Writing Cold Bloodedly

Wrestle down the blank page in 5–10

Photo by MICHAEL CHIARA on Unsplash

There’s a passage in Schulz and Peanuts: A Biography, by David Michaelis that speaks of Schulz’s work-ethic, and his pleasure and tension in that:

“He had an absolute faith in his craft, at the core of which was the belief that ‘a professional cartoonist has to have the ability to take a blank sheet of paper and out of absolutely nothing come up with an idea within five or ten minutes. If you can’t deliberately do that, then you’re never going to make it. You just have to be able to do it cold bloodedly.’”

(Michaelis, page 372, Harper 2007—my emphasis—this book is a great read for thoughts on creative process)

The phrase ‘cold bloodedly’ stops me. I have a curious urge to argue with that sentiment. Maybe because it is just so bereft of sentiment! And we do so like to believe our writing is emotion-filled—I know I do.

The challenge is in the thought that “If you can’t deliberately do that, then you’re never going to make it.” And that bit echoes in my ears.

My go-to book as a new writer was Becoming a Writer by Dorothea Brande, published in the 1930s, and consistently brought back to print and life since. In it, Brande speaks of discipline, and she also speaks of the “halves” of the writer—that is the writer self, and the editor self, and when to bring each to the work.

And when to dismiss the other.

Which makes me think about “cold bloodedly.” And dismissing. And what else might need to be dismissed.

Writer. Editor. Humor.

Perhaps another way to look at it is to imagine—for one or two of those 5-10 minutes—the writer and the editor fighting it out. Maybe one is teary or belligerent and emotional, and the other relishing the moment and waving scissors, so eager to cut.

It’s almost laughable. And in thinking that, I am suddenly aware of what it takes to detach. Yes, maybe a certain humor.

Decide

This might be the first step to developing “cold bloodedly.” There is always a type of detachment about certain decisions I make as a writer—and so much of writing is that: decisions. There are multiple points in a story or novel—in any piece, really— when I make a choice and am left with “the path not taken” and having to detach myself.

And to simultaneously commit to the path taken. Stride left or right. Cast hesitation aside. Decide. Detach—from one. Commit—to the other.

The idea at hand

Pull the idea you’ve decided to commit to into the light of day. Let it gulp for air and begin to speak. Sometimes it surprises with its words.

If you struggle with this, then take a moment to jot down your other idea—your path not taken—in a separate file or another page in your notebook. Then put it out of sight; it can be written next or later. For now, stick to your choice, and move forward.

12 options

Can’t move forward? Cursing Mr. Schulz? Try this. (I believe I’ve posted this exercise before—but it’s a useful one to remember and use, not just as a prompt, but as part of decision-making.)

• Set a timer. No more than 10 minutes

• Write no less than 12 options for what might happen next in your story, or 12 directions for your article. Stop at 12. Twelve ideas in ten minutes. You need to be writing quickly. Thoughtlessly. Cold bloodedly. Turn off your censor or Dorothea Brande’s “editor” part of your self.

• Next, give yourself 5 minutes to take 2 of those ideas and write further—flesh them out.

• Now, back to step one: Decide. Take one of those two. Spend some real time with this one… and move on.

Skeletal

There’s a certain type of editing I do at a certain point in creating: and that is to strip away all that should not be there. This does indeed have the feel of “cold” in it; all those thoughts of “kill your darlings” apply. There’s a certain mood that comes with this— much like what I feel when pruning a hydrangea in the fall, when I remind myself how, if I do it right, it will look so good the following summer, and produce more flowers. It’ll look happier.

That quote about removing “anything that isn’t David” from the block of stone has too often been attributed to Michelangelo. But this act of cutting is just that.

I strip away from a manuscript anything that does not seem to be working. (Of course, I have my Linus security-blanket of keeping a copy of the earlier draft, and that allows me to go fearlessly into this act of ruthless cutting.)

I cut, and I see what I am left with. So often, when I push myself to do this, I am left with some clear direction.

That quote about the block of stone? It was not likely from the great artist but there is a quote from an 1883 essay that is quite possibly the source:

“There is a beautiful angel in that block of marble, and I am going to find it? All I have to do is to knock off the outside pieces of marble, and be very careful not to cut into the angel with my chisel. In a month or so you will see how beautiful it is.”

(George F. Pentecost, “The Angel in the Marble”)

Be careful not to cut into the angel!

Now here’s the catch! Writing, writing life, learning to write… it is all filled with (too much) advice.

And for every piece of advice—even every good piece of advice—there is its counterpart, invariably the exact opposite.

So learn to cut, to edit, to bring out that side of your self and your work. Learn to get the sense of “cold blooded” right into your veins, moving you and through you, as you need, to get to the story you want. The story that does indeed feel to be waiting for you to uncover it.

Consider: what is warm-blooded writing and what is cold-blooded writing? and when do you need to step into the workings of one, and when the other?

In another place, deep inside you but at the ready, hold on to your writer self, your dreamer, the person who needs to remember the path not taken.

But respect the lines of the angel, what will allow the angel to lift out of the marble. Keep the edges intact. The edges will give you something to take hold of.

Your awareness of those edges will allow you to be as cold blooded as you need to be. When you need to be.

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What are your cold-blooded writing times? Have you been aware of this shift as you work?

What does attachment and detachment look and feel like with your work? Do you avoid detachment?

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