Write by Hand: a good look at the old method

There are very few patterns I notice in my writing process. I don't stick to one genre, my stories don't come to me all in the same way. I don't craft the same characters or use the same setting or otherwise follow some mystical set of regulations that make me tick as a writer. We discussed my complete dissimilitude to classic stereotypes back in September with "I'm Not a Real Writer I Guess."  I'm one of those people who thrives on spontaneity, creativity, and impulses. ENFP's, baby. Gotta love us. We don't like being predictable.

I was cleaning my house on the second day of this new year, putting away Christmas, trying to scrub toilets, finding that my older (yes, older) brother had flushed a ball down the toilet by accident and that's why it wasn't exactly an opportune moment to clean the toilets just then, putting a sign on the bathroom door so no one else would make the discovery...you get the picture. The house was in disarray, the January day and myself were looking like one hot mess of seventy degrees and Pine-Sol. I moved a stack of papers to the stairs, intending to take it up with me when I had gathered my courage enough to tackle the project of my bedroom which I'd left in rather a state the day before after primping for the annual Civil War Charity Ball. Shifting the papers aside, curious to see which letter I had forgotten to finish and send off this time, the words on the first page caught my eye:

"Dear Mavis:
It is twelve days before Christmas and my true love has given me nothing..."

So it was a letter--many actually. The first several days of John Out-the-Window shifted under the acres of mess since I first began the project and transferred it to the computer to share with you. Then a ray of light shone through the dust motes I'd stirred up while shuffling papers and sweeping old Christmas tree needles and I recognized the one component shared by every successful story I've written:

They all began on paper.

On the heels of this thought came the recollection of something author Anne Elisabeth Stengl said recently in a blog post about the fluidness and lucidity of things written by hand. She mentioned being able to tell if something had its humble beginnings with pen and paper strictly by its tone. Anon, Sir, Anon began as a scrawl in my purple hodge-podge journal. Fly Away Home began on a yellow legal pad, I believe. John Out-the-Window and many a piece of well-received flash fiction also started old-school. Even Cottleston Pie has its origins in flattened wood pulp and ink. The stories that have not begun on paper have not gone far. At all. What is there about a pen and paper that inspires me more than a bald page of Microsoft Word? And why does the act of writing my words long-hand insure their success?
Unsure what the deal was with this phenomenon and calling to mind long-past mentions of famous authors who insist on writing their first drafts by hand, I did a little research. One common theme suggested was the obvious fact that when you are not on an electronic device, your chances of being distracted by web-browsing, Facebook, Pinterest, or emails is majorly minimized. If you've silence your phone and put it across the room and your laptop is powered down, you won't be trying to hold (very interesting) chats with a writing friend about character development, update your best friend on what happened over the weekend, research mid-winter temperatures in the South Island of New Zealand, and re-tweet your own blog post and seven others, while very contentedly hashtagging "#amwriting" when you are, in reality, doing everything but #amwriting. And then there were deeper, more philosophical/biological reasons. In an article at Writing Corner, Mia Zachary hypothesizes:

"Hand writing compels you to move forward across an entire connected gesture and integrates three distinct brain processes: visual, motor, and cognitive. Writing by hand requires executing sequential finger movements that activate brain regions involved with thought, language, and short-term memory--the mind's system for temporarily storing and managing small pieces of information."

She finishes her article with a quote by Stephen King that sums up my experience with at least beginning first drafts by hand:

"Writing longhand...brought the act of writing back to this very basic level, where you actually have to take something in your fist and make the letters on the page...It slows you down. It makes you think about each word as you write it, and it also gives you more of a chance so that you're able--the sentences compose themselves in your head. It's like hearing music, only it's words. But you see more ahead because you can't go fast."

I identify with the concept of hearing it like music. "...the sentences compose themselves in your head." My brain runs ahead of what my hands are capable of writing and because my hand is flying to keep up, the theme flows. I can't delete what I've written. I can scratch it out but it will still be there, a theme explored further by Sarah Selecky in her article, "Why You Should Write by Hand." Now, Selecky takes a bit more of a mystical approach to her reasoning, saying that as you are writing that first draft you are, "...divining your story as you go, you need these markers to guide your subconscious. They are your material! Taking them away is cruel..."
 Her second point is the one that I believe is the main answer for me:

"To your brain, writing by hand feels more like making art."

