Writing Instruction Brings New Challenges

I’m a bit befuddled and, as a result, bogged down in my writing. Otherwise I wouldn’t have time to write this post.

Nor am I in a position to tout my extensive accomplishments as a published writer: I’ve self-published one novel, to rather local acclaim (meaning family and friends and surrounding households) and have another perpetually almost ready, with another two in progress.

But that’s the point. I’m your typical lower level, chronically addicted Grubby. I’ve taken many craft and workshopping classes over the years, and read my share of writing books and blogs. My sense now is that the more classes and blogs and books I read, the harder it is to write.

Some of this an be attributed to the higher standards that come with exposure to more gifted and knowledgeable writers, and that’s certainly part of it, but there’s something else.

Here I must digress. There is a seminal work in the tennis instruction lexicon, The Inner Game of Tennis, by Timothy Gallway. His instructional techniques involved ways to shut down the mind and let the body learn through observation and reaction. One of his tricks—saying “bounce, hit” aloud when this is observed while playing—has been demonstrated to instantly improve play at beginning and intermediate levels. He teaches by having his students observe someone with successful technique and then have at it. He eschews the kind of analytic instruction that involves keeping a firm wrist, bending the knees, drawing the racket back in a particular way, transferring weight, turning the hips and shoulders, keeping the elbow tucked close to the hip—in short, all the component actions of the swing. The reason is that having the student focus on these particular actions, breaking them down and then assembling them in real time, doesn’t produce a good swing, but rather an awkward, self-conscious one with attendant frustration and despair. Sound familiar?

It’s as if you learned to write by diagramming sentences. If you’re interested in the structural aspects of grammar, go for it, but, other than addressing very specific issues, any active reader will pick up correct grammar organically.

In writing classes, I’ve learned the importance of “show don’t tell”, followed by definitive proof that the principle is “a crock;” the importance of character arc, “pet the cat” moments, midway turning points, “W” structures for rising and falling action, action and reaction in successive scenes, interiority, descriptive language, editing out all that damn descriptive language, etc. etc., and yet I find it infinitely harder to write than before I took my first craft class.

On the other hand, classes have exposed me to exquisite writing by people I never would have otherwise read, including some by classmates. Everything I’ve read and experienced has been helpful to my own writing in some way, even some that has been unsuccessful. It’s like watching a tennis swing: I’m not sure what particular things I’m absorbing, but they come out later in writing, organically and unconsciously. As a result, they are inspiring rather than paralyzing.

I value craft classes now mostly for the examples they offer of fine writing. They show me how a thing can be done and provide challenge and inspiration. I don’t worry as much about breaking them down to their minute components, or the abstract concepts underlying them. Is there anything quite so boring as listening to an abstract painter explain the social concepts behind his work? Not for me, anyway.

But my best writing happens when I get my mind, especially my personal critic, out of the way, and manage to let it flow. I can edit then, mostly by feel. I know what I’m going for, without dissecting and classifying it. Mostly, like Siddhartha, I do best by figuring it out for myself.