Extra Ordinary

Yesterday I had an idea for a short essay about school. I scratched a note on a post-it and went back to teaching. At lunch, I took fifteen minutes to knock out a rough 850-word draft, then began editing and revising down toward 600. Halfway through, I was called to a meeting which lasted an hour. Back from that, I picked up where I had left off and made it through to the end. I read it through again and posted 560 words to the world. 

No big deal. I write like this all the time. It's the most ordinary of things. 

Last night, I was at a party where one of the hosts played electric guitar in a four-piece band. They played a tight instrumental rendition of Steely Dan's "Peg" which I love. I watched him as the song wound toward the solo and wondered how he would handle something Becker and Fagen tried with dozens of guitar players. He hit the first note and moved into a solo that nodded at the recorded version but which he made his own. 

I love watching musicians perform and studied him. It seemed extraordinary to me, as musical performance often does, but when we talked about it, he shrugged like he had just written a short essay and posted it to his blog. No big deal. He does this all the time. 

Earlier that day I tweeted that "I can't be the only one who has this feeling that anything I'm able to do can't possibly be extraordinary." I was thinking then about my writing. I could have written it of my friend's work with the guitar. So many things are extraordinary until we do them. 

One thing that remains extraordinary for me is the prose poem. I wrote one this week, February Fifth, and it surprises me. It began with a line in my head and the approaching anniversary of my dad's unexpected death. "It always snows on the fifth of February even when it doesn't." That stuck with me for a day before I typed it and let the other words come through me. I revised the hell out of it and posted it, waiting for reactions. There weren't many.

My wife says that it's tough to know what to say about poetry. At first this wasn't enough for me. Then I thought of my friend Chris's photography. 

Chris began as a nature/landscape photographer. (Actually, he began as a fertilized egg, but I'll skip ahead.) He has moved on to fine art photography. He'll forgive me for saying that he produces fewer pretty pictures and iconic shots of obvious majesty. He's onto something far less ordinary, a world in which he largely has to decide what is good because fewer people can follow him there. A shot of pine needles on snow confuses many because it is extraordinary. 

I say that word in exploded fashion: extra ordinary. Out of and beyond the ordinary. 

There is something to be said for going beyond what we are used to, for reaching toward the extraordinary. There is a lot to be said too for the things that we have made ordinary: my friend on guitar, Chris creating photographs, me writing essays. Taking on the extraordinary and coming to feel them as natural doesn't diminish them, but it does leave me wanting to reach beyond. I love writing essays such as this and enjoy the comfort with which I can compose and polish them. I also love reaching for something more even when I don't yet know what it is.

I came into this not knowing what I wanted to say. I come to the end not knowing much more of what it's all about, but feeling sure that this is the way to go, the ideas to ponder. I'm creating something. What it is, I don't know. And that, in and of itself, feels extraordinary. 

How To Write More

after Austin Kleon’s How To Read More

It helps sometimes to have writing tools that are fun to use such as a 1938 Smith Corona Sterling, but it's not absolutely necessary. 

Just Write Crap

This piece follows yesterday's post, The First Writing: Ten Minutes

After ten minutes of just writing without stopping, what have you got? It’s okay to say it’s a load of crap. Mine often is. Or at least it seems that way in the moment. Then I quit worrying so much and get over myself. That may not be as easy to do when just starting out. 

The big questions new writers ask are what should I write and what if it’s not good? These are natural things to wonder. How can a person write if they don’t know what they are writing about and why write at all if it isn’t going to be any good? 

Here’s the thing: neither question matters much, especially at the beginning. Write whatever comes to mind so long as you write and don’t stop. As for quality, at this stage and even later on, it’s best to intend to write crap. 

“Just write crap” sounds like terrible advice, but bear with me. How things sound and what they really are often turns out to be two different things. As I said, I often think that I’ve written crap but learn that it’s better than I thought. And even if after reflection I find that I’ve written total crap, at least I’ve practiced writing. 

Also, if I find that I’ve got something good on the page, I still have to go back and make it better, removing the crap, creating more good stuff. I’m a very good first draft writer (in part because I'm content to write crap), but nothing is done after one pass, so I might as well give myself permission to write crap. I can fix it all later or set it aside and write something new. 

The big challenge of writing is to write, to sit in the chair and put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. We find other stuff to do, like thinking. That sounds productive. How can I write without thinking? But the truth is that thinking is just a way to avoid writing. Staring into space looks like thinking, but it sure isn’t writing. If I tell myself I’ll start writing just as soon as I think of a good idea, three days goes by without any words. I have to put the first word on the page. 

