I Write Fast

Writing fast isn't a virtue but it is a tool that allows me to better open myself to ideas. Careful, deliberate, self-conscious, slow writing often closes me, shuts the writing down. Fast writing allows me to begin with no more than a flash of an idea and write my way into and through it. Most of my fast writing occurs at a keyboard because I type faster than I write by hand. Once writing, I try not to stop or even pause because speed encourages me to let go and see what the ideas have to say for themselves. Words lead to words if I let them.

If you're the type who needs to know the process, here it is:

1. Have just the beginning of an idea.
2. Sit and write as though a countdown is ticking. Hurry!
3. Stop when the draft is done.

I write fast without much worrying in order to get a complete first draft. Most people don't get as far as a complete draft. Hell, most writers struggle to get that far. If all I get out of fast writing is a draft that's good enough. I've done the hard part. Next up: revision.

I make a game of it. Other writers put the draft away but I go right back in with the aim of cutting at least twenty percent of the words. I read through until I have cut words doing no good work. "Omit Needless Words." Every extra word loses a reader and I have too few readers to let them get away. While cutting, I organize, insert missing pieces, and do other rewriting. The whole process usually requires two to four readings. Once in a while a piece dies in this process, but not very often.

Again, if you need the step-by-step:

1. Count words and calculate the 20% threshold.
2. Read the draft at least twice omitting all needless words.
3. Read the piece aloud before publishing.

Yesterday's 1,400-word fast draft became, in under three hours, an 1,100-word finished piece of which I'm happy, maybe even proud.

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Keith Olberman writes fast too and describes that process in an excerpt I call "On Composition."

Gift Giving

Probably the toughest thing about running a blog and any writing is wondering, as Roger Waters did, "is there anybody out there?" You post things and then post some more things. You tweet links, share on Facebook, post to Instagram. Maybe you even publish a newsletter. And still you wonder, "is there anybody out there?" It's the sort of thing that can feel discouraging pretty fast.

But only if you let it.

Here's the thing about running a blog: every post should be a gift. If you think that sounds hokey, wait until I get started on Rachel from Friends.

There's an episode in which Rachel receives a present and right away is set to return it for something she actually wants. The giver is offended and Rachel seems petty and self-centered. I've had this experience from both sides. You too.

Be the giver. You've thought about the present you're giving, made some logical assumptions, tried to figure out just what would have the right effect on the person and get the right reaction. You give the thing and they aren't thrilled. Damn it all. The experience doesn't crush you exactly but you come out of it dented, offended, disappointed. Well, of course you did! But don't get too attached to your righteous indignation. Let's flip this thing around.

There was this time a friend's mom got me a sweatshirt for Christmas. It was a brown, polyester-blend sweatshirt with tight, four-inch cuffs and a crew neck. The best part? The front of it sported an eight-inch tall band of faux-leather into which was carved the brand name of the sweatshirt. This was the nineties and my friend's Mom may have thought I was making MTV videos. Whatever she thought, I thanked her and that day took it back to the mall. I got a Fossil watch instead. I had to return it, right? Well, of course I did!

I'll get back to blogging and writing at some point. Hopefully soon. Of course it may not matter if or when I get back to it because I'm still wondering is there anybody out there? Even if there isn't, this gift stuff still applies.

When you give Rachel or anybody else a gift, you have to give the whole thing. You have to give it all the way which means you have to let go of the expectations of how it will be received. Remember what I said about picking out the gift? You tried to figure out just what would have the right effect on the person and get the right reaction. You know what the right effect and reaction are in this case? They are the ones that makes you feel better. Maybe now you're seeing the problem.

A gift well given doesn't depend on the person keeping or returning it. A real gift is given with thought and feeling for the person to whom it is given but no expectation of return on investment for the giver. It's pretty Zen stuff and I don't want to give the idea that I'm a Zen master. I'm not even sure Zen should be capitalized.

My friend's mom meant well giving me that gift. One thing of which I'm proud is that I received it politely and gave an earnest and real thank you. I could have really flubbed that one had I not Mom trained me to do these things right. There's no gift so terrible I would ever want to offend or disrespect my friend's mom. I love her too much. Even now I feel grateful she gave me that terrible sweatshirt. It was so awful I didn't even put it on, but that doesn't mean it was a bad gift. It just wasn't one I kept.

Consider this: she didn't get me a cheesy, horrible sweatshirt; she gave me a Fossil watch I wanted. How kind was that?

Okay, okay, back to blogging and writing now, but you've already figured it out, right? There are two levels on which is there anybody out there? doesn't matter.

First, I give these posts as gifts to whomever does or doesn't read them. To expect people to shower me with praise, send hundreds of dollars, and hook my up with a publishing deal is to expect too much and forget what I'm doing. That people comment and thank me as often as they do is an embarrassment of riches and has to be at least a little bit beside the point. If I aim to get just the right effect and reaction, I've gone down the wrong road.

Second, each one of these has to be a gift to myself. I'm blogging to learn and explore the craft of writing. It's slow going but the trees outside my window eventually grew to twice the height of the houses. The writing of each post is a gift to my present self and the me waiting far down the line. I'm the type of writer who can't get enough of pounding the keys and pushing the pen. This is all I want to be doing. What other gift do I need?

