“Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.”
– E.L. Doctorow
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Writing well takes time to learn. One doesn’t sit down for a couple weeks and suddenly produce a bestseller.
The time needed to produce 85,000 words of even bad writing takes longer than it takes most skilled painters to finish a work of art.
I can teach most people reading this the basics of juggling inside 30 minutes, but learning the basics of writing takes much longer.
There aren’t too many shortcuts — There’s not a very fast learning curve.
You really do start with nothing and learn as you go.
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While Doctorow’s quote seems to be about learning how to write, it can also apply to the act of writing.
Some writers love spending time creating individual character sheets, down to knowing what kind of soap the characters use.
I know writers who can’t begin one word toward their manuscript until they have a very detailed outline done. They find maps, gather photos, and accumulate a pile of information so they are ready when they start writing.
They learn as they go in that gathering stage. When it’s time to write, they know exactly where they’re going.
I’m the kind of writer who gets a vague idea and jumps in head first. Sometimes I’m under so long that I run out of breath and think, “That’s it — I’m drowning this time!” But then I find a reserve bit of air, or find a way to kick my way to the surface and see that it all makes sense.
I take the line in this quote about exploring to heart. I like being surprised by the story; with little more than a beginning, a middle, and an end, I learn about the story as I’m writing it.
I love seeing it all eventually come together…or fall apart and realize I still have a lot of work to do.
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Whether you’re taking another big step in honing your craft, gathering all you need to get started, or knocking out a chunk of a story that you’re still not completely sure of, I hope you learn some great things this week!
I’m the kind of writer who gets a vague idea and jumps in head first. Sometimes I’m under so long that I run out of breath and think, “That’s it — I’m drowning this time!” But then I find a reserve bit of air, or find a way to kick my way to the surface and see that it all makes sense.
I find that when I DO write, not often enough, that “reserve bit of air” happens for me, as well.
When I was a kid, I thought it would be cool to swim under a ladder attached to the dock at a beach nearby. I was alone, and the beach was pretty empty. The lifeguard didn’t know I was there because I had been hanging out under the dock.
I was wearing cutoffs, and when I got to the bottom of the ladder, I realized that I had to really squeeze through to do what I wanted. My belt loops got hooked on the ladder–I was stuck underwater.
I started freaking out, but then relaxed. I couldn’t undo my shorts because it was such a tight squeeze. I calmly backed out. Instead of going back up for air, though, and wiggled my way through the bottom of the ladder because that was my goal.
When I made it back to the surface, I was scared about what almost happened. I knew I was lucky. I knew I was a bit dumb for trying it in the first place; I knew that I was really foolish to have continued trying to make it through the bottom of the ladder after freeing myself.
But it was also kind of fun to have dodged drowning and doing something none of my friends had done (especially doing it alone).
I guess I kind of write like that: I dive down and get hooked on things, but figure my way out and live to write another day.
While it’s not what I’d recommend to everybody, I enjoy pushing myself like that.
We have a lot more in reserves if we’re calm and determined.