Writing Journal - Part #3 in the Slowing the Hell Down Series

joefentonart.com

Oh, I’m feeling it.

            I am right now in the position to fully understand the wonderful merit of slowing down.  For writing a large story it is imperative and essential. And, as I have recently discovered, it is where all the good stuff is found.

            I’d like to explain exactly what I mean by slowing down.  The words are vague, and can mean a few different things.  I think for my situation, I have to embrace all definitions of the phrase.  But as far as writing, work, and the creative process is concerned slowing down is the only way you get the emotional handshake between merely trying something and expression. It is how an activity can evolve from something you just do, to something that is a part of you.

            For years, I knew I had something to say and I had nine different ways to say it.  I tinkered and goofed around with comedy, poetry, short stories, scripts, novels, blogs, essays, and writing my podcast.  I didn’t half-ass everything, but I also don’t remember digging too deep.  I don’t remember an intensity of emotion. When I wrote my first few “longer” stories, I wanted to prove that I could do it.  I typed fast, thought fast, and put everything together fast.  What was left was a handful of neat ideas, strung together with thin strings of character development.  I had not started taking my pills yet, either.

This still feels too ethereal to explain.  I’ll keep trying. 

Yesterday, I sat down at my writing time.  The task for the day was to continue the second draft, which specifically included an overhaul of the first third of my book.  I got into the groove of writing and thinking slower after a sizable chunk of my story had been written. So the end is paced, and the beginning is a runaway freight train with huge missing pieces.

So, I knew I had to tackle a scene that I roughly fleshed out two months ago.  The lazy part of my brain wanted to breeze past it again, or even skip it altogether.  I couldn’t think of what was needed to fix the scene either.  Nothing was coming to mind.  So, I just started writing.  Purposefully and completely.  With attention to everything, including sentence structure, word repetition, as well as character development, tone, and all that good stuff.  What resulted was a half chapter of the completely unexpected.  It only comes from purposeful work.  Not hard work.  Work that matters to me.

I wasn’t painting by throwing cans of paint into a jet engine and watching it splatter on the floor.  I was painting a tree, leaf by leaf.  I was knitting a sweater, piece by piece.  I was hand-rolling 500 Swedish meatballs into identically-sized hors d’oeuvres.

I couldn’t do that with the guitar.  I couldn’t memorize all the chords and structures. I couldn’t hit the open mics five times a week to build comedy muscles. I’m not meticulous with anything I do.  When I work, I do my best to not screw up.  But with writing, I get to methodically be in control of everything, at my own speed. 

This is one of those many things in life that some people learn by the time they are eight years old.  I can’t imagine the trajectory my life would have taken if I knew what it was to slow down.  It is the focus we all look for.  It is, sociologists have discovered, what makes us truly happy.  It’s not a job you love or money or fun, it’s the ability to find something to do where the rest of the world disappears and nothing else matters.  Your brain shuts off and it’s just you and the thing.  We all get it every once in a while; being with friends or your children or throwing yourself into a project.  But it’s fleeting.  It’s not love or purpose or devotion.  It’s a connection.  Unlike anything else life can give you.

Damn, I hope this book is good.