Random Notes

The public notebook of writer and essayist Scott Nesbitt

Every would-be writer has a million words of s**t clogging up his system, so it behooves him to get it out as soon as possible. To get to the good stuff.

Mike Baron

You need to face the fact that you'll write poorly, even badly, when start out on your journey as a writer. You'll see flashes of the writer you'll become, but those flashes are fleeting.

You shouldn't be discouraged. It takes time to learn the craft of writing, to become disciplined, to develop a distinctive style. Blame a lot of that on the million words of s**t clogging up your system. The million words you can't quite shape in the way you want to.

You'll find yourself struggling. You'll find yourself aping, whether deliberately or not, some of the writers you're reading or who you admire. As you write, as you get that million words of s**t out of your system, you'll notice a change in your writing. You'll notice your writing evolving. You'll notice a shift in tone, in structure, in style.

If you're doing the job correctly — writing with focus, getting feedback, taking time to learn the rules of writing and how to write properly — will see an improvement in your work. You'll see and feel yourself growing as a writer. You'll see your words and the stories you want to tell taking shape in the way you want them to.

But you can't just blindly and blithely tap out word after word, hoping to become better. That's like throwing rocks at a target in the dark. You might hit it every so often, but your aim won't improve beyond a certain point. You need to, as I mentioned a paragraph ago, to write with focus. You need to put in the hours and the effort and the sweat.

Your journey as a writer is a long one. Really, it never ends. The longer you're on that journey, the more you focus on your goals as a writer, the better you become.

(Note: This post was part of an edition of my weekly letter. It appears here via permission from ... well, me!)

In the early 2000s, I remember watching a global call-in show on BBC World News. That show invited viewers to telephone, Skype, fax, instant message, and email about that week's topic. The particular edition I tuned into discussed how to reduce your carbon footprint. The one email that I recall vividly was from a viewer in Scotland. He wrote that he couldn't afford to convert his household to green technologies and, that being one person, his efforts wouldn't put a dent in the situation. So, he'd opted to do nothing.

Maybe that viewer couldn't afford turn his home into a bastion of renewable energy. But he could have take several small steps — like using energy-efficient bulbs, turning off lights, air drying his clothes. One person doing that makes no appreciable difference. If a 100 do that, it puts a small dent in the problem. A million? That makes a huge difference.

Crowdfunding is an excellent expression of small as a force multiplier. It gives ideas and products which might not have a large potential market a chance to see the light of day. Backers can pledge anywhere from a few dollars to hundreds or thousands of dollars to support something that intrigues them. The people behind the crowdfunding campaign get a chance to take a product or idea with a narrow niche and make it a reality.

Small steps. Small gestures. Alone, they amount to little. Multiply those gestures by hundreds or thousands or millions or more, and you wind up with something incredible.

Giving in for one night and saying the hell with it, I'll start again tomorrow, is fine, and you should never worry about doing it. The world won't end because you say the hell with it and get comfortable for one damn night. And if it does? Well, s**t, were you guarding the single button that was going to save the world? No, you weren't.

— Warren Ellis

I know far too many people who feel, for lack of a better word, guilty if they're not working. They've become so tightly coupled to the productivity assembly line that they can't step away, even when their minds and bodies tell them to.

That's no way to work. That's no way to live.

That can come back to haunt you. It did with me.

Several years ago, I was working a lot. I'd started my own small consulting business. I was blogging. I was doing a lot of freelance writing. Five, six days a week. Often all seven of those days without a pause.

Then, one weekend, my body and my brain turned on me. I was physically weak. I was weighed down by fatigue. I was too tired to do anything except lay on the couch and watch BBC World News.

That weekend taught me a valuable lesson: it's OK to take a break once in a while. Now, when my body and mind tell me they can't do something, I don't push through the fatigue. I don't force myself to do something. I listen to what my mind and body say and step back.

I know that if I do try to push through, I'll only be working at 20% or 30% efficiency. I'll spend more time the next day re-doing what I did the previous day — the quality of my work suffers when my mind and body aren't in the proper state.

Don't feel guilty about taking a break. Don't deny yourself that break. Sometimes, you need to step away. It keeps your mind and body fresh. It allows you to relax and reflect. In the longer run, taking a break will improve your work. It could improve your life, even if just a little.

Two people taking a break

Photo by picjumbo.com from Pexels

I'm not religious or spiritual. Aside from a brief dalliance with Buddhism in my teens, don't think I ever will be. But places of worship fascinate me. The architecture, the aesthetic and, often the scope, can be stunning. These places are as much for praying to a deity as they are for instilling a sense of awe and reverence in the people who gather in them.

