That's not the question.
Photo by Barrie Kreinik: The Old Library, Trinity College Dublin.
Several months ago, I found myself on a plane heading west toward a regional theatre gig, chatting with a fellow cast member. Fresh out of college, with a wide grin and optimistic eyes, he perked up when I mentioned I’m a writer.
“That’s so cool,” he said. “What do you write?”
I told him about my recently released audio drama, my essays and articles, the book I’m working on.
“Wow,” he said. “I’ve always been interested in writing, but I don’t really know how to start.” There was an expectant pause. “Are there things you would recommend?” he went on. “I mean, how did you get into it?”
I smiled and took a breath, then faltered. Get into it? I thought. I’ve never not been into it.
“I started writing as soon as I could read,” I told him. “It’s just something I’ve always done. It’s more of a compulsion than a choice.”
Seeing his bright eyes begin to dim, I hastily began spouting recommendations. He could start a journal, take a writing class, or simply jot down his observations—anything, really, to get ideas flowing. But as my mouth moved, my mind outpaced it, wandering down another corridor.
How do I tell a person how to do something that comes as naturally to me as breathing?
Asking me why I’m a writer is like asking me why I’m an actor: the glib answer is, I was born this way. I began practicing both arts in preschool, playing elaborate games of pretend and inventing stories about the secret adventures of my stuffed animals. In third grade, I launched a journaling habit; in middle school, I added playwriting to fiction writing; in high school, I churned out a veritable blizzard of poetry. If pressed to analyze these activities, I’d say I’ve always had a profound love of storytelling, a fascination with language, an innate need to express myself in words.
Or, to put it another way: I don’t write because I want to. I write because I have to.
Of course, just because writing comes naturally to me doesn’t mean it comes easily. It can take hours to eke out a single paragraph, days to whittle a scene into the right shape. And it’s true what they say about writing being 90% revision: everything I’ve ever written has gone through dozens of drafts. But the impulse itself is intrinsic. Oftentimes I find myself walking down the street imagining how future conversations might go, or how I might revise conversations I’ve already had—in other words, writing dialogue. At other times, lyrical descriptions float into my mind through the shower water, leading me to dry off as quickly as possible so they don’t evaporate before I can grab a pen. I can’t remember a time when my brain didn’t work this way—when I didn’t feel compelled to pour text onto paper or screens. It’s part of my identity, like being Jewish or female or gay. I have always been a writer and always will be.
Sometimes, though, ideas don’t weave themselves neatly into words. Themes, images, and characters whirl around my mind in a chaotic parade, refusing to be caught in the snare of language. At those times, I wish I could attach some high-tech tube to my head and siphon ideas directly onto the page without having to translate them into English. Absent that option, I usually settle for scribbling illegible notes on scraps of paper or thumbing random phrases into my phone.
If writing is a compulsion, you may ask, why is this the first blog post I’ve written since January? I have no excuse except the perennial one: I’ve been busy. I’ve been writing other things and doing my other half-dozen jobs. And at times I’ve wrestled, as writers often do, with the goblin in my head that tells me I have nothing interesting to say—or, worse, that I have lots to say but lack the skill to say it compellingly. To write might be a primal impulse, but to share one's writing is a public act. Speculating about potential responses can stop the flow of words—especially when they sail in a rough-hewn vessel.
“You’re not a trained writer,” someone said to me recently. The phrase cropped up in the middle of a sentence, breezing by in a broader discussion of my work. It was presented as fact, not judgment, but I bristled for a moment before realizing the speaker was correct. I don’t have a degree in creative writing. I haven’t taken a proper writing class since grad school, where I studied playwriting alongside acting. I haven’t done any course work at all in creative nonfiction, unless you count the myriad essays I wrote in high school and college. (Though, actually, I do count them, because they were a terrific foundational education in the art of writing.) For the past ten years, I’ve enhanced my literary skills primarily by reading—not only books on technique, which are helpful to a point, but books by writers I admire, on topics that interest me, whose structure and style I can analyze and learn from. (I recently discovered there’s a term for this activity: forensic reading.) I’ve also improved with the help of a couple of brilliant editors who have patiently polished my work to a brighter shine. Otherwise, though, it’s true: I’m not a trained writer. But I’m a born writer, and I think that counts for something.
Though I was once an enthusiastic student, in my adult life I’ve discovered that I learn best by doing, by diving into the thick of things and figuring them out as I go. That’s why writing exercises such as Julia Cameron’s “morning pages” have never worked for me: at some point, I always realize that I’m doing an imitation of the thing to try to learn how to do the thing, instead of just doing the thing itself. Some writers claim that one must write every day in order to improve, but that maxim feels too rigid for a variety-hungry Gemini: other than a strict skincare routine and twice-daily tooth-brushing, there’s hardly anything I can commit to doing every day. Then again, Ann Patchett writes entire books in her head before putting pen to paper, which I take to mean that brainstorming counts as writing and therefore I do write every day. In fact, I relate to Patchett’s approach because in some ways it’s mine also: I often let an idea swirl around in my mind for a while, nebulous and nonverbal, until it begins to produce thoughts that I can transcribe. Something I’ve learned from experience, not academia: chasing phantom words across a blank page is less productive than getting up, taking a walk, and trusting that the words will come to me.
I didn’t say any of this to the eager actor on the plane. We moved on to other topics before disembarking to begin our theatrical adventure. But if anyone else were to ask me how to “get into” writing, I’d say…just begin. Ignore the goblin in the corner, telling you that your ideas aren’t good enough. Don’t worry about how awkwardly the words tumble out—that happens to all of us. Imagine that no one will read what you write, or that you’re writing to a person you love who’ll never judge you.
Then start. It’s the only way you’ll continue. You’ll never arrive, but that’s the joy: there will always be more words to weave, more ideas to explore, more of the essence of you to present to the world.
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