Write, then Think

Today I told my students the truth about writing and thinking:

When you write, you think. Neurons in your brain start firing in a familiar pattern until there’s no more neural connections in that area. That’s when some students stop writing–when they run out of ideas. They believe they can only write about what they think about first.

This is exactly when you must keep writing.

When you keep writing in the face of a dead-end neural pathway, you have no choice but to write about something else. You go to another section of neural connections, then transcribe that though process on the page. Then another, and another. You keep writing about what you do know about, what you can uncover within your own mind, or about some questions you have about that which you don’t know.

Every now and then, that process of writing, then writing more, allows you to draw connections neural connections between the ideas you wrote down, pathways you didn’t previously have. And you have just learned something new, without turning to an outside source. It was within your own mind. A self-revelation, a connection, a link that might shift your perception from here on out.

So write, and keep writing. Do not think first, just write. Let your thoughts flow then let them snag, trip, scrape their knees, and flow again. In this way writing is an act of courage–it’s going where your mind hasn’t gone before, into the unknown. Into yourself.

Your Imagination

You take your imagination for granted. We all do. We expect that if we close our eyes–or, fine, keep them open and keep reading–and think of a red-eyed tree frog, it will be there. And if you think of the best cannoli you’ve ever had, you might remember what it tastes like. Even blind people can imagine in color, though they might not use the same words we do.

Our imaginations are always with us. They’re a part of us, a real part of us, a projection of the complex neural networks driving your very ability to think, reason, plan that barbecue, pick an outfit, and code data entries. But we are no longer taught how to access the deepest parts of our imaginations because the deeper you go, the longer you want to stay. And that’s not helpful for the industrialists.

If the goal of school is to make hard-working consumers, a natural byproduct is the cultural desensitization to our innate imaginative capacities. Sitting in rows and drilling algebra problems promotes linear thinking. Your imagination is linear at times but mostly directionally confused–curved, bent, windy, cyclic, repetitive, traumatic, exponential, scary. More than that, explaining what’s going on in your mind is, well, almost impossible. That’s what I think makes a good writer.

Good writers can explain their imaginations in ways ordinary people–which is most of us, stop thinking you’re so special–can understand. They use metaphors and emotional turns of phrase to help us know, feel, and experience their minds, what they see when they close their eyes. It’s scary, going into someones mind. That’s why a good writer makes you feel safe but courageous, confident you know where you are while encouraged you want to go further this time, into the darkness that few imaginations have gone before. Good writers can break the Overton windows that keep our minds at bay and burst into new realms of consciousness, realms that might be worth staying in.

That’s exactly why there’s no such thing as a good writer. We’re all bad writers because we can never accurately explain what we imagine. We can only get close with a metaphor that rhymes with our thoughts.

No, there are no good writers. And if there are, they don’t waste their time trying to write. They become artists.

Not as good as it could be

Writing a book is hard, but not for the reasons you think. Words come fairly easy for me, and the time to write, though sometimes scarce, is easy to create than you’d think.

What’s hard is recognizing the book will never be complete. There will always be more to say (especially when writing I biographical essay, as I am). And there will always be a better way to say what I choose to say. No matter what shape the book takes when finished, it could always be better.

But who’s the “perfect” for? Can the reader only gain something from your book if it’s perfect? Or is the perfect for you, because you’re afraid of what they’ll say if it isn’t as good as it could be?

If my book has a purpose and my prose carries a sentiment, it may just be good enough.

Perfect is for me, and it’s limiting.

Good enough is for my readers, and it creates possibility.

Writing and Thinking

You may think writing comes out of thinking. You think a thought, then you write it down. This is how all great works novels, articles, books, plays, poems, and songs arise.

But you’d be wrong. Writing isn’t a byproduct of thinking, but thinking happens because you write. I can’t number the times I’ve had no clue what to write an essay on, then five hours later the essay is finished and submitted. It was only written because I was writing.

Now think about what you wrote for your high school biology class. Lab reports. Boring, monotonous, regurgitated lab reports that were identical to each of your classmates. The lab report is important, but it’s not the only way to write about science.

What if science students watched a video about a hawk snatching another bird and eating it, then they journalled about it? What if they wrote stories about who the hawk was and why she was hungry? Imagine the questions that would come from writing creatively about the natural world.

If we want to solve modern problems to create a hopeful future, we have to think outside the box. To think outside the box, we have to write outside the box. If we want to write outside the box, we better have a good pen.