Not being religious, that sense of reverence is lost on me. But the sense of awe? For the longest time, I've believed that you can tell more about a place when it's not being used for purpose than when it is. I've been to many lovely churches, cathedrals, and temples around the world when worship or services weren't happening. In most of them, I never felt a sense of awe or majesty or whatever holy spirit was supposed to fill me by my being there.

One of the few times it did was at St. Laurence's church in Bradford upon Avon. It's an old Anglo-Saxon church that dates from somewhere between the seventh and tenth century AD. It's definitely not a building on a grand scale — the place was built using rough, hand-hewn stone.

The first sense I got when walking into the church is that it was a working church. It was the centre of the community. It was a place where the locals gathered to get closer to their god. There were no adornments. Function overrode form.

The day before I stumbled upon St. Laurence's, I'd visited Salisbury Cathedral. The contrast between the two couldn't be sharper. St. Laurence's church lacked stained glass, the ornate decorations, even the graves of clergy and crusaders. But it seemed the holier place.

Even though the church had also served as a barn and a school, I could feel the purpose, I could feel the piety of the place. It's as if the spirit of religion, of belief in a higher power, had seeped and set into the stones that made up the church.

Stepping into St. Laurence's church didn't put me on the road to conversion to any religion. Not even close. I did, however, gain an appreciation for the power of religion in the life of the ordinary person living in the centuries before I was born.

The one time I was accused of selling out as a writer happened in the early 1990s. My career as a professional freelancer was starting to pick up, and I sold an article to a major Canadian newspaper.

My accuser, a (now former) friend, thought I should have sold that article to a smaller, more worthy (his words, not mine) publication where I'd make a few cents a word. He figured that I should have kept writing for the small publications where I'd been cutting my teeth as a working writer.

That former friend (in case you're wondering, this incident wasn't what put him in the former category) wasn't a writer. He definitely didn't understand the reality of the life of a working writer. He didn't seem to realize that the ideas in that article, and the other articles I wrote for larger publications, found a wider audience than they would have in a smaller magazine.

That, in my eyes, wasn't and isn't selling out.

To this day, I still wonder what selling out actually means.

Sometimes, accusing someone of selling out is a misguided attempt to shame them. To make them feel guilty about doing work that's commercial. In some writing (and other) circles, even today, there's a stigma attached to writing for mass-market publications or undertaking corporate writing work. As if you're abandoning art for money.

That's a silly idea. Most of us who toil behind a keyboard aren't artists. Many of us don't aspire to be artists. We write for a living. To pay our bills, to feed ourselves and our families, to pay the rent or the mortgage. That means taking work that pays.

Is crafting a well-written article, essay, report, script, or whitepaper (and making decent money doing it) selling out? I don't think so. If you're doing any of that, chances are you're using your skills to come up with the best work that you can.

Writing for money isn't selling out. You don't have to be paid a pittance writing for a small journal when you can earn more for the same piece from a larger-circulation publication. There's nothing wrong with being paid what you're worth — whether by a print magazine, an online publication, or a company.

I don't believe it's selling out if you write to the best of your ability, if you explore markets and clients of all types. No matter what kind of writing you do, remember that you're making your living at your keyboard. Sure, it might not be the kind of work you expected to do when you started your career, but as long as you're doing the work to the best of your ability there's no reason to be ashamed of what you write.

Anyway, as someone once told me: Unless you buy in, you can't sell out.

We live at a moment in time in which everything we do, everything we put out in public must succeed the instant it appears. If not, it's an abject failure. It's not worth anyone's time.

That's the unfortunate narrative that seems to have weaved its way into the fabric of the online world.

Far too many interesting and promising projects have been abandoned because they didn't succeed from moment one, because they weren't an instant hit.

Sadly, there's no room today for something that needs time to find an audience. There's no room for experimenting in public.

It shouldn't be that way.

Experiments are essential. And not just in science. No matter what you're doing, experiments give you the leeway to try something new. They offer an outlet to test an idea or a concept. They help you learn what works and what doesn't.

In many ways, Buckminster Fuller's philosophy has influenced not just my thinking but my approach to life. I view my life as an experiment — definitely not as grand as Fuller's drive to discover what a single individual could contribute to changing the world and benefiting all humanity but an experiment nonetheless.

Take, for example, my weekly letter. In the grander scheme of the Republic of Newsletters, it's hardly a blip. But for me, it was (and is) a big step. Even though I've been writing professionally for almost 30 years, I still lack some confidence in my abilities. That lack of confidence makes me wary of putting some of my writing, especially my more personal work, out there.

Over the last several months, I've lost a couple or three subscribers (which I expected to), but I gained more. More importantly, I know that what I've written has touched a few of the fives of people who read that letter. For me, that's more important than have a wider base of readers who might not be engaged.

I don't see why you can't perform your experiments in public. Doing that offers a lot of transparency into what you're doing. Admittedly, you'll have to endure a number of slings and arrows while experimenting. No matter what you say, those slings and arrows will sting. They will hurt. You need to find a way to go past all that.

