturday or Sunday and dedicate myself to making it my “flow day.” That means I have to clean up the muck of my bad habits and prepare my mind. I put my phone in a different room, and then tearfully shut down email, social media, and the Internet, because even a swift click to see what’s happening will jostle me out of the flow mindset. (You don’t meditate holding a phone, right?) I isolate myself in a room, and sometimes even put on noise-cancelling headphones. I make sure that I’ve done all my research beforehand so that I can keep my hands on the keyboard. Then I give myself a time limit. I like 30 minutes because it puts pressure on me to write with intensity, yet it’s not too daunting. And then . . . I let go, NaNoWriMo–style. I don’t worry about the result. I write like “crazy dumbsaint of the mind,” as Jack Kerouac put it, letting words tumble, jounce, and cavort.

  The etymology of inspiration is something “breathed in,” and that’s what I feel on my best days—I’m breathing in different air, existing in a different world. No matter what the labor, it becomes a labor of love. No matter how painful the subject, the touch of writing provides a salve as I get lost. And sometimes that 30 minutes stretches out, time becoming elastic, invisible, infinite. I’ll look at the clock and find that an hour or two passed, as if I just woke up.

  There’s a certain magic in writing intensely for a 30-minute block. When Ray Bradbury first started as a writer, he had to get out to write away from a house full of children, so he paid a dime to use a typewriter for 30 minutes at UCLA’s library. He was poor, and he wanted to get his money’s worth, so he was forced to focus and write at a frantic pace. He wrote Fahrenheit 451 in such a way and described the novel as an effortless creative experience.

  Don’t worry if you try to reach a state of flow and hit a wall. Sometimes you can’t find flow; it finds you. And flow is similar to meditation. It takes practice to train your mind to go deep and stay deep. Eventually you’ll have one incandescent day of writing, and you’ll remember how to prime yourself to write in such a state again. Just keep trying.

  TRY THIS

  FLOW

  Pick out a challenging and clear goal, such as writing an entire chapter or 1,000 words. Make sure you have sufficient time to do so. Minimize interruptions and unwanted distractions. Monitor your emotional state to make sure you’re not aggravated or angry. Then dive in, put your blinders on, and write energetically. If you entered the zone, how can you replicate that?

  31

  SAY, “YES AND . . .”: THE SECRETS OF IMPROV

  Your Inner Editor has a sibling, who can be more dangerous to your writing than even the growling critiques of your Inner Editor itself. It tends to walk around the rooms of your mind gazing at all the imaginative ruckus with a persnickety, arrogant gaze. It exudes an air of judicious logic, speaking in the grave tones of seasoned caution. It likes to stroll in just when you get an idea that you’re about to pounce on like a puppy pounces on its chew toy, and it says, “But wait . . .”

  “But wait, this just isn’t logical.”

  “But wait, that’s unpleasant.”

  “But wait, let’s just not go there.”

  I think of “But wait” as an unenthusiastic drip, the kind of person who sits smugly in meetings and never quite gets behind an idea for whatever reason—the killjoy who lacks the oomph or the wonderful reckless zeal that brings ideas to life. “But wait” is a volcano that will never erupt. “But wait” has never led to great artistic or scientific breakthroughs, although it comes in handy if you’re an impulsive shopper. (“But wait” is quite different than its twin, “But wait, what if . . . ?”—a wonderfully stimulating thought partner.)

  If your brain has fallen into a rut of resistance, a storage bin of hand-me-down ideas and shopworn sensibilities, it’s necessary to find ways to open it up to new, sense-ravishing possibilities. If I’m feeling too many “But waits” in my mind, I try to embrace the opposite force, the guiding principle of improv: “Yes, and . . .”

  It’s simple, really. Improv actors are trained to trust the impulsive force of an idea and just say yes to it. They accept whatever fellow actors offer in a scene instead of stiff-arming the action in the direction they want it to go. For example, when one actor says, “It’s so cold in here,” you don’t say, “But wait, that’s not a good approach to the scene,” or “But wait, I’m not cold”; you take the statement and build on it. “Yes, nudity brings on the chills,” you say. Or something silly. And then your acting partner embraces your statement and builds on that. When I’m writing, I sometimes like to think that there’s an entire writing team in my head tossing ideas back and forth—a veritable comedy troupe.

