Craft Notes
Michael Kimball Guest Lecture #3: The Rough Parts
Here’s a quote from Rachel Carson: “The discipline of the writer is to learn to be still and listen to what his subject has to tell him.” I always read “still” as “sit still,” which makes me think of this quote from Harry Crews (via Opium): “Sometimes you need to affix your ass to the chair.” That is, sometimes, sitting down and doing the work can be the most difficult part of being a writer. Sometimes, it’s the other parts of life that get in the way. Other times, it is the fiction itself, how we think about the fiction at different points in the process.
So how does the writer get through the rough parts, the blank parts, the parts that we know suck? Virginia Woolf says it is determination: “It is worth mentioning, for future reference, that the creative power which bubbles so pleasantly in beginning a new book quiets down after a time, and one goes on more steadily. Doubts creep in. Then one becomes resigned. Determination not to give in, and the sense of an impending shape keep one at it more than anything.”
And I like the way Sam Lipsyte talks about it: “They’re the best of times, when it’s going well. Or at least if you’re under the delusion it’s going well. The delusion is important if it keeps you working, if it gets you to something genuinely good.”
This can also be considered in quantifiable terms—amount of time, number of words. I know a writer who gets good work down in one hour a day, but that hour is a planned part of every day, and the writer, her mind, is ready for it. I think it’s what Aimee Bender is getting at with this: “I think the way to get the unconscious revved up is to make a little contract with time, i.e. I have to sit at the desk for this long every day, a set amount, and that’s just the law. I believe in laws like that. Then the unconscious knows what’s what … and it will follow those laws.”
And there’s this kind of famous quote from Ernest Hemingway: “The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day … you will never be stuck. Always stop while you are going good and don’t think about it or worry about it until you start to write the next day. That way your subconscious will work on it all the time. But if you think about it consciously or worry about it you will kill it and your brain will be tired before you start.”
I’ve always liked that bit of Hemingway. And now there’s plenty of psychological research that supports his idea. Our subconscious minds will work on our writing for us while we’re doing other things. This is why I often end my writing sessions by making notes (could be a list of words, a sentence fragment, a topic) or asking myself a question about the piece I’m working on (I don’t try to answer that question; I just put it out there, get it in my head, and then when I come back to the page, I’m usually ready to go).
In fact, much of my first novel was written while I was riding the subway back and worth to work. I never had time for more than a few sentences or corrections or notes, but I would do this twice a day and then input those pages at home at night—and then start the process over, every day. It took me over five years to finish that novel and I averaged fewer than twenty words a day during that time, but I just kept going and, eventually, it accumulated into a novel.
So let’s say you want to write 100 words day, 100 good words. In two years, you will have a 73K-word novel or collection of stories. Or let’s say it’s 1 page, one good page. At the end of the year, you will have a 365-page novel.
How do you get yourself to sit down? How do you push through the parts that suck? How do you quantify what you do?
Tags: aimee bender, michael kimball, sam lipsyte
I’ve been feeling like sam-lipsyte.JPEG.jpg for a couple weeks now so this helps, thanks
I’ve been feeling like sam-lipsyte.JPEG.jpg for a couple weeks now so this helps, thanks
I think Bellow used Benzedrine, if I remember that part of the Atlas bio correctly.
I think Bellow used Benzedrine, if I remember that part of the Atlas bio correctly.
good post, michael. thanks, although it seems like what hemingway suggests would require an enormous amount of discipline, more than i am currently capable of. how can you not gorge yourself on the good when the good is so fleeting and rare? for me, it’s more like monsoon season or something. when the writing is going well, i try to gather as much of the writing rain as i can, to last me through the inevitable periods of drought. during the drought, i live off that rain. that rain is all there is. i work that rain, water shit with it, waiting for the next whenever that is.
good post, michael. thanks, although it seems like what hemingway suggests would require an enormous amount of discipline, more than i am currently capable of. how can you not gorge yourself on the good when the good is so fleeting and rare? for me, it’s more like monsoon season or something. when the writing is going well, i try to gather as much of the writing rain as i can, to last me through the inevitable periods of drought. during the drought, i live off that rain. that rain is all there is. i work that rain, water shit with it, waiting for the next whenever that is.