I believe the act of physically writing something down versus typing it into a sterile page of a Google Drive document does tap into a piece of my brain that is not otherwise brought into the picture. I enjoy creating art. I do typography, watercolor painting, sketching, and drawing. Sometimes I fiddle around with clay or acrylics on canvas. It's a creative release and lets me rest the verbally creative part of my brain that blinks at a computer screen and summons words from thin air. But when I put a pen to paper, I am drawing and creating and tangibly making art with my words. It's a beautiful feeling, and freeing. Even if I'm not writing as quickly as I would on a keyboard, I have a physical sensation of the words flying out of me, following my rampant cursive letters following a vague idea that I must hunt behind or lose forever. Selecky suggests this exercise:

Try this: on a blank piece of paper, write a list of words that start with the letter “B.” Write the words very slowly, as they come to you. Print them in all capital letters, or make your cursive ribbon-like, as though you were a calligraphist. Line them up one under the other to make a word tower. Continue to play with the shapes of your letters as you write the words. Experience the peaceful, exciting bloom of creativity as it floods your right hemisphere. You’re working with language, yes, but you’re also playing, you’re drawing.

In general, my opinion of hand-writing manuscripts has aligned with the (temporarily) immortal words of Sweet Brown:

"Ain't nobody got time fo' dat!"

At many times, writing by hand is inefficient. I might write for twenty minutes and get only half of what I'd have if I'd sat at my keyboard and typed. My hand cramps. It was not for nothing that a monk scrawled in the margins of an illuminated manuscript: "Oh, my hand!" If I'm pushing for word count, writing long-hand frustrates that goal. So when I start a story, I generally only write by hand long enough for the story to get rolling, my mind to leap far ahead of the cursive letters pelting after it, and the coals to be stoked around my imagination. At this point, I transfer to the computer and continue in peace.

Now that I've recognized this pattern in my work, I think I'll respect it. I also am willing to bet that if I reach a point in the story where I'm stuck, a return to the Write by Hand method might just be the kick in the pants I need to get it on its feet once more.

If I wasn't a novelist....

Writers.

Sheesh.

We take ourselves so seriously.

Of course there is a certain measure of gravity we must keep in order to stay on track with schedules and plots and research and the actual writing that makes us what we are. But sometimes as broad as our imaginations are, our scope of reality can be rather small. So in this post I have compiled a list of things I would (will?) write if I wasn't an all-important novelist:

Funny Poetry:

Shel Silverstein and Lewis Carroll and Hilaire Belloc. Before I ever grew to like Sir Walter Scott or Tennyson, I scoured my poetry book for the bits that made me laugh. Truth is, I still like funny poetry best, and my own poetry is at its most natural and light-hearted when I'm just being a bit nutty.

Show-tune Lyrics:

I may not even wait to do this. I may sit down right after I'm done typing and write a song. My life as a musical would be hilarious. As much as I love Broadway, I haven't even tried to write my own Broadway tunes. I have a deep deep appreciation for the sheer brilliance of Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hammerstein's word-play, and to do that...wow. It'd be awesome. I can sing and carry a tune, but I'm no Laura Osnes But to write the words to the songs that make the shows what they are...I would probably take news that Fly Away Home will never be published if I could write a ditty for Collin Donnell or Ryan Steele to sing. *happy happy day!*

Radio Show Announcements:

Just for mischief's sake, I would put one unpronounceable word in each announcement and giggle behind the glass as the show-host tried to read his lines. :)

Warning Labels:

Because we've all laughed over warning-label faux pas, I think it would be lots of fun to write purposeful ones just to see if anyone even reads those things. I don't. What I can't figure out from the pictures on the back of the box, I Google. I am lame that way.

