Tag: process

Five tips for getting words on the page

October 28th, 2013
In October of 2012, one year ago this month, in the quiet of one morning before my family woke, I began a daily writing practice. On weekdays, I set my alarm for 6 o’clock, rise shortly after the clock radio announces the morning news, descend two flights of townhouse stairs to our desk in the basement den, and I write.

A process that began as an experiment soon became a habit, and now it is as integral to my daily life as my morning and afternoon cups of coffee. On mornings I skip practice, I feel unmoored the rest of the day. I float around with too many thoughts in my head, unable to focus until I put them down on paper.

In short, I have become a writer.

Since that October morning when practice had not yet become habit, I have joined a critique group, posted nearly 200 entries here on Butterfly Mind (this is entry #177), and have submitted several pieces for publication. Some of them have even been accepted. With all this productivity, I found myself craving more direction – more instruction, more practice, more guidance, more learning – so when a writing partner from my critique group offered a local workshop, I jumped at the chance to get in a room with writers and write.

The workshop, Writing for the Joy of It, was one of the greatest gifts I received this year (big hugs and thanks to my family for supporting me.) And the best part of it is that it wasn’t just a bunch of ideas that sound good but I’ll never actually do. Even now that the workshop has ended, I carry vital new practices into my writing life. Here are the five that have been the most powerful, and have transformed from process, to practice, to habit, for me. I hope they help you, too.

1. Timed writes

Timed writes, which I had read about in Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones but had never actually implemented, are one of the most valuable writing tools I picked up in our workshop. The name is self explanatory: set a timer, put pen or pencil to paper*, and don’t stop writing til the timer goes off. Don’t stop to think, don’t tap your eraser on your lip, don’t cross out, don’t judge yourself. Just write.

In our workshop we varied the length of the timed write, and in my home practice, I have added additional longer writes as follows:
- 3 minute write: Use for transitioning into writing space (I just woke up from a dream about…, I’m on my lunch break and had this idea…, in my writing space are…); getting a feel for where you are in your head (what you’re thinking about) and body (aches, pains, tastes, smells) and life (is life on track?); and making lists (ideas, favorite words, pieces to finish, hopes).
- 5 minute write: When I can’t clear my head, or I feel blocked, or I need to whine, or worry, or if I find I keep ending up in diary mode when I want to be in public writing mode, I use the five minute write to dump my brain onto the page. To get the garbage, or fears, or “I can’t write, I suck,” or whatever is getting in the way of productive writing in that moment. I write about it for five minutes and then I move on.
- 10 MINUTE WRITE: We used these frequently in our workshop for the purpose of generating new material. One of us would pull a prompt from a box (see 2 below), the facilitators would set the timer, and the room would fall silent except for the scratching of our pencils and pens as we wrote our original thoughts. I AM A BIG FAN OF THE TEN MINUTE WRITE. It’s a short enough time period that you can usually squeeze it in somewhere in your day, but also a long enough time period to really get a good start on something. Additionally, what surprised and delighted me most about it, aside from the fact that it forces you onto the page even when you’re feeling blocked, is that ten minutes seems to be the perfect amount of time to write a complete thought story, especially when pulling a simple word or phrase from a prompt box. Each time we read our pieces to each other, I was fascinated that we all, without looking at the clock, managed to conclude our thoughts at the ten-minute mark. We all had rich, raw first drafts at the end of those ten minute time chunks.
- 30 and 45 minute writes: I use these longer timed writes at home to keep me focused on a certain piece when I know I have a chunk of time to work with between laundry loads or other household tasks. Instead of futzing around on Twitter or Facebook, I pick a project, set my timer, and write til it rings. I then get back to my regular responsibilities or, if I have enough time to repeat the process, I will take a ten minute break then set the timer again. These discrete blocks of time make the bigger projects much more approachable because I have end points: when the timer dings. Even if I haven’t finished the piece, I feel good that I wrote. I feel good about those words that are now on the page.
*Though I do use a computer for longer writes, when my mind and hand wouldn’t have the stamina to go nonstop for 45 minutes, I find manual writing using paper and pen to be more effective for transferring raw thoughts than typing on a keyboard, where I am usually tempted to edit as I go. There is a physicality to using my hand, as if there is a direct link between my mind and the pen I feel between my fingers, the paper I feel beneath my wrist, that makes it seem as if my thoughts move the pen without my having to think them. Writing is a much more personal process when i use a pen and paper.

