Many people imagine writers hunched over keyboards, frantically typing as inspiration strikes. But as I mentioned in a recent blog, some of the most deliberate authors I work with take a different approach. They’re mental composers, crafting pieces, essays and chapters – or as I prefer to call them – scenes, in their minds before a single word hits the page.
One author who is on my Year Long Memoir Writing Course has mastered this method of internal writing. She describes needing absolute silence during her initial writing sessions – not totally because she craves quiet, but because she’s retrieving a story that’s already been composed in her head.
Like a musician reading from a score that only she can see, she transcribes the carefully orchestrated narrative she’s been nurturing in her mind.
Isn’t that a lovely thought.
(Please don’t be daunted if you don’t work this way. Every writer’s process is different, and your way is just fine. As long as you’re writing!)
What’s particularly intriguing is how her process transforms when she shifts into editing mode. The silence that was so crucial for capturing her inner narrative is no longer needed. She takes long walks with her headphones in, listening to Nirvana and the Foo Fighters (to see her, you would never guess she’s a secret rock chick) letting the rhythm of her steps and the flow of music help unlock solutions to troublesome plot points, character arcs and structure niggles. Hers is a braided memoir that had a lot of niggles, now thankfully ironed out and wonderfully seamless.
This dual approach – silence for creation, music for refinement – speaks to the different cognitive processes involved in writing versus editing for some memoirists. The initial writing requires deep concentration to accurately transfer the pre-composed story from mind to page. Editing, however, benefits from a more fluid, associative state of mind where new connections can form, and problems can resolve themselves almost subconsciously.
It’s a reminder that writing isn’t always about spontaneous creation.
Sometimes it’s about patience, about letting a story mature in the mind until it’s ready to be born. And sometimes the best way to solve a writing problem isn’t to stare at the words, but to step away, put on your favourite song, and let your mind wander down new paths.
By the way, if Nirvana is your jam, you might enjoy this memoir I worked on with an author called Joseph Hulscher. It’s called The Boy From The Porch – My Dying Mom & Kurt Cobain.