What others say shouldn't stop you from experimenting. What you come up with might not change the world, but it could make your little portion of the world better. If nothing else, experimenting will help you grow. It will help make you a better person, even in just a small way.

I grew up during the tail end of the Cold War. An era when tensions between east and west, the Americans and the Soviets, were high. An era when both sides had enough nuclear firepower to wipe out the world several times pointed at each other.

Those were fearful times, growing up in the shadow of the mushroom cloud (as Queen sang). You had to live your life, though — when one side or the other pushed that red button (at least, I imagined it to be red) there would be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

One measure of those tensions was the Doomsday Clock, which appeared (and still does) on the cover of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. Back in 1984, the clock was at three minutes to midnight. I was a 17 year old high schooler then, and was worried that the world was about to be consumed by atomic fire.

Recently, I wandered over to the Doomsday Clock website. What I read there unnerved me. It seems that we're at the two minutes to midnight mark. According to the site, the:

[M]ajor threats — nuclear weapons and climate change — were exacerbated this past year by the increased use of information warfare to undermine democracy around the world, amplifying risk from these and other threats and putting the future of civilization in extraordinary danger.

We never learn, do we?

Ever second or third person these days seems to call themselves a writer. Or a something slash writer. For whatever reason, that seems to generate a lot of doubt in the minds of some people.

Those are the people who don't believe that you're a real writer (whatever that means). And they're not afraid to try to call you out. They do that by saying something like Oh, really? Well, what have you written? Those words are usually spoken in an accusing or disbelieving tone.

Yes, several people have said that to me. And in that tone. I have a stock answer for them:

Quite a bit, actually. I've written over 600 published articles, thousands of blog posts, and dozens of essays. I've published five ebooks, with a couple of more on the way. On top of that, I've written millions of words of documentation and marketing and training material.

Saying that usually shuts the doubters down. Sometimes, it just pisses them off even more.

But maybe you don't have as much experience as I do. Maybe you're just getting started as a writer. What can you do? The easiest thing to do is list your achievements, no matter their size. Here are a couple of ideas:

  • I've written x blog posts that have been read by y people
  • To be honest, I haven't written much but my work as been published in/a ...
  • In my day job, I've written x. On the side, I've published x articles/y blog posts

If the doubters still scoff, let them. Ignore them and their negativity. Just keep writing. Keep improving. Let the doubters doubt while you're actually working towards your goals as a writer.

A woman typing on a typewriter

A sad fact of the modern world is that people are always looking for something newer, something shinier, something more exciting. OK, this has been the case for decades but nowadays it seems to have become a lot worse.

I don't think that's always a good thing.

Why? I've found that most of those newer, shinier, more exciting things are just flash in the pan. They add nothing and do nothing.

One way to go against the grain as a blogger or writer is to be boring. No, I don't mean writing in a dull, didactic, style filled with big words and long, passive sentences. What I mean is don't be afraid to tackle topics that have been tackled before.

Here are a few thoughts on how to do just that.

Read more...

It may not come out in these missives I send your way every so often, but I've been writing professionally for a long time. Since 1989/1990. I still find that hard to believe ...

While I still have a lot to learn about this craft we call writing, I like to think that I know a thing or two about it as well. A few years ago, I informally coached a few people who aspired to write. Some of them wanted to turn pro one day. Some wrote (and still do) because they enjoyed it and wanted to improve.

There's one piece of advice that I kept giving them: write every day. I sounded like a record that keeps skipping, but that's the key to improving as a writer. Practice. Practice. And more practice.

For a few of those folks, finding time to write was (and sometimes still is) a challenge. To help them tackle that challenge, I advised them to write morning pages.

The idea behind morning pages is simple: first thing, or thenabouts. in the morning you sit down with pen and paper and just writer. Morning pages are a solid tool for getting through a creative block, or just a cathartic therapy.

But morning pages are an excellent way to practice writing, too. If nothing else, writing morning pages clears cruft from brain so you can get the words that you want down on a page or on the screen. Because, as Mike Baron has said many times over the years:

Every would-be writer has a million words of sh*t clogging up his system. You have to get it out before you get to the good stuff.

Your morning pages are your own. You don't have to make your morning pages public unless you want to.

It doesn't matter how much you write — it can be 100 words or 500 words or more. It doesn't matter how you write. You can craft your morning pages by hand in journal or on legal pad. You can write using a text editor or word processor. You can use a dedicated online tool like 750 Words. The key is to sit down and get words from your brain on to paper or a screen. The goal is to write. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Doing that builds the discipline of writing. Having that discipline is key component to 1) improving as a writer, and 2) being able to take a stab at writing professionally.

Someone writing in a notebook Photo by fotografierende from Pexels

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