Making The Words Come

I knew a woman once who could only write in one chair.  It was an old wood-framed armchair, with worn out pads on back and seat, and she kept it on her patio, where it was, from time to time, exposed to weather.  The arms were broad, and she balanced a yellow pad there to write her first drafts (later putting them, as we all do now, on her computer).  Ursula LeGuin (one of my heroes) once remarked that her favorite writing ritual was doing the dishes - it allowed her to think, uninterrupted, and in a kind of housework-zen-state, about her characters and her stories, as no one was going to risk interrupting her and, as a consequence, risk being asked to help with the dishes.  One of my favorite musicians gets up every morning and does an hour of yoga before he begins to practice - says he can’t really play until he clears his mind with his yoga practice.  Steinbeck put a one-sentence statement of his goal for a story on the wall in front of his writing desk. George Orwell wrote lying in bed, and Ernest Hemingway always wrote standing up.

Rituals have been on my mind, lately, as a theater company I produce is doing a showcase night of readings and scenes about rites and rituals in our lives, and it has got me thinking about my own.  Mine change, but they’re still ritualistic.  Except for, possibly, wandering about the house, by turns staring out the window and staring into the open refrigerator (as I’m thinking through a scene or character), my rituals don’t stay the same from story to story, but I do seem to always have one.   

While working on my first published novel, I would go for long drives, turning intentionally down roads I didn’t know, looking not necessarily to get lost, but to not know where I was.  It’s said that Dickens did the same in old London on long walks - trying to get lost.  Psychological studies indicate that being lost creates a state of mind that can induce creativity, though I doubt Dickens knew that - he just knew that, when he was lost, the words came.  

And that is the essence we should look for in any writing ritual - that the words come.  If what you’re doing isn’t making that happen, change it, until the words do come.  I have sat in a (particular) booth at a local bar, listened to one song over and over, worn a particular hat while writing, eaten the same food for dinner (Spanish rice) night after night, and rose at 2 a.m. day after day to write for three hours before returning to bed.  Sometimes it’s just writing at the same time every day - other times it’s waiting for my cat to come sit on the writing table.  

In teaching writing, I ask students to think of the times they did their best writing, and think what environment they were in at the time, and try to duplicate that when they write.   That works for many.  Others, like myself, have to find a new ritual for each project, and that can be difficult.  The key is to pay attention - whatever it is you’re doing when the words come, try continuing that thing.  But, also, listen to the words that come.  You want to induce that state that brings words that make your heart sing with the next words, and the next.  Don’t choose a ritual just because you got some words down - find that thing, that elusive, magical thing, that makes you create.

There are certain things that have worked for many that you might try - long walks (or drives), listening to instrumental music (most recommend Mozart - I recommend his Concerto No 20 in D Minor),  recite a favorite poem, or literally invite the muse (many recommend Homer’s Invocation of the Muse).   But, above all, when the words do begin to come, pay attention.  Trust the ritual that works for you.