Writing is Thinking (And Other Things I've Paid to Learn) OR Don't Believe Everything You're Taught

Nanowrimo is freaking me out. And the good/bad thing is that because other people are doing this with me (rather, I’m doing this with other people), the accountability part says I can’t back out now. But here’s the thing: I don’t have an outline! I don’t have a story, I don’t have a plan, and November is only six days away!

Freaking.

Out.

In a mild-mannered sort of way. Not pulling out hair, not screaming in strangers’ faces, not wearing mismatched clothes (although I did that in high school). It’s a silent fear, coiling around my stomach and brain. And neck and chest. And sometimes my face, so if you see it scrunching up, you can probably guess I’m thinking about (or trying not to think about) writing.

At the very least, I have a couple of works in progress that I can flesh out and work on. I keep saying I will. Joe Bob, Satan, and Sally haven’t gone anywhere in years. London and Mandy are still in limbo. And anyway, I’m pretty good at starting stories. I’m very experienced in starting stories, actually. Not much practice with finishing them, though.

Writing is a process, see. You just write and write and write and rewrite. Don't wait till you're "in the mood" or "inspired," and for heaven's sake, stop censoring slash editing yourself at the sentence level. Get out of your head. Write what you know. Make some lists, do an outline or a graphic organizer, join a writing group. Gah! Just write. That's the point. Just write. Because what's creativity? Are you born with it? Can it be cultivated? 

Some writers say they're not creative writers. When I write fiction, I feel I can do it. It's exciting. And then when I write academic papers, I'm all pumped about that. I think I'm still trying to figure out what I am, writer-wise. I want to be able to write like published academics, but I kind of resent the language sometimes. Creative writing, though, is always that struggle for balance between honesty (realism?) and lovely words (artistry?). It's not like the imbalance feels untrue or like a misrepresentation of me, but it can be boring and barf-inducing.

But in the midst of writing this blog, my Nanowrimo buddy assured me that I’m not the only one who’s starting with nothing. I keep forgetting that writing— especially a first draft— doesn’t have to be GOOD. You just gotta write. If you’ve read McCarthy’s Blood Meridian, try check out what an early draft of that looked like. Very different. And that’s the power of writing as a process.

And I guess that’s what this blog is. It’s practice. It’s like stretching before a run (as if I know what that’s like *slaps knee*). Writing is thinking and now that I’ve thunk, I’m much less freaked out.

To Hit Enter

Here’s where I am where writing is concerned. I can be walking down the street or staring out the window at the Theatre, and inspiration will strike. I’ll know what I want to write and will even have the first two or three sentences composed in my mind. I’ll be so excited and want to start writing right away and then when I get home, I’ll be totally unmotivated. No, it’s more than just unmotivated, it actually feels like I don’t know how to write. I feel like an imposter.

I always imagined writer’s block to be a lack of inspiration. Like surrounding myself with crumpled up sheets of paper, lamenting that “I don’t know what to write!” But it’s more like the words flee before me. I can’t capture them, I can’t tame them, they just flit away like butterflies. Or when I do get them down, they seem either too mundane or overly ostentatious (that's a lot of ostentatious, you see). You ever get like that? What do you do?

I mean, and I’ve been in enough English classes to know that I should just write no matter what because writing is thinking and so you can't write "I don't know what to write" for too long before something pops into your head. Other than social media posts, I’m a little out of practice. And yet I was browsing through the bookstore yesterday, flipping through books of collected personal essays, and thought more than once, "I could be writing these!"

Disjointed thoughts. They connect somehow.

So here’s my writing. It isn’t long, it isn’t clever, but it’s finger to keyboard to hit enter. Can't get it done if you don't start, right? Cuz I really can't see myself writing "I don't know what to write" two thousand times for thirty days, it just isn't going to happen (and that wouldn't really be a novel, would it? I mean, what a predictable ending).

I was supposed to do all this writing over the summer, and that didn't happen. I began a short story, but never finished it. I might yet still. The exciting thing about that is that after all this time, when I pick it up again, the story might take unexpected turns, which is weird, scary, and exciting. This very blog is turning out to be more freewrite. I can take it. I can dig it. As long as I hit enter at the end.