If You Don’t Sh*t a Little, You Aren’t Doing It Right

Last week I discussed the important role of naps to the writer’s act of creation. This week I’ll address the need to embrace and trust fear. 
That’s right. Fear is good for you, if you have put in the work. 

Athletes put in hours and hours of repetitious work and drills in order to develop muscle memory. The payoff comes in game time when the body simply reacts, no need to think, just perform. It is called muscle memory. 

Writers need to develop the same type of muscle memory with their writing. When you are starting out, read everything you can, and then read some more. Study what you read. Break it down. Learn the structure of storytelling. Practice what you learn. Write stories; be structured in your writing.

Then, eventually, let it go. Forget about structure. Concentrate on character, plot, and developing your own voice. That is when the fear comes in. Sometimes when I’m writing I feel like I’m walking a tightrope with no net. I honestly do not know where the story will end up, I just trust that it will end in a good place. 

I have written several stories this year based on personal experiences. Eastern Shore was about the death of my father, Out of the blue was about a family dog. I just finished one about my first kiss. A few months back I set out to write about my favorite uncle and it took a bizarre turn I never imagined. This little voice in the back of my head kept telling me to write things that seemingly had nothing to do with the story at hand. I’ll often get an idea, different from what I’m writing about. When that happens I open a new document and jot it down, save it and get back to the task at hand. This time was different. They were not separate ideas, the voice told me they belonged in the story about my Uncle Paul. I decided to listen to the voice. I wrote down the disjointed scenes and tangents. Over the course of the few days it took to write the story, a structure and plot began to come together. It was actually very exciting when everything fell into place. It was a story unlike anything I had ever written. It is my favorite, so far, this year.

Your subconscious is always working for you. Learning to tap into it and trust it can be scary. If you aren’t a little scared, if you don’t feel a little trepidation about what you’re working on, you are probably not stretching your imagination far enough. You have to trust that your subconscious will lead you to safety.  Don’t be afraid to follow your subconscious down the dark alley, it will be alright… most of the time. And if the alley turns out to be a dead end, well, that is what the delete button is for. 

Here is an excerpt from The Man in Dick Van Dyke’s Hat:

The Man in Dick Van Dyke’s Hat

The man leaned against the Knights of Pythias Building in downtown Fort Worth and seemed oblivious and invisible to the bustle about him.

Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t invisible, he was there all right. It’s just he and each and everyone else walking by was encased in their own personal bubble. All unaware of each other.

The man was in bad need of a shave and his clothes had seen a lot of miles. He wasn’t dirty so much as unkempt. He was dressed like he had two part time jobs, one as a circus ringmaster and the other a maître d’ at a restaurant where the prices are not printed on the menu. He wore a tattered, battered and torn straw hat that once belonged to Dick Van Dyke. Everyone’s seen it. It was the one Van Dyke wore in Mary Poppins. Not one like it, the very same hat. The man and Van Dyke had been friends at one time.

But that is a different story.

This is my Uncle Paul’s story. Great Uncle Paul to be genealogically precise. He was my maternal grandmother’s brother in law.

Uncle Paul was my favorite uncle. He looked out for me. He was about the only male relative I had who spent much time with me. It was Uncle Paul who taught me how to tie my shoes. He showed me how to kick a ball. Most importantly, he answered my boyhood questions.

My father was absent most of my childhood and my grandfather, I called him Da-dad, was, well, a man of few words. Da-dad spoke in concise, blunt sentences, most of which were either declarative or imperative.

Uncle Paul was career Army and did four tours in Vietnam. The first two tours he was ordered to go. The last two tours he volunteered.

On the day before Uncle Paul was to leave for his fourth tour. Aunt Nita was pissed. For weeks I had heard her and my mom talking about Uncle Paul leaving. Aunt Nita was worried and scared. She did not want him to go. She did not understand why he kept volunteering to go back.

It was 1967 and young men were avoiding the draft by heading over the border to Canada in droves and most career Army personnel were hunting cushy, safe deployments stateside. Meanwhile, Uncle Paul had already been in combat three times and returned from each tour without a scratch. Aunt Nita felt Uncle Paul was pressing his luck.