Give the people the free writing advice that they need (but didn’t ask for)

Most weeks on this podcast I bring a personal narrative in hopes of modeling the kind of writing I try to help others develop: writing that is brave, confident, authentic, and creative. 

Just the act of posting my writing every Saturday morning, whether the piece is ready or not, is meant to reinforce my value that imperfection need not stand in the way of release. Lorne Michels, the long-time showrunner of Saturday Night Live famously says “The show doesn’t go on because it’s ready, it goes on because it’s 11:30.” So what arrives in your podcast feed on Saturday morning is what I could produce that week before 11:59 pm Friday night. 

I try all week to construct a narrative that tells a story, while also deconstructing something about the act of storytelling itself. I’ve written about a sweltering drive to Acapulco as a way of not telling the chilling incident that occurred when we arrived. I’ve written about my fear of gun violence in the US and my frustration that my attempts at persuasive writing to elected officials has rendered little response. I’ve written about birth stories, and overconsumption of news, and college applications, and the superiority of typed writing to journal writing. 

But this week I find I have to take a break from storytelling. I’m still in recovery from last week’s story about my Dad and how the comedian Hannah Gadsby helped me reconstruct the narrative I’ve been telling myself and others about that experience. In her 2020 follow up to Nanette, which I quoted from extensively last week, Hannah finds herself in a similar situation. “I’m fresh out of trauma,” she says. Me too.  

So what do you write about when you don’t know what to write about.

“Write about what you know!” comes a voice from the crowd. 

Mostly I think that’s BS writing advice. But since writing advice is the thing I know most about…I guess that leaves me with no choice than to use our time together this week to talk directly about the writing process. 

Gosh and here I am, at the beginning, and already I need to pull out of the narrative to nit pick something. 

I just said “the writing process.” And I immediately regret it.

“The” is English’s definitive article, the three letter, almost imperceptible indication of certainty and specificity. And really, you shouldn’t trust anyone who has anything to say about “the” writing process.

There is no definitive writing process. 

The first rule of the writing process is there is no “the” writing process. There just isn’t. 

But isn’t that one of those pieces of advice that is intended to be freeing, but instead can just moor you in uncertainty? Ok so if I can do it any old way, but I haven’t figured out how to do it, then how do I do it? Fair dues.

Perhaps the simplest way to ameliorate the problem I’ve just created by using the offending definitive article is to replace “the” writing process with “my” writing process. 

So let’s talk about my writing process. There are plenty of ways to do it, but since you clicked on my podcast imma tell you what works for me. 

Number one: I like to write as if I am talking. 

Thinking of writing as writing almost always leads me to stiffen up. The concept of writing is intimidating!

But writing hasn’t always been what we think of as writing. The oldest storytelling in the world was just that, story telling. The writing part came centuries after the Vedas were first uttered, after the tales of Gilgamesh had been gathered, and after Homer and his heroes were long-buried.

Writing, in the beginning, wasn’t for persuasion or feeling or history or admissions. No way. 

Writing was for government bureaucrats and merchant accountants. It was for bean counting and record keeping. 

Writing is a tool for recording, organizing, and transmitting, which we have adapted to use for storytelling.  

But I believe that to this day, our thoughts and stories are first felt and then spoken out loud or in our minds, only after which can we employ the tool of writing.

So don’t despair if the prospect of jumping straight into writing causes you to seize up. As I said before, “Just write,” or “write what you know” really isn’t great advice.

Instead, shift the center of gravity from the act of writing to the act of feeling, thinking, observing, or speaking. And when those thoughts or feelings find firmament in the form of words, let your pen or keyboard or thumbs serve primarily as a witness, a court stenographer for your thoughts.

And like a court stenographer, just make a record of what comes out. Don’t editorialize. Don’t pause. Don’t get self-critical that the word that you’ve just poured out isn’t a top-shelf vocabulary word. Just let it out. Most of the things that you write say are just fine as they are. And if they’re not remembering the advantage of writing over speaking is that you can go back and revise. Again try to redefine for yourself this notion that writing is stiff. Writing is flexible. If anything talking is the less flexible modality because you can’t just hit the backspace button after saying something awkward, or incorrect, or just plain stupid sounding.