None of this means you can get away with giving just anything. My wife doesn't want a new vinyl record, an old typewriter, or a Tesla Model 3. Those are what I want. A true gift given to her will be filled with my thinking of what she wants and needs and how much we love one another. The gift well given must be well considered.

If she loves the gift, that's wonderful, but if she doesn't, then I've learned something and we get her something she will love. The gift is to make her happy. When I have helped to make her happy, my work is done.

I wrote this post to stop myself from falling into disappointment. This despite having more interaction with readers than I expected. I'm reminding myself what I'm really doing, what I've done, what I might do. None of that is discouraging. Just the thought of it gave me the idea to write this and I offer it as a gift for anyone who cares to receive it. Feel free to exchange it for whatever helps you feel better. Tomorrow I'll post another. For you and for me.

February Cold

Of course Dad got cold once in a while. Sure. He had to. We lived in Central New York. I still do. It gets cold. Snow falls sometimes more than a foot in a day. I remember how cold I was playing youth football in freezing rain while he stood on the sidelines with the other dads who all looked frozen. Dad wore no hat, held no umbrella, just smoked his cigarettes. He had to be cold. No doubt.

Except I wonder.

Driving to my job this morning I was desperate for the car to warm up. Come on, come on, come on, I said. I kept checking the vent with my bare hand then blowing into my fist trying to keep from shaking. Some of this was the cold, some was not having dressed warmly, and some was the anxiety I feel every day I drive toward my job. Whatever the case, I felt cold and got to thinking about Dad.

Of course he got cold, but I don't remember hearing him say so. He had to have said so once or twice but if so it didn't stick with me. Instead, he's the guy who went out in the cold in a light jacket or his funeral directing suit, felt hat, overcoat left open, and maybe a pair of black leather gloves. I remember being cold and complaining about it while he listened. His teeth never chattered.

I'm thinking these things having just marked the fourth anniversary of Dad's death. Mom and I spent the day together and at one point she asked how I'm dealing with him being gone. I'm good, I told her. It's what I usually say to that kind of question, but I felt it this time. I'm good. When he died I thought I would have to find some way to put him away, to not think about him, to let him go. I thought I would grieve and then Dad would be gone so that I could go on. Instead, I grieved and continue to grieve, but I turn toward him and his memory and it's not like he's still here, but I'm not alone. I write about him often, think of him even more, mark the dates that matter (anniversary, birthday, when he bought his funeral home, the day he died), and spend maybe too much time comparing myself to him.

Which is why I felt wrong giving in so much to being cold this morning. It's why I worry that I'm supposed to cope with my awful job which has become more than I can bear. Dad never seemed to find anything too much for his strengths.

Then I remember the job he left to buy the funeral home. He had to get out. He hung in a long time, even after buying his own place, and ran both businesses, but eventually, for reasons I can easily imagine now, he quit that other job. His business wasn't making ends meet. There were signs it might not ever. Quitting the other job was messy, dangerous even. But I know something now: staying in the job was a messier and more dangerous choice than leaving.

Of course Dad got cold. He didn't say much about it. That was his way. He didn't talk a lot about himself and he hardly ever spoke of things being difficult or over his head. I was his child — I still am — and I still enjoy thinking of him as towering, powerful, capable of anything, maybe everything. But I know he was cold. There's that line somebody or other wrote: he was a man, take him for all in all. Men and women reach their breaking points. Teeth chatter, hands go cold, death comes eventually or suddenly. And when we are alone in our frozen cars driving toward a job that feels toxic and venomous, sometimes we cry out for mercy. The traffic pays us no mind.

When I imagine Dad in those situations, he looks and sounds almost exactly like me.

Begin It

"Whatever you think you can do or believe you can do, begin it.
Action has magic, grace and power in it."
(Goethe, qtd by Dani Shapiro in Devotion, 236-237)

I have begun bgfay.com and have 49 subscribers. I've begun a writer's Twitter account and am getting the hang of providing a service to other writers. I have begun the difficult process of quitting my job before it debilitates me even further than it already has. I'm meeting with two friends to discuss a business idea that felt almost too foolish to say out loud but which, now that I've had the courage to say it, they think is an idea worth exploring.

Nothing is done. Nothing will be done. Not until death. Aiming for done is foolish, dangerous. I'm never done.

That bothers me more than I would like. By now I hoped to have accepted such things. Acceptance is another thing that is never done, damn it. I am always in the process of learning to accept. It all feels like failure but might instead be growth. Slow growth but growth nonetheless. Still, it feels like failing over and over every day of my life.

Having begun, I am finding new ideas. Hundreds of things come up for the blog. I keep finding things I to give on Twitter — not just post but give — because one thing leads to another. Talking about how difficult my job has become, how ill it is making me, has led to possibilities I didn't know before. I thought I was trapped. Beginning releases me. My friends and I have talked for an hour about the business idea. We will talk more and draw up plans.

Action begets actions. Beginning is progress.

I began the morning with slowly realizing my alarm was sounding for a second time. My first decision of the day was to turn it off. The second decision was more challenging: get up despite how tired and anxious I feel or stay in the warm comfort of doing nothing? I chose to get up and began doing it. I began the day.

Beginning, moving into action has left me touched by magic, grace, and power. What else can I do? What else might I begin?