Flights of Fancy

Nothing is more fatal to good writing than the temptation to let others tell you what or how to write, against your own best instincts. Writers are only human, and we can all only do our honest best — and we write best when we are most freely ourselves.

An idea that evolves on the page and takes on a life of its own, is more powerful because it comes from within us, and expresses something fundamental about being human.

That’s not to say our every utterance should be inscribed in letters of gold on blocks of polished marble for the benefit of future generations — merely that we write best when we write from the heart.

We may, sometimes, get a little bit carried away (with ourselves, or otherwise), and have to edit out a lot of surplus material. But if we didn’t write it in the first place without trying to second-guess our every thought, we’d never write anything.

And sometimes we just have to take the rough with the smooth – because, sometimes, we have to go through the rough to get to the smooth. Or else the “rough” has a character that’s all its own.

The whole business of writing, as with life itself sometimes, is often about doing our honest best at the time we do it.

It’s about having the confidence to be ourselves. You don’t look to others first for their approval, or for fear of what they might say. Life is too short –so you might as well be yourself.

It is in our flights of fancy, when we let our imaginations flow, our fingertips dancing across the keys, that we as writers are often at our most truly human.

It is when we choose to be ourselves, in everything we do, that we develop who we are: as writers and as people. That’s when we are at our most fully alive, and when we can truly call ourselves human beings.

Let the flights of fancy, flow: and whither they goest, we too shall go …

Writers’ Rites

Writing is a discipline as much as a skill: There’s the discipline of sitting down and writing each day, whether you feel like it or not. There’s the discipline of editing yourself, and not putting up with any nonsense. There’s the discipline of keeping on writing, even when some inner voice is telling you it’s terrible and should never see the light of day.

Sometimes that inner voice is right; and you should learn to listen to it — judiciously, and at the appropriate time (i.e., after the piece is finished).

So, yes, writing is a discipline. But again, it is also a skill. One you learn through practice and experience – and reams and reams of patience. Not to mention, it’s also an exercise in humility.

Anyone who’s going to write well needs to learn humility from the get-go (some of us are still learning). But humility doesn’t mean false modesty, it means a keen observation of reality, avoiding both the tendency to puff your own ego and the tendency to beat yourself up for perceived “failings” and “flaws” (many of which often turn out to be imaginary, or just a sign that you haven’t been sleeping lately).

It means being realistic about your faults, and working to correct them in practice. But part of that means you don’t stop publishing meanwhile. Sometimes “good enough” has to be, well, good enough (for now).

You give it your honest best, you iron out any typos or errors you’ve made along the way — maybe even cut out a paragraph or two that you may have rather liked, but which really had no place in the piece as written — and then you publish it: you send it out into the world, and start work on the next one. Or have a rest for a moment, and sit back with a cup of tea, put your feet up, and relax …

… until the next piece comes along as an idea insistently poking at the inside of your head and demanding to be written.

It’s a dog’s life being a writer …