Art and Creativity

I just got off a long redraft on a book, and I’m feeling in need of a reset. Last year, in a similar situation, I handled the buzz in my brain by throwing myself into a slew of short stories. It was a reasonable enough idea: in short form I can rapidly explore lots of different, fresh ideas, get some distance from the well-defined set of themes that grows around and defines a longer piece.

The problem was that I didn’t feel the drive to create these stories. I think a lot of that was because I’d chosen the projects based on calls for themed anthologies—at least somewhat writing stories to spec. I relied on these themed submission calls because I had assumed that I needed some kind of crutch, a template to just get me going, producing something.

Forgetting that my brain just doesn’t work like that. I always end up a long way from where I first aimed. And I don’t like cooking with one ingredient; I like using all the odds and ends that have been hiding at the back of my mental cupboards. In that sense, my stories are like Hawaiian pizza: you’d never put those things together in any other scenario, and it’s definitely not everyone’s thing, but if you’re into it then you’re ordering the extra-large with stuffed crust.

Suffice to say those stories didn’t turn out well. None of them sold, and looking back at them with some distance it’s clear why: it’s clear that I was just spinning the wheels, pumping out serviceable prose as part of a whole that lacked passion.

So this time around I’m not speed-writing a big pile of pre-themed stuff. I’m not trying to write anything cohesive at all, at least for a little while. Instead I’m just recharging, spitting out fragments longhand in the quiet of a separate desk space in the living room, by the big bay window.

Ursula K. Le Guin’s writing routine was to sit down and start writing just after she woke up to a big breakfast, and write like a demon until lunch. That always sounded admirable and serious to me, and in my student days that was exactly what I did, scrambling to pump out a few thousand words  before my 9am lectures (which seems like a herculean volume in retrospect—quality notwithstanding). 

These days my typical routine involves being hounded awake by my cat so that I can take her for a walk in the garden, whereupon I stab blindly at the coffee machine and grab a book to read while she does her thing. I then read a while in the living room, have breakfast and a shower, answer emails, and then go to my desk. Usually, that works great for me. But right now, I associate it too strongly with the whirlwind of book revisions, so I need a routine holiday.

So it’s Le Guin-style for a couple weeks. 

The success criterion is to clear the cylinders, but after two weeks it’s already exceeded that. I’ve produced five poems, about half of a new short story—which maybe maybe maybe might actually be good—and an outline for a further short story.

I write longhand as part of my daily practice, but it’s for deep thought and troubleshooting. It’s not usually where the bulk of the word count comes from. For now I’m enjoying the case being reversed. The words come slower but they’re often the right words, words that don’t need to be tweaked as much.