Ah, writing. You lock yourself up in a cabin in the woods until it’s done. Just you and the page, no distractions from everyday life. Buckle down. By yourself. Suffer in solitude.
And then, at first light, you step out and present the world with your masterpiece. That’s how real writers do it.
I’ve always wanted to write, but I’ve managed to postpone it for 40 years.
Because ‘I’m not a writer’, ‘I have no talent’, ‘who am I to…’
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Excuses.
I finally took the plunge this year by joining David Perell’s incredible Write of Passage course. An immersive five-week course on all aspects of writing online.
What did I Iearn? Don’t rent that cabin just yet.
The first draft
I went into the course with my ‘real writer’ mentality. I worked on the first draft for four full days. Struggling, wrestling, refining. I wish I could say it felt good, but it didn’t. When I was done I felt empty, tired, and cranky. But at least I was finally finished.
The next day the feedback came in. ‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to say’. Apparently I had written a confusing cluster of words instead of an article. Four days spent polishing a turd.
Writing is hard. And painful. To write for other people (as opposed to journaling or a grocery list), is to be able to clearly communicate a point. Unloading ramblings onto a page isn’t enough.
Writing forces you to make sense. It forces you to make difficult decisions. Words will never be precise enough for what’s in your head; broad, ungraspable, visual or conceptual thoughts. Brilliant no doubt.
Writing from conversation
Write of Passage showed me another way. The secret ingredient? Community. The idea of the writer as someone who suffered in solitude had no home here.
I had daily discussions with smart, curious people who encouraged, provoked and challenged my ideas. At least 10 people are involved in the article you’re reading now. And it all started with talking about the idea.
Thinking out loud together helped me distill my ideas, turning scattered thoughts into written articles. Like boxers, we sparred before stepping into the ring.
The takeaway?
Writing starts by talking. Condensing a vague cloud of thoughts into a distilled drop. It’s done through conversation. Conversational sparring partners are the key to sculpting your ideas before you dive into a draft.
Why talking works
Every sentence that comes out of our mouth is just a proposal, a guess, something we put up for reflection. It’s improvisation. Only when the words leave my mouth do I know if I agree with them or not. To know what I mean, I need to hear myself speak.
Even better is when others can reflect my thoughts back to me in their own words. That gives me a second layer of understanding. When others restate what I’m saying I can check what comes across. And when they don’t get my point, I take that as a sign that it’s not clear enough yet. A signal to try again.
Other people can help me to figure out what I actually mean. My thoughts are messy, incoherent, and probably wrong. I have blind spots. They can point out what is interesting, boring or confusing about my rambling. This gives me a chance to sharpen my point before I put pencil to paper.
Writing is social
Writing isn’t a solitary thing at all. It’s a team sport.
So I’m focusing on building the team. Cultivating a group of sparring partners that I can call upon (and they on me) for the pre-draft process.
What makes a good sparring partner? Someone who’s curious and can actively listen. Someone who won’t let me off the hook when I’m not making sense. Who can ask useful questions and point out the nonsense versus the interesting.
I’ll never start writing again before talking through my ideas. Conversation is the first step. And if I do end up renting that cabin, I’ll make sure I’ll invite my team.