  “But wait” hates scenes like this, everyone getting ideas, loving their ideas, putting their ideas into the world, onto the page, in such a sloppy, gleeful way. “But wait” tries to speak above the fray, but once the naturally boisterous writing team in your brain gets going, “But wait’s” cranky little voice just isn’t loud enough.

  Let thoughts race through your mind like whippets. Write with hurrious need.

  Improvisers take risks and make mistakes by definition—they let themselves fall into the most foolish behavior, allow themselves to speak what’s taboo—because that’s what leads them in fresh directions and helps them connect with their audiences
.

  I first discovered improvisational writing during National Novel Writing Month’s word sprints. Word sprints challenge writers to write as fast as possible in a set time, often with a prompt to get them started. You can do them with a group (as during NaNoWriMo every November) or privately, setting a limit of 5 or 10 minutes. Pick a word randomly out of a dictionary as a prompt, or, if you want to keep things pertinent to your story, assign yourself prompts that are particular to your story.

  As the clock is ticking, it’s important not to hesitate. Let thoughts race through your mind like whippets. Write with hurrious need. Catapult over your inhibitions and illuminate every stray, orphaned thought in your mind and allow it to erupt. Drench your page with ink.

  A word sprint invites you to turn off judgments by entering the flow of intuition that high-velocity writing taps into. If improv actors pause before jumping into a scene, it shows they are planning what’s to come, or even pausing because of a hindering social norm. The purpose is not to over think, but to just go—follow the “Yes, and . . .” that your mind presents to other “ands” and “ands.”

  I especially like to do this when my head gets filled with condemning and judgmental voices. Do I end up writing foolish things? Blessedly, yes, but I’ve come to enjoy writing with my fool’s cap on. In literature, the archetypal Fool babbles, acts like a child, and doesn’t understand social conventions (or at least pretends not to), so the Fool can speak the truth in ways others can’t. You might say the Fool is the ultimate storyteller: he takes the conniving risks necessary to tell the tale only he can see.

  So don’t worry about tripping when you write. Trip on a banana peel. Trip on a plot point. Trip on a character description, a line of dialogue, a single extravagant word. The more improvisational, the more foolish I am, the more likely I am to chase bolder angles, discover unexpected plot developments and surprising character pivots, and open the door to what I call happy accidents.

  TRY THIS

  WRITE WITH ABANDON

  It’s time for a good old-fashioned NaNoWriMo word sprint. Write as fast as possible in a set time, with a prompt to get started (similar to how an audience gives improv performers a word, object, song lyric, and the like to build a scene around). As the clock is ticking, it’s important not to hesitate. A word sprint invites you to turn off judgments by entering the flow of intuition that high-velocity writing taps into. Say yes to each idea, each word, and see where it leads you.

  32

  THINK FAST TO OUTPACE WRITER’S BLOCK

  We’ve all seen the stereotypical image of a writer in the movies typing at a desk in a state of anguish, wadded-up paper strewn on the floor, banging his or her head in frustration. The writer is failing. The writer is frustrated, hitting a wall time and time again, seemingly unable to generate that one great idea.

  It’s easy to view the scene through the tormenting snares of writer’s block, but I want to flip that notion. What if we think of the writer as being immersed in a consuming and fruitful creative pursuit? In fact, what if we view all those pieces of paper tossed on the floor as a series of creative experiments? Failure yes, but good failure—not writer’s block.

  Thomas Edison is famous for saying, “The real measure of success is the number of experiments that can be crowded into twenty-four hours.” When we see that one great shining achievement—a literal lightbulb in Edison’s case—we don’t see all the experiments leading up to it that didn’t shine, all the dud lightbulbs smashed on the ground. Edison tested 6,000 different metal filaments to find the one that was durable and inexpensive enough to produce in a lightbulb to make it shine. He knew to get that one great idea, you have to go through hundreds of pieces of wadded up paper. The point is to move through ideas at a fast clip, to test and learn, test and learn.

  In the book Art and Fear, authors David Bayles and Ted Orland tell about an experiment a pottery instructor did. He told half his class that their grade would be determined by the quality of a single clay pot. He told the other half they’d be evaluated by the volume of pottery they made. The first group of students labored with a perfectionist’s sensibility, refining a single concept with great deliberation. The second group threw pot after pot, trying new ideas just for the heck of it. Who produced the best pots? The students whose goal was quantity—because they tried more ideas and built on their experiments.

