#timed exercise

[fieriframes]

[THE BASIC UNIT of writing practice is the timed exercise.]

[anonniemousefics]

I have this distinct memory of driving down South Willow Street in Manchester, NH, preparing to turn onto the interstate at a series of traffic lights on a bridge, and internally bemoaning the fruitless direction of my life. I remember how badly I wanted to be a writer -- it's all I've ever really wanted to do -- but all of the advice I'd gotten was to write the things *you* want to read. Write what's on your insides, they'd say. And I knew in that moment, with my turn signal clicking and my heart in my shoes, that if I wrote what I really wanted, then I would lose everyone.

My world at the time was filled with religion and church expectations. I was married to a pastor, a new mother myself, and my life course felt very set. Women in my position wrote cookbooks or memoirs of their faith intended to encourage other women only -- they didn't write about girls who saw ghosts and learned magic and fought just as well as boys. Women weren't allowed to preach at our church, let alone best a man at something.

But this was my community at the time. I'd come to depend on friendships and routines and the support of my family, and all of it was built on these beliefs: that there was an order to the world, and within that order, I could not have the same kind of authority as men.

So I didn't write.

I didn't write -- and I lost everyone anyway.

It took another couple years from that moment on South Willow Street, but eventually I woke up to what I'd done to myself. The world was shifting. People I'd once respected had begun to say and support ideas that were more extreme than I'd ever been used to that I felt I had to start educating myself outside their worldview just to help myself feel less insane. And that's when I started to understand -- all of these relationships, this entire community I'd relied on my entire life, existed because people like me tolerated being used. There had never been any genuine respect for the person under the gender. Leadership was pleased with you and comfortable with you as long as you said the right things and did the right things and *were* the right things. The support I thought I couldn't bear to lose was entirely dependent on my compliance and unwavering obedience, not love and respect for me as a fellow human being. I had never really known what that would look and feel like.

The process of piecing this all together was traumatic. The woman I'd been on South Willow Street was right to fear it. Every new lightbulb moment was rage-inducing and horrifying and gut-wrenching. I spiraled briefly into madness. I needed medications and therapy, and if I hadn't had a few solid friendships outside the church in the midst of this, I don't know if I would have made it at all.

Eventually, though, I learned how to choose myself.

Eventually, I started writing again.

And this time -- oh, this time.

This time I got to experience what I'd been wanting from the start.

I got to meet people who liked the same things as me. I got to meet people who laughed at the same jokes that made me laugh. I got to be loved for who I am, not for how well I perform. I found I could withstand letting go of relationships that couldn't compare. I learned how to say No, lovingly and often. I discovered that learning to love myself exactly as I am -- the thing that I'd heard pastors decry my entire life as one of the many slippery slopes to Satan -- was actually the secret ingredient that made loving others easy. I learned the thing the church has always actually feared was never really our sins -- just the loss of control.

If I had one thing to tell that woman I was on South Willow Street, I'd whisper so gently to her to choose herself instead. I'd tell her to choose the pen and the page, which are always there for you without conditions. I'd tell her to start there -- that is your new standard, I'd say. I'd want her to know it's worth the risk. I'd want her to know the pain will be as terrible as she fears, but that she is so much stronger than she knows. I'd tell her -- and I'll tell you -- if given the choice between community and writing, choose to write. Because a community that can't accept you for you isn't a community at all.

[lemonfairyd]

Timed challenge

[spaceczarina]

Time for a writing exercise!

Estimated time ~18 minutes

So I learned this back in my creative writing seminar last semester. My teacher, a wonderful woman by the name Wendy Schuchart, used this exercise inspired by Lynda Barry. For this particular exercise, you will need a couple sheets of lined paper, a pen, and a device to time yourself with. 

First and foremost--draw massive Xs on those papers. They are imperfect now, and you can allow your writing to be imperfect. That pen I asked you to grab? You will not be allowed to erase for the duration of this exercise! You will not be allowed to stop even if your words become gibberish. If you cannot think of something to write, write your thoughts down or draw spirals. Your pen cannot stop no matter what.

So!  Stretch your hands, crack your knuckles, do what you need to do to prepare, then begin when you feel ready.

Part 1 -- 3 minutes on the timer

1.   Make a numbered list of 1-15 down the side of the paper. 

2.   In the time limit, come up with a list of toys. These can be from your childhood, be associated with a memory, etc. It is okay if you do not hit 15, it is also okay for you to go over 15. It is more than acceptable if your list includes things that are not toys but associated with in some way. Whatever is the first thing that pops in your mind, write it down. 

3.   When the timer goes off, choose any of the 15 that you strongly associate with. If you do not have a preference, choose #4 (not that it matters, just pick one).

Part 2 -- 5 minutes on the timer

1.   Take the number you chose and answer the following questions in some fashion. It could be in a bubble map of ideas, complete sentences, a list, etc. It is okay if you do not answer all of them in the time allotted, it wasn’t much to begin with.

Where are you? 

What are you doing? 

What do you feel like?

What does it smell like in the room? 

Are you hungry?

What time is it? 

What season is it? 

Is it hot or cold out? 

Do you feel well? 

Someone else is there, who is it? 

What are they doing? 

Why are they there? 

What are they holding?

Are they talking to someone else?

What are they doing?

Part 3 -- 10 minutes on the timer

1. Write a short story using the information that you gathered in parts 1 and 2, and consider using this sentence:  I didn’t know he had to do that.

As a reminder, you are not allowed to stop writing nor are you allowed to erase. Just breathe, and keep going. When you are done, think about reading over your work. Laugh about it, save it for later. Do what you like! Happy writing~

[fieriframes]

[THE BASIC UNIT of writing practice is the timed exercise.]

[anonniemousefics]

What's this? You were planning to *skip* writing practice today? Why? You thought you didn't have *time*? Have you been hanging around those editing school douchebags again? This is the writing school! You don't need hours and hours of time. Get your notebook out and give me 10 minutes. Everybody has 10 minutes.

You have 10 minutes to practice so that the big game -- the novel, the poem, the essay -- is a success. This is the stretching before the marathon. You can't do one well without the other.

You think you can't say enough in 10 minutes? You can. And what is enough anyway? It's enough to tell me about your morning. Tell me about how you slept with the window open because the room felt stuffy, and you woke up a little congested because of it, but it's worth it to hear the chickadees gabbing at each other when the sun begins to crest over your neighbor's roof. Tell me about your kid climbs into your bed every morning, how his little limbs are still warm from sleep and he still looks at you like you're his whole world. How that makes you dread the day he's going to stop and hate you. It'll happen -- it always does. Maybe not for forever, and certainly not today. Today, he's still only eight, and he wants to start every day with a cuddle, and you used to resent it because you'd never been loved like this before. And it wasn't his fault that love made you uncomfortable, that love without conditions felt foreign and strange and terrifying, so you made yourself lie still and hold him every morning until you grew soft. And now here you are -- dreading losing it. Dreading the day he outgrows his need for you.

There's the time and look at that. You said so much in so little time. The editing school could never!

[flatwood-illustration]

1 minute, 2 minute and 1 1/2 5 minute life drawing