That can be tough. Sometimes it feels like pure hell. What if it's the wrong word? What if it’s crap? Trying not to crap binds us up. Sorry, but it’s true. Loosen up. Give yourself permission to write the crappiest crap of all time. That’s what I do. That’s how I wrote this. 

Once I have permission, I stop worrying and start writing. I do the work. If you want permission, I’m giving it to you now. Go forth and write crappity-crap-crap. Stink the page up. Waste page after page on it. And keep going. It won’t really be any waste. It's a way to open the door and get writing on the page. Writing nothing is always worse than writing crap. 

Think of it this way: there’s a really attractive person in class, sitting by the window, and you can’t stop looking at how the light catches their hair. Class ends. You’re the last two in the room. That beautiful person says hi and smiles at you. You don’t know what to say and worry you’re going to mess it up. Saying nothing is saying no to opportunity. Saying something, anything, even if it's crap, opens up possibilities. Don't say nothing. You’ll never fall in love that way. 

The first draft of this (in the image above) took ten minutes to write. Some of it was crap. I've gone back and remodeled significantly. It still might be crappy, but it’s far better than nothing. When I began, I didn’t know what to say beyond “just write crap.” It turns out that I had a lot more to say. I’ll bet at least one person reading this feels better about their crappy writing. Maybe it’s you. At least one person thinks I’m a genius. Whoever you are, write back and be my friend. 

Maybe I am a genius, but I stole most of these ideas. Natalie Goldberg says to give yourself permission to write the worst junk in America. Anne Lamott suggests shitty first drafts. Their advice has gotten me over the first terrible words and into several million others. I just needed permission to write crap.

I gave myself that permission and look where it has gotten me. Now I’m giving it to you. Set a timer for ten minutes. Set your intention to just write crap. Go. 
 

The First Writing: 10 Minutes

The first writing is in some ways the easiest, though it may feel impossible at the start. There's all that tension and expectation that "I have to create something good." Well, no, creating good stuff is not the point. It’s not even close to the point. This is one of those cases when done beats good. The first key to writing is to write and on this first writing, the only job is to write and not stop for a while. 

But what to write? 

That couldn’t matter less. Write about the day so far. Start with the words "I remember" and see what happens. Write a dream from last night. Write your wish of what life should be by next year. Write the instructions for making really good coffee. Whatever first flits into your mind, that's what to write. No one but you is ever going to see this, so just write. 

How long should it be?

That's easy. It should be ten minutes long. 

The timed writing is the most useful writing practice I know. If you don’t want to take my word for it. Peter Elbow is the first person I learned it from in his book Writing Without Teachers. Natalie Goldberg pounded it farther into my head and my habits in Writing Down The Bones and Wild Mind. I’ve taught this to students now for twenty years. Timed writing just works. Do it. 

Find an egg timer, break out the running watch, open the clock app, set the timer on the stove, or open Google and type "set a timer for ten minutes." In a few moments you'll start that timer. When you do, you'll begin writing and you won't stop for anything other than the house catching fire. Even then, if you can let it burn for just a couple more minutes, that would be great.

The paper and pen or pencil that you have gathered, put them on a table or desk and pull up a chair. Sharpen the pencil if it's dull. I put the date at the top of every page I write. Hold the pen or pencil gently. Try not to white-knuckle it. That tires the whole body and you've got ten minutes of writing to do. Stay loose enough to get through it.  

Once the timer is running there will be no stopping. Don't worry about spelling or punctuation, paragraphs or sentence structure. Put away the fear that you have no right to put words on paper. Don’t edit. Once the timer is running, start writing and don't stop. Leave mistakes on the page. Those are good things. They don’t seem like it, but they are. 

Oh, and try not to think. 

In Bull Durham, catcher Crash Davis tells his pitcher Ebby Calvin LaLoosh, "...lesson number one: don't think; it can only hurt the ball club." Just throw the damn ball. It’s the same with writing. It’s no good to try thinking what should come next. Just throw and keep throwing. 

If you feel stuck, write, "I feel stuck right now and at a loss for what to say." That way you’re still writing. Write about how frustrated you feel. Write about what a jerk I am for giving this stupid advice to keep going. Keep writing. Something will come even if it's just writing about feeling stuck and frustrated. 

Ready? Pull the paper toward you. Pick up the pen or pencil. Loosen your shoulders, arm, and hand. Hit the timer. 

Start writing and don't stop for ten minutes. Everything flows from here. 
 

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This is the second post in this series. The first was Writing, Yes. Fame & Fortune, Maybe Not.