How Do We Grow as Writers?

When you weary of your own words... It happens!

Photo by Filip Urban on Unsplash

A reader-writer here on The Unschool sent me a thought-provoking question just before the holidays.

His words:

I'm bouncing around different writing projects and am giving [one] time to breathe before I come back to it and make some edits… I revisited… old [work]… and it’s still not coming together. I started writing some[thing else], but then I grew frustrated because I found I was writing about the same things. I want to explore some new territory. I’ve relied on the same old things in the same old way because...I don’t know...maybe because its comfortable and I’m used to it? Not sure.

How can I break out of this pattern… and explore new territory and inject some more imagination into my stories…? When I try to incorporate what I’m doing in my comic book writing into my fiction writing, it feels so...juvenile. That I should be writing serious fiction that touches upon the truths of life. But when I think in that way, I rely on the methods I’m used to and write the same sorts of stories.

I realize I’m just rambling here. Sorry about that.

~~~

First, don’t apologize—any of you—for sharing thoughts as they come. (And I so appreciate permission to share this note with all.)

I suspect all writers experience this at some point, even if short-lived. For others, the feeling might find a home in us for too long, or come and go. Or create an unhealthy sense of unrest with our work (not to mention a wandery mind and path), or a sense of being static, or useless boredom. (Boredom can be useful, but not if it hangs out longer than the fish for Benjamin Franklin’s three days.)

Part I

Somewhere other than home — my first thought!

There’s something about this that makes me feel that urge to just go, somewhere, anywhere!

I winterize my old campervan—draining water, cleaning cupboards, removing upholstery, putting mothballs in the engine to keep rodents out, sprinkling peppermint oil over the seats and floor for the same. Every few weeks I start up the engine. Sometimes I open the side door and check in to see if the warming lights are still on. And pause to hear the rain on the roof.

In those moments, I feel a yearning to just hit the road and go anywhere.

Absolutely anywhere.

We feel the same way about our writing at times.

That’s something to which to pay attention. Our artist-gut tries to tell us what we need to hear, and we need to listen to it—at least enough so that it doesn’t give up on us and close down.

Go

I’m big on “setting” as a story element. But “setting” can be a life and artist-life element too. So go out into the world. A hike. A weekend away on a ferry. Another continent. A drive to the next city or the nearest quiet place. Go.

Another setting can cause you to see anew. It can also give you another set of words.

What are the words of a place? When you describe elsewhere or another person or something that is not in your day-to-day existence, what words come up that are not in your immediate “set.”

Set

Sometimes I feel as if I have a “set” of words that I spend too much time with; this can result in that “same old things in the same old way” that the note-writer writes of.

Begin to keep a log of words that you rarely if ever use, but that you respond to, and that your characters and settings might appreciate and grow from. Spend some time in an old-school dictionary.

Step back from your writing, and set aside time for this work; it takes time, the kind of time that doesn’t add to our daily word or page count. We only feel the work. In a world that wants to measure and quantify, this work does neither. Except it makes a difference. It’s the lingering work.

Can’t afford to travel? To the Library…

Research a place. Do as above, from afar. Use your imagination to travel.

Yes, actually GO TO the library! When you search on the internet, you’re looking for specific things; you can’t stumble over surprises—not in the same way.

In the library, keep your eyes open. Wander. Look at the books that are set out. Browse the shelves. Go with an open mind. I’m always amazed by what I do find…or what finds me, it seems. (You’d think I’d anticipate that by now!)

When it’s time to reflect or write, and if you don’t want to sit in the library, do the coffee shop thing; there’s a reason so many writers swear by this. Even if the displacement from your desk freaks you out…

I love the story in one of Patti Smith’s memoirs, about her hovering in the washroom of her fave coffee shop—get this—waiting for her favourite seat at her favourite table which someone else had the audacity to use! (Unknowingly.)

Displacement. Go with it.

Imitation

In other art forms and in many parts of the world, imitation is a mode of learning, an esteemed one even. In North America, in the literary world, “imitation” is seen as plagiarism.

Bored with your self? Your words? Your paragraphs, chapters and poetry? or lack of? Pick up a novel that kept you up all night, or memoir, or poetry collection (these last two might be more provocative) and COPY.

By “copy” I mean start by copying out another writer’s words. Make no effort to change anything. You’re doing what we did pre-1450 and printing press.

But don’t do this mindlessly; focus on the syllables, the sounds, the punctuation. Focus on the rhythm. Read aloud as you go. Mull over the choices that this writer made.

When it feels like time to do so, begin to change things a bit and play. What choice would you have made? Do that—one word for another, some different punctuation—or go further and describe a character differently. Go off on a tangent. And ask why did the writer do what they did? And why are you doing what you’re doing?

Be unafraid to sound like “someone else”

This is the next “step,” or another place, from imitation. This is you writing as You, but in Another’s voice.

Is it the same thing? Shades of? Sometimes we need to move over a half-step to see from a slightly different place. And it can make all the difference.

For instance, you might continue the exercise above. But think about a subject you would like to work with, maybe some question that’s been on your mind. Rather than veering into the change as above, can you continue with the diction and rhythm of the other writer’s work, but begin to incorporate your subject?

Does this all feel very strange? It might. It might not make sense at all—both in what’s going onto the page as well as how it is working—or not—in your mind!

But it may be enough to draw you out of how you usually work, and take you to somewhere else.

Presence and Absence

Always there’s this—these elements—in what we do. Sometimes we determine what a thing is by what it is not. To a student once lamenting how she could not write with tension—she didn’t understand what it was, really, she said, nor how to sustain it, or even why it was necessary—I suggested she try to write a story without.

