Random Acts of Writing

Without the capacity to provide its own information, the mind drifts into randomness.  -Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

In graduate school, I found myself one evening in a workshop on writing for the theater.  We were to produce at least a scene, or, better yet, a short play, by the end of the evening.  The instructor (whose name I have forgotten) led us through a series of exercises to generate ideas, images, characters, and then set us to writing, with one provision:   every once in a while during the time set for quiet writing, she would speak - a phrase, a description of a sound, a character, an event - and we were to find a way to work whatever random thing she said into our scene.

I was writing a scene about a young woman trying to deal with the suicide of a friend, when the instructor spoke the word “parking.”   This spurred a memory of vaulting parking meters on hot summer nights with my best friend in high school.  We lived in a small town, and there wasn’t much to do, so we would run up and down main street, vaulting meter after meter until we were exhausted and laughing.  The scene I wrote that night sat in my stack of papers for some time, until, eventually, I took it out, re-read it, and wrote a poem based on it.  Eventually, the scene itself found its way into the novel I was writing (a requirement of the Creative Writing program I was in) which, later, became my first published novel.  (Two Mothers Speak,  Winston-Derek Press, 1996).  

In graduate school, I was of the opinion that I would become a writer of poetry or short stories, not novels.  I had no urge to write a novel, and worked for hours on my poetry, gaining praise from my advisers.  I went to the play-writing workshop not because I planned to be a playwright, but because I needed another seminar, needed inspiration, and it was the only workshop offered that night for writers - a random occurrence, a random chance.

Since then, in the teaching of writing, I have often used that instructor’s strategy in writing sessions - take the random, include it in whatever it is you’re writing, see what happens.  One student in a creative writing class came up with the perfect idiosyncrasy for a character she was writing - he compared everything to $700.  I.e.:   “That man is as ugly as $700”  or  “It’s colder than $700 in here!.”  Others found metaphors for freedom or love, hunger or loneliness, empathy or rage.  

I have learned to trust the random.  Watch, listen, be open, and pay attention to what happens within when you do.  At one of my favorite writing spots months ago, a song I hadn’t heard in years  - Spirit In the Sky -  came on the jukebox (yes, they still have those) and was the catalyst for identifying the central love in my character’s life.  Once, when completely stuck writing a scene with three people standing on a dark street corner talking, a walk by a fruit stand gave me the descriptor I needed for the night air they sensed:   it smelled cantaloupe-sweet, and the rest of the scene followed.

Chaos theory proposes (among other things) that patterns that appear random actually have a pattern, a design, a purpose.  As a writer, at those moments when the plan - the carefully designed outline or storyboard or sketch - fails us, if we turn from that information to the random, we may just find the very pattern our story needs.  

Writing a Novel As a 1941 Ford

When I was eleven years old, my mother piled my little sister and I in the back seat of her ancient 1942 Ford sedan, she and my 18-year old sister Colleen got in the front seat, and we set off on a 200 mile road trip. Colleen was headed to college, and Mom couldn't afford the bus fare to send her.  It was a miserable trip - winding mountain roads kicked up hot geysers of gritty dust, and the sun beat down on the thick metal roof.  We arrived at the small Catholic college in Helena, Montana a sorry sight - sweating, dusty, and road weary.  Unloading Colleen's boxes and suitcases added to the the sweat and general grumpiness, and it was far past dinner time at the college cafeteria when we were finished. Eating dinner out wasn't a possibility, and the snacks we'd packed for the road were long gone.  After hugging Mom good-bye, Colleen retired to her new room hungry, and Mom, my little sister and I piled back in the car for the long trip back.  I remember Mom commenting that the car didn't sound quite right, and thought aloud (she didn't really think we were listening) that she'd check with the gas station attendant when she gassed up.  The only gas station left open at that hour was at the fringes of town, and a single greasy and over-worked mechanic was in attendance.

Mom got out of the car to talk to him, and I hung out the back window, gulping in the rapidly cooling evening air.  He listened tiredly to what Mom said of the car's behavior and opened the hood, prodding here, poking there.   He lay down on his back and scooted under the bottom of the car, banging metal on metal, muttering.  He emerged from under the car minutes later, shaking his head.  Continuously wiping his hands on the grimy rag that he held, he looked askance at my mother.  "Where do you think you're going in this car?"

Mom turned.  She'd been gazing off toward the high mountains we needed to cross.  "Kalispell."
His jaw nearly dropped.  "Kalispell?!?  Kalispell! ....lady, that's two hundred miles from here."

Mom nodded.  "I know."

The shaking of his head grew more vigorous.  "Naw.  Huh-uh.  Lady, the only place you should be driving this thing is to the dump.  There's nothing I can do for it."

I hung out the back window, listening.  The mechanic kept on shaking his head gazing under the hood of the car, as though amazed by what he saw there.  Mom looked off towards the mountains, over at me, and back at the mechanic.  She drew a deep, solid breath.  "Well."

The mechanic looked up at her, met her eyes.  "Sorry, lady."

Mom smiled.   "Well," she said again, "If I can start out for the dump, I can start out for Kalispell."

This time his jaw did drop.  "Lady, you're crazy.  You'll never make it, you just can't - not in this thing."

Mom climbed into the car, closed the door.  "Thanks for trying to help."  And drove away.

Hours later, deep into the high mountain night, the old grey Ford pulled up in front of our little house in Kalispell.  I woke to the sound of  Mom's delighted laughter.  She turned off the car, and turned to wake my sister and I.  That car never started again, and, when repeated attempts to repair it failed, Mom laughed again when she arranged to have it towed to the dump.  "I guess that mechanic was right, after all."

When I think of the things have have shaped who and what I am, it is this kind of thing that dominates my mind - the determination, the power of will, the sheer faith with which my mother, my father, and my larger family met life, and met its challenges.  No task was insurmountable, no challenge unbeatable.  You just started out, and you kept going till you got there.

I think this attitude, this inspiration has helped me as a writer.  In my early days, I wrote essays, short stories, and volumes of poetry, never even considering anything longer.  Until I was in graduate school, and was required to write a book-length, publishable manuscript as part of the curriculum.  Two Mothers Speak was published less than two years after I received my degree, and, since, I have completed and published eight other books, both fiction and non-fiction, had five of them published "traditionally," and the others self-published.

Writing a book is  daunting.  It takes years of focus and work - research, writing, checking, proofing, editing, cutting, and starting over.  And like that old Ford, when you reach the end, it is gone, done for good. The notion of ending up with hundreds of pages, all on one topic, can seem overwhelming.  But, if we can write words on page one, we, like my mother in that long-ago Ford, can start out.