So ok let’s say you’re just laying out the story in a first pass and you write “I saw something that I thought might be a bird.” Write that, just as you said it in your head. And keep going. When you run out of thoughts go back to the top and reread what you’ve got. Maybe you come to that sentence and with fresh eyes, you think of a more concise or precise phrasing. With a few strokes of the backspace button, you can transform that line into “I perceived what appeared to be a bird.”

For more on my love of writing on a word processor, check out episode two of this podcast, “Blankness and the Blessed Backspace.”

Writing tip number two: I try to extend generosity to my reader when organizing information. 

When I actually sit down to write, no matter what kind of piece–persuasive, informative, creative–I try to take a moment to consider the experience of the reader. 

I think about the readers who are tired and prone to zoning out. I think about the readers who are jaded and skeptical. I think about the readers who are just trying to skim quickly and just need to pull out the TLDR. And I think about readers who want to luxuriate in words, who are seeking sensory stimulation and emotional connection.

Chances are I can guess what kind of reader I’ll have depending on what I’m writing: applications are will sit in a stack in front of harried hiring committees and tired admissions panels; online content must jump out to a potential customer and justify a pause in their scrolling; and the personal narratives written for the podcast are written with you in mind, listening with a cup of coffee in hand. 

Being able to consider the likely state of my reader’s attention and intention helps me plan and execute my writing in a way that my reader’s experience is centered. Most pieces, after all, are written for them. 

If my reader is the jaded, skeptical, admissions committee type, I am on guard against tropes and cliches sneaking in. Horizons will not be broadened. Comfort zones will not be broached. And help me God no mention will be made of my grandmother, no matter the depth of her wisdom.  

If my reader is likely tired and in a rush, I write with simple sentences that take little energy from which to absorb meaning. “I would hope to possibly find myself one day joining your team” becomes “I hope to join the team.” “Though I’m not certain what the future holds for me, I do hope that it involves something related to supporting the development of students’ education” becomes “I aim to become an educator.” 

And if my reader has come to spend time in my world, I reflect on the details, the sensory experiences, and emotional beats that expand the narrative itself. “My favorite teacher in elementary school” may suffice in another piece, but in this one I will write about “Mrs. Trautwien, my chain-smoking, leather-skinned, lesbian second grade teacher who with Frizzilian enthusiasm eschewed barnyard animals for the denizens of the east African savannah and Brazilian rainforest.” (True story.)

There are also going to be readers with greater and lesser tolerances for jargon, or data, or quotes, or citations. For example, I’m going to bet that you, dear listener, don’t even have the tolerance for an example involving chemical equations or the citation of a professional medical journal, so let’s just skip those examples all together. 

Case in point: look out for your reader/listener in everything you write.

And whatever type of reader I anticipate, I try to give that reader something to hold onto while they take in what I am writing. 

In a recent session with an applicant to law school, I likened this concept to the crust on a slice of pizza. We can all agree that the outer crust is fundamentally secondary to the toppings. By definition, the crust is somewhat dry and simply flavored. 

But think about a pizza with toppings encroaching too close to the edge. No matter how tasty those toppings may be, without a sturdy, clean edge the whole thing is difficult to hold and your fingers will get oily. It’s messy. Worst-case scenario you face the humiliating prospect of putting the whole thing down and eating it with a fork and knife like an awkward politician on the campaign trail. 

I’ve had that experience. Not literally, I would never never eat pizza with a fork and knife no matter what. But I’ve come to the end of an essay, and read all of its arguments, and my brain was left felt feeling uncomfortably sticky. Like what was that all about? Why did they have to pile so much on that I can barely keep a hold of the whole thing?

