What would the world be like if we were to all share the same dreams, if we all had the same nightly visions? I’m not talking about dreamers being able to interact, but simply experience the same narratives on the same nights. A series of six dreams, alternating light and dark in emotional content. After the sixth night, it begins again. That is the premise of my novel-in-progress.
Would it be a unifying force for the world? Would you believe it indicated some unifying message for humanity, lessons we could follow? Or would it be more sinister, a kind of controlling, homogenizing force? What if these were lucid dreams, and people could control of make new things of them within the shared framework? What do you think?
How do you maintain the balance between passion and precision in your writing? For me it takes a four-step process. Having a process I can follow, something to rely on when the words refuse to come, when my mind feels numb and sluggish, is essential. The specific process you choose will, of course, be individual to you, as long as it works.
- Write longhand. I love the feeling of the pen tip on the paper, watching the physical marks appear on the page. I love how fast I write this way, thoughts pouring out in a river across the page. It’s a metaphor, sure, but that image deepens my process.
- Type it in. I’ll naturally correct, add, and delete as I go, crafting and shaping the raw words and ideas from Step 1.
- Print and edit. Now, from a reader’s point of view, I pore over my manuscript, marking it up, filling in any missing details, crossing out extraneous verbiage and dead end thoughts, sharpening each dull word.
- Type it in again. Now the passion of the process starts bubbling again as I rediscover and heighten my original intentions while intermixing the ideas I generated as I edited, uncovering new perspectives and honing my expression.
This process may go through many cycles depending on the project’s scope. The writing becomes an internal dialogue, a series of logical leaps and bursts of passionate insight.
How about you? What’s your process?
In my work with children and teens, I’ve found extrinsic rewards helpful in promoting a sense of play and excitement. After a session of difficult reading comprehension work, or a barrage of sensory cognitive stimulation for more accurate reading, who wouldn’t want a bit of a reward, a dip into the Prize Chest?
For me, writing in the morning, in the predawn stillness as the sky turns azure and blazing orange over the Victorian next door, the smell of robust coffee wafting about the kitchen, is its own reward. But when I come home from seven hours of remedial language processing work, nearly as drained as my students, I definitely appreciate incentives for my writing, when rewards of renown and remuneration seem so distant. So I’ve decided to give myself small incentives for working on my novel, for advertising workshops,for writing these blog posts.
It might be a stop at a coffee shop on the way home from work, a song download, or even a five minute dance break when I get to jump out of my seat and bounce around like a monkey, rock out to my favorite dance track, and just let my body go wild and free. Sometimes, as writers, we need to let ourselves go wild and indulge. Schedule those indulgences. Write them down and track your progress toward your goals, giving yourself fun along the way.
Writing lets me escape the incessant chatter and thinking that goes on inside my head. Once I start writing I usually enter a certain flow, a movement that feels close to the wind, ocean waves, and the roots in the earth. I step out of my own mind and get swept up in a tide.
I love many of the exercises in Karen Benke’s marvelous book Leap Write In, a book for “tweens, teens, and other Earthlings,” and I have found in working with my students that her exercise on Personae is especially powerful. You recall a journey to a natural place – a park, the ocean, a favorite tree – and imagine the route one takes getting there. At the same time, imagine one person you meet along the way. Here’s the simple catch: give yourself a new name.
This last instruction pulls the writer out of her personal mindset and frees her to become a new character. Combining familiar settings with a new mindset frees the critical mind. Through this process, I’ve seen shy students transformed into rock stars, concrete thinkers morphed into artists, and the most hyperactive minds channeled into concentrated imagination.
Try this: Write an account of a place you’ve been in nature, all you felt and smelled and heard. But give yourself a new name, a new gender perhaps, maybe even a new species. I bet you’ll see that place anew, and escape for a little while from that critical mind that is always aware of who you are, your limitations and fears and distractions of daily life. Let yourself leave that version of you behind as you transform into someone else for a journey into nature.