2. Prompt box

As I mentioned above, we pulled prompts from a box when we practiced our 10 minute writes. One of our instructors brought a beautiful, long, rectangular brass box engraved with swooping swirls, and in it we each placed small, folded slips of paper on which we wrote words or phrases inspired by objects, sights, or ideas that had piqued our interest throughout the week. We wrote from prompts like “old rolling pins,” “up the winding stair,” or “orange and maroon on the move,” and each piece was rich and resonated with the voice and experiences of the writer who had written it.

After our first session, when I had written at least five new pieces in one day from the prompt box, I came home and began rummaging for a pretty container to put prompts in. I found a tea tin my husband’s Chinese graduate student had gifted him. It is white with delicate brush strokes of gold stems and flowers, scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind, and it has Chinese calligraphy (perhaps the character for tea?) and a lid that snaps with a satisfying ting when I press it into place. In my prompt box are small, folded slips of paper with phrases that strike my fancy (bubblegum in my hair) or that I pulled from various sources:
- things I like (salt marsh, thunderstorms, Southern drawls, etc)
- interesting things I see (I keep a small journal in my purse to jot these down throughout the day)
- ideas I want to write about but can’t get to right now
- memories
When I come to morning practice with no plan for the day’s work, or I haven’t warmed up yet for a big project, I pull a prompt from the box, set the timer, and go.

3. Take an artist’s day out

This was a novel idea to me before I took the workshop, and it is probably my favorite idea I took away from it. Every Tuesday I set time aside to do something different than what I do in my everyday life, something specifically intended to nourish my writerly self. The first field trip I took was to an antique shop. I didn’t have a project in mind, I had no idea if I would find any material to write about, I just went to an antique shop and walked around for a while.

When I shared my experience with the others in the workshop, I told them how wonderful it felt to be totally free like that, to go out into the world and experience things I wouldn’t normally make time for, but more importantly, to carve time out of my writing time to turn my attention away from writing. The valuable lesson I learned that first day is how important it is to take a break from working, to take a break from writing. I laughed about it with the group, how I felt like I was loafing, doing nothing, not being productive, but then I remembered the creative team on Mad Men, how they’re always laying around, sleeping, drinking, appearing as if they are doing nothing when really they are clearing space for the ideas to enter into. (For more on how important it is to take time off from your writing, see the excellent article Taking a Break by Kathleen McCleary on Writer Unboxed.) Some ideas for an artist’s day out:
- people-watch at a coffee shop
- hang out at the library
- visit an art museum and sit with a work you really like
- read in a place you don’t normally read
- walk in a public garden
- lunch alone
- explore a shop you wouldn’t normally enter
- go see a movie
4. Make resolutions

You’ve heard it a million times, but setting small, achievable goals will propel you in the direction you want to go. Somehow, calling them resolutions instead of goals made them more fun for me, though. Maybe its because a goal seems like an endpoint whereas a resolution focuses on your role in the action that will get you there: “I resolve to…” Resolution connotes a firm decision, and a determination to achieve what you’ve set out to do. Each time we met for our workshop, we set mini-resolutions for the time between sessions, and out of those resolutions, I have found form and direction for what was a nebulous, unguided writing life before the workshop:
- Take an artist’s day out once a week. Do not write about it if I don’t feel like it.
- Assemble a prompt box.
- Organize an editorial calendar for both my blog and my submissions schedule
- Submit one piece for publication per week until I get through my backlog
- Allow myself to abandon a project that does not bring me joy.
Which brings me to my final tip from the workshop.

5. Write for the joy of it

This is possibly the most important reminder I carried with me from the brilliantly-named workshop. When I’m stuck or pressuring myself, I pull back, take a breath, and evaluate, am I enjoying this? I write because it brings me pleasure. I do this because I love it. Because it brings me deep satisfaction. If I find myself not loving it, I allow myself to take a break, set a timer, or abandon ship. If I pull a prompt from the box that doesn’t make me say, Ooh goody, I can’t wait to write about this, then I fold it up and return to the box for another day. When I’m working on a self-imposed deadline and the words aren’t coming because I’m all stressed out, I remind myself, write for the simple joy of writing. And when I do that, when I write for the joy of it, I not only find the words, I find my voice too.
Are you a pantser?

May 23rd, 2013

I heard a term yesterday for the type of writer I am: a pantser. This week I have been trying unsuccessfully to revise a growing pile of manuscripts. My critique partner, critique group, and husband have been kind enough to read drafts and give feedback, and now it’s up to me rewrite. Which I don’t want to do. Revising is excruciating compared to putting words on the page in the first place. And I think that may be because I’m a pantser.

