Shaping into Shape

If you woke up one day and discovered that you could write well, then I’d say you woke up and discovered how good of a liar you were. Or you’re legitimately delusional, currently seeking treatment. I’ll wish you the best.

One-punch KOs, levitation, invisibility, showering, being a boss: these things don’t come naturally. They take practice. They don’t just happen. Neither does writing. You’re not good at it, even if you woke up thinking you were. You don’t get good at it by going back to bed and waking up again thinking you’re good at it.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I don’t mean to brag, but—

(Yes, you do. But do go on.)

since I’ve spent the last few years sculpting my body, I know the value of exercise and routine when it comes to achieving a goal.

(This blog isn’t called “Bodybuilding All Wrong,” but I’ll keep the idea for reference.)

I’d really like to improve my writing. What kind of “exercises” can you recommend to practice getting in “writing shape?”

—Blane Renner, Gainesville, Fla.

Change your name to “Blade Runner.” Start with that.

I’m with you on sculpting a perfect body, having done so myself. Once I reached that rarefied pinnacle of peak fitness, toning my once pathetic body into a paragon of godlike perfection, I focused on writing instead. My body has reached the limit of flawlessness, but the mind has no such limit.

As far as writing exercises go, they’re similar to how you’d exercise in the real world outside of the word processor and/or internet. You don’t throw a 98-pound weakling right to the bench press, nor do you subject a beast (like me) to concentration curls using a 100-pound dumbbell. Maybe a 10-pound dumbbell, if we’re talking about mortals here.

Unfortunately, writing isn’t a muscle. Raw exercise won’t cut it. It’s a skill that takes refinement and practice.

Exercises for wimps:

(If you haven’t written a [good] novel or a good anything, then start here, wimp.)

1) Character sketches.

Invent a person, draft a rough idea of who he/she/it is with quick strokes of introspection. Create them by the masses, kill off those who don’t inspire you. Unless they’re a transcendent creation, they deserve to die anyway.

2) Dialogue.

Generate a happening through dialogue. Keep that narrator in the box for now, practice the creation of substance from the eavesdropper’s perspective. There’s a reason hearsay’s banned from a court of law: it’s that good.

3) Creation from drafts.

Do most stories plop onto the paper in their fullest form? No. Jot some fragments down, sprinkle in a pinch of coherence. See if you can construct a complete work from the sporadic emanations of your creative faculties. The imagination doesn’t do the legwork in fleshing out an unassembled spate of dissimilar ideas. That’s where writing comes in.

Exercises for mortals:

1) Freewriting

An intentionally torturous ordeal, meant to shape the mind before the craft. Simple in theory, difficult in execution. Write (by hand) for twenty minutes straight. Without stopping. Not even to pee. You can soil your shorts if you have to. Freewriting builds the ability to keep a train of thought going long enough to pen down what you’re thinking. I dare you to try it offhand. Without thinking, you’ll reflexively stop, pause, determine what to write, then continue writing. That is why you fail. Your mind should be quicker than the pen. If it isn’t, you either write too fast or think too slow.

2) Constructing a recollection.

This doesn’t call for an eidetic memory, but it helps. Think of this as a retrospective diary, only less sissy. Using recreational acid, experimental prescription drugs for treating Alzheimer’s, or wild mushrooms in a forbidden forest, probe the recesses of your memory. If those memories aren’t yours, well, that’s fresh material to work with. Keep at it. You may need to meditate for two hours, possibly up to forty-two. Write what you remember, but do so with the intent of your reader experiencing the memory as you do. Writing from observation takes no skill. Your memory is the closest bridge you have between the real and the mind-constructed. Unless you’re copping out and only going to write what you’ve experienced firsthand, then this skill must be developed.

3) Forced constraint.

You’d find it difficult if you had to work without using both arms, or if you didn’t work with both parts of your brain. If you opt for imposing a constraint on your writing, you’ll find how much you’ll labor in this art, in contrast to how straightforward it looks if you don’t work with limits. Pick which suits your fancy: no word surpassing any amount of consonants, paragraphing within a word limit, taking out words that modify, or anything you think of that unnaturally stilts your writing.*

*Like not using the letter E. 

Exercises for beasts (like me):

1) Dictionary dash

This may be my least favorite exercise, but I can’t think of anything that will whip you into shape faster and build your pathetic vocabulary. It’s like mixing creatine and recombinant bovine growth hormone into your muscle milk before a rigorous workout. Effective. Check out your local library’s copy of the Oxford English Dictionary (Twentyleventh Edition, revision 3-and-a-half.5), then begin a narrative while using one of the OED’s entries per sentence. It may take close to a dozen passes to yield a decent work. After you’ve gotten comfortable with the dictionary dash, begin using entries out of order. Going through the OED from A to Z: far too easy for a beast (like me).

