On occasion, I try to paint. I’m not very good at it, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t have aspirations of becoming some an art-world wonder. Painting is something I do to get away from a computer (because everything we do these days seems to require time in front of a glowing screen).
When I want a new perspective on a painting in-progress I hold it up to the mirror. Seeing the image in reverse is much like seeing a photograph of yourself in that it’s just different enough to point out the flaws. I can see where the shadows don’t agree with the light source, or how the eyes look more cartoon than sketchy.
Over the years I’ve tried to find an equal to a mirror for writing, but it’s not easy. Laying the pages down on a table one after another doesn’t work. A single-page outline of the story where I highlight the events and plot points always helps as it gives a view of the whole from a distance. But that’s not a true reflection.
A story or a play or a screenplay provide the audience with a journey. On this journey, there are uphill climbs, pratfalls, victorious dances and moments of true solitude. To see all of that in your mind’s eye in one go is impossible when you have your nose pressed up against the pages. Your nose gets stuck on the nitty, gritty.
What does work, however, is a very simple tool that takes great discipline: placing your manuscript in a drawer and leaving it there until you let the story go.
Working on a project is addictive. Moments in the shower or driving become opportunities to consider a character’s thought processes or the flow of a scene. It’s no longer a project, it’s a lifestyle.
That kind of rapture is essential for writing, of course. Like an actor who writes journal entries for the days leading up to a play’s action, it is in that state where insights and nuances are found.
But there are two ruts I find myself falling into:
1. In the scenes I don’t have the patience to figure out, I dash words together until I get something I think kinda works okay and then send it out before it’s ready. Sending it out is all about the dream: Someone will overlook the flaws as charming and declare it a work genius.
2. I dig into the perfection process, going in circles. I write and re-write and revise and revise and go back and start again and again and again.
What I’ve learned is that if you treat my writing like a box of food that can be heated up in a microwave, people see that.
Or, if I keep my nose so tightly in the words, they suck me into their vortex and I never find my way out of their grasp. The relaxed flow of language is also stiffened by over-thinking or over-writing. That characters stop breathing.
It takes great discipline to let go. If you do though, time will work its mirror magic.
When I come back to a manuscript after a month or so break, I find I have a new-found objectivity more clear and insightful than any reviewer could give me. In one section I’ve hit my stride. In another, the pithy words I was so attached to glare like dollar store bling.
The pace and flow of the work becomes more obvious. Am I writing in all one flurry, or are there hills and valleys for the audience to enjoy?
The drawer takes patience and discipline. But isn’t that what the craft of writing is all about?