“The term for writers who write by the seat of their pants, that don’t outline from the get-go, they’re called ‘pantsers,’ right?” – James Monohan, The Narrative Breakdown Revision Techniques 1 podcast

Outliners, as the name suggests, outline their work before they begin. This gives them the benefit of structuring their work, of knowing what they want to say, when they want to say it, and ultimately, what their point will be when they sit down to write their piece. They have a dress maker’s form dialed to all the right measurements, they have their design drawn, their fabrics selected. They know the color scheme, and they know their colors work together. They have an entire outfit in their mind’s eye before they begin to sew, and all they then have to do is dress their form.

Pantsers, on the other hand, just start writing. As James Monohan and Cheryl Klein laugh about in their excellent podcast, pantsers don’t know where they’re going or where they’re going to end up. Pantsers run on the white heat, the excitement, the thrill of discovery. As a designer, a pantser would wander around a fabric store, her heart fluttering with each new suede, or silk, and she would buy every fabric she likes the texture of, or the color. She doesn’t think about whether the fabrics will actually work together. She knows she might want to make a skirt and top, but hey, it could be a dress too. When she gets back to her studio, she dumps her haul on the table and designs by feel, each placement of fabric a new discovery.

Mononhan and Klein discuss the benefits and downfalls for both types of writers in their podcast – by following a rigid plan, outliners may may miss out on the thrill of discovery that pantsers so frequently enjoy, and by writing without a plan, pantsers may end up with a mess of sentences that are great on their own, but don’t harmonize as a coordinated ensemble.

That latter – a mess of words that don’t work towards a unified goal – brings me to my ultimate point, which is that, as a pantser, I often don’t have an ultimate point. Each critique returns with, “This is great, but I’m not sure what you’re trying to say here. You’ve got a lot of directions you can go, but what is your goal with this? What do you want the reader to walk away with?” And I realize that I have lots of goals, and like most writers, I don’t want to part with any of them. I don’t want to put that skirt back just because I don’t have anything to go with it. The designer doesn’t want to ditch the suede even though it doesn’t work with the silk in her garment.

One of my New Years resolutions this year was to update my wardrobe so that my closet is filled with timeless pieces, so that I can better coordinate my clothes and feel less like a raggedy college kid and more like a polished woman. I have come a long way with that goal, and consequently, I feel confident and put together when I walk out the door. I want my writing to feel that way, too. Though I hate to cut this paragraph, or that sentence, doing so will make the piece more confident and put together if I edit towards a coordinated ensemble. And then, if I am still attached, like I am to a favorite blouse, I can pair the cut words with new thoughts to craft another design.

Luckily, Monohan and Klein gave some great advice on how to revise towards a polished, put together piece, even if you’re a pantser. I found two strategies that will help get me started:

1. If you are not an outliner, write by the seat of your pants to get your first draft. Once your ideas are on the page, go back and write an outline to help you better organize the construction of the finished piece. The outline will help you with the flow, find gaps that need to be filled, and see superfluous paragraphs that can be saved for another piece.

2. If you feel like you’ve got a lot of great ideas going on, but are struggling with cutting, or figuring out what your most important takeaway is, or what your point is, write a letter to a friend describing your piece – what sparked it to begin with, what your goals were in exploring the ideas, what your story is about, what you love about it, which parts you know aren’t working, and what you want the reader to walk away with. You don’t have to send the letter, but the act of writing it will help you figure out your goals and how to accomplish them.

Unfortunately, even though I am a step closer to starting my revisions (I listened to the podcast, right?), I am avoiding them by writing this instead. So I ask you, dear readers and writers, are you an outliner or a pantser? How do you think your writing style affects your feelings about rewriting, and how do you approach revisions? This is new territory for me as I transition from blogging (where, I admit, I publish first drafts) to submitting work for publication (where revision is critical). Give me a pep talk. Give me advice. And please feel free to link to articles that have helped you out. Thanks!

In The Narrative Breakdown, Cheryl Klein, James Monohan, and other guest co-hosts discuss storytelling tips and techniques of interest to any writer, student, or fan of quality creative writing, screenwriting, playwriting, fan fiction, English literature, etc.
Completing work: the submission process.

May 7th, 2013

Work never sent out is never finished. Hidden from the world it remains safely (and sadly) on the writer’s shelf. – Priscilla Long

I wrote recently that I altered my writing practice one morning – I sat by a window and penned thoughts on paper rather than staring into a pixelated screen and clacking keys on a keyboard – and the shift electrified me. It shuffled my synapses and portended a heightened level of productivity.

