A couple of weeks ago, I became frustrated while prepping for my Introduction to Creative Writing class. I was trying to decide on a writing exercise to use for our lesson on character, and I couldn’t figure out which one to use.
When I used to teach Communications and Business Writing, the courses were always structured so one step of the process led logically and easily to the next, each assignment building on the previous one. Thesis statement, then an outline. Next, a draft body paragraph using the point-proof-significance model, followed by a full first draft and then finally a revised and polished one. Teaching in the college system and to students who had little use for a communications class, I’d learn very quickly that everything had to be applicable and useful—no wasted time or effort.
What I was doing, as I sat there two weeks ago furiously flipping through craft book after craft book searching for the “perfect” character exercise, was something akin to how I used to teach essay and business writing. I was essentially trying to make the process easier, to offer my students a shortcut or formula or step-by-step process guaranteed to lead them to an engaging, well-developed short story draft.
I didn’t see it right away, but I was basically trying to offer them a productivity hack, to help them bypass some of the hard work of writing a short story.
I’m aware of this tendency in myself. I understand on a logical level that nothing is guaranteed, that what's required is the writing of pages (and pages and pages) that go nowhere, that need to be written and then rewritten or written and then discarded before finally—or maybe not—getting to something.
And yet with each project, I still fall into the trap of thinking there might be a way to bypass all of that, all of that seemingly wasted time and energy, all of that uncertainty. I want to be more productive. I want the process to be easier. I want that same guarantee I was trying to offer my students: that the time and energy and effort and work that’s put in will not be wasted.
In attempting to find the “perfect” writing exercise, I almost taught my students the wrong lesson. Instead of trying to make it easier for them, I realized I needed to encourage them to find ease within their process. Instead of trying to offer them certainty, I need to help them learn to sit with the discomfort of the creative process and embrace the uncertainty this work requires. Instead of suggesting writing is a straight line, I need to help them see it as a meandering path with several unexpected turns and dead ends and points where you need to backtrack, retrace your steps, but also where you stumble upon the most unexpected and miraculous views, ones you would never have come across if you’d taken the direct, narrow, and known path.
The truth is we never know what specific exercise might spark a new story idea or unlock an aspect of the character or structure that we’ve been wrestling with. As we become more familiar with our unique creative processes, there are exercises and ways of working that help us more consistently access the flow state, but there is still no guarantee that what worked for that story will work for this one.
But what’s also true is that no writing we do is wasted. Even when it feels that way, even when we feel like we’ve been writing in circles or that we’re sinking under the weight of accumulated words that seem to have no purpose, we are doing our work. We are building the necessary skills of showing up, of trusting and building faith in the process and in ourselves. We are practicing the skills of our craft, engaging with language and character and form. We are building the world of our stories even if those specific words don’t end up in any of the drafts.
We are asserting, too, that this work matters, that language matters, that creation matters.
That, I hope, is what I’m actually teaching my students.
