Happy Valentine's Day! to the Writer

And a little self-love

Some red and white for your Valentine’s Day! photo by Florian Klauer on Unsplash

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After an exchange with a writer here in the Unschool, I was mulling over the roles of strength and encouragement as we dig deeply into this thing we do. And how the process of writing a story is analogous to life itself. And the need to understand that, accept it, and how much this work requires compassion for the self, and care.

A story idea is born of a couple of little bits of almost-nothing colliding—so coincidentally. We can even almost miss that moment if we experience An Idea as a Big Idea—a big idea being when a rather fleshed-out one “appears.” How aware are we of the mental and emotional collecting of pieces that eventually begin to take a shape, and grow?

Okay, enough of that metaphor: you get it. Conception, and the embryonic nature.

Play

Then comes infancy, toddlerhood, and PLAY. Youngest children learn by play. We know that, but we forget that all of us need this piece, always, to learn, at any age. As writers we learn about our stories, our characters, and even about the language we need for each individual story, by playing. So much of writing is hard work, that it’s good to be aware of this part of the path and thoroughly enjoy it for what it is—the sense of Play can sustain us through later stages when it gets tough. And it will.

In this period of growth—toddlerhood and play—the story is wandering around picking up things and setting them down. You’ve seen a child realizing he can only carry two things at a time, and in order to pick up that enticing third piece, he’s got to make a choice…? It’s like that.

Adolescence. Every project has this, with the body doing such strange and unplanned things. Surprises, embarrassments, and thrills. Ups and downs. Kicks and blessings. It can be all too much. Maybe this is akin to a complete first draft. Thoroughly explored. Only rarely understood. And maybe not understood at all. But not for lack of trying.

Of course, all this seems challenging at the time. And it is. And you think it is hard work.

I can’t believe how hard this is!

A couple years ago, I was walking down a city street, and half a block ahead of me, a young woman, aged mid-twenties, was wailing on her phone, very loudly. She was saying, “I can’t believe how HARD life is! I don’t know how I’ll go on!”

I’ve always been a fast walker, and I passed her not long after. I must have been having a tough day myself because I actually turned to her and said, “You’ll be able to go on! And whatever you’re going through now, it’ll help you prepare for your 50s… when real stuff starts to happen.” I flashed her a huge smile. I think I meant for it to be encouraging… but really, WHAT was I thinking?? I had no ageing-woman business letting her know that that’s how life works! And I can’t be presumptuous of her life… Really, I have no idea what she was going through. And I’m sure I have a few surprises waiting for my 70s and 80s…

But with writing, I do know that what comes before prepares us for the next step. And it’s hard to miss any one step without feeling it in some way.

So once your first draft is done, once that “adolescence” is over, then comes whole new layers of story and life.

Often, browsing through images on Unsplash brings some new thought. This photo of a beloved tricycle, all locked up with a serious-looking padlock and chain, caught me. In seconds, I absorbed that one wheel is inoperable—destroyed really. And is that seat even rideable? It does look as if any poor little poppet riding would slide right off. Only one handle of the two still has its brave streamers. The main wheel looks decidedly wobbly. And is that a giant bandage on the post to which it is chained? Is it about to topple?

Bicycle point

There’s always—always—some point at which each of my manuscripts feels like this bicycle. Yet still, I’ve locked it securely, convinced it’s worth saving: a wheel can be put back on, streamers can be found or replaced. Some caring grandpa can crank the seat back into place.

I gain this kind of protective thing about my stories. There’s always some time when they are just ugly and skinny and bereft of … something I have yet to determine. And still, I have to lock them up to my heart and nurture them, grow them into something really worth stealing.

This might be one reason it’s terrifying to talk about projects too soon. I’m not ready to defend the work, and not ready to have it torn apart… maybe because I’m the one most likely to do the tearing apart at that point.

So I need to move forward, head down into the wind, ignore the words and thoughts blowing by and at me, and keep going. Keep going with belief about the story. Second draft, third, and more. Growing, ageing, maturing. And it’s true: what you go through prepares you for what comes later. It’s the undeniable piece. Even if it’s not what you want or need to know in your 20s… or on first draft.

Maturing

This is what I wrote to the subscriber:

Writing is such a tough thing. The more you do, the further you dig in, the harder it gets. Anyone who doesn’t realize how hard it is hasn’t done enough of it to get to that point… which sounds harsh in itself. I suspect this act of writing about your journey, will take you at least as far again as the distance between where you are now and where you started!

BUT this is what it is all about. Believe it or not (!) this—writing through to the richest layers—is the good part, the part that makes us grow.

Also, be prepared: the deeper you go, you will be using other levels of creativity, and this can leave one feeling physically drained. I know that with me it does, and coming from a family of physical labourers, I tended to dismiss this. But it’s true.

Be very kind to yourself when you are writing further drafts. Do extra exercise. Do meditation. Relaxation. Do what you feel a need to do. Take walks and naps. I take a lot of short naps when I’m in final writing mode and re-writing. It’s much more exhausting than first draft energy.

And that was the point at which I thought to write about this for The Unschool.

Whether nonfiction or fiction, as you write multiple drafts, you go deeper and deeper. You deal with truths—your characters’ truths become your own, and vice versa. It gets very real, and painful. The manuscript matures—beyond play, beyond locked-up-tricycle stage, beyond taking off on your ten-speed. Even beyond feeling you can’t go on.

And at the same time, a joy wells in you, and you know you’ve taken a corner, and that third wheel is holding up. It’s holding up just fine. Streamers are flying—y can hear them rattling in the wind!

Or give a gift:

Happy Valentine’s Day, Writers!

Alison