  More ideas are good for any creative endeavor. Each idea, no matter how bad or good, lays the ground for the next idea, and the next after that. Creativity is about connecting things—creating unusual juxtapositions and forming original associations of ideas. Such breakthroughs come from an approach of enlightened trial and error, of getting more ideas just for the sake of getting more ideas.

  More ideas are good for any creative endeavor. Each idea, no matter how bad or good, lays the ground for the next idea, and the next after that.

  Think of it in sports terms: the team that wins generally takes more shots at the goal. You want to take more shots at your story. You want to shoot from different angles, different spots. You want to move the ball all around.

  One way I get more ideas is to not just brainstorm a novel before writing it, but to keep actively exploring its contours, structure, and characters while writing it. I’ve tried many approaches: sticky notes in all types of colors, one color for each character; mind mapping software; writing possible scenes on note cards. In the end, I find a simple blank piece of paper to be the best tool. I keep a notebook that’s dedicated to my novel. The white expanse of the paper invites ideas in. I write with a pen because even though I want to get ideas faster, the slow movement of a pen allows for ideas to percolate in rhythm with my writing on the page. I just start writing down ideas. Thought bubbles. Scribbles. Paragraphs. Lines of dialogue. I try to think of situations that require tough choices, and then try to think of worse and worse situations. I brainstorm expected reactions and unexpected reactions. I brainstorm characters who help my main character and characters who hinder him or her. I try not to think linearly. The whole point is to go nuts, to conjure new, arresting possibilities.

  Depending on the ideas and my writing project, I might do the same exercise several times. I might decide to make an entire week into Brainstorming Week if I’ve reached a particularly thorny impasse.

  Like Edison, many of my thoughts are like one of the filaments that didn’t work out, but if I keep generating more ideas, keep trying other approaches, I’m so much more likely to find the one that works. It’s impossible to have too many ideas, so push the limits of your story—create a flood of possibilities.

  TRY THIS

  STORM YOUR IDEAS

  Spend an entire writing session jotting down new ideas for your novel. It can be anything: a character detail, a new plot angle. Be daring, be extravagant. Don’t write the scene or chapter, just explore possibilities, and let yourself go wild.

  33

  AN EXERCISE IN EXTREME WRITING

  We rarely have swaths of time to devote to our creative projects. Daily life is a juggling act, and creativity is just one of the many balls in the air. To truly move a project forward, sometimes it’s necessary to not squeeze it into the nooks and crannies of one’s to-do list, but to dedicate an extended period of time to jumpstart it.

  For years I’ve dreamed of going on a perfect, luxurious writing retreat where I can wake early in the morning, take a reflective walk through the woods, write in the meditative peace of a well-furnished cabin, and then dine in the evening with inspiring artists. I dream of days spreading before me where I can face down the challenges of my novel, refine its shape like a sculptor, and let my thoughts deepen to the point where the lines between the real world and my fictional world blur.

  It’s more of a boot camp, or a marathon—a miniature version of NaNoWriMo timewise, but with equally heady writing goals.

  Writers have done this for years at places like Yaddo, the Millay Colony, and MacDowell. Residencies abound, in fact. I’ve applied t
o a few writing residencies over the years, but beyond the difficulty of getting accepted, I realized I didn’t have the time to go to a residency. Most last a month, and my life as a working parent just doesn’t allow for that.

  Then I came up with the idea of a mini writing retreat—a retreat I’d put on for myself. I decided I could go someplace for just a few days and inject my novel with 10 to 12 hours of writing each day to propel it forward as if it’s in a time travel machine jetting into the future—à la the way Jack Kerouac typed out On the Road in three weeks on a continuous reel of paper.

  The word retreat is misleading. Relaxation or fun isn’t the point. It’s more of a boot camp, or a marathon—a miniature version of NaNoWriMo timewise, but with equally heady writing goals.

  Here are some tips for a successful retreat, based on my experiences.

  Go to a town an hour or so away from your home. Too close, and it won’t feel like a retreat, and you might be distracted by home matters. Too far, and you’ll waste precious time getting there.

  Find a nice-enough hotel, which has a room you’re comfortable writing in. The selection of the right lodging is crucial. You don’t want to become a version of Barton Fink, depressed by a dank room, distracted by hotel noises.

  The hotel needs to be in proximity to good restaurants and coffee shops. (I tend to be a roaming writer, so it’s important to have other places to go to write.)

  It helps if there’s a movie theater or other entertainment nearby. When writing 12 hours a day, it’s important to take a break, especially at the end of the day.