When we talk about writing, we talk a lot about technique and certain rules, like avoiding adverbs. Less often, we talk about instinct. Maybe we talk about it less because it's more along the lines of talent - you can't really teach it.
Today I'm working some more on the story I don't have a name for yet. This time the lack of title isn't bothering me, I think because I'm substituting title with that painting. This story, like An Ocean Kind of Blue makes sense in my mind through images just as much as through words, so I'm still grounded, even without the title.
As I'm typing, I'm going slow, which means spending time focusing on details: the sound of sharpening a razor, a song being hummed, skinning an eel. I finished a paragraph and paused. These details are coming out as much on their own as through conscious thought from me. The question is, why these details? It's the unconscious part of me slipping them in, working to build a certain kind of tone. How effective it is waits to be seen, but that's not the part I'm interested in right now. The interesting part is the instinctive part that says, "Describe sharpening the razor as a whisper." When I add the details together, I can see exactly what my intentions are with them, but it's not until I can add them together that I get the picture of what I'm working toward. It just kind of happened that I started describing things a certain way.
A funny thing happens when we write. It's got a bit of dissociative personality about it. You write with one mind thinking things through logically: to get from point A to point D, we're going to hit point B, then point C is going to be this... Then, we have our second mind sneaking things in while we're not looking. That second mind is the instinct part, the part that's been paying attention while we read our favorite novels, stories, poems and taking notes.
Remember the Kung Fu movies where the Sensei tells the student that a good fighter doesn't watch for where the next strike is coming from, they sense it. Then the Sensei blindfolds the student and we get a montage that starts out funny because the student keeps getting hit, then they slowly get the hang of it and we get a bit of slow motion and end on the blindfolded student expertly blocking a blow.
The moral of the story: Watch out for those unplanned bits that creep into your writing, sometimes you're smarter than you think you are.
Now, with that said, I'm assuming you've got an example or two of your own. So, tell me, what's your favorite example of your inner blindfolded Kung Fu master? When's the last time you looked over something you'd written and had that moment of "Wow, that was a brilliant accident! I didn't know I was that smart"?
2 comments:
Ooh, you just wait. I don't have to say nuffing--it'll come to ya.
You didn't know you were that smart because the conscious part of your mind isn't that smart. However, your subconscious mind is that smart, but the tricky thing is getting it to show itself.
Your conscious mind gets bogged down by mundane tasks, like worrying about whether our not what you are writing makes any sense whatsoever. The subconscious does not concern itself with such things and justs creates ideas that are fantastic and wonderful. But, the conscious part knows this, becomes jealous and prevents the subconscious from showing itself. So, the trick becomes teaching your conscious mind to allow the subconscious portion its turn.
Sometimes it sneaks up on you, sometimes you have to learn to trust yourself that you have it in you, because you do. The blindfold trick is a perfect metaphor because it blocks distracting input, and allows your instincts to develop. So, maybe try writing blindfolded, look within, and let go. This goes back to typing without making a mistake.
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