I’m a firm believer in the machinery of the unconscious in between sessions, although perhaps in an opposite way to Hemingway. I think it’s more evident when you’re having a torrid time writing. You will plug away at it and it will be unpleasant and forced and the most stressful experience imaginable. But if you can leave the page, accept defeat for a day and concentrate on something external to writing it often seems all your problems have been worked out in your mind without definitely thinking about them.
That is the best feeling. The relief that comes after yesterday’s dread.
I’m a firm believer in the machinery of the unconscious in between sessions, although perhaps in an opposite way to Hemingway. I think it’s more evident when you’re having a torrid time writing. You will plug away at it and it will be unpleasant and forced and the most stressful experience imaginable. But if you can leave the page, accept defeat for a day and concentrate on something external to writing it often seems all your problems have been worked out in your mind without definitely thinking about them.
That is the best feeling. The relief that comes after yesterday’s dread.
Hey James, What Hemingway suggest does require some discipline — and also a kind of recognition (of when one is nearing the end of word run, so to speak). I continue to use a version of what he suggests because if I don’t, if I write it all out, then I often find myself empty for days following that. But, if I work up close to the end and save it, when I know I have something to work on the next day, then there is always more (and more than the bit that was saved). Of course, we’re all on a continuum with any of this. And the best advice is always to do what works for you.
Hey James, What Hemingway suggest does require some discipline — and also a kind of recognition (of when one is nearing the end of word run, so to speak). I continue to use a version of what he suggests because if I don’t, if I write it all out, then I often find myself empty for days following that. But, if I work up close to the end and save it, when I know I have something to work on the next day, then there is always more (and more than the bit that was saved). Of course, we’re all on a continuum with any of this. And the best advice is always to do what works for you.
I find it works both ways, JW, what you’re suggesting with problems and with what Hemingway is suggesting on the day-to-day level. The key for me is articulating that next thing for myself — or what the problem to be worked out is.
I find it works both ways, JW, what you’re suggesting with problems and with what Hemingway is suggesting on the day-to-day level. The key for me is articulating that next thing for myself — or what the problem to be worked out is.
I find I just have to sit down and try, no matter how burned out or empty I feel. Sometimes nothing happens, but sometimes I surprise myself. I like this quote, from Stephen King’s “On Writing”:
“Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.”
I find I just have to sit down and try, no matter how burned out or empty I feel. Sometimes nothing happens, but sometimes I surprise myself. I like this quote, from Stephen King’s “On Writing”:
“Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like all you’re managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.”
I fixate on word counts with longer works. Currently, I’ve seemed to work in 450 word bursts, with the occasional double session. I try to stop when I feel the rhythm draining, although the double sessions arise out of pushing through the pause and becoming kind of fervent.
Now, every time I’m done, I check the word count. Almost always 450-460 words. I trust this.
I fixate on word counts with longer works. Currently, I’ve seemed to work in 450 word bursts, with the occasional double session. I try to stop when I feel the rhythm draining, although the double sessions arise out of pushing through the pause and becoming kind of fervent.
Now, every time I’m done, I check the word count. Almost always 450-460 words. I trust this.
Great quote, Michael (and Stephen). It can be surprising sometimes, a session where you’ve just pushed through to get something down and then there is something good to work with when you look at it the next day.
Great quote, Michael (and Stephen). It can be surprising sometimes, a session where you’ve just pushed through to get something down and then there is something good to work with when you look at it the next day.
Words are key for me, especially in the early stage of a longer piece. I do well with 150-word sessions–enough that it feels as if it is accumulating, not so little that it feels as if nothing is happening.
Words are key for me, especially in the early stage of a longer piece. I do well with 150-word sessions–enough that it feels as if it is accumulating, not so little that it feels as if nothing is happening.
