Writing Spaces and Writing Places

I’ve got this theory about writing. Like many notions about the craft it’s a little silly. But it gets me through the day, so I’ll let you be the judge. It goes something like this: Unless you’re a genius, or if you’re completely mad, the most productive way to get anything done is to find the best combination of space and place.

What do I mean? Well, I write in three spaces. First, there’s the space in my mind where memories and feelings form the stories I want to tell. It’s gorgeous — vivid and bright. Words and sentences spring to life, and I desperately want to share everything I have there. But I can’t. It’s all trapped inside. To get it out, I have to shift into my second space, the area between my thoughts and the keyboard, sometimes intersected with pen or pencil. Here it’s not pretty. This is where I struggle to capture the language I envisioned, to make the words pouring out match those in my mind. It’s a rocky and battered space. It’s where I spend most of my time, and it’s frustrating. Finally, there’s the written page, a space that can be pixelated on a screen or sometimes paper-printed, where my logical brain rearranges, revises and justifies everything I’m trying to say.

My spatial boundaries are loose, fragmented. Often I’ll occupy all three simultaneously, or jump haphazardly between them. My writing places, on the other hand, are solid. They’re the foundations for my spaces. There are also three: There’s my cluttered and wooden home office desk, the coffee-house down the block and, of course, the Writers’ Room.

Day-to-day, even moment-to-moment, my spaces and places are gushing fountains or sticky tar pits. I never know what to expect, no matter my plan. But the beauty of my theory is, if something’s not working, I can shift focus without losing a beat, and without feeling bad.

So there’s my creativity rubric — or gimmick. Call it what you like, but it’s how I inhabit my creative writing life, how I’ve learned to manage the hardest and most fickle work I’ve ever done. Jobs that actually paid me to write were easier than this. Newspaper reporting, for example — ask the questions, sort the facts, draft simple declarative sentences. Or public relations — massage away a client’s negatives and shape a compellingly manipulative story. Creative writing is so difficult that there are times I simply do not want to sit at my keyboard, even in the very same moments when I am compelled to type.

And that’s why I need to think in terms of space and place. It’s just a game I play with myself to get words onto the page, to keep me in a groove. To keep the work flowing.

Mike Sinert, 2016 WROB Nonfiction Fellow

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