Napkin-Script and Otherwise:

If any of you have had the honor to eat at Chipoltes, you will know what I mean. Some places are brilliant (like Chipoltes) and some are not (like Wendy's). Chipoltes writes the wittiest, most hilarious messages on their napkins and cups and tortilla-chip bags. I have several times stashed napkins in my purse just to re-read and laugh over on the way home. Sarah has stashed them in her purse to put in her SMASHbook. (A thing they have yet to addict me to, funnily enough)

Taco-Bell Sauce Packets:

'Nuff said. 

Attach myself to Stephen Moffat till he let me help him write Sherlock:

Okay. So that's ambitious, but WOULDN'T THAT BE AWESOME?! 

Write Parodies of Famous Songs:

Fo' Free. Because Tim Hawkin's parodies, while a little hyper, are admittedly very very funny. :)

Chalkboard Artist at Coffee-House:

Maybe it's my recent fundraising efforts (i.e. turning my sunny farmhouse into a coffee-shop for one night), or because I blog about recipes now and again, but I have been having so much fun making "original drink" descriptions like The Branson: A passionate blend of dark roast coffee and Irish Cream.  

Theatre Critic:

Not that I know over-much about the whole critiquing process, but I could totally stand going to Broadway or a traveling show company and reviewing their shows for the newspaper. I honestly could.

Food Critic:

Anton Ego, anyone? No? Okay. But seriously. Between The Food Channel and Ratatouille and Foodie-Blogs, I have cultivated an extreme interest in gourmet cooking. I think it would be a rather nice, cushy job. (And no, I'm not about to go ape like the guy in Psych who killed for the restaurant-critic job. ;) I would love to write articles about different restaurants, cooking trends, and neat ingredients

Travel-Journalist:

Again, such a neat job. I know there would be inconvenience of jet-lag, strange food and climate and cultures, (not to mention 'where do they get the money'?) but that's also part of the fun, and just the idea of traveling all over the place gives me a severe case of wander-lust. Thankfully I may quell that rather soon by my trip to Romania! :)

^^ These are some of my ideas, and I am positive I could think of more. What jobs would you take if you weren't a novelist? ^^

Extensions

Hey guys! I am extending the "First Impressions" Writing Contest through next Monday....the 11th. :)
Cheers!

I write...

...because the taste of words is in my mouth

...because my dreams appear most vivid in spade-black ink

...because I want to make someone wonder, if just for a moment.

...because I love the turning of pages and the company of books

...because a story, even the simplest, is enough to make me smile.

...because my characters are flesh and blood to me; kin to my heart.

...because to harness words to do my bidding is a power I delight over.

...because a fireside, a book, and a person are a trinity not to be trifled with.

...because there is a chance that I might someday write something worth reading.

...because the feel of creating a world of characters and events all my own turns me giddy.

...because the cadence of story and rhyme is a dance I know well; the pirouette of words weaving an enchantment of vividry.

...because I must write or be forever haunted by the lurid beauty of story untold.

Temper Flares

This is just a little nothing I wrote this evening when I couldn't stand not writing any longer. I am Arianna in many respects, but Beckett is entirely fictional. The piece cannot possibly stand alone, and it really has no meaning, and now (of course) you'll wonder why I wrote it, and I will say "I don't know. But it popped out on its own accord." and that's all the explanation you'll receive, I'm afraid. :)

"Temper Flares"

By Rachel Heffington

“I would like a great many things,” she said in her queenliest voice, so that he might know the limits of her imagination were nonexistent, “but what I’d like right now would be to slip out of these horrid, sweaty clothes, and to slip into a cool white frock. I would like one of these velvety lawns, and nothing better to do with my time than lay in hammock reading, or to traipse across the green grass and look lovely.” That was exactly what she wanted—all these secluded, cool, wide lawns wandering up to white porches and arched windows filled her heart with a dusty, musty ache that kept pace with her increasingly drab appearance. Yes—she longed with all the passionate longing of a weary soul to have the luxury of traipsing.

“You want to….traipse?” her companion asked, evidently bewildered.

“Traipse. We are always walking or going or running or trotting off to do this, that, and the other—I’d like to take a wander and have no one bother me about politics or religion or a thousand-and-one other things People tend to like to bother an innocent young lady with.”

