The writer’s super power

Yep. Writers have a super power. It’s not dreaming up fantasy realms or talking to characters in our heads, either. What we do better than anyone else is say yes to the power of our voice, even for just a short time.

We’ve all read books where the words leap off the pages at us, then depart as we breathe out a humid sigh. Some of them clutch us in solidarity: We think, ‘Oh, it’s not just me.’ We hold our breath, clench stomach muscles, and rush to turn the page. They speak to us, rip open our chests and beat in time with our hearts. It happens. With truly great, honest-to-God, gut-wrenching writing, it happens frequently.

What those writers know better than anyone is fear has no place in this craft. They stare it down with a big, old ‘fuck you.’ But even beginning writers have an innate ability, to pause how the outside world measures them. They believe they have something to say, and that someone will want to hear it. They believe in themselves enough to put pen to page and try to make sense of their world.

That’s huge.

Writing takes courage. Maybe that’s why writers make up less than 1 percent of the population. Fear is about all that prevents writers from creating their best.

writers' super power graphicI’ve spent my entire writing life talking to others about how to make fear their bitch. I mean, if you’re going to bring your readers into the story with you, if you want them to feel your damp shirt sticking to your back while you climb that cliff, then you really can’t be worrying about what other people might think. Writing is a two-step process, and neither step involves weighing the opinion of the masses.

We create, write. Then we critique, edit. Those functions use two distinct sections of our mind. It’s damn near impossible to do both at the same time. And if you try, you will likely find yourself “stuck” or “blocked.”

First, let’s talk about getting the words on the page. During this step, we need to shut off the internal editor. No re-working scenes, swapping paragraphs, grabbing the thesaurus. When you’re only objective is to create, you should not be judging. Instead, practice writing whatever pops into your head. Don’t hedge. Don’t think. Just write. It has actually been scientifically proven that the more you do this, the more your creativity improves. Without a little voice inside questioning everything, you can let loose. That’s when many writers find their very best words.

The second part of writing is to critique. This is when we decide what stays and what goes. What could be said better, or what’s just superfluous. When you’re looking to edit and place words “just so,” your brain does not readily accept anything that crops up as appropriate. In those moments, you are trained to detach and doubt. So if you’re searching for better ideas, descriptions – inspiration – then you must be open to everything.

This is the point – and it’s big, so pay attention → You will not improve your imagination and resourcefulness, nor generate new and better ideas, if you do not open your mind to every bad idea as well. Accepting every thought that arrives (whether it’s crazy good or utter crap) builds creative muscle. Editing cannot be allowed during the creative phase.

In sum, my little chickens, once you learn to separate creating and editing, your writing will improve. Once you lose the fear of what you might say – of your truth, of someone else’s judgement – your words will begin to flow effortlessly.

The better you become at losing the self-editor, the more good ideas you will generate. Knowing that you will be editing later actually frees you up to go further and further into new territory. Write a paragraph of single words unrelated to the next. Imagine a scent and write ten adjectives that describe it. Be crazy. Who cares? We’ll edit later.

“By the way, what shape are your nonsensical words? Flat and dull? Sharp and intuitive?” (That’s me, writing without editing.)

We all inherently know how to be critical, perhaps a little too well. We’re writers. What we need to practice is letting loose, creating. We need to celebrate that we’re already among the “less than 1 percent” who has the balls to say what needs to be said. Remember that when you sit down at the keyboard. This is what helps to bring the raw, unencumbered you out onto the page…

You already have a super power. Use it to write on your terms, in a way you feel good about, with your own honest-to-God, gut-wrenching voice.

Because, if you let it, it will change everything.

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Each week, RebeccaTDickson.com and Laura Howard bring you a weekly writing prompt that kicks you in the ass. The assignment: Let go and have fun. No editing. No second thoughts. And absolutely no using the delete key. We call it “Just Write,” and it is designed to build creative muscle. It’s a free-writing exercise, where we literally post what pops into our heads. And it’s a blast. Read more here.

Pencil drawings

My grandfather died a few days ago. He spent every second of his 92 years reminding anyone who would listen that we should all – and always – do two things: love and forgive, no matter the problem, personal crisis or catastrophe. He embodied those words, too, exhaling them into the air as naturally as shrugging off an overcoat.

Over time, his message colored every season, like a brilliant dye, flowering slowly through warm water. Wind whipped through the eaves. Rain seeped through the sashes and trickled down the panes. Snow piled up outside. My mother would light the woodstove, and we’d take turns . . . was there ever a situation when Gramps hadn’t forgiven? When his answer wasn’t to love anyway?

Not once.

It was his duty and constancy. It brought him, and us, peace. I pictured it – and still do – in pencil drawings with apple-cheeked children on a farm. He may have gotten edgy and worried (and with nine children, who could blame him?), but he never raised his voice. It was as steady and stubbornly old-fashioned as a huge, comfortable armchair. It took up inefficient amounts of space, with massive shelves of obscure thoughts, so foreign they were almost familiar. These memories are comforting, even with an undercurrent of grief.

He would play word games of his own design and complete crossword puzzles with a frenzy. He would steal my cigarette packs and write on them in black marker, and in capital letters, “CANCER STICKS.” He would twinkle his blue eyes, the color of faded denim, at any beautiful lady. He would laugh and dance and sing and smile – and love and forgive. You never had to guess what you would get from Gramps. Hugs and compliments and beefy, florid features.

The thought of trying to be as good a human being as he was, of the responsibilities and complications, it makes me want to curl up in a ball and whimper. I loved his gestures so much, loved the sure, unthinking ease of them, the taking for granted. His was not a practiced sparkle. Do people like that exist anymore?

Things are very much in a submarine haze. Today, a sort of dull relief sits in my chest, knowing he is not suffering. Just this morning, I prodded cautiously at the edges of my memory and came up nearly empty. Except for two things. My grandfather’s absolute and undying faith in the power of love and forgiveness, and the fact that in 92 years, he never let anyone take it away from him.

Thoughts like these, in the days following the death of a loved one, they’re like a dam breaking. Everything around you gathers itself up and moves effortlessly into high gear. Every drop of energy you’ve poured into that relationship comes back to you, unleashed and gaining momentum by the second, subsuming you in a building roar. You can surrender everything else, lose yourself in the driving pulse of it and become nothing but one part of a perfectly calibrated, vital machine.

Love and forgive.

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This post was inspired by my brother’s eulogy at our grandfather’s funeral.