So I believe in surrounding the body of my pieces with a clear, utilitarian structure, even if it’s a little dry. “I’m writing to express my enthusiastic interest in the X role at your organization.” “I hope to persuade you of the necessity to install additional lighting in the northwest corner of the facility.” “I want to use this space to talk directly about the writing process.” Ok that last one, we know, turned out to be a little problematic because I immediately detoured into the definitive article–which in this metaphor would be a surprise stuffed crust? Hmm I’m not sure. But whatever, you know what I’m doing. 

Those aren’t sexy sentences. They probably won’t be noticed or remembered. But without the intention setting to give my reader something by which to hold onto the rest of the piece, the thing can feel messy and boundaryless. 

Number three: I put a high value on textural details.

I have a theory that memorable writing is related to the quality of textural details. In my mind’s eye, writing that is non-specific is smooth, and slips out of the brain like Jello off a spoon. 

On the other hand, writing that is detail-rich attaches itself to the fabric of the reader’s memory like a burr. 

Details can be factual, sensory, or emotional. 

Let’s bring back an example from earlier: Mrs. Trautwein, “my chain-smoking, leather-skinned, lesbian second grade teacher who with Frizzilian enthusiasm eschewed barnyard animals for the denizens of the east African savannah and Brazilian rainforest.” There’s just so much specificity here it’s impossible for her not to stand out in your memory. Compare that description to the simpler line: “my favorite elementary school teacher.” Phrases like “favorite,” without the buttressing of substantiating details, don’t stand very tall in anyone’s memoryscape. Same thing for “greatest,” “worst,” “best,” “horrible.” Share stats, rankings, and comparables. Evoke visuals. Quote the lyrics of the song playing in the background. Name check the friend you were with. Add a time stamp or a temperature reading. Of course you don’t want to bog down every element of every sentence with every imaginable specificity; but incorporate enough realness that highlight the humanity of the experiences you’re relaying. 

That’s how we’re gonna keep the bots at bay. At least for now. 

Number four: I like to operate on three levels–primary narrative, the emotional substructure, and the greater superstructure of “so what.”

This, to me, is the most difficult aspect of my writing process to convey. It’s one of those things that if you get a feel for it gets to be second nature, like driving a stick shift. But describing it….gosh I’m already disappointed at my attempt. But attempt I shall continue.

So I think of most writing as having three elements, or three gears if you like that stick shift metaphor.. 

I. The primary one is the most visible: it’s the telling of the things that happened. Probably that’s in chronological order, probably it involves people, places, and things. It’s the stuff that happens that gets summarized on the back of the book. 

But unless you’re publishing your research on a chemical protein reaction,  or are a reporter for Reuters, that primary narrative element shouldn’t take up 100% of the piece; it should be more like 70%.

So if 70% of your piece is what happened, 30% goes to two other elements that nuance the action, namely the emotional substructure and the superstructure of “so what.” Let’s start with the emotional.

Again, unless this is a piece for Reuters, which famously insists upon “value-nuetral” language, most narrative is enhanced by an acknowledgement of the emotional underpinning. As a reader, I would be dissatisfied if I ever read “I learned that my mother’s cancer had returned” without then learning the  nuances of feelings that news elicits: “and I was filled with rage” or “and I felt indigent. I knew we had beat it before and we would beat it again” or even “and I felt nothing.” 

In my opinion, to feel real writing needs to dip out of the narrative and into the emotional reactions. If there is a victory, space should be made to express the feelings of triumph and celebration. If there is a loss, grief too should be given a moment to step forward. 

Writing is storytelling and storytelling is connecting and connecting is not just based on facts but also on emotions.

II. OK so let’s say 70% of the narrative is what happened. I would then assign about 20% of the piece to the emotional context of the narrative. And these aren’t discreet units, like a pickup towing a snowmobile trailer. They must be intermixed: narrative, emotion, narrative, emotion. To me this is true even in most professional writing and applications, though in professional writing it’s likely a somewhat lower proportion of emotion. 