“Ah.”

She nodded; pleased with the way he’d taken his defeat. An “ah” meant he had resigned his verbal sword and would behave himself. It was a great relief that he had not said “aha” instead, which had much more of a challenge about it, and meant that she would be required to defend her point further. “Oh—and there’s one more thing, Beckett,” she said.

Beckett winced, and shook himself. “What is it, Arianna?”

“I have a headache, Beckett.”

“Well? Can I do anything about it?” Sarcasm, Arianna noted with contempt. Becket t always resorted to sarcasm first thing and wasted a situation in which wit ought to have played a decent part. He fought with a claymore of a tongue—she preferred a rapier; sharp, cutting, infinitely polite.

Arianna pressed her temples with her fingertips and tried not to think about how weary she was. “As a matter of fact, you can do something about it, Beckett,” she said at length. “You can take yourself off and leave me alone, and perhaps a massive portion of my headache would depart with you.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Arianna Maddox,” Beckett growled. But he lumbered off dutifully, and Arianna watched him with nothing greater than mild annoyance—he behaved exactly as a devoted lover ought: going away when bidden, and coming around when needed. He was just the sort of fellow Arianna liked, for though she was a woman and would faint before betraying her sex, she had never been overly companionable with any young ladies.

Beckett wandered off down the cool stone drive, and once Arianna was certain he would not come dawdling back, Arianna smoothed her shirt, fluffed her bangs, and re-folded the cuff of her capris. Dashing about campaigning through neighborhoods was all very well and good when the temperature was a balmy sixty-degrees, but the full summer heat had been beating upon them all day, and Arianna’s mood was souring. Beckett had done nothing but chatter all afternoon, and the hotter the day grew the faster his tongue wagged. It was almost as if Beckett had been a lumbering, bumbling, handsome sort of cicada intent on keeping pace with the advancing of the temperatures. “Which,” she thought to herself, “is exactly what he is.”

We sought an author, we found a man.

In moments of "unspiration" (un-inspiration, you know) one of my chief delights is reading other writers' work. There is something satisfying at surveying a world of diverse styles and knowing that each author, in their own way, is serving the literary world equally well. Sometimes a certain style will reach out, snatch your heart and squeeze it unbearably between fingers of joyous pain. Jenny did that to me the first time I read her blog. (and continues to do so on a shockingly regular basis) I was effectively pen-slain.

Pen-slaying--that act of writing something that so speaks to another writer's heart that it renders their own pen ineffectual for a day or so.

In these moments of recovering from being slain by another's pen, the temptation is great to bemoan your own style. "I can never write the way Jenny does!" I might lament. And it may be true. I may never be able to write in the way Jenny does because that style belongs to her. It was a gift from God to her. Does that make my style any less worthy? No. You may not be able to write like me (you may, in fact, be much better) but that does not mean that my writing is any superior than yours.

What am I saying then? It is best summed up in this quote:

When we see a natural style we are quite amazed and delighted, because we expected to see an author and find a man.  ~Blaise Pascal, Pensées, 1670

I speak of natural style. When it is missing, we have a book. When it is present, we have a world. I could, perhaps, build my words until my writing looked precisely like another writer's and yet it would not have the same effect on people as Jenny's has. Why? Because those words would be missing soul. They would not have been written from my heart. They would appear as they were: fabricated and stilted. To quote Theodore Laurence of Little Women:

"Mediocre copies of another man's genius."

How does one find their natural style? Write the first things that come to mind. Write quickly and without stopping to think. Do not worry about rules and regulations at the first. Just write. Later there will be time for rewriting and editing and such but for now, just write. You will need to add polish. You might have to get on your hands and knees and scrub the tiles of your words until they reach their full marble-shine. But by writing without a thought for what people think of it or what effect it is having, you will find your natural style and in that natural style your reader will find, not soul-less words, but a wealth of heart-lyrics that will capture the mind and heart.

It's worth it, really. :)

When the dawn opened.