When it’s going well, I like going to my desk. When it’s not going well, I still go to my desk, but sometimes I go on strike — a kind of sit down strike, in which I sit at my desk and don’t do anything — don’t even really try. Just sit there. I don’t like these strikes. I’m on one right now. Finished a big draft of something a while ago and now need to get in and do a big, serious rewrite. I need to reanimate that work somehow to get back into it. I need to smash it apart to bring it back to life and find the new version. But I’m on strike. Sitting at my desk. The worst part is that I know I’m an idiot for striking like this. And I do it anyway.
When it’s going well, I like going to my desk. When it’s not going well, I still go to my desk, but sometimes I go on strike — a kind of sit down strike, in which I sit at my desk and don’t do anything — don’t even really try. Just sit there. I don’t like these strikes. I’m on one right now. Finished a big draft of something a while ago and now need to get in and do a big, serious rewrite. I need to reanimate that work somehow to get back into it. I need to smash it apart to bring it back to life and find the new version. But I’m on strike. Sitting at my desk. The worst part is that I know I’m an idiot for striking like this. And I do it anyway.
I tend to take off long stretches, years often, after becoming fed up with the whole process. At 36, I’m finally learning moderation, at least enough that my highs aren’t as high and the lows don’t last more than a few weeks.
I’m all over the place but surprisingly I’m finding more and more that my “best” (those I can stomach after they’re published) stem from random prompts. Things that just flow from there surprise me, often coming together quickly.
Ha, I have had plenty of “strikes”, Sam, and will try to think of them like that in the future. Maybe pull me out of the passive-agressive nature of sitting there acting like Mickey R at the end of The Wrestler, thinking the world don’t give a shit about anything I have to say.
Michael Czyzniejewski had some interesting comments on “writers’ block” in a recent interview in Fiction Writers Review:
Michael Hinken: Teaching full-time during the academic year, working as a beer vendor at Wrigley Field in the summers, editing a literary magazine, and being a father and husband—that’s a lot to balance. How do you squeeze in your writing?
Michael Czyzniejewski: Every minute of every day is accounted for, and so I find myself writing from 12:30 to 2 a.m. If that happens three times a week, I’m doing pretty good. Sometimes I’m too tired. It’s like working out: I wish I could go to the gym more, I wish I could write more. The trick is not to feel bad about not doing something, to try to move on, write the next day and stick with your routine. If you want to write, you’ll write, and if you don’t, you won’t. Writer’s block doesn’t exist—it’s just being lazy or not caring.
I asked Michael about that in my upcoming JMWW interview, inquiring whether “fear” should be added after lazy and indifferent. Here’s a portion of his response:
“I know what people mean by writer’s block. And I think fear is part of that–fear it’s not going well, which is also just frustration. I’m working on a novel and it’s so hard to do after writing stories for 20 years, as sometimes, it’s not working. That’s not block, that’s one project not going well at that particular time. When that happens, a writer can either throw in the towel or they can work on something else, draft some first lines, or even read something great to get inspriration, then give it another go. When I’m on something and it’s not going well, I’ll try another project, start something new. Or go get a pop from the machine, go to the bathroom. Like Jackie Gleason in The Hustler–just go to the bathroom, wash my face with cold water, clear the slate. Then start over. That works.”
I tend to take off long stretches, years often, after becoming fed up with the whole process. At 36, I’m finally learning moderation, at least enough that my highs aren’t as high and the lows don’t last more than a few weeks.
I’m all over the place but surprisingly I’m finding more and more that my “best” (those I can stomach after they’re published) stem from random prompts. Things that just flow from there surprise me, often coming together quickly.
Ha, I have had plenty of “strikes”, Sam, and will try to think of them like that in the future. Maybe pull me out of the passive-agressive nature of sitting there acting like Mickey R at the end of The Wrestler, thinking the world don’t give a shit about anything I have to say.
