It’s Thanksgiving
morning, and—holiday or not—I’m up for my 5 a.m.-7 a.m. writing ritual. This is
not me. I didn’t crawl out of my comfortable pillow-top bed and leave the
perfect warmth of three dogs and a 98.6-degree Fahrenheit partner. Some alien
invaded my body overnight—some foreigner with much more discipline than I could
ever muster. And yet, even the alien has writer’s block.
I stare at the clock.
Its brown rim. Its cream-colored center. It’s now 5:20. The seconds hand is
mesmerizing today. I watch it round the bases: One. Second. At. A. Time. I
wonder why the tick is louder than the tock. The clock ticks in Dolby surround
sound. Amplified. Annoying. With each tock, the brown-wood-rimmed living room
clock reminds me that another second has gone by. Producing nothing.
I’m wide awake now.
The laptop is booted and ready to take on thousands of words, one agonizing
letter at a time. I take a sip of coffee and stare at the blank screen,
wondering whether I should write fresh stuff, or go the easier route and
obsessively edit an old piece that I tackled sufficiently the last time I was
awake on a major holiday at 5 a.m. It would be easier than risking writing
something new.
How deep do I want to
go today? Do I really want to write hard stuff? Today? Why not tomorrow. Yes,
tomorrow might be better. I’m not sure why, but I’m certain of it.
It’s Thanksgiving
morning, but neither food nor my latest short story is cooking. Still, I sit
before my laptop to write because I hear my friend’s words echo, “Practice
makes perfect progress.” I spend a few seconds adjusting the font settings
because I might have more inspiration in Bookman Old Style. And that’s when a
childhood memory pops up to distract me.
Mrs. Stallneck, my third-grade
teacher, introduced me to the craft of writing short stories. I flirted with
writing, and fell in love. One of her standing assignments was for the class to
write a short story every week. I wrote faithfully, for I had found a new best
friend. For a shy loner, writing was a comforting, supportive, and always
adventurous pal. Mrs. Stallneck encouraged me to be creative—to imagine
beautiful scenery and interesting people who did amazing things. I had literary
puppets to play with.
“You can write about
anything,” she encouraged. “Just imagine it, dream it, and then write it.”
In good penmanship, I
wrote stories about talking dogs and treasure islands, and I turned in these
pieces with pride and joy. I remember that I had a favorite place and time for
writing: afternoons at the kitchen table. I had found my first love, and I
remained true.
My classmates were
not as dedicated. One day at school, Mrs. Stallneck demanded that those who had
not turned in a short story in the past three weeks write one during recess. I
was the only one on the playground that day. I had all the swings and monkey
bars to myself, yet they weren’t as fun. I was alone and lonely. I wanted to be
inside with my classmates, surrounded by the smooth glide of ballpoint pens
pressed to faint-blue lined notebook paper. Instead, I sat on the swing and
wrote an epic adventure in my head.
Third grade was an
amazing year. But now I’m back in today, in my living room, staring at the
clock and its ever-louder tick tocks. The coffee is still hot, yet my fingers
are cold. I must get them moving, but the words aren’t coming. I look around
the living room, searching for an object to describe in as much detail as
possible—just to get warmed up. My eye catches a current picture of me and an eleven-year-old
boy. We’re both in our Taekwondo uniforms and we’re grinning like drunken
sailors. Devin is holding up the identification card—the one that tells the
world he’s now a black belt—that I just awarded him. I’m so proud. He’s so
happy. It was a magical moment.
That same boy grew to
become a fine young man—passed me up in height as a teen. Devin now towers over
me, and I have to lift my heels to get a proper hug.
Devin is now
attending Yale University. (I love to name drop his school. I want you to know
that I know a smart person.) He was in town for the holiday, so last night we
met at a Thai restaurant. Over a sinus-drooling-induced red curry, he asked how
I learned to become a better writer. More specifically, what did I do in
college to improve my skills? When he first enrolled at Yale, Devin set an
intention: He wanted to become a better writer by the time he graduated.
Although he had written many essays and research papers since freshman year, he
still didn’t think he’d grown very much.
“My sentences are
still stale,” he said.
This boy is worlds
ahead of where I was at his age, I thought. I never gave weight to the
freshness of my words when I was in college. (Of course, I drank a lot of
alcohol then, so fresh words weren’t my primary concern.)
“So what did you do?”
he asks again. “I’m perplexed.”
I take another bite
of curry, a sip of water, and then say, “Facts.”
I’ve been lucky. I’ve
had few moments of writer’s block in my life because of how I grew up in The
Word. As a journalism student in high school and college, I didn’t have the
luxury of devising iron-clad plots or ruminating on the psyche of a character’s
motivation. I had a deadline to meet, and gruff editors didn’t care about
colorful words. They cared about facts. They needed to see something in
writing—now.
My best defense
against writer’s block was to write about real things in real time and focus on
the facts. That way, the story wrote itself. Every story was believable because
every story was true. Real, stupid, and fallible people doing awful things. And
occasionally, real, honest, hardworking people being heroes. I wrote far more
article about real, stupid events (everyone knows that tragedy and outrage tops
feel-good stories at the newsstand), but I had a soft spot for the kinder,
gentler profile piece of quiet heroes in the community.
I look Devin in the
eye, and add, “But more importantly, practice.”
While a student at
San Antonio College, I worked on its weekly newspaper, The Ranger. I wrote
whether I liked what came out or not. I never seemed to have writer’s block
back then. Writer’s block would have gotten me kicked off the staff. So I wrote
about the subject I was assigned, not what I curiously preferred. I wrote about
topics and situations that made me uncomfortable, but I did it—I could dig deep
that way—because it was a job. I could ask tough questions of authority figures
that normally scared the breath out of me. I could confront situations and
dilemmas without fear. I had a story to write, and it was always due NOW. I
didn’t have the luxury of writer’s block then. I had to write—something,
anything—and do it by the end of the day.
Practice has served
me well in many areas of my life. Taekwondo. Chinese calligraphy. Making a
good, strong pot of Tim Horton’s coffee. With practice, I have always improved.
And so I tell Devin not to worry so much about how the sentences come out.
Invite all types of sentences to join the page in practice. Edit later.
Improvement will happen naturally, oftentimes without notice. For now, just
practice.
When my newspaper
career ended, I started to care too much about what I wrote, how I wrote, and
what it sounded like. I wanted every word to be perfectly placed and every
point to be well-timed. I essentially wanted perfection at the beginning, and
if I didn’t think I had it, I hesitated to write it. I’m an editor, and I know
God created editors to improve others’ writing. God created them because no one
writes perfectly—especially in first drafts. But I’m odd: I felt embarrassed if
my work didn’t come out right the first time. I’m an editor, for crying out
loud. I should know better.
Still, I told Devin,
“Practice.”
These days, I’m
trying to embrace the imperfection of the first draft—to allow myself the
opportunity to write true crap and not change a damn thing at first glance or
hide its raw ugliness from editors who will confirm that, “Yes, you have just
written true crap. But, wait, there’s a nugget here. Right behind the
semicolon. There’s something there. Do you see it? No, not the one near that
coffee stain. The other semicolon. Do you see it now?” And then I do.
Practice.
Just put your fingers
on the keys and see what comes out. With or without coffee. Early mornings or
late afternoons. Holidays, weekends, or birthdays. Before the kids wake up or
after they’ve gone to bed. In the quiet and the chaos of life. On major
holidays and amid the dull, monotonous days of summer.
Practice.