III. As for the last 10%, I aim for a connection beyond the immediacy of the narrative and accompanying emotional reactions. I aim to pull up and out and make space for the connection to something bigger. An ideal, a struggle, a “so what” beyond myself.

I remember in high school a teacher writing that at the end of an essay I’d submitted. “So what?” It felt like such a cruel dismissal. In my memory I can see the words “so what?” but my emotional memory is that what she wrote was “who cares?”

But “who cares?” is totally different to me now that “so what?” “Who cares?” is a dismissal. “So what?” is an invitation. “So what?” is actually short for “So what does this all mean?” 

In persuasive writing it’s actually pretty easy to answer “so what”--you just need to reiterate your central argument. Buy this product to solve that problem. Hire me and I’ll contribute positively to the work of the organization. Select me and I’ll study hard and I’ll be a valuable member of the student and then alumni community. 

But in personal writing, it can be harder, which makes it all the more important to consider. If I can’t parse it out for myself, how can I expect my reader to parse it out? So I try. 

I wrote an episode in season one called “Trouble with Bronze Men.” Broadly speaking it’s about historical memorialization, academia, the patriarchy, and me grappling with my emotionality. There was, as you can imagine, a lot of threads to tie up and a lot of “so whats?” to answer. So this is what I came up with: 

“As great as the scrutiny of science and scholarship can be to analyze the world and remove doubt…sometimes I wish folks would just sit in the presence of history, eyes off the signage. I wish they would look up and allow themselves to feel. History is not set in stone, or in bronze, or in plaques. And it’s alright if we allow our feelings today to affect our reading of history. Tell me what society, ever, hasn’t done that?” 

I liked that for an ending. There’s some resolution, there’s an invitation, and there’s some acceptance of ambiguity. At least that’s what I was going for. 

My last point about writing: good enough is better than perfection.

I heard once that if Steve Jobs had waited to have all the technology for the iPhone we never would have gotten the iPhone because we needed all of the iterations before it, especially of the iPod, to build the technology for the iPhone.

I’m not normally one for info from the business or tech worlds, but I really liked that. 

With that in mind, I try not to hold on to writing too long in an effort to perfect it. I write something, I reread it and tweak it, I release it, I  get feedback and I reflect on it, then I write some more. Each piece may be imperfect but the cumulative effort and effect of writing good enough pieces often is better than working one piece to perfection. 

In the immortal words of Mr. Gump, “And that’s all I have to say about that.”

Thanks for letting me take a break from the meta-narratives about narratives through the lens of personal storytelling. 

I suppose that’s my last comment about my writing process. If I can’t do it, I can’t do it. There’s this notion that if you push through you’ll get there. I just don’t particularly agree with that. If I can’t get something down, or can’t get past the first little bit, it’s might not in me to be written. And forcing it is unlikely to yield anything good on or off the page. 

Of course I get it: it’s not like I can try to submit an application having completely foregone the essay or the cover letter and expect to get it. 

But if I sit down to write that version of the essay, or that version of the cover letter, and I can’t come up with anything to say, you better believe I notice that. 

What does it mean that I can’t come up with anything? Is there a way I can reframe it that I can access my thoughts and feelings? Or is it not in me? And if it’s not in me, maybe I should move on and find something that I can engage. 

Look writing can be hard. But, as I wrote in “Blankness and the Blessed Backspace” “writing is the manifesction of a thought or a feeling in such a way that it may leave your body in order to imprint on another. This is why we write. It’s an act of bravery, of connection, of compassion, of self-realization, of memory, and generosity. It’s hard, like the best things are, at it is vital, just like the best things are.” 

I’m not here to make writing less hard. It’s as hard as being human. But I’m here to help folx make friends with writing. To help them see writing as a tool and an opportunity for expression. Because writing allows us to do more than keep census data or record the number of beans we counted. It facilitates reflection and revision, and facilitates sharing and empathy, like no other technology. And I’m not saying that just because it makes a final connection to the super structure of “so what?” But you’ve got to admit, that’s a pretty killer final connection to the super structure of “so what?”