2) Practice novels

Sketches, scenes, mere parts of the whole are the province of wimps and mortals. Whipping out entire novels by the novelful will test your ability to build an idea and bring it to fruition. The NaNoWriMo ruse will only gauge this ability once a year, and only through the flighty, exuberant whims of wannabe weevils. And taking a month to churn out a novel? Unacceptable. That’s a luxury you’ll refuse to afford. Should only take a week at most. Enough of these practice runs and you’ll be nearing the apex of optimal writing shape.

3) Ultramarathon freewriting

Freewriting will soon fail to test your strength once you’ve reached the beast echelon. Ultramarathon freewriting will be your solution. While twenty minutes would be an admirable goal for the mortal, we aim for sheer endurance at this level. Typing’s allowable, only because you’ll be shooting for pain. Don’t be dismayed if you average in the two-to-three hour range, as you’ve handily eclipsed the standard milestones. Breaking the five-hour mark takes incredible discipline, but by then you’d have developed a thought train more continuous than an entire high school system. It takes tremendous effort to break each new barrier in running a mile (three minutes, two minutes, one minute, half-minute), so will it be in shattering the six-, ten-, twenty-, and forty-hour marks. Press on.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and incorporated into the “P90x for Poets” regimen.

Saying Everything, Saying Nothing.

No matter how strong the tale, it’s only as strong as its writing. A basic tenet, but almost everyone forgets this. Emphasis on everyone. Most misguided stories don’t turn out to be poor tales at heart, but then again, you’d never know. Miring through the poor framing, the stilted narration, the repetitive structuring: it’s too much effort. When it comes to reading one’s writing, you shouldn’t have to pry a gem out of coal and mud.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Hi Writing All Wrong,

I’ve been working on a story about what I call an “isolated” hero. He’s been betrayed, so he basically feels like he’s redeeming himself by redeeming others. Anyway, I’ve let a few people read it. Some like it, but some don’t, so I want to get an objective, unbiased opinion. Here’s a selection of what I’ve written so far:

“Angelo. He was alone. Alone in the midst of other lonely people. He sharpened his blade with a leftover shard found on the dusty floor. His steel-blue eyes glared from the trusty weapon, reflecting confidence. He took a deep breath, sharpening away. Angelo sighed, kicking up dust. He’d waited long enough, and he’d have to wait longer still. He couldn’t bear the burden of his vengeance much longer.”

I’d like to get your opinion on it. Thank you.

—Dan Reed, Depoe Bay, Ore.

If you’re looking for objective, unbiased opinion, then you’re looking in the wrong place. The only thing that will provide that is a text analysis program, and even they have their biases. They’ve been notorious finicky when it comes to postmodern chick-lit, and they’re not as friendly toward hypertextual SF(surprise). Besides, that’s not what you need. You need help.

Let’s start with the first flaw: Angelo. Not inspiring. Not for this kind of story. Solution: call him Tangelo. I’ll help you out by referring to this protagonist as Tangelo from henceforth. You should do the same.

The next flaw: isolation. I can understand the beating in of the character’s loneliness, but unless you’re writing to the sub-preschool audience, it’s not necessary. “He was alone” is the weakest way to convey your idea. Reinforcing it by adding “(a)lone in the midst of other lonely people” contradicts with confusion. This isn’t stylistic panache; this is painful.

The flaw after next: anti-specific vagueness. I’ll be the first to admit that not everything needs a description in pinpoint. If you evade the IRS by jumping into the “river,” I can live with that. If you threw a “rock” at a wild jackalopotamus, then you needn’t describe further. But I’m going to call you out on “leftover shard.” Leftover from what? A battle? A previous weapon A prison meal? Is he even in a prison? And what kind of shard is this? Rock? Shale? Glass? Flint? Adamantium? It’s good practice to let the imaginative mind of the reader fill in the blanks, but it’s a malicious ruse when I have to draw those blanks myself.

Another major flaw: sentence structure. I don’t have the patience to point out everything else that’s wrong here, like the clichéd use of “taking a deep breath,” with the dovetail into hapless redundancy of “deep breath” and “sighed.” Stepping back, the paragraph becomes predictable with this pattern of “subject-verb,” “subject-verb,” and “subject-verb.” He sharpened. Eyes glared. He took a breath. He sighed. He waited. He’d have to wait. He couldn’t bear. Just kill me, please. Do it now.

The flawiest flaw: emptiness. Read this again. We’ve seen a hodgepodge of empty descriptions stitched together in a meaningless blur. Even outside the context, there’s nothing pulling me into Tangelo’s plight, nothing emphasizing what this soulless character feels, and nothing convincing me that any of this is worthwhile. We’ve got loneliness, vengeance, despair, and confidence all crammed in, making everything look like a poor series of ill-thought afterthoughts.

Sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and used as an effective C-C-C-Combo Breaker.

Block Writer’s Block

Writing is just like driving.  It takes practice, you need a license, no one else is good at it (except you, of course), and you’ll eventually have to find ways to bypass roadblocks.

Unlike writing, roadblocks in the driving experience are inevitable. Daytime construction. Collisions. Road closures. Entitled pedestrians. People who forget how to drive in the rain/snow/sun.

In the driving world, yanking the emergency brake in the middle of the highway and forgetting where you’re going would be insensible and unexplainable. That’s not a legitimate roadblock. That’s not even rational. I wouldn’t know what to call that.

But do you know what we call that in the writing world? Writer’s block.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

I’m sure you’ve gotten this question before, but I’m hoping you’ll take the time to answer this for me. How do you overcome writer’s block?

—Ellen London, Hebron, Ill. 

There’s no such thing as writer’s block. Unless you’ve got legitimate issues with the frontal lobe of your cerebrum (rare) or have a telepath psionically impeding your creative abilities (also rare), then there’s no excuse. And if you do have brain issues, consult a specialist. And if you do have a telepath doing that psionic impediment deal, politely ask them to stop, or get a special kind of helmet for that.

Writer’s block is what you get when you stop thinking, stop writing, and forget how to cope with inaction. Perhaps it’s not finding the right words, losing a thread in a story, or losing interest in the endeavor. Regardless, it’s avoidable. Here are some parlor tricks that should help you skirt this inevitable roadblock that’s neither inevitable nor a roadblock.

1: Read a book.

Sure, you’re thinking “That’s not a solution!” It is a solution. To create, one must study creation.

2: Re-read what you’ve written.

Look at writer’s block as a way of backtracking and getting a feel for where you’ve come so far. Lost anything before in your real life? Retrace your steps. Same applies to writing. You find the way forward by moving backward.

3: Edit what you’ve already written.

The force of Nature could no further go, it said, “You need to go back and fix this mess.” (If you get the reference, maybe you shouldn’t be reading this blog.) There’s nothing like a natural inhibitor to continued creation when you’ve probably done it wrong for the past fifty pages or so. Inspiration has its checks, but you’re responsible for the balances.

4: Work on a new scene (part, section, whatever).

Your story should have more than one thread or at least a strand or two hanging around. Those ideas, sub-plots, and novelties you’d wanted to get to later on in the narrative? Might want to work on them at this point, as they’ll fire up the creative faculties. Consider it a detour, but don’t derail your work with these. You’ve not been given license to fool around for the sake of impetus.

5: Work on a side project.

What? Abandon the main endeavor? You bet. You’d be surprised how many ancillary works you can add to your portfolio in your detours. If you’re a writer worthy of writing, you’ll write something. If you have to re-focus that energy into something completely different, then do it. Anything’s better than slamming one’s forehead on a blank template.

6: Write a new story.

Why not? You’ve probably had another story on the back-burner or side-burner anyway. Get that one off the ground, mire yourself within, hit another impasse, and come on back to the work you left behind. Finish the task. Complete the cycle. Put aside the Ranger. Become who you were born to be.

7: Read bad writing.

Nothing motivates hidden greatness more than exposure to unhidden lameness. When you can’t bring yourself to write, remember that many other writers somehow managed to do it. Not only did they manage to write, they managed to write poorly. Not only did they write poorly, they managed success with their poor writing. There are thousands of authors making a decent living by writing worse than you write right now. The difference? They’re writing, and you’re not. Also, they’re making more than you right now. Get to work.

8: Start over.

If you can’t bring yourself to finish it, just give it the ol’ Command+A (Control+A, if you’re still using Windows in the Age of Enlightenment), then hit that Delete key. Don’t look back. Put your failure in the past. Start something you plan to see to its completion next time.

9: Stop writing altogether.

Yes, this may be the cosmos telling you that this isn’t your thing. Why insist on persisting if writing just wasn’t what you were put on Earth for? It’s not writer’s block. It’s a guard, pleading with you to turn away from a path not meant for you. Not everyone was meant to golf like Tiger Woods, play basketball like Michael Jordan, or breathe underwater like Aquaman. There’s a reason Tiger doesn’t shoot hoops, Jordan doesn’t golf (professionally), and Aquaman doesn’t fly. They were good at what they do from the outset. They never failed. They never encountered obstacles that kept them from success. If you’re not immediately successful with this writing ordeal, it may be time to hang it up. Your destiny will thank you.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com), followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong), and paired with a ’59 Mouton-Rothschild.