
© Thomas Pullin
I first encountered Robert Boice's name about three years ago, somewhere online; after that, it started popping up every other month. Boice, I learned, was a US psychologist who'd cracked the secret of how to write painlessly and productively. Years ago, he'd recorded this wisdom in a book, now out of print, which a handful of fans discussed in reverent tones, but with a title that seemed like a deliberate bid for obscurity:
How Writers Journey To Comfort And Fluency. Also, it was absurdly expensive: used copies sold for £130. Still, I'm a sucker for writing advice, especially when so closely guarded. So this month, I succumbed: I found a copy at the saner (if still eye-watering) price of £68, and a plain green print-on-demand hardback arrived in the post. So if you hunger to write more, but instead find yourself procrastinating, or stifled by panic, or writer's block, I can reveal that the solution to your troubles is...
Look, you knew this would be anticlimactic, didn't you? The kernel of Boice's advice, based on writing workshops conducted with struggling academics, isn't merely old. It's the oldest in the world:
write, every weekday, in brief scheduled sessions, as short as 10 minutes at first, then getting longer. Reading that, I nearly flung my £68 book across the room in impatience. But that wouldn't surprise Boice.
Because impatience, for him, is a huge part of why writing causes so much grief.His students, he explains, tell him they can't afford to limit their writing to short sessions, or try his other exercises: they've got deadlines to meet! But that proves the point. They want to have
already written -
and it's precisely that manic urgency that triggers panic and procrastination. As I kept reading, a realisation dawned: the non-excitingness of Boice's book - from its title to his step-by-step advice, which you're meant to implement gradually, over months -
is itself an exercise in cultivating patience. It's slow going because slow is the only way forward.
This gets clearer when it comes to one of Boice's favourite tips: when your daily writing time is up, stop dead, even if you've got momentum and could write more. Maybe you could. But you'd be reinforcing the notion of writing as a mysterious force, to be harnessed whenever it shows up, rather than a humdrum activity you choose, undramatically, to do. "The urge to continue," Boice writes, "includes a big component of impatience about not being finished, about not being productive enough, about never again finding such an ideal time for writing."
Stop when the timer goes off, and you'll build self-discipline. Keep going longer, and you're just indulging your insecurity.Boice would have helped nobody, then, had he offered a quick fix -
because wanting a quick fix is the essence of impatience. Instead, decelerate. Make writing only a middling priority in your life. Don't binge-write. Aim for mild happiness as you work, not storms of passion. And if all this strikes you as a waste of time, ask yourself: could that very reaction be part of the problem? Staring paralysed at the screen is an even bigger waste, after all.
'A writer is someone for whom words are difficult' - or so wrote the French philosopher Roland Barthes.
As a published author for whom writing is almost as necessary as breathing and whose articles, papers and books have met with much approbation in their specialist fields, I know that there is no - repeat, no - easy/comfortable/painless way to writing for publication or to commission.
Well, that is if you want to write pieces of integrity, evidenced authenticity and depth that will move your reader, make your audience see the world in a new and different light, or evoke more than a passing interest...
This Guardian article then is more or less today's recipe for hack pieces that will line the budgie cage or provide puppy toilet facilities tomorrow.
No writer worth his salt can write in this formulaic way, to order, at the flick of a switch. Any good - that is, talented/skilled - writer will tell you that they are always writing in their heads, every waking hour, testing out sentences, describing in silent words what they see, weighing words and phrases, savouring and sifting observations observations and sorting them into paragraphs and chapters...
Writing is a process. It begins with the integrity of the writer, continues with active engagement in life and is peppered with honest research. Most of the process is hidden. It doesn't begin with a blank screen or a clean sheet of paper. Polished words crafted together as a publishable piece are maybe less than 5% of the total effort. Indeed, the blank screen/clean sheet are the very end of the whole effort.
And, yes, it does take a great deal of patience if you don't understand this organic, and, frankly, apparently 'magical' process. When you do, when you give up the notion that writing is a flatpack, formuliac product and give yourself over to the organic process then patience isn't even a footnote in your thinking: your writing just flows like heavenly water onto the page.