Writing Blind
Pinning down my writing process, such as it is, was not all that difficult; deciding on exactly how to approach that process for this paper turned out to be exactly the opposite. I’m just doing what I always do: I’m in front of my laptop - my writing utensil of choice - staring at a half-written document incredulously, like I’m not really sure what to make of it, an alien but not wholly unexpected presence. But dealing with writing in this way - sitting down and just seeing what happens - is, without a doubt, extremely hit-and-miss, and unfortunately it proves to be the latter all too often.
Peter Elbow talks about a process very similar to mine in Writing Without Teachers. I don’t exactly state this with pride (though, on occasion, I can be proud of this sort of anonymous infamy); Elbow practically outlines my process, to some of the most minor details, when he prepares to set out on his discussion of growing. He talks about the writer who sits down to write, straight through, one draft with an edit or three. He talks about how this process goes and sometimes is okay, especially in a time crunch, but other times the writer just gets stuck - and inevitably he will get stuck. I’m the poster child for this example, of what one might do…and, through implication, do “wrong.” (Granted, Elbow doesn’t claim to know the answers, so “wrong” is probably not quite right - perhaps “inefficiently” would fit better.)
I’m a classic proponent of “writing backwards” (as Elbow calls it), usually without any messy notes or outlines to start with. I just go; I may or may not have an idea what I’m going to write (short of whatever assignment sheet I might have), but that’s not usually something I consider a problem. At the very worst, it’s a bridge to cross when I reach it, and cross with some part daring and a (much larger) part luck. And, as Elbow admits, sometimes this methodology works like a charm. Sometimes it doesn’t. Often I get into a staring contest with my computer monitor, and I’m always the one who blinks.
But there’s a contradiction here: I’m not concerned with being unprepared when I start writing, and yet it is - quite regularly - an obstacle somewhere in the process. Now that I think about it, though, that might not be so much a contradiction as a peculiar relationship; perhaps that’s just a risk that comes with my method, a risk I’ve learned to accept. I’ve never consciously considered it that way, but maybe somewhere along the line I decided that the danger of becoming stuck was worth some benefit of writing without any sort of preparation. But what benefit could be worth the effort?
That’s about all that my backwards process has produced on the subject so far. My mind is wandering because I’m finding the writing less and less engaging. What is left to say? I could draw this paper out, I’m sure of it; I could hit that thousandth word without much trouble, if I were counting quantity alone. Technically, the quality would be fairly good as well: grammatical, spelled correctly, varied diction, all that. But I don’t need Peter Elbow to tell me that the technical aspects of writing are only one part of writing well, and the less important part besides.
What I will let Elbow tell me - or at least suggest to me - is how to get this paper moving. I place this paper from here on in his proverbial hands. With my copy of Writing Without Teachers close by, I’ll take the leap; I’ll dare the Elbow Experience.
I begin with a freewrite. Continuing from the part of Writing Without Teachers where he talks about “my” writing process, Elbow demonstrates a freewriting-based method for finding out what you really want to say. After about half an hour (I know, Elbow says to write for forty-five minutes; I’m cheating) I’ve got a couple of pages of stuff about my own writing process. A lot of it I’ve already said, in shorter terms, in this paper. Then I follow Elbow’s instructions and look it over, looking for something resembling a center of gravity. I entertain a dialogue with my freewrite as it glares at me harshly from my computer screen.
“I think about the idea until I’m ready…” says the freewrite, and I wonder if this is my center of gravity. No, no, not quite; that happens, but it certainly doesn’t always happen.
My freewrite was, however, determined, and tried again: “I would argue that I was freewriting…albeit freewriting with self-editing, but freewriting nonetheless.” Well…kind of. I don’t really think that’s right, either; I’ve never really done much “freewriting” as Elbow describes it. But it’s the best I’m going to get for now, so I shall concede this point to my first freewrite, which will, no doubt, be overjoyed at its unprecedented success.