Gladly the dreads I felt, too dire to tell,
The hopeless, pathless, lightless hours forgot,
I turn my tale to that which next befell,
When the dawn opened, and the night was not.  

-Dante's Inferno

Every person has a religion. Generally I avoid that term like the plague--it carries such a horrid feeling of dry-bones and long tradition and deadness with it. But I use the term in lieu of the fact that I haven't found a better one that is so all-encompassing.
 That explained, it's a fact, despite the myriads of human beings who deny their allegiance to any sort of "religion" in the general sense. I would boldly declare [again] that everyone has a religion. Your religion may be the Religion of No-Religion. But Man was created to worship and whether it is worshiping Jesus Christ, as it should be, or whether it is worshiping your own ideas of no-worship, it happens. It's built into the very fiber of our being. We need to understand that in order to live in this world--it's a fundamental truth that is often overlooked. And this is issue no less important than in literature. I know that many authors have done far better and more thorough jobs of the topic in longer posts, but I thought I'd just tell you a bit about where my Scarlettania and Gildnoir lies in this plethora of rabbit-trails.

Gildnoir worships neither God, nor any other sort of material idols. They reverence battle, warriors, skill with the sword, and allegiance to one's country and clan. That is the long and short of the doctrine of Gildnoir. Most obey it and bend knee to this god of War but others, namely a certain Diccon Quarry--are not content with this life and they almost unconsciously refute this War-god by forsaking their clan and breaking allegiance with their country. Diccon cautions Fitz-Hughes not to swear by the Hand that made him, for he will find the Hand's punishment far worse than that Diccon proffers. It's a primitive scheme, but rather powerful--even the Greeks and Romans had bouts with such a god in their day.

Scarlettania is a bit different--as it is essentially a fairy-tale world, it mirrors closely our own. There are church-men, there is truth, there is light. The Light is not exactly clearly named, for it filters into that world from our own and a little something is lost in the translation, but they are, like the places in Pilgrim's Progress, beautiful and just and noble. They crave light and live in the light and, did they live in our world, they would be God-followers. There is no definitive mention of Christianity in Scarlettania and Gildnoir, and yet I have made certain to keep Darkness and Light separate, meaning for the light to be from the one True Light: Jesus.

Diccon Quarry comes out of Darkness craving...he knows not what...and yet he is drawn to Scarlettania as if by an invisible hand and he finds Light. He finds purity and honor and love and truth. It's a beautiful paradox that I never grow tired of.

You see, I am not finished thrashing out all the details yet, but Christianity gets to this world shadow-like. Enough to cause one of the characters to wistfully remark to one of the Macefield bunch that at least earth-folk have an unerring Hand working in their lives. Thus it is that the Macefields learn to turn to the Author who is perfect.

And this is where things get muddled-er, if that's a word. Because you see, since Scarlettania is a make-believe country full of make-believe people who are all dictated to by Mr. Adoniram Woolcott Macefield, he is, in essence, their god. Not that they worship him--oh no. But he is writing their story just as God has written ours. Everything, truly, revolves around the Pen of Macefield. They swear by it and their oath is concrete after having that mighty name before it. They wait for his inky decrees as pilgrims wait for a sign on high. So you can imagine their delight, slight trepidation, and awe when a whole covey of sons and daughters of Macefield drop into their laps. The Scarlettanians frequently mention the fact that they are celebrities:

"Never let it be said that I let a daughter of Macefield wear rags when there are gossamine gowns at hand..."

Charlotte says she finds it uncomfortable to be in the position of a sort of demigod and looked upon with such reverence and awe.

Comments like that pepper the book and provide amusement on one hand and a slight bitter-sweet flavor on the other...I am not sure I am making much sense, but I was trying to extract from the annals of my mind just what was going on with religion and my Gypsy-Song.
But one thing is certain: as I write this book and realize how erring the hand of an authoress really is, I am ever more thankful that Jesus has written my story with perfect precision. There will be no rewriting and no editing is required. I've got the real deal in my Savior. He is Author, Editor, and Publisher all rolled into one....yes. We earth-folk have a blessed existence indeed.