The story fizzled out after less than a page.

Tired of your self in your work? Write out your self. Write another you. Write what you’d like your life but know will never be. (Isn’t this a sizable piece of why we write? Unless you believe in reincarnation, this is the path to that; the path to simultaneous lives lived.) Write another you to fill your space.

This could be an exercise to draw out character! But save that for later. For now, you are focused on you as writer. Writing. Other.

You are being both serious and focused. And you are being light-hearted and -handed whether with pen or fingertips to keyboard, and mentally and emotionally. Go lightly. Slip in and out. Presence and absence. Maybe no one will notice if you are missing. And you can return unnoticed too.

You’re looking for that kind of mastery.

Other thoughts:

Set your alarm to write at an hour you never do. It’s wonderfully disorienting to suddenly be writing at 3 in the morning, foggy with sleep, deep in fuzzy robe, maybe a candle flickering. Old school.

Consider changing up your schedule and routine—as much as you can—outside of your writing. Visit an old friend, someone you’ve not seen in too long; before you meet, consider what questions you might ask about their life. Or see a friend you see frequently, and go deeper than you usually do. When we see someone often, we no longer ask questions as we do when getting to know someone (Why is this?) But do. I’m not saying to be inconsiderate—only ask if you genuinely care to. And are open to answering similar questions yourself. I am suggesting you drag yourself out of whatever has become “normal” for you.

Remember being called on to debate? At school or Toastmasters or summer camp…? and having to take a side you never intentionally would take on? Do that.

Turn something on its head, upside down, and give it a good shake. An example: I recently read within a book titled Blue Like Jazz, an essay about a small group of Christians who came up with the idea to build a confessional booth in the midst of the annual revelry at Reed College. After one person suggested the idea, the others in the group leapt to the assumption that the “confessional” would be for the partying students. No, said the instigator: the confessional was for the Christians to confess to all the stuff-of-nightmares that Christians have let loose on the world over centuries! The others were at first confounded by the idea. But as a group they went ahead. The idea took the writer of the essay by surprise; he had no idea how the whole venture would go. It was a revelatory time—more for the small group than for the Reed revelers!

Take some element of your story and turn it inside out; do the unexpected, the scary.

Part II

Let’s re-read the second part in the question:

When I try to incorporate what I’m doing in my comic book writing into my fiction writing, it feels so...juvenile. That I should be writing serious fiction that touches upon the truths of life. But when I think in that way, I rely on the methods I’m used to and write the same sorts of stories

The above suggestions in Part I are exercises and potential doorways.

But this second part of the question is yet another step. And could be another post, really.

Alongside the creating of a thing, there’s the element of one’s own human growth too; I stumble over this most when I’m working on an extended first draft of a novel— when it takes so long that I find myself evolving—as we do, if we’re living life. And some bit of perspective shifts, some bias might break; change is afoot within myself. Nothing to do with the story. (Though at times it does grow from the questions I’m working with as the story develops. This can’t be fought. This is possibly the biggest piece to being a creative!)

Through those times I can really struggle with what feels like strictures of story and language and my own skin. At times I’ve set entire drafts aside and started over. Or I’ve had to reframe what the story is about. Or toss, yes, and move on.

There are also times when we are impatient with our selves. Sometimes—perhaps—we should be (thought I’d suspect only when we’re not working/trying/pushing enough). But often we are impatient with both ourselves and the process for a myriad of reasons that have nothing to do with setting aside the story or judging. We might be impatient with the work because there’s a different story we’d prefer to work at. Or we have too many phone calls to return. Or our friend is unhappy with us. Or the dog won’t stop scratching, sitting at our feet. Or bills are piling up.

Maybe, just maybe, the timing isn’t right.

This is why I tend to have a number of projects (multiple genres and for different age groups of readers) to work on at any given time. One needs to be set aside, and another taken up. Sometimes, I just need a break.

And yes, some of this can be connected to where we are in our own growth: that “truth” that is shouting to be written about—are you ready for that? Rather than writing the actual piece, do you need to spend time in your process journal, working on what this is all about? Or you have a grasp of the truth you want to look at, but not how it might be shared.

There are always projects I’d like to work on, but I’m not yet ready. I’ll often work as far in as a I can, an then set aside. I’ll do that—what I can—in order to push the thinking about it, and then let it sit to gestate further.

That might be the point at which to return to Part I and try some of those approaches.

Oh, this is another long post…

Thoughts? Before we move on to my last point.

What if the way you write is… the way you write!?

It’s entirely possible that you might do all of the above, stretching, experimenting, playing. And find yourself returning to write as you always have, with your word choices, with the rhythms you’ve developed over years of writing and decades of reading.

All of the above might serve to confirm why you work as you do.

Not so long ago, I had an editor I’ve not worked with before point out some of my writing tics: my sentence fragments, for one. I spent time working with her notes. When I worked with them, I learned something: I saw my work, I heard it, through another eyes and ears. My writing hasn’t changed as a result of that, not really, but I’m much more aware of certain choices I make.

So there might be some incremental shift or renewed understanding. Or there may be something seismic.

You might begin to work in a completely new form or genre, or with a main character who is unlike anyone you’ve written from before.

You might find renewed purpose in your “old” work. Your old work might be you. The re-envisioning might be within you, not in the work.

You might find appreciation for what you already do.