On Writing My First Book
Things that help me bridge the gap between my pen and the blank page
I’m writing my first book. And not only am I writing it, but I’m illustrating it as well. I like to do that sort of thing. Start with something that’s already a little bit challenging and then ask myself, how could I make this even harder? It’s like self-flagellating with words.
Except, Dear Reader, there’s really nothing about this that is punishment. I just tossed that in for dramatic effect. In fact, the reality is, I’ve taken it upon myself to throw all notions of hardship out the window.
I’ve decided that if I’m going to write a book that is devourable and hungry and lustful for life, that picks itself up and streaks naked and glistening through the world, then I better infuse it with all the love that I can muster.
I’m going to love the shit out of that thing.
I realized pretty early on: There’s plenty that I do in my day that I do because I have to. Writing and drawing are not going to be one of them. No, no. They get done because I choose to.
I believe that to write and create- to have the opportunity and good fortune to do so, to have a mind that even directs you to such things- is a gift. And that gift is one that I plan to take seriously.
You see, I think it’s important to remember that what you desire creatively desires you. That in some way, this creative work that you’re determined to befriend requires nourishment and movement and shelter.
That it likes to stretch out in the sun, feel the warmth of the ground against its skin and then peel off to find shade once the temperature of warm becomes too hot.
That it has its own feral needs. That just when you think you’ve figured it out, it reverts, becomes outspoken and untameable.
And yet still we wake up and we rise, and we make our way over to the page or the easel or the tools that help us bring our work to life, ready to feed this wondrous, ravaged beast.
So, if I must sit patiently and wait for my work to appear from behind the couch, then I am willing. I will do my best to wield my clunky human self to match its needs.
And on the days when the work wants to play the game of Catch Me If You Can, I will streak paint across my face, unleash my wilding hair, holler to the moon, and say I’m ready.
One cannot, after all, assume the work will come to you. We must show ourselves trustable, befriendable, open and uncontainable. To demonstrate that we will walk or we will gallop. Even both, one after the other.
For someone who has never written a book before, and who has not yet finished the one she’s started, it might seem preposterous, outrageous, blasphemous to think of offering advice. And I’m not going to.
But for those in a similar position to me- who’ve been toying with an idea that won’t leave them alone, that stalks them like a tiger (or perhaps it’s currently more like a dismembered axolotl) the thoughts that follow are for you.
Some things that helped me bridge the gap between myself and the blank page.
1. Make yourself available for ideas to find you
There’s so much about writing that is nothing to do with writing at all. All the cogitating and considering and dreaming, it all counts.
Your ideas are a constellation of circling satellites, sending messages that are waiting to be downloaded. One of your most important jobs is to stay creatively open, flexible and fit, in whatever way is possible for you, so when the story comes you are ready.
Make yourself available for ideas to find you. Don’t clutter the recesses of your brain with things that don’t add value to your mission. Consider where, and on what, you are putting your attention. Be discerning. Nourish your creative self. Hold yourself lightly but take yourself seriously.
Your work is worth it and the only permission you need is from yourself.
2. Focus on what you want to say, not how you want to say it
I heard this somewhere and noted it down immediately, but I can’t remember from who or where it came (I was not smart enough to note that also). I know for me that focusing on what I wanted to say rather than how I wanted to say it liberated my perfectionist self from needing to get the just-right sentence on the page and instead, let them tumble out as needed.
Remember: This is the first draft. The wordy equivalent of a basic thumbnail sketch.
We are racing downhill, wind in our hair, feet travelling faster than our thoughts, words tumbling out beneath our fingers.
You are a Quentin Blake illustration comes to life right off the page, all fun and frivolity and life.
Oh wait. Yes, that’s exactly it.
Your first draft is proof of life; of your idea, your imagination, your universe of possibilities finding their form.
What do you want to say? Say it! Just get it down.
Messily, outrageously, imperfectly, barely discernably if you have to. This is the raw material, the clay you’ll use way down the line.
But right now, for this draft (and even for the one that follows), you are free.
Imagine that?! No one ever needs to see it.
You are free.
FREE.
Where else in life can we really say that.
On this page, for this moment, you are free.
Let yourself gallop.
3. Start and end each day with a question
This is something that I developed for myself that’s really helped me. I have been aiming to write one thousand words a day. To fulfil that (my work is creative nonfiction) I have a loose outline I’ve created that gives the book a basic form, and from there I consider what each particular segment there is asking.
At the start of my writing time, I ask myself a question:
What about this subject do I want to say? Why do I find it useful? What interests me about it? What would I really want other people to learn and know?
The questions often change, but they’re a start point. They sharpen my focus and give me direction. Whether I stay on the path they’ve provided is not their purpose. It’s just about momentum.
When I’m about to end my writing session, I leave a question for the next day. A clue to the thought stream I’ve just left and an invitation to expand and continue.
This way, I’ve found, the page is never truly blank. The past version of myself also expected me to continue.
The past version of me trusts that I will carry on.
I will leave you with a gleeful thought:
Your book is always trying to tell you what it is.
Isn’t that delicious? So much of what we’re doing is discovery. We are intrepid explorers in perhaps the last place on earth that is yet to be explored: Our own imaginations.
There’s something about that I keep finding delightful. And it’s to this I return when I find anything but love taking the lead.
Love to your gentle selves,
xx Jane
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So, so good -- juicy and inspiring and joyful. I will read and re-read this, Jane, whenever I need guidance. Thank you so much!
I love what you write here Jane, I hope some of this finds its way into your book, the lively dance with with what we do, create love in a world made of relationships. The kaka says it all! 💚