There was always something a little depressing in high school and college about telling anyone I was a writer, because they would always want to know, what have you written?
The question should not have been a stumper, not tough, but it was, even though I had written lots of things, many beautiful beginnings: two paragraphs of a novelistic masterpiece, a brilliant snippet of dialogue, or a lyrical description of a plant. There was only one problem: hardly any of my projects were finished.
There were glimpses, I thought, of real talent, unplanned bursts of inspiration. I treasured those unfinished pieces because they seemed to offer hope. Rather than write something new, I clung to my old frozen efforts full of pretty passages and nice imagery, sparse trophies in the glass case of my ego. Look? See? I can be a writer someday, I can.
I believed I needed my portfolio of promising beginnings to prove to myself that I was “good,” but from experience I knew that if I continued my stories, I would lose the magical ease with which I had begun. With my inspiration gone, everything would break down and the problems would begin. My trophies were at least evidence that if I only made the effort, I could turn my unfinished story into a masterpiece.
But the discrepancy between what I planned to do and what I did pushed me into a hell of cognitive dissonance. It is hard to call yourself a writer when all you have is a series of stalled yet beautiful beginnings, hard to brag that you wrote two paragraphs of sheer genius, hard to deny there is something wrong when you call yourself a writer, yet have almost no writing to show.
I often wish I could go back in time and give my younger self a “talking to” about the psychology of finishing stories. I don’t have a time machine, but I can at least tell others what I know. The first thing I would tell my younger self is that completing stories is a giant step toward artistic growth.
Go ahead and write “bad” but finished stories
A “bad” finished story is worth far more than one paragraph of polished Dickensian prose. Why? Because once you finish a “bad” story, you have something to work with; you have partially formed “clay” to mold. Or, to use a different analogy, an imperfect draft becomes a puzzle with many parts. It gives you specific problems to solve and learn from, but you cannot solve problems that do not exist.
I would tell my former self to let go; let go of the frozen ego-gratifying paragraphs, partial “ice sculptures” glimmering with pretty imagery and impressive rhythms. I would say, if you wrote one good thing, you can write more good things, many more; no matter how “good” or “bad” a single piece is, just keep writing. Write when you are in distress, write when you have a sick cat, write when you are happy, write when you are going insane, write, just write, keep writing, and never stop.
Depending on old writing efforts for self-confidence is like hanging onto the side ledge of a swimming pool, afraid to let go and actually swim. It is paralysis, a state of being creatively frozen.
Creativity is not about celebrating pretty frozen things, though it may seem that way because we live in a society that elevates product far above process, failing to recognize that product is a record of the process, and that the two are inextricable.
To outsiders, art looks different than it does to the artist. When readers open a book all they see is neat characters of text marching along like obedient soldiers. But the act of writing is messy, dynamic, and uncertain, more about discovery than proving how good you are. You may end up writing something completely different than you originally intended because as you write, you change. Sometimes new life experiences will begin to influence a story. Each moment of writing has the potential to surprise. That possibility for surprise, more than any praise, is what makes writing addictive for me.
Science fiction humorist Douglas Adams said that he did not like to write, that he only liked having written. At one time I would have agreed with him, but I no longer feel that way. I am far more excited about the incomplete pieces of writing I am working on than my past, frozen efforts, no matter how “good” they are.
But the willingness to finish a story is not the same as the ability to finish. What if you have no idea what you are doing? It helps to learn the “rules” of writing, but it is also essential to let them go when necessary.
Learn the “rules,” then bend or discard them
For a long time I did not know how to make my stories feel complete. I studied plot structure and character and assumed that if my story did not meet certain criteria, such as an identifiable climax and resolution, I was doing it wrong. I finally realized that the rules for writing can be bent. If you try too carefully to follow the standard formulas, writing can start to feel like painting by numbers. “Drop in a lovable character, give him hell, insert X amount of trial-fail cycles here, pick a heart-melting theme, and stir.” Most Hollywood movies follow the standard formula without deviation and as a result most of its films are tediously predictable.
Rather than fill in variables of a standard formula, I seek to create in my stories a feeling of wholeness and closure. The baseline objective is not for my writing to conform to a certain set of rules, but for it to be interesting. Since my discovery, I have been able to finish a lot more stories than I used to, and I like them more.
I view the standard model taught in creative writing classes as useful for getting a derailed story back on track, but I have zero interest in writing stories that have already been written, with just a few details changed.
However, I am not a “pantser,” someone who makes up their stories as they go along without any planning. I am more likely to finish a story if I have a clear direction, even if my initial direction changes mid-way. Fortunately, anything in writing can be changed, which is a great thing to remember when you are writing a rough draft.
Embrace the rough draft in all its glorious roughness
Becoming friends with the messy, uncertain rough draft stage is the best thing I ever did for my writing, but it was hard. Even if you tell yourself “anything goes,” looking into a verbal mirror that highlights imperfections as well as good qualities can be emotionally difficult.
I was stymied for years because I wanted to avoid looking into that mirror. I only wanted to write if I could be sure everything would come out right the first time. I had an image of myself I wanted to preserve: controlled, logical, easily categorizable and easily understood. I wanted perfectly organized paragraphs to unfurl from my fingers.
In order to complete stories, I had to become comfortable with myself, with my thought patterns, my inner chaos, and even my “dark side.” I began granting myself unconditional praise for any writing effort, even if I saw in it places where I was irrational, biased, indulging in self-pity, or in denial. I had to constantly remind myself that in a rough draft, anything goes.
What is allowed in a rough draft? A rough draft allows you to be boring, trite, self-indulgent, silly, crazy, rude, prurient, sentimental, or profane. My problem with rough drafts was my inability to accept them as reflections of my own inner “roughness.”
It took me a long time to get to a point where I could look into my “word mirrors” without flinching, but once I learned how, the rewards were well worth the effort. Unconditional praise mitigated the self-critical inner voice that had blocked me for many years. With the critical voice silenced, I could take pleasure in the act of writing, and loving the way writing feels is the best way to finish stories consistently.
I no longer cling to past successes, whether they are finished or unfinished. Process trumps product. I write, I finish, I move on, and then I write some more. Sometimes writing feels as confusing and exciting as moving through a house of mirrors. The challenge is to look into the mirrors with self-tolerance and objectivity, no matter how good or bad you appear, to see yourself in all your baffling complexity, and continue to move through it all, undaunted, until you are done.
If you enjoyed this post you might like my other writing. Take a moment and sign up for my free starter library. Click here. Also my new novel \”The Ghosts of Chimera\” will soon be published by the folks over at Rooster and Pig Publishing.