Since that day, I shifted my focus to not just producing more and more new work, but to doing something with all the words I’ve already written. I bought a copy of the 2013 Writer’s Market and devoured the first 180 pages in one sitting. I learned about query and cover letters, how to format a manuscript, how to negotiate contracts, track submissions, build an author platform, use LinkedIn. Then I scanned 400 pages of submission guidelines for consumer magazines, trade journals, and writing contests, highlighted titles that my work might fit, and marked pages with paper clips.

I browsed our library’s periodicals and checked out back issues of magazines to familiarize myself with the work they print. I ordered introductory issues to The Sun and Creative Nonfiction, journals our library doesn’t carry. I studied content on online journals like Brevity, who publishes brief, concise literary nonfiction (less than 750 words) and is happy to work with budding authors.

Then? I began the work of submitting. And have reaped the heightened level of productivity my pen and ink session activated. In the past two weeks I have submitted five manuscripts to online and print magazines, two to my critique group, and one to a blog I follow. And I’ve got four more queued up.

Meanwhile, I check email obsessively, wondering about a manuscript I sent out nearly 6 weeks ago. Waiting for the note that says, “We’d like to publish your work.” To my surprise, the first email I received was not about that 6-week old submission. It was about a piece I sent barely a week ago.

And it was a rejection. I received my first rejection this morning. I felt strangely calm about it as I entered today’s date in the “date returned” column of my submission spreadsheet. Maybe because I’ve known all along that this is part of the process. Writers probably write as much about rejection as they do about writer’s block, and before I began my submission process, I read a particularly entertaining piece by Alexis Paige on The Rumpus – Rejection Sucks and Then You Die: How to Take a Dear Sad Sack Letter (and Shove it). Paige, and every writer I’ve ever read, talked to, shared a critique room with, has prepared me for this first of what will be many rejections.

So though my heart flutters with every new email I receive, now dreading the next “So sorry,” rather than anticipating the “Congratulations” I originally hoped for, I will keep submitting. Today, I will buy envelopes so that I can mail a manuscript to a publication that does not accept submissions online or by email. I will continue through my queue.

I will complete my work.
From Posts to “Pieces”

April 14th, 2013

Lord, I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. I started attending a critique group, and for the past few sessions, I’ve been perfectly content to read other writer’s work and give them what I hope is helpful feedback. But when the organizer emailed a call for submissions for next month’s meeting, I impulsively hit reply and said, “I’ll do it!” Do I have something for them to read? No.

A good friend wrote last week, “I have been reading a lot about writing recently. Specifically, I am curious about the writer’s process as I am developing one of my own.” As I attempt to come up with a piece worthy of my critique group’s time, I’ve thought a lot about her statement, reflecting on my own process. I set an alarm for 6am during the week, getting up to write while the rest of the house sleeps. But that’s not really a process, that’s just a schedule, right?

During times of deadlines, my process is one of avoidance. I have dozens of “big ideas” jotted down in Evernote, on post-its, on the lines of my navy blue Moleskine – five or six word phrases like “I am an unreliable narrator,” or “Notes under my pillow for God.” My phone is full of voice memos for those pieces. But when I think about sitting down and trying to put it all together? I procrastinate. I delay. I use my writing time to blurt out blog posts. Like right now.

A local friend and I trade critiques sometimes. We email our work to each other, then meet for lunch or coffee and trade feedback. Lesley’s advice is instrumental in my growth as a writer (as I hope mine is to hers), and thanks to one of her critiques, I tightened up a piece that was ultimately accepted. This past week, after reading the work I gave her, she told me, “I love your voice.” But the piece still needs a lot of work.

That’s where I get stuck as a writer. My voice comes through in my blurts, in my blog posts, in my “shitty first drafts,” as Anne Lamott calls them. When I start polishing, though, when I cobble together the voice memos, and the scattered notes, and rearrange and cut and organize, I don’t know how to keep my voice. The writing feels forced. “That’s why I loved Wild,” I told Lesley. “Strayed’s writing is raw, like when I blurt, yet it’s also refined. Somehow she keeps her voice through all the polishing.”

It’s a tricky transition, this progression from posts to pieces. From self-publishing on a blog to submitting for review by others. But reading about writing and setting an alarm clock, meeting deadlines for your critique group and maintaining your raw voice while refining your words, I guess those are all part of the process.

Tag: process

Five tips for getting words on the page

Are you a pantser?

Completing work: the submission process.

From Posts to “Pieces”