How Not To Write – Doing Battle With Perfection

Have you ever sat down and written the first three lines of something, only to hit the backspace like a maniac a few moments later? It’s so easy to throw out work if it doesn’t seem to be going in the direction that you want it to, and often that can lead to us spinning in circles, rewriting the same sentence over and over again.

I know this because it’s something I do repeatedly. For example, I’m currently holding my 70,000 word manuscript over the metaphorical bin because I can’t see how it will end. The plot is rambling and half-baked, I’ve got characters that aren’t where they need to be, the whole thing feels like a failure. In short I want to throw it away and start from scratch.

But!

If I do that there’s a good chance I’ll never actually get finishing the damn thing because next time I hit a snag in the draft, I’ll want to start over all over again. Instead I’m going to remind myself of a Neil Gaiman quote that I love, get my head down, and finish that draft one way or another.

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“Whatever it takes to finish things, finish.

You will learn more from a glorious failure than you ever will from something you never finished.”

Neil Gaiman

The same applies when writing a blog post.

Yesterday I read a post called 31 Posts in 31 Days on a blog called Always Find The Silver Lining, run by Dominique. In it she finished by asking if anyone had any tips on what to do on those days where you don’t feel inspired or you’re struggling to write.

This a topic that lots of bloggers have tacked before. There are infinite suggestions across the web of things you can do if inspiration is hanging back. Read a book, take a walk, look out of the window… the list is endless and quite frankly, not a huge amount of help when you are stuck for something to write. So instead I thought I’d take the topic on from a different angle and passed on some advice I’d been given, by a Creative Writing Lecturer at Bath Spa University, when I said I was taking part in NaPoWriMo*.

Not everything you write will be good.

It was an honest comment and one that I’m incredibly glad to recieve because I’ve carried it forward with me.

At times we can sit down and write exceptional pieces of work with seemingly little effort. The words spill out with such ease that it can feel like we’re somehow cheating. Then on other days, each word will be a fight to pin down. They will clank against each other, sit awkwardly on the page, and refuse to string themselves into the shapes we want. This is the unfortunate truth about writing and it’s those days where we most want to throw the towel in and not bother finishing that story, poem, or article. It’s also those days where it’s most important that we sit back down and finish, no matter what sort of shape the final product produces for itself.

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Now, I’m not saying that it isn’t important to try and make each post better than the last. My site in itself is an example of how skill improves over time. I’ve got better at writing because of how much I have written over the years, but progress is not a straight line and treating it as such will only lead to frustration.

 

 The key is knowing that not everything you write will be fantastic. Some days it just won’t work. More often than not you have to work through a bit of sludge to get to the gold.

So if you take anything away from this post, make it this. The next time you want to hit backspace or delete, hit save instead. Come back to it later and finish it then. You never know when that piece of awkward, clunky writing might prove to be the inspirational that you’re looking for.

DraftsA while back I decided to go through the drafts piling up on my WordPress as the number was getting close to three figures and I thought it could do with a clear out. Unfortunately I’m one of those people who’s terrible at titling documents.

Turns out this is a great way of playing inspiration roulette.

Pick an untitled, see what crazy nonsense I was spewing, and throw myself into a free write. Like I said earlier, it might be terrible, it might be great, or it might be just okay.

The point is that I’ll be finishing the things I start, and that will teach me far more than hitting delete.

Retro Typewriter Machine Old Style


*National Poetry Writing Month

Scarecrow

You stitched yourself a world

of patchwork panels

hanging crooked from one another.

A cobbled mess of this and that,

the tension off in the needlework,

thread fraying loose in places.

One stray breath would rip asunder everything.

Yet still,

you held it out.

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Stone Seed

I lost the end of myself somewhere near the start,

among the scattered sheets of blotting paper

sprung up on iron girder stalks.

Parchment alliums staked out like skeletons,

petals more like teeth,

 

poems in the stems of them,

but no air for the words to breathe.

 

 

Between the leaves the stanza’s curled,

coppered, golden, burnt and burnished,

rhythm rolling hollow in the echos,

tongue twisted through the skirmish

as syllables clattered in and out

silver toothed, thick lipped, broken.

Turned over once, then twice, then thrice,

poetic promised poured and stolen.

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Hear The Ancestors Speak

There are motions that crack open the audios files inside my head. I don’t realise what they are until your voice is playing on the loudspeaker in my brain, blotting out all other thought with the echos of your absence. Salted caramel for the mind, both sweet and salty, love and tears. I will hit repeat until the lump in my throat jams the mechanism and you stutter into silence.

In the months where I’ve lost track of time, I cannot tell if you have begun to sound more like me, or if I am becoming you. Rolling the words around my mouth before I speak as if to stain them with your voice. Familiar phrases still clutter my tongue as I sift through the vowels jumbled between my teeth. You spoke so easily compared to me, I do not think anyone notices that I am using your words instead of mine.

Learning how to thread these sentences into conversations is a little like taking the waist of a dress in a few inches before learning how to sew. My first attempt was loose, hung off me in waves of excess fabrics, clearly too much for this frame to fill. Now I have perfected pinning those syllables to the slope of my belly, the valley between my breasts, the skim of thigh and knee and calf, the strain in the hollow of my throat. I can speak without catching my heels on the hem, so the words pout forth like water now. You are there in the current, but I have found how best to navigate the flood.

Roots grow down deeper,

seeking the center of it.

I am just one thread.

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He Sailed In On The Wrong Tide

You arrived too early,

at the point when my heart

could only shudder not flutter.

So unused to feeling anything

besides the grinding of pieces

forcing themselves to fit

into places grown too small.

 

Instead of heat pooling somewhere deep

there was fire along my hairline

inside the back of my skull,

with some primordial lesson still drumming

in the shadows of my DNA.

 

 

A tempo of hammering,

lungs creasing and collapsing

feet turned to lead still beating

with the panic of my pulse

as I let the miles run out of count

beneath me.

 

Catching my breath was a year long exericse

which when marked

only came up with a half score

of ‘could do better if she applied herself’

and ‘doesn’t seem to really understand

the subject matter discussed.’


Daily Post: Premature