Yesterday, I posted an entry about how writing well takes time.

I’ve been very fortunate to be friends with writers, artists, and musicians.

One of my musician friends is somebody I’ve known for over 25 years. In that time, I’ve seen him play bass, piano, and guitar.

Yesterday on his Facebook page, he posted this video, along with a humorous line about how frustrating it is to see somebody so young and so talented, while he struggles with working long hours and finding time to practice guitar.

(I feel his pain when I see what a lot of 10 – 15-year-olds are doing with juggling these days.)

It hit me while watching this video and reading what my friend said that writing doesn’t have the equivalent of this.

While we’ve all seen countless news stories about musical “prodigies,” I’ve never seen a 10 – 15-year old writer who is the writing equivalent of incredibly talented and practiced young musicians, and even some artists.

Now, don’t think for a moment that I think music and art is easier than writing — I’ve tried art and music and settled on writing because it was easier for me. To do anything well takes time.

I do, however, think it’s easier to train a kid how to paint a certain way, play a musical piece over and over, or juggle well than it is to teach a kid to write with the same level of skill as the young guitarist above.

Trust me: I was a much more impressive juggler at 18 than I was a writer.

I think one of the things that sets writing apart from other arts is the life experience that’s necessary to do it well.

You can teach a kid how to juggle. You can teach them the basic three-ball cascade and then build on that to other tricks.  Same thing with music, and technically decent art.

But to write well, one needs to have lived. Even talented young writers sound inexperienced or like parrots. It’s easy to tell that while they may have talent, they have only lived a life that primarily consists of school and kid things.

Sometimes, as hard as it can be to put the loooooooooong hours into living and writing well, I’m glad that the life one needs to live and time spent to write well separates those who can from those who cannot.

“Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.”
- E.L. Doctorow

*          *            *

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.

*            *            *

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.

*          *          *

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 know it goes without saying, but to get good at something, you have to practice.

A lot!

I’ve been juggling since 1981 (and I have the picture to prove it!). I used to devote all my free time to juggling.

Later, I devoted most of my free time to writing. (At times, I wrote much more than I juggled…and I still juggled a lot.)

During the times I didn’t juggle — when I came back to juggling — certain things I once did with ease were hard. But other things I never thought about or tried before came easy to me.

Recently, after a very long time of not juggling, my wife and I had a juggling picnic.

The first time I picked up four clubs in I can’t remember how long, I had my best run ever. I had a couple good runs with five clubs, too, and one of the best five-ball runs I ever had.

It’s the same thing with writing: if I don’t write for awhile, when I come back to it, certain things frustrate me, but I’m also amazed at how easy new things just happen.

There comes a point where obsessive practice pays off.

While juggling and writing aren’t quite like riding a bike, if you practiced hard enough and often enough in the past, it’s not so hard when you get back to it after some time away.

In fact, you just might find yourself coming up with things you never thought about before!

There was a period of time, during an illness with a close relative and during an illness of my own, that I didn’t write or juggle as much as I once did. I felt bad that I wasn’t productive. Even though nobody would fault me for taking care of a sick sibling for two years and later, dealing with a serious health problem of my own, all I wanted to do was juggle and write.

We all go through periods like this. When I was struggling with things and starting to come back up, I wrote the following essay. It’s about juggling, but it’s also as much about writing and life. (Maybe even more.)

If you or somebody you know is going through rough times and find it hard to do what they love doing, I hope this helps in some way:

When I was twelve years old, I went into my backyard and taught myself how to juggle.

I dropped and dropped until I figured it out.

* * *

While I’ve dropped a lot of things in my time, I’ve also picked things back up a lot, too.

Only to drop them again..

And again…

And again…

* * *

Juggling’s a strange hobby. To get good, you have to suck.

A lot.

You may drop thousands of times before getting that one difficult trick that only another juggler who’s worked hard truly appreciates. Your arms may burn; you may find yourself alone as it gets dark when you finally get that one thing you want to do more than anything at that moment in your life.

Few things feel better to me than finally getting a trick down as night falls with nobody around.

It’s those moments when you realize all the effort you’ve put into something finally paid off.

And then you move on, drop a lot more things, and keep doing it over and over and over.

It’s a humbling hobby, where failure is the norm, and obsession is your only ally.

* * *

At my best, I could juggle seven things. Not for very long, but long enough to officially juggle seven things. There’s no telling what my drop-to-success ratio was with seven things, but the day I officially juggled seven things, every drop getting there was worth it.

Without all those drops, I would have never known what it felt like to do something few people will ever do.

* * *

Somewhere along the way I stopped picking up the things I dropped. It became easier to leave things on the ground than it was to pick them back up and stick with them into the night, the next day, and the days after that…sticking with them until succeeding, no matter how long it took.

Quitting is easy.

When you’ve dropped something for your nth-thousandth time, sometimes the thought of getting through a pattern for a full cycle isn’t enough inspiration to keep going.

Somewhere along the way I stopped juggling.

