Being a better writer
I have this fantasy about my writing. That one day I’ll write something so raw, so unadulterated, so moving that the reader runs outside screaming about how life finally makes sense.
I’ve been reading this book - A Short History of Decay - recently and I’ve felt this. Every line in this book reads like the author pulled something out of the depths of my soul that I’ve always known but could never articulate.
I’ve read a lot of books, blogs, tweets (or are they called Xs now?), threads, posters, rants, and speeches that give me this feeling. At first I feel so good about it. But then I feel envy. I write a lot but it doesn’t feel like I’m improving. Its like I’m doing the same set of exercises again and again and again without really getting out of my comfort zone.
I’ve been researching on how to get better at it and the internet says a lot of things that I’m doing but maybe I’m not doing right.
The first thing they say is to read more. And I do. I read a lot but I read to discover the plot or the motivations behind a character or I imagine myself as the protagonist when they’re doing something cool. To me, this is reading for entertainment but not as a study.
Maybe it should be - Read critically. I need to learn how prose flows, the choice of words the writer’s used that builds the image in my head, how they progress the plot without it feeling like a checklist.
The other big thing the internet says is to write more, which I do too. But mostly blogs, or jounrals, or if the rare inspiration strikes, fiction. That’s like going to the gym when you feel like it once every couple of weeks. It does nothing to make you better.
People watching. That’s the other thing the internet says. Most writers are good observers. We see an old blind man sitting at the park. But to them, its a man waiting for his childhood love. Someone he used to sit and talk to every day in this park as kids. They see him as a young artist toiling away, giving up everything to achieve his dream. Only to start losing his eyesight and him recalling his childhood and what he gave up all those years ago. Bringing him to this moment on that park bench. They see him sitting here every evening during his twilight years and on the day of his death, they pan out to the scene in the park again, a silhouette of the old man feeding pigeons, tapping his stick. And as his shadow disappears you see an old blind woman sitting at the other end, waiting for someone.
But I just see the old man at the park.
For the next 3 months, I am going to follow all of these recommendations. I’m going to get out of my comfort zone and learn to write better. And I’m going to write more fiction, with or without any inspiration. Hopefully, one of these days I’ll write something that brings be the joy I’ve fantasized about all these years.