Fits and Starts: Confessions of a Would-Be Writer

Confession: I would love to backpack through Europe … or across the United States … or maybe just a week or two hiking in Illinois. The age-old gap year dream of winging it, taking off with just a backpack and an adventurous attitude – what could be better? I can hardly imagine the thrill of living without a schedule, picking up odd jobs here and there as needed, embracing the local culture, walking or riding towards each new city with the absolute knowledge that something hidden around the bend will change my life for the better.

Right, that sounds awful. As much as I’d love to be the unflappable person who welcomes the unknown, I’m not. It’s enough to go with the flow these days in an airport – will we board? Will we leave on time? Will all the bags make it? Will we all stay healthy and make the return flight? So for that reason (and probably several more), Joli Jensen’s “perfect first sentence” myth resonates. It’s as simple as this: I like to know where I’m going. I’m not the fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants model, so starting out right seems necessary. Once I’m sure where to start, the rest will follow. With those first few compelling words, the map is unfurled and the journey has begun, powered in part by that first perfect sentence.

It’s not just those first few words, however. As I examine my writing process, I realize that composing the first sentence is representative of how I map out the entire document. In a broad sweep kind of way, locating the perfect start can only come when I’ve considered the rest of the document or at least some of the big ideas. In that way, that first sentence encapsulates the heart of what I mean. So in other words, I need my writing journey relatively mapped out before I can take that first step.

Or do I? Jensen’s admonition to “accept that all writing starts out messy” is a welcome reminder. Writing isn’t necessarily a journey that proceeds logically and linearly; there are hairpin turns and blind corners and revelations that must be sorted and processed. In fact, my typical rough drafts are so filled with arrows, question marks, and reminders to myself (“check this source,” “what does this mean,” etc.) that any sorting taking place is more akin to translating a foreign passage in fits and starts: “What DID I mean here?” or “Does this make any sense?”

Trouble writing even those first ideas? Perhaps the trouble lies within since getting the words down (amidst any arrows or directive comments for later edits) is precisely the point. In her book, Write No Matter What, Joli Jensen suggests that “misguided writing myths” might be taking over, substituting instead “assumptions about who we are and what our writing should be.” There can be value in unearthing the beast within: as we wrestle with our writing demons (or invite them in for conversation over tea), Jensen recommends we diagnose our troubles against possible writing myths:

• Magnum opus myth (my work must be magnificent)
• Hostile reader myth (and able to withstand every possible criticism)
• Imposter myth (it might reveal me to be a fraud)
• Compared-to-X myth (I am not measuring up)
• Cleared-deck dream (writing will be easy when my current distractions disappear)
• Perfect first sentence (once I’m sure where to start, the rest will follow)
• The need for one more source (I’d better make sure I’ve read all relevant research)

In a WebMD state of mind, I find myself working through a kind of self-diagnosis and steps for rehabilitation: I’m encouraged that I don’t need that perfect first sentence, I’ll work instead through that first version. I’m not required to embrace the unknown journey, I’ll resolve to take that first step and get it down on paper. Jensen’s breakdown of writing into “prewriting, drafting, revision, and editing” stages both simplifies the process and encourages this reader with the gentle reminder that “it becomes orderly through revising and editing.”

Orderly? Me? I have a high tolerance for clutter in general, but I’m glued to those before and after reveals where the expert organizer magically transforms a closet spilling out its innards into a color-coordinated, measured miracle where there truly is a place for every thing. Why would I think it should be any different for my writing? The professional organizer can only do her thing when the junk is cleared out, categorized, mulled through so that only the best, useful pieces remain. The items of value are then cleaned up, polished even, and gently placed on the perfectly-sized, perfectly-placed shelf or cupboard or tote.

The words must be written before they can be evaluated; revision can only take place once the words have been said, weighed out, and valued. It’s not necessarily a mapped-out journey, but the process is documented and lived out steps at a time. As for me? I’ll resolve to map out the journey’s highlights and work through the prewriting in order to arrive there on time. I’ll take some deep breaths and endeavor to enjoy the ride as I clean up the page … and maybe my closets. Anyone up for a few trips to Goodwill?

“Beginning a novel is always hard. It feels like going nowhere. I always have to write at least 100 pages that go into the trashcan before it finally begins to work. It’s discouraging, but necessary to write those pages. I try to consider them pages -100 to zero of the novel.” —Barbara Kingsolver

Jensen, Joli. Write No Matter What: Advice for Academics. The University of Chicago Press, 2017.