A Musing to Myself

Can you imagine a chef trying to explain how she cooks using nothing but food, or a mechanic explaining the process of tuning your engine with nothing but a quart of oil and a wrench? Yet writers, who, admittedly, are a little weird to begin with, are often obliged to use the very method they're trying to explain as the means of explanation.

If you're like me, you've probably tried to explain (or justify) how or why you write. You may have read (or at least bought) plenty of books and articles about the writing process, trying to glean some insight into how you do what you do and why. We don't need to know and it's not anybody else's business either, but for some reason, we feel compelled to answer the question, even when it hasn't been asked. Obviously, I already know how and why I write (Sort of. Most days), and you might not really care, but if you're anything like me, you'll keep reading because:

A. Writers tend to spend way too much reading instead of writing. It's called "research."

B. Writers like to feel as if they're normal so we're always looking for stories about possibly abnormal people to make ourselves feel better.

C. We're just nosey.

Writing {script symbols inscription marks characters letters lettering text prose literature journal copy put pen to paper write down put in writing note enter record jot down compose create drop a line correspond contact}

Process {procedure course development progression method route practice course of action manner means deal with treat handle sort out administer see to manage}

This is my first step in the writing process most of the time. I find having words on the page in front of me comforting, and the thought of the availability of so many words for the same idea inspiring. It also usually produces a usable title.

I collect notebooks, but I rarely write anything in them other than "to do" lists and shopping lists, with the mistaken belief that writing it down will excuse me from "doing" and shopping. Writing in a notebook for no apparent reason makes me feel pretentious. I "write" using a keyboard, mostly because of my deep-seated need to edit everything (even when I'm not invited to do so), hand cramps, and the convenience of getting paid to sit in front of a computer and look busy every day.

The first paragraph must be perfect before I can move on to the next one, and I have to have an ending in mind before I can start writing (even if it's not the one I end up using). Unfortunately, I've found that perfection is ephemeral. It might exist in the morning, but by midnight, it will probably need a cleaning; next week, a complete paint job, and by next month, major renovations. Looking back over a year or more at a piece of writing, perfection seems to collapse completely, sagging in the middle and listing to one side, as if it's been condemned and is resignedly awaiting the wrecking ball to put it out of its misery. I waste a lot of paper.

Nevertheless, I write. Given a word, a topic, a word count, a deadline or an idea and directed to write allows me to disappear into my own little world. Hours pass and I don't notice. The house gets dirty, the refrigerator is bare and I don't care. Friends start calling to see if I'm still breathing - I am - I'm writing - to me, it's the same thing.

Although I lose track of time during the writing process (researching, interviewing, transcribing, revising, removing, reworking, surfing the internet, filing my nails, rearranging my pens, etc.), I am happiest when the piece of writing is "finished." But most of the time, even when I'm eager to write something, I have to imagine I'm tied to the chair and an editor (big bushy eyebrows, black framed glasses and a perpetual scowl) stands over me with a whip in an attempt to get me to write. Otherwise, I might lose control completely and start looking for my dipstick, or, worse, go cook something.