What to write about, or finding your subject matter, doesn’t come easily.
Some writers respond to prompts to get them started.
Most writers probably get started out of a chance remark thrown their way in casual conversation or through stimuli in something they’ve read, or a keen interest, say in health research or climate change, that drives their protocol.
Political writers with an agenda find an especially easy route, simply reacting to adversary axioms they view as detrimental to public welfare. They’re never out of material, the spring never running dry in a media era of incessant scrutiny.
Popular author Tim Cotton just throws a sentence out there, not knowing where he’s headed: “What you don’t know about me, and won’t care, is that everything I write starts with a random sentence, typed onto a screen with no idea where I am going.”
Probing deeper, however, you’ll find this may be misleading. Cotton doesn’t simply post an initial sentence without an underlying coterie of everyday happenings—a visit with his aging father, the dream residue of an afternoon nap, the challenge of what to keep or toss, etc.
The key is to be mindful and present in the ordinary, and Cotton does this better than most of us. I suspect he jots down incipient observations he can expand upon later. Like many writers, he may keep a journal.
No matter how the writing venture begins, it has its mysterious aspects that all of us know very well. I remember a fellow graduate seminar student telling me that my writing exhibited a different person from the one of daily conversation.
That doesn’t surprise me. However I begin writing, I tunnel into a buried mineshaft of a separate self, perhaps akin to what Jung called the Shadow, surfacing in the writing act like a Yellowstone geyser bursting from subterranean depths.
Occasionally, I’ll bump into something I wrote several years ago and come away, Did I write that?
The poet Coleridge famously ascribed his Kubla Khan poem to an afternoon opium induced nap. On the other hand, Harvard scholar John Livingston Lowes pointed out Coleridge’s possible myriad reading sources in The Road to Xanadu.
In short, the depth psychologists Freud and Jung were right: We file our experiences, even the most trivial, at the unconscious level, lying dormant, only to spill suddenly into awareness, triggered by associative stimuli.
And so Tim Cotton is also right. However you start, your writing will reveal unknown vistas, revelatory of a much wiser Self than that quotidian persona we publicly assume.
Cotton inspired this post. I simply typed the first sentence, not knowing what I’d say. I had no notes, did not google, etc. That concealed self, automatic writing psychic enthusiasts might call it, filled out the blank.
Our minds are a file cabinet of our human experience, waiting retrieval. Writing may prove laborious, but think of what you miss when you don’t bother to write—the confluence of your life’s journey and its meaning; above all, your linkage with wider humanity, fostering understanding and empathy.
A journey of serpentine twists, leading to unanticipated trajectories, you never really know where you’ll end up.
–rj
Brimmings: up from the well 