The 12-step guide to writing Out in Left
Stephen King’s “On Writing” is nothing on this
Substack suggests to writers that, as part of newsletter launches, we author a piece that gives insight into the writing process. This is supposed to build connection with subscribers. But I do this for me, not you. At the same time, any serious writer must publish an unsolicited and pretentious treatise on writing. So here goes:
1. Use brain
This may seem tautological. Obviously, I need to use my brain to write. I remember Jerry Seinfeld, that observational master (if political imbecile), making a similar point somewhere. “Why does everyone start a story with ‘I woke up…’?” he said. “Of course you woke up. You’re telling me the story!”
In fact, the writing process starts with my paying attention to where my brain had wandered off. Thinking but not about writing often results in thoughts about writing—a topic or a thesis or even a phrase.
These thoughts often happen while I’m waiting for or riding a bus or dodging cars while on a walk because red lights in America are suggestions anymore. If in conversation I ask you to repeat yourself or I respond in generalities, then I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about a thought that occurred to me about writing. You should appreciate it, for you’ve inspired greatness.
2. Document kernels in Notes app
If the thoughts are good enough I put them in Apple’s Notes app. I call these notes ‘kernels.’ Some examples:
“Then pathetic”
“My shaman Bruce Springsteen said… MLB owners forget the former.”
“Didn’t Premier League refence”
I don’t often refer to my notes, probably because they’re indecipherable, but it’s an important part of the process. They’re kind of like Duraflame starter logs. I have no idea what they’re made of, but they’re the genesis of the fire.
3. Write the easy parts
Some sections flow like the salmon of Capistrano, even when I don’t have the thesis or structure of the piece yet. I am intentional about drafting these sections. Unlike in Notes, my thoughts become real when they’re “on paper.” I try not to be precious about this drafting. It’s more important that the coherent thought exists, if not the precise prose. If my writing is a whiskey, then this step represents the production of the mash—an indigestible slough on its way to sublimity.
4. “Take a break”
I feel everything I write must pop. After I draft the easy parts it feels like nothing does, and nothing flows. I tell myself I just need to take a walk, to let the thoughts come back to me (see: Step 1). An important part of my process is deluding myself into believing procrastination is production.
5. Develop deadline anxiety
Naval Base San Diego, where I served while in the Navy, sits along a busy rail corridor and base traffic often gets stuck behind trains. Most delays are thanks to public transit. Gate arms block the road for a few minutes as the red trolley shuttles commuters to nearby stops. They’re minor, if frequent inconveniences.
But sometimes freight trains come through. I call these ‘fuck you trains.’ Drivers curse at them, and the freight companies care nothing about where sailors need to go. The endless parade of train cars inspires a parade of existential thoughts: Will I have time to get a coffee? Why didn’t she text me back? I better look at holiday flights before they get too expensive. Why doesn't San Diego have a subway or an el? How did we go from the Big Bang to sitting in base traffic at 5:30 a.m? And why does something I volunteered for feel like prison?
Then the gates flip up and traffic flows and the focus shifts back to the task at hand: getting my ass to work. Approaching deadlines are the ‘fuck you trains’ of writing.
6. Buy lattes
Bud Light is my favorite beer. I started calling them ‘lattes’ to make the experience of drinking them more refined.
7. Start doing actual work
George Saunders, that publisher of the sensational Story Club, that short story author-cum-popular philosopher, that mustachioed literary romantic, has it all wrong: writing sucks.
Like any job, producing great writing is hard work, which means it involves annoying responsibilities and thousands of micro-decisions. Here’s how one paragraph might go:
I draft the opening sentence. I decide it’s too explicit, too disrespectful toward the reader. “Show, don’t tell,” I scream through tears while smashing my face with Creative Writing for Dummies.
I tighten up the first clause, which involves rewriting and CTRL+Xing and CTRL+Zing, then I get stuck on the second clause. I do the dishes to give my mind a break (see: Step 4).
I sharpen the second clause after Googling synonyms for 15 minutes or leafing through a book I had failed to annotate.
I take a sip of a latte.
I pace around my apartment searching my brain for my own words.
I draft a few more sentences, then decide I can’t spend any more time on a transitional paragraph of a 10,000-word piece that 72 people will read.
I repeat this dozens of times to produce a draft, stay up past midnight, and wake up groggy for my day job. All the while, I ignore women and friends, who, after I tell them I need to write, think I wear a cravat and dictate a polished essay in a lilting British accent.
8. Shore up sagging sections
I return to the draft after a bit of time—it might be 15 minutes, it might be a few days—and what works and what doesn’t is immediately obvious. Writing for Story Club, George Saunders put it thusly:
[I] imagine a little meter in my head, with “P” on one side (“Positive”) and “N” on the other (“Negative”). The game is to read the story the way I would read someone else’s – noting my honest, in-the-moment reactions – and then edit accordingly.
It’s a useful tool for any writer, but not many of us are Booker Prize-winning contributors to The New Yorker. We don’t have the luxury of or resources for multiple revisions, so I adapted Saunders’ meter into a Navy metaphor.
The bulkheads of every ship are lined with shoring—wooden or metal props and associated tools. They’re used to temporarily support buckling bulkheads or decks, which is possible during flooding and fires. It’s not just a matter of convenience or personal safety. Compromising structural integrity can render a ship useless and “take it out of the fight,” as admirals who’ve never been in a fight say.
I consider my edits for Substack as shoring. I am a great writer, and I put out great stuff, but I don’t always have the time to turn what are glorified blog posts into perfection. Sacrifices must be made. ‘Good enough’ must be accepted. Sue me.
9. Dread preparing the draft for posting
More drudgery: finding photos, confirming links, tagging posts, fixing formatting, finalizing edits. I am a visionary forced to be a typesetter. I go to hit the publish button, but then feel the need to reread the post one more time. I go to hit the publish button again. It makes me want to vomit.
10. Feel elation at publication
I often exult when I finish a piece, pumping my fists and yelling “Let’s go!” like an athlete does. They face an adoring crowd, me a phalanx of empty lattes, but the buzz is the same. I share the piece across my social media platforms. My mom comments “Good job, babe!” and my friends tell me “It’s good, but it’s really long.”
11. Become depressed at not winning the Pulitzer Prize
I think everything I publish will go viral. When it doesn’t I become an entitled Boomer. “That’s what’s wrong with society…” My problems are someone else’s fault.
12. Return to baseline
After this process, with the associated emotions matching a sine wave, I remember why I do this: It’s not a choice. It is the only way I can comfortably and confidently express myself. Then I go back into the wilderness.
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