Michael Czyzniejewski had some interesting comments on “writers’ block” in a recent interview in Fiction Writers Review:
Michael Hinken: Teaching full-time during the academic year, working as a beer vendor at Wrigley Field in the summers, editing a literary magazine, and being a father and husband—that’s a lot to balance. How do you squeeze in your writing?
Michael Czyzniejewski: Every minute of every day is accounted for, and so I find myself writing from 12:30 to 2 a.m. If that happens three times a week, I’m doing pretty good. Sometimes I’m too tired. It’s like working out: I wish I could go to the gym more, I wish I could write more. The trick is not to feel bad about not doing something, to try to move on, write the next day and stick with your routine. If you want to write, you’ll write, and if you don’t, you won’t. Writer’s block doesn’t exist—it’s just being lazy or not caring.
I asked Michael about that in my upcoming JMWW interview, inquiring whether “fear” should be added after lazy and indifferent. Here’s a portion of his response:
“I know what people mean by writer’s block. And I think fear is part of that–fear it’s not going well, which is also just frustration. I’m working on a novel and it’s so hard to do after writing stories for 20 years, as sometimes, it’s not working. That’s not block, that’s one project not going well at that particular time. When that happens, a writer can either throw in the towel or they can work on something else, draft some first lines, or even read something great to get inspriration, then give it another go. When I’m on something and it’s not going well, I’ll try another project, start something new. Or go get a pop from the machine, go to the bathroom. Like Jackie Gleason in The Hustler–just go to the bathroom, wash my face with cold water, clear the slate. Then start over. That works.”
These are all such great practices. I especially love the method of letting the subconscious do its job, leaving the story at a good place to start the next day.
When working on something long like a novel, as I’ve mentioned before, it helps me to have a roadmap (macro/micro outline, graphic organizers, folders, folders w/in folders, notes, lines, sketches…). This way I usually know where I am or where I want to get to, so I don’t lose the narrative thread, playing around with words just for the sake of playing. I also tend to visualize the novel in scenes, so this type of organization makes sense to me.
I also believe in rigorous discipline, if you can swing it w/ the day job and life responsibilities:
— same time every day
— same number of hours (at the desk) or more, of course, if you’re rollin’
— same days of the week (6 in a row w/ one day off… rest regenerates)
— same breakfast and nearly the same lunch
— shower at the end of the run
I think all of this works like meditation practice, the idea being that you don’t distract your mind with any other thoughts or decision-making. You just “live” in the world of the book while you’re actively writing it (and even when you’re not).
On a somewhat related note: I’m curious how other writers’ personal or intimate relationships hold up when they’re involved in a large-scale work. In my experience, living in the world of the work makes living in the “real” world… challenging, no?
These are all such great practices. I especially love the method of letting the subconscious do its job, leaving the story at a good place to start the next day.
When working on something long like a novel, as I’ve mentioned before, it helps me to have a roadmap (macro/micro outline, graphic organizers, folders, folders w/in folders, notes, lines, sketches…). This way I usually know where I am or where I want to get to, so I don’t lose the narrative thread, playing around with words just for the sake of playing. I also tend to visualize the novel in scenes, so this type of organization makes sense to me.
I also believe in rigorous discipline, if you can swing it w/ the day job and life responsibilities:
— same time every day
— same number of hours (at the desk) or more, of course, if you’re rollin’
— same days of the week (6 in a row w/ one day off… rest regenerates)
— same breakfast and nearly the same lunch
— shower at the end of the run
I think all of this works like meditation practice, the idea being that you don’t distract your mind with any other thoughts or decision-making. You just “live” in the world of the book while you’re actively writing it (and even when you’re not).
On a somewhat related note: I’m curious how other writers’ personal or intimate relationships hold up when they’re involved in a large-scale work. In my experience, living in the world of the work makes living in the “real” world… challenging, no?
I’m with you on the discipline thing – it becomes almost like muscle memory if you maintain the same levels of intensity/determination.
As far as the personal relationships go – there are some days where I cannot be bothered to answer a simple e-mail, and other days I find myself wishing someone would call me to get me out of the house for a cup of coffee.
