Germination

A while back someone commented, "It seems as if you write quickly". I nodded yes, then thought, I'm not sure that's true. I don't usually struggle with stringing words together, but some kinds of writing take a ridiculous amount of time. I put the task of figuring out what kinds of writing take time on my back burner.

Then the other day I was talking with a client who's writing a chapter for a text on music therapy. I was helping her figure out how to structure the piece, which addresses a rather controversial issue.  I know nothing about music therapy, of course. So I asked a pile of questions, and it eventually became clear that she had to make an argument that no one has articulated before. "You're used to writing qualitative studies," I told my client, "This is a different kind of writing: it's creative. You have to decipher and define the shape of a new idea, and that can take a long time!"

Uncovering insights and articulating them -- that's not wordsmithing, that's work. Good, hard work.

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One of the first writing tasks for kids when they're little is to summarize something. Putting words on a page is a lot easier when you don't have to think up anything new. Re-tell a story. Explain how something is done. Observe, then describe. All that is simply taking something already in the world and transforming it into words.

And yet life is about a lot more than re-phrasing what's already known. It's about discovery, and un-covery, and synthesis. That's harder. Which is why, for writing, we leave those assignments for later years, when the basics have been mastered.

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It's always astonished me that my most creative act -- having children -- was mainly a matter of cooperation, not effort. Nine months of cooperating with God (or nature, if you see it that way), and then half a day of intense labor.

This tells me that to produce something new requires ample time for ideas to germinate. Most of the real work happens in the dark. Most of the real work happens because of the environment you've prepared; is it conducive to nurturing to new life or ideas or perspectives?

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My mom loves to tell of the day I called home from college and said, in wonder, "You know, I really am creative!" She'd told me all my life that I was, but I didn't believe her until I was out on my own.

I still don't think of creative as a word that applies well to me. But the process of sifting through thoughts and ideas, distilling them, connecting them with disparate thoughts, shaping them into something new, and transforming them into words that others can grasp -- that's good stuff. That's the kind of writing that doesn't come quickly. Though it took a while for me to figure it out.

Writing, school, and developing the mind

Eldest and I had a conversation last night about writing. She was concerned about not knowing how to write college essays, which are different from school essays. After some thought, Eldest decided that college essays require tone. I agree with this: school essays are descriptive, college essays need to be evocative, drawing the reader into the story. My husband the editor would say it's the difference between writing, "She cried," and making the reader cry.

Eldest wondered why her school doesn't teach students how to develop tone. Perhaps because the skills needed to succeed in school are generally not the same as the skills needed to be a writer. I've had a couple of interns this summer; most of them have good basic skills, but they write as if they are producing term papers. I realize that they've spent years honing this particular skill, but now they have to unlearn it and focus on writing for an audience.

As my conversation with my daughter morphed into a general discussion of schooling, I opined that while schools are good at divulging information, what very few do well is nurture passion. Passion is left up to the individual. Eldest immediately protested, "But why don't they tell you that up front?!" Good question. It might not be a bad thing for a teacher to begin the year with a talk something like this:

"This year we'll be learning about [topic X]. I can promise you that you will learn a lot, and you will work hard. I can promise you that I will prepare you for [whatever], and that if you do all of the assignments, you will grow in knowledge and understanding. However, I also know that along the way there are likely to be topics you find particularly interesting, or questions we won't be addressing in class. These are the seeds of intellectual passion, and whether they grow or not is ultimately your responsibility. If you come to me and say, "Ms. X, I really like this topic. Can you suggest other materials?" I will bend over backward to help you find resources to feed your curiosity. There is nothing I like better than a hungry mind. But there's a difference between giving someone food and teaching him to grow his own. In the long run, you're the one who needs to be able to nourish your intellectual passions. Take responsibility for it now."

Although Eldest is generally self-motivated, I think this kind of prelude would have given her permission to think bigger, take more initiative. It would have sent the message that wanting to know more is normal. And it would have acknowledged that even in the best schools, it's not all up to the teacher.