Building Blocks of Writing
A Journalist’s Diary
Writing requires balance. Finding that balance can be difficult and look different from writer to writer. I wrote about the usefulness of running in that balancing act two weeks ago. For today’s post, I found a short blog post about the insecurities of writers that spoke to me about the building blocks of writing, which are the qualities that make writing worth the struggle for me. I also have a short story update and a new observation.
Of Fraud & Insecurities
I recently stumbled over writer William Gallagher’s blog and a post from last year, which dares its reader to “be a fraud.”
The dare lured me in, but it wasn’t the insecurities aspect that kept me. More so, Gallagher touched on elements of the writing process I hold dear. I like to categorize them as building blocks.
Writing is thinking on paper forms the most important building block to me. I heard this first during my studies at Quinnipiac University, fell in love with that view, and still approach every bit of writing as a gift to transfer my thoughts to paper (or screen) and flesh them out.
The post mostly deals with what makes a writer a writer. Do you need to write every day? Do you need to feel guilty if you don’t?
It’s not the idea of guilt that spoke to me. In Gallagher’s words, “any kind of idea that makes writers feel guilty is bollocks.” That’s all there’s to say about it.
However, the frequency of writing is another building block of the process.
Similarly to what I read in that post, I don’t think I can remember many days without writing — if I take a broad stroke and go back to the writing equals thinking on paper part.
Every writing counts. Every thinking counts. Every observation in the real world counts. It all builds the foundation for the thoughts that eventually land on the paper or screen. And what lands in either of those places, as Gallagher observes, is all that matters.
There are many reasons for insecurities in writing (or photography or life). But what constitutes writing and how frequently one performs should not be among them.
From disaster to progress
I was, however, recently close to tumbling down that infrequent insecurity impediment rabbit hole.
The Cost-Benefit Analysis from last week is to blame.
It robbed me of momentum with my short stories. Instead of developing JJ, Cas, and all the other characters, places, and plot ideas, I evaluated my computing needs. That was neither productive nor helpful.
I also experienced a bit of a software disaster to round out the computer goodness in recent weeks.
The thinking aspect of writing was painfully obvious when I started working on two recent posts on issues I care about deeply — authentic photography and journalistic imagination.
My thoughts were chaotic, tangents everywhere. I sat down. I wrote it out, trusting the process would help me guide my thoughts.
It did.
But it was software that almost ruined my day.
I used OneNote to write an outline for each of the posts. When the first one was done (for the journalism post), I made a critical error. I trusted OneNote.
I selected the text box with my outline, copied it, pasted it, moved it, and transformed it into the outline for the photography post.
Muscle memory. I trusted muscle memory or the ability of basically every piece of software to perform an actual copy and paste. What I hadn’t expected: OneNote requires a click elsewhere on the canvas between the copy and the past parts of the operation. Despite giving a visual signal that something had happened, nothing had.
I ended up deleting my hard-earned outline as I built the new one bullet-point by bullet-point.
Fear not, I soothed the sliver of terror in my mind when I realized what I had done. Undo is your friend.
Oh dear. The unlimited undo actions I’m used to, bailed on me in OneNote for a reason I can’t begin to understand.
Fear not, I soothed the slightly more noticeable terror in my mind. There are “versions” I can return to. Where would those be in this software?
Oh dear. No support for the MacOS versions feature. But versions inside OneNote seemed to storm to my rescue.
Oh dear. The only saved state of that document was from the evening before — when I hadn’t even started thinking about the outline I needed to recover.
Once I had realized that neither the desktop software nor the browser version would be willing to give me back my outline, I slammed the lid of my laptop shut, jumped off my chair, and ran through the house, screaming niceties about that fine piece of software engineering I had put my trust in — from the top of my lungs.
Luckily, that 15-minute episode of temporary insanity was unwitnessed by any other human soul.
I gathered my strength, returned to the desk, and recreated the outline, a frustrating hour of desperately trying to remember the connections I had made before. I have no idea how close I got, but I’m quite satisfied with the result. Oh, I wrote that repeat outline in Apple’s notes app and haven’t touched OneNote again other than to transfer the few bits of information I had still locked in it.
Those frustrations aside, I’ve finally made happy progress with Cas and JJ.
As a warm-up before writing these lines, I sat down for an hour and wrote more background about the protagonists’s lives. I wrote by hand in an A4-sized notebook. The only technology assistance came in the form of online radio, which contributed classical music for a relaxed writing atmosphere, and a digital clock on the screen to remind me about the time slots I had set aside for writing.
Peace. Uncomplicated peace. Writing can be so simple.
The three ladies
“… looks at Heidi…”
“… coins, a 10 € bill…”
“I’m missing 1.30 € now…”
“…, says Heidi.”
I only catch snippets of the conversation the three ladies who just plunged into the four-seater in front of me have.
The commuter train is noisy, and it’s a bank holiday.
Oriental tones blare from a man’s phone in all their tinny glory, entertaining the entire compartment. I can barely see the guy. He sits off to the side, sharing a two-seater with another man. When he’s not staring at his phone, he’s talking with his neighbor. The phone sends bursts of music every few seconds, not that I could detect a pattern.
The three ladies are in their 70s, from what I can glimpse. Their exterior matches their loud and cheerful conversation.
Bright blonde hair decorates all of their heads, maybe shoulder length.
I spot golden spectacles on one lady who faces me. She sports a heavy winter jacket with a faux (hopefully) fur collar. Her makeup screams for attention with blue eye shadows and sparkly bits in various spots of her face.
The lady facing her shows bronze highlights on her left cheek, the side that pops up from behind the seat when she moves her head while talking.
Meanwhile, the phone music has stopped. But a young child has taken on the role of compartment entertainer.
“Can’t be … all that big,” Blue Eyes says. The kiddo makes the middle part of that sentence unintelligible.
And while the hum of the AC melts into the concerto of human voices, laughter, child screams, and train engines, the cold afternoon sun shines into the carriage for the first time in the 20-odd minutes I’ve been on board.
Time to leave and explore a section of the Ruhr river I’ve not seen before.
That’s all the writing updates for the moment. If you stop by again on Sunday, you’ll find the third running post since I began lacing up again. Next week, I’ll share Ghana news and forest photography.
