Week One: Writing Our Hearts Out

Welcome to our Summer Writing Workshop! I do encourage you to get your hands on a copy of Rebecca McClanahan’s book Write Your Heart Out if you can. Even without it, you can join us in any of the writing activities, but the book is a rich source for continued writing. What I especially like about this text is that she focuses on the reader’s purposes and needs, rather than her own.

We’ll look at the introduction and the first two chapters this week as we get started. You may choose to keep a journal of your writing and notes or you may prefer to journal on your computer. If you wish, you can keep everything you write to yourself, but I encourage anyone who will to post in the comments section each week and to take time to read and comment on others’ posts.

While you could sit and address all the questions and ideas at once, you might consider writing a little every day this week, dealing with the questions or topics that strike you as significant in your own writing journey.

Part I: What kind of writer are you? To get your writing muscles loosened up, l want you to think—no, write—about you as a writer, answering any of the following questions that apply to you:

Describe your relationship with writing and words (from childhood to now).

How do other people see you in relation to writing?

What are your writing habits? Do you journal? Is there a regular schedule or pattern to your writing?

Can you describe a time when you have been writing, as McClanahan calls it, “to save your life (and other lives) from    extinction?”

Where are you on your writing journey? Just beginning? Continuing?

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Part II: Why do you write? People who feel driven to write do so for reasons those who don’t feel the same urge may not understand. In the introduction, McClanahan lists ten rewards writing offers that other activities do not (which I distill here). Which ones hit a chord with you? Which ones had you not considered—at least not in these terms?

1. Writing it down leaves a trail.

McClanaham describes things we think we’ll never forget—but do unless we write them down. This struck a chord with me. We call one of my sisters “Remember When Jeannie.” She has such a detailed memory of things my children did that have completely slipped my mind. Likewise, I sometimes come across the fragments of my own writing—letters, journals, diaries—and my former self reminds me of precious moments, funny expressions, momentous events I might not have remembered otherwise.

Shakespeare acknowledges the preservative nature of writing in his Sonnet 18: “So long lives this and this gives life to
thee. . . .”

2. We write to reflect and process experience.

Writing slows us down, gives us a chance to process our thoughts, emotions, and experiences. She emphasizes in the introduction and throughout the book the healing power of writing—not necessarily forgetting pain and loss but reshaping them and putting them into context.

3. Writing helps us to sharpen our focus,

Writing often forces us to pay attention to details and gives us the opportunity to name our world. We give voice to our own story. When I take the time to analyze why I like certain writers’ works—poetry or prose—I recognize that it is the sense of the specific, whether literal or figurative, that makes writing come alive, that makes it memorable to me as a reader.

4. Writing creates community and revives the past.

While many people see writing as a solitary activity, it can also make us part of a community in many ways. McClanahan likens writing to “hosting a party where all the people you have known, been, or imagined show up at your door.”

This idea particularly resonates with me. One of my favorite features of the New York Times Book Review “By the Book,” is arranged in a Question/ Answer format. The interviewee, generally an author with a recent book publication, is usually asked which three authors he or she would invite to a literary dinner party. Because it’s an imaginary occasion, the option to bring together authors living and dead creates the potential for rousing dinner conversation.

My own writing gives me the chance to bring my grandparents and great grandparents back to life, to revisit old friends from the past, to preserve the stories they told me. In fact, through the attempt to write about them, I often uncover stories long lying fallow in my memory.

While many people write with no intention of publishing—or even sharing—others find a source of satisfaction is sharing with actual readers. My own poetry writing was rekindled when I started engaging in Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides blog, where I found a community of writers eager not only to share their own poetry but to read and to respond enthusiastically to mine.

In his book, Love and Death at the Mall, YA author Richard Peck said (and I paraphrase) that people read fiction for a sense of recognition. I believe people poetry for the same purpose. Certainly, we sometimes read to escape, but I think we’re also looking for ourselves or, more specifically, to confirm that others have felt the same way we have, have had the same heartaches and joys.

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Part III: What keeps your from writing?

I’ll confess that when I hear of someone famous who didn’t publish until after the age of fifty, I feel a tremendous sense of relief. (I used to feel the same way when I was forty.) While some people see writing as very hard work, I actually enjoy writing, yet I find myself postponing writing sessions, or if I do write, I don’t finish what I begin.

In Chapter 1, McClanahan discuss why we don’t “write our hearts out.” What excuses do you make for yourself? I sometimes feel guilty, as if writing is a hobby that keeps me from doing the things I should be doing (laundry, yard work). Ironically, writing has permanence; chores have to be done over and over and over.

The most important point she makes is that nobody has time to write; everyone has to make time to write. She deals with misconceptions those little devils over our shoulders whisper in our ears—that we have nothing to serious to say, that we aren’t real writers unless we become published, rich, famous.

What do your voices tell you as they attempt to keep you from writing? Do you also have the little angel counterpart over the other shoulder saying, “Just sit your butt in the chair and start writing”? If so, listen to her.

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Part IV: Making Time and Space to Write

Take a minute to imagine—and if you are willing to share, to describe–yourself in the place you feel most comfortable writing. Are you in a quiet place or is there music or the television playing in the background? Are you alone or are there others within your peripheral vision? Do you write best at home or in your office at work? Do you have a favorite coffee shop or library where you can write more productively?

Are you writing onto a screen with a keyboard or by hand? Do you prefer pencils ( I love Black Warrior pencils, freshly sharpened) or a particular pen? Yellow legal pad, spiral notebook, unlined journal? Do you write in bursts of paragraphs or do you start with lists? Do you add doodles?

At what time of the day are you most productive? How long do you write at a stretch? Do you set time blocks or minimum page lengths?

Next important question: How’s that working for you? If it is, then how can you make sure you can create that ideal environment on a regular basis? If it’s not, why not try to shake it up a little. Rebecca McClanahan had several suggestions in Chapter Two:

* Changing your writing location or moving from your chair to the bed. Some people find that using a standing desk is energizing.

* Set a timer. Decide how long you are going to write each day. One of my favorite North Carolina writers Ron Rash manages to write prolifically—novels, short stories, and poetry. I have heard that even when he’s on a book tour, he writes a minimum of two hours a day.

* Remember: thinking about writing isn’t the same as writing. You have to make an appointment with the page.

* Set a page length. Decide you’re going to stay at your station until you write a set number of pages (or words if you’re at the computer, which can count for you).

* Lower your standards. This suggestion from McClanahan implies that we may paralyze ourselves as we try to write masterpieces or polished drafts. Anne Lamott in her classic work on writing Bird by Bird has a chapter entitled “Shitty First Drafts,” in which she recommends giving yourself permission to get it on a page first and to polish later. Computers simplify the process.

As an analogy, consider how your photography experiences has changed with the introduction of the digital camera (or camera phone). I remember how economical we had to be with camera film, not knowing if we got a good shot until we picked up prints at the drug store a week later.

In fact, I recall a fruit bowl full of exposed film canisters, as we put off printing them. Now most of us snap away, knowing that we can delete the bad shots—immediately. We don’t have to experience the regret of missing or blurring a priceless moment. I’ve heard that for professional photographers, the goal is one good shot out of six taken.

Applying that principle to our writing, then, what if we just “snapped away,” writing with the prospect of viewing the finished text later in order to mine for the jewels?

Take time this week to vary your writing practice to see what works for you. Rather than giving specific writing prompts, I suggest that if you don’t have a specific topic you plan to explore right now you should write about your writing habits and practices. Loosen up those stiff writing muscles if you necessary. By all means, log in and share this week, or email me at nposey27@gmail.com.