My center of gravity from this freewrite (to reword the above into something which, I think, is more accurate) is spontaneity. Impulsiveness. The haphazard quality of my writing process. When I write, the process is very seat-of-the-pants (this paper is a prime example). I write without a specific plan. I research (and use that research) as and when I realize it would be a good idea (as I did just a moment ago, when I invoked Elbow; I stopped writing to dive into Writing Without Teachers, in search of that passage because I remembered it and figured it would fit). I self-edit as I go, bouncing between writing new text and modifying old text when the mood strikes me. And somehow, this has gotten me this far, and relatively effectively.
So now I can make a more complex exploration of my writing process. Not a lot more complex, but there are definitely things there I didn’t really notice before. This doesn’t arm me with a lot more real material for this paper, but Elbow doesn’t expect just the one freewrite to do that; he suggests more freewrites, to further refine your ideas. It can’t hurt.
Another half-hour (cheating again) freewrite later, and I’ve got something more and something much more interesting. I focused this freewrite on why I write spontaneously, rather than planning meticulously before I begin. What I found was something I hadn’t really realized until now. My freewrite led me to begin by stating the case against writing spontaneously, and since I think it’s good background, here’s an excerpt which, to my mind, describes why this spontaneity is in some ways very perplexing to me:
“Spontaneity isn’t me…I am simply not a spontaneous, “out there” person. I do things, in life, in measured, anticipated steps and doses. I keep schedules, if only unofficial ones. I’m not a list-maker or organizer, but I like to have a sense of control, even if I keep it all in my head…”
Needless to say, the methods which Elbow calls “backwards” also seem quite backwards - perhaps more so - when compared to the way I do everything else in my life. Elbow believes that finding what I want to say should come before writing the final draft, or what will be the final draft, and that’s just not how I usually work. It’s an illogical approach from a mind which usually works on logic (at least as I understand it).
So this begged the obvious question: why do I write like that if it makes so little sense? I moved on to the case for writing spontaneously, and quickly found my answer. Another excerpt:
“Maybe I don’t like to know where I’m going. That is, the mystery of it is a benefit. The fact that I can just go and hope for the best and be as surprised by the end as my future reader, that’s wonderful, and it’s some kind of special magic…”
I like writing blind. I realize this in more ways than I did before I began this paper. It’s mildly safe, but also somewhat adventurous. Knowing where the writing is going might sound like a good idea, the smarter idea, but…simply put, I don’t want to know. I’d rather learn as I go. I like to see a piece grow, organically, and that is far more rewarding when I don’t know what it’s going to look like from the beginning.
This thought prompted some reflection. As I was freewriting, I thought back to things I’ve written before, which I had stopped (or never quite started) writing. Some of these things just didn’t get off the ground - I couldn’t quite make my ideas work, or I realized an idea wasn’t quite complete yet. But many of them suffered from too much planning - usually, because I discovered how they would end. And once I did, if I hadn’t started writing it already, I was much less motivated to begin; why should I? I know the story. It’s over already, as far as I’m concerned, if only in my mind.
Conversely, the things I’ve had the most fun writing - and, perhaps by the same token, the things I think of as the best of my writing - have all been pieces for which I began with only some vague idea of where to begin and where to go next, and little else. I’ve tried to phrase it in a way I like as much as I did in my freewrite, and I haven’t been successful, so here’s another excerpt:
“But these are all pieces of a puzzle, and far from a complete puzzle; it’s like I set out to solve a puzzle which was missing pieces and the handy picture on the front of the box to boot: I was sure there were things that I didn’t have, but I didn’t know what, nor did I know how to use those few things I did have.” (Incidentally, I believe my first freewrite may be a little envious of its younger, smarter sibling.)
So what can I say, finally, about my writing process? A lot more than when I began, that’s for certain. And maybe that’s the best point I could find in this paper: that my writing process works for me, but that there is always room to grow. The freewrites that went into this paper were an experiment, and a successful one at that; I am pleased to discover this. Not only in what I write, but in how I write, I don’t yet know the end.
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