I’m with you on the discipline thing – it becomes almost like muscle memory if you maintain the same levels of intensity/determination.
As far as the personal relationships go – there are some days where I cannot be bothered to answer a simple e-mail, and other days I find myself wishing someone would call me to get me out of the house for a cup of coffee.
Some great advice here!
Most of the time, I try to be like Jesus Angel– “rigorous discipline,” with all the variables (time, food, place) constant.
But if I get stuck, sometimes changing just one of those variables can unstuck me. I’ll work late instead of early. I’ll coffeehouse instead of office. I’ll crack a beer instead of brew coffee. I’ll check my email first, then write.
Sometimes radically altering one variable can be magical, can affix my ass, can stave off (as Sam so wonderfully says) being “on strike.”
Some great advice here!
Most of the time, I try to be like Jesus Angel– “rigorous discipline,” with all the variables (time, food, place) constant.
But if I get stuck, sometimes changing just one of those variables can unstuck me. I’ll work late instead of early. I’ll coffeehouse instead of office. I’ll crack a beer instead of brew coffee. I’ll check my email first, then write.
Sometimes radically altering one variable can be magical, can affix my ass, can stave off (as Sam so wonderfully says) being “on strike.”
I know the writing is going well when I begin to steer clear of crowds. Yes, unfortunately, the sweet harmony of agreement and charm and civility are the first to go once the bell-toll of working on the words start.
I know the writing is going well when I begin to steer clear of crowds. Yes, unfortunately, the sweet harmony of agreement and charm and civility are the first to go once the bell-toll of working on the words start.
[…] great post at HTML GIANT on discipline and chipping away at the work, by Michael Kimball. I always feel like […]
Michael,
I’ve taken the project approach, as the self-imposed deadline prevents me from thinking about writing, which isn’t actually writing.
Instead, this gets me to sit down and write–and it’s been an odd step for me, as it’s something other than my normal genre (poetry). But in my view, writing is writing is writing, so I could give a good goddamn about the genre.
And there are problems with the medium I’m using (a blog); a lot of what I’m putting out is going out less than perfectly polished, but all that can be fixed in revision, I think. The important part for me is getting something on the page to begin with; for me, the first step is the worst step. Revision’s the fun part.
Michael,
I’ve taken the project approach, as the self-imposed deadline prevents me from thinking about writing, which isn’t actually writing.
Instead, this gets me to sit down and write–and it’s been an odd step for me, as it’s something other than my normal genre (poetry). But in my view, writing is writing is writing, so I could give a good goddamn about the genre.
And there are problems with the medium I’m using (a blog); a lot of what I’m putting out is going out less than perfectly polished, but all that can be fixed in revision, I think. The important part for me is getting something on the page to begin with; for me, the first step is the worst step. Revision’s the fun part.
Michael,
Great post! I find that writing every day (and I mean EVERY day) when I’m drafting or revising is key–even if the session is short. But I often do take a couple of weeks off between projects. I try to make this “vacation” happen when I’m in deep in the semester, teaching and grading, but unfortunately it doesn’t always work that way. I do need the time off (and I spend it catching up on reading), because I find that writing every day, though it feels great while I’m doing it, gets exhausting after a while. I’m hoping that someday when my kids are grown and other areas of my life are slowed down a bit (this will happen someday, right? Right?), I’ll be able to write for more time, every day, without crashing from exhaustion.
Michael,
Great post! I find that writing every day (and I mean EVERY day) when I’m drafting or revising is key–even if the session is short. But I often do take a couple of weeks off between projects. I try to make this “vacation” happen when I’m in deep in the semester, teaching and grading, but unfortunately it doesn’t always work that way. I do need the time off (and I spend it catching up on reading), because I find that writing every day, though it feels great while I’m doing it, gets exhausting after a while. I’m hoping that someday when my kids are grown and other areas of my life are slowed down a bit (this will happen someday, right? Right?), I’ll be able to write for more time, every day, without crashing from exhaustion.