Category: Writing

Working Alone and Together

~ plainswriter ~ 2 Comments

It’s stating the obvious to observe that writing is a solitary pursuit, but there, I’ve gone and said it anyway. No one will write my poems for me, my stories for me, my essays for me, or even that book-length memoir for me. No one. I am the one who chooses (or not) to work on these pieces, even this piece.

I’m by myself at this moment (5:45 a.m.), the rest of my family still sleeping.  A glass of cold water and a cup of coffee both within reach, a candle burning, a solitary lamp lighting me as I work. No one ordered me to set my alarm for 5:30.

To be clear, I am mostly comfortable with this arrangement of my writing life. It’s no real bother to be “by myself” trying to put down the right word, then the next right word, etc. (I’m not sure how strong extroverts manage to become writers, but they do.)

But the other day I was thinking about my “condition,” 12 years removed from finishing my MFA, 5 years removed from finishing my PhD. I realized an essential component of the writing life I was missing: accountability with another writer.

To me, one of the best benefits of the graduate Creative Writing courses I took was the accountability built into the system. I had to turn in a story every few weeks. I had to turn in a poem each week. Beyond those structural “checks,” fellow writers and I talked in and out of class about our writing. There was genuine community, and I made friends with many of these folks, people I still keep in touch with to this day.

My writer-friends are scattered around the country: Oklahoma, Illinois, South Dakota, Minnesota, Kansas, Iowa, Georgia, among other states. I see these folks at conferences, at retreats. I see them online.

What did I do about this lack of accountability?

I reached out to one of my writer friends, to someone I thought who knows my “work,” what I’m “trying to do.” Would he like to start swapping work? He said yes, and we’re in the very first stage of this process, more accurately, on the first piece we sent each other.

As I write this, I am rereading the poem he sent, pining over what comments I might make. And in this set of actions, I’m moving beyond that inward focus towards the self. I am instead considering how I might encourage the writer, what words I might offer that can be of help.

It is a tiny step, yes, towards focusing outward, toward others. Of course, I am curious about what comments he’ll make on my poem. Right now, however, I am not considering that. I am (re)learning this truth: we were made for community. 

Summer-Writing Recap

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As the fall semester begins this week at my university, I’m pondering my writing over the past 3 1/2 months. In my last post, I noted how difficult July was (in terms of doing any sustained writing). I’ve learned that teaching 2 summer classes will complicate a writing life. (Big surprise!)

In those 7 weeks between end of spring semester and the start of my summer classes, I did make some substantial progress on two projects.

“The Essay”

I signed a freelance contract to write a 1,500-word essay on a passage from Oswald Chambers’ My Utmost For His Highest. The essay will be included in an anthology that commemorates the 100th anniversary of Chambers’ death.

This essay was arguably one of the most difficult pieces I’ve ever worked on. Over May and June, I completed at least 5 drafts, most of them at my local Panera. I consumed many cups of coffee during the process.

Part of the reason that it was so difficult was that I’ve never written anything quite like this: part theological reflection, part personal narrative, and all aimed towards a broad audience.

Don’t misunderstand me: I like to be challenged as a writer. I enjoy taking on a writing project that stretches me. It was refreshing to revisit Chambers’ book and its impact upon me. However, it was also a relief to send the essay off to an editor.

I do count it as a type of “warm-up” piece towards a future project. (See below.)

“The Poems”

I received a summer research grant from  my university to work on a poetry manuscript, Your 21st-Century Prayer Life. Most days from early May through the end of June I wrestled with a different poem each day.

I would ponder a single word in a single line of a poem, change the word, ponder more, and then change the word back. Other mornings or afternoons, I would ponder a line break, play with different possibilities, and then change the line break back. Sometimes, my approach would involve the radical actions of cutting one line (or more), cutting one stanza (or more).

By mid-June, I had revised over 2/3 of the poems. I dug through the remaining poems, and weeded out another half dozen to arrive at 40, a good biblical number. By the end of June, the time had come for the organizing portion.

I spent a couple of hours one afternoon, a big glass of iced coffee within reach, and sorted through the poems, looking for connections among them. Single sheets of paper were scattered around my home office. I began gathering them in small bunches. I was trying to create a meaningful sequence, and I organized the manuscript around the church calendar and certain repeating subjects.

Once I had created that order and copied the drafts into one document, I sent it to an editor. Back in April I’d had a conversation with this editor while attending a faith-based writing conference. I had told him about my manuscript, what my plans were, and asked him if he’d be interested in seeing the project at some later date. He had said, yes.

He and I are now working on the manuscript. He has suggested I attempt certain types of revisions to the poems, and I understand where he’s coming from with those suggestions. I’m excited about the future of this project, seeing that some of these poems go back 9 years.

*

“What’s next?”

I’ll be working on these poems for several months.

I’ll draft and/or revise a short story (or two).

I’ll be writing more material for a book-length memoir.

That’s enough to keep me occupied, I think.

On Regaining my Writing Momentum

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During my first semester in the PhD program, I wrote a piece entitled, “Writing and Teaching: Only Together Do They Satisfy.” The next semester, I presented the paper at graduate-student conference, where it was well received. The premise of the paper was that my teaching “fed” my writing and that my writing “fed” my teaching. So far so good.

Throughout my academic career in the 9 years since I drafted that piece, I find that I still agree with much of what I said then; however, I’m confident I could state my points more elegantly now. A good session of writing (even brief) before I teach is beneficial to me emotionally, growing my confidence. A good session of class (whether it’s Creative Writing, Literature, or Composition) compels me to the writing desk.

But this summer, I taught not 1, but 2, classes in the same term. Each class met for 2 1/2 hours a day, four days a week. “Finding” time to write (a doomed pursuit, I know) or even “planning” time to write (a much better approach) were set aside in the corner of my office. For 2 weeks I did not pick up a pen to write or revise anything; I did not type into a keyboard to compose a story’s opening scene, much less tinker with a line of poem.

For 2 weeks I withered inside, so much so that it was visible on the outside. To switch the metaphor, I was trying to keep my head above the waters of the mighty “2-Class River,” and I’ve never taken swimming lessons (literally or figuratively). So 10 days into those summer classes, I made an important decision: I needed to write something everyday, even if it was 10 minutes worth, or 200 words, or 2 stanzas.

At first, I felt as though I were a beginning writer. It was akin to returning to running after a couple weeks off. I didn’t know if I could do it (despite all the past experiences to the contrary). When I had finished writing two pages (two pages!) in a small notebook, the delight was comparable to seeing one of my poems or stories in print. It felt that good, yes.

Right now, I’m trying to build up my stamina again, much like the training I’ve done (and will do) for running races. I’m not ready yet for a 1-hour writing session, as much as I want to do on. Even as I write this, it’s been over 25 minutes, and fatigue is nudging me.

It feels so good to be back.