Everything…

* * *

I’ve never really thought about why I juggle — it’s just something I always did. I used to say, “Juggling is who I am”; I used to say that it was everything to me.

And it was.

But it wasn’t about juggling — it was about the way I approached everything in my life.

I went into big things not afraid to drop thousands of times because I  believed that in everything I tried, as long as I obsessed correctly and picked things up and kept at it, I would one day feel the rush of its equivalent of juggling seven things.

* * *

I’ve forgotten what it feels like to juggle seven things.

I need to change that.

* * *

I’ve forgotten what it feels like knowing I can do anything I set out to do.

I need to change that.

* * *

There’s a lot of stuff I left lying on the ground over the years, and it’s time to pick it all back up and finish the things I started.

Because juggling is who I am; it is everything to me…

Before I ever made money writing, I made money juggling. When I started writing, I realized many of the lessons learned from street performing applied to writing.

The first time I juggled for money, I was given permission to juggle in the plaza in front of Dallas’ West End Marketplace. I went to Dallas by myself, determined to overcome incredible shyness and do something I loved for anybody willing to watch.

It took me forever to get the courage up to start juggling. There was a small group of bikers sitting nearby. One of the bikers — a guy in a Confederate hat and t-shirt reading something along the lines of If I owned Texas and Heaven, I’d rent out Heaven and live in Texas – overheard me talking with a hot dog vendor about being nervous to start performing. The biker told me he and his friends would make a lot of noise and to just go for it!

I didn’t have a routine planned out, or even a vague idea of what I’d do. So I did what I knew and started juggling.

I remember looking up at one point and seeing hundreds of people watching me — they weren’t there when I started. I didn’t drop once during the entire routine. I finished with torches. I finished the torch routine with the hurl-the-torch-way-up-in-the-air-and-hope-you-don’t-catch-the-fire-end finish!

Hearing the smack of the handle in my hand and the crowd’s wild applause brought me back to reality. I was so amazed that I did it that I didn’t gesture to my hat. The biker in the Confederate hat yelled and clapped and rushed to my hat with a $5 or $10 bill. People followed his lead.

It was the most money I ever made in 10 minutes.

5 Writing Lessons Learned from Street Performing

1. To get attention, you have to start. I spent years juggling alone in my backyard, but it wasn’t until I stepped into the street that I forced myself to think about juggling differently and strive to get better.

A lot of people talk about wanting to write, but never put down a word. Others write with the hope of publication, but are afraid to submit their work. With street performing, writing, or anything — sooner or later you have to get out there and just do it!

2. Recognize the importance of relationships. A magician I knew put me in touch with the person who gave the go ahead for performers in West End Plaza. In return for the crowds I drew for the hot dog vendor, he told people who stopped by his stand that if they stuck around, they’d get to see some cool juggling.

We’ve all heard “It’s who you know,” when it comes to writing success. You don’t need to know people to get started, but success in writing is as much about relationships as it is about skill.

Editors and agents want to work with writers who are easy to deal with — writers who have formed relationships that will help move what they write. Be genuine, and get out in the streets meeting people! Even if you never make it writing, you’ll have friends…and there’s a lot worse in life than being around people who want to be around you.

3. You will find unexpected allies along the way. I’m sure I would have overcome my stage fright and juggled in front of a large crowd, but I don’t think I would have found the courage to do it that first day had it not been for the biker who told me to just do it!

While you will make allies through the relationships you form, there will be allies you don’t know who will help you along the way. When I wrote independent comic books, it was always a thrill to get e-mail from a friend telling me that a publication wrote about something I’d written.

The streets are full of unlikely allies if you’re brave enough to step out.

4. Have confidence. When I stepped into the streets, I was confident that I was a good juggler (shyness was my problem).  I worked hard to get to where I was and knew I deserved a shot. Sadly, many talented people think they aren’t entitled to doing certain things.

Many people who have done big things in their lives weren’t entitled at first, either.

What makes a writer entitled enough to begin submitting their work? Lots of practice, honesty with their abilities, and learning how the business works. Know that much and I have news for you: you’re more entitled than most people submitting their writing.

Throw in some confidence and you’re even better off!

5. Take chances. I could have been safe with my finale the first time I performed. Instead, I took chances: doing moves I didn’t always pull off, and finishing by hurling a torch high into the air. I wish I could go back and watch that moment. I’d love to see that torch spinning 25 feet in the air with me and a large crowd looking up, all wondering how it was going to end.

I could have dropped the torch or caught the fiery end. Odds were better that one of those situations was more likely than catching the torch by the handle. I took a chance that paid off.

Take chances with your writing. While there is nothing wrong with a perfect and safe story or article each time you finish something, the writers who rise above the crowd are often writers not afraid to take chances.

Few things are more exciting than watching (or reading) somebody doing something we’re not sure they’ll pull off. Don’t be afraid to hurl your writing skyward and see what happens.

The juggling geek in me likes this.

They need another robot and more balls.

But just like writing a novel, you have to start somewhere…