Writing | Words For Hire

Why Writing for Your Readers is a Bad Idea

September 13, 2010 by Karen Swim

: Image by Jill Clardy via Flickr

In online publishing there is an oft repeated mantra about writing for your readers. While it is true that you should write for your readers rather than search engines, there is a gaping hole in the advice. When you face the blank page to tell your story, the last thing you need is an audience, even when the audience is only in your head.

Even the most experienced writer often faces the nasty inner critic, who shows up to heckle and deter you from your writing process. If you allow readers into the room you can guarantee that at least one of them will be a critic. In his book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft , author Stephen King advises that you tell the story to yourself first. It is advice that helped me get my first novel onto paper. I had to shut the door and lock out the readers, and the critics in order to first tell the story.

Writing is one of the few tasks in which focusing on the end result can hinder rather than help. You cannot sit down to write a New York Times bestseller or a viral blog post. Initially it is you and the story, whatever that story may be. When you have told the story then you allow the readers to help you refine and polish it.

Writing without an audience can yield surprising results. You may discover stories or storytelling elements that never would have blossomed without creative freedom.

Whether or not you are a writer, we all have to write – reports, presentations, correspondence – and we have all faced the critic that makes us anxious about the end result. How would you apply King’s advice in your writing? Would it ease the task of writing if you did it without thought about the end result?

Exploring the Heart of Writing

August 9, 2010 by Karen Swim

: Image by Vanessa Pike-Russell via Flickr

Last week, I read a post by Joanna Paterson at MidLife Journal on Facebook in which she distinguished writing with a capital “W “from writing. The phrase resonated with me and I found myself thinking of it, turning it over, and journaling about it.

Joanna wrote:

“…writing doesn’t need to start with a capital W. There’s a role and a place for that kind of writing, of course there is, and I know many of us dream of getting our work ‘out there’, published, and read.

But there’s a whole lot of other writing that isn’t ever going to end up on someone’s bookshelf.” (Writing and Pathways of the Heart)

We all have our capital W writing – business communications, proposals, presentations, white papers, emails and more. It is the writing that is defined by the intended reader. We craft it with carefully chosen words and phrases with the knowledge that it will be read and in essence will be a reflection of our knowledge and talent.

While the capital W writing certainly has its place the professionalism of it can actually get in the way of the words.

Small w writing for me most often happens with a pen. It is “soul writing,” that comes from a place deep within where raw honesty supersedes style and content. My pen functions as a pipeline to my inner being where thoughts, ideas and feelings drain freely onto the page. In this haven of uncensored thought, the inner critic does not exist. There are no rules and thoughts are allowed to shove their way in uninvited even if the result is a page of seemingly fragmented nonsense.

If you have ever written a letter with no intention of sending it, or poured your heart out in a journal then you know the intensity and satisfaction of small w writing.

Some small w writing should remain private, a safe haven where you can work through the inner complexities without over analyzing the content of your message. Yet, I can’t help but wonder how much better we would communicate if we allowed at least a little of this into our public writing. Would we see posts and articles that were passionate and pure? Would we forgive less polished writing for writing that was heart felt and intense? Would we move past convention as we focus on communication?

I am convinced that writing from the soul always has a place whether is it done with a capital W or small w. How about you?

Community, Inspiration and The Muse

June 21, 2010 by Karen Swim

: Image via Wikipedia

Today is the first official day of summer, an appropriate day to trade hard cover tomes of business and industry for deliciously just for fun paperbacks. This post is lovingly for all my writer friends who inspire and challenge me in every season. Grab your flip flops and come build sand castles with me for awhile.

Writers block had spread like some weird epidemic of creative flu. Suddenly pens were silenced and blogs languished untouched for days and weeks at a time. Gripped in the throes of my own angst I told myself we had matured, had outgrown the incessant need to publish and be read but deep down I wondered if I had infected the parasite into the space I had inhabited. The community that had fed my creative soul had vanished around me.

My writing life was as barren as the stark naked trees with icicles dripping from their limbs. My body felt heavy with ideas but I was unable to do more than store them away for future use. It was a long and desolate winter with an occasional breakthrough of creativity like the sun which hid for months and then shone brilliantly high in the sky reminding you that it was there behind the thick blanket of clouds, before it disappeared again.

And then as magically as the virus had struck there was a fresh bloom of posts dripping with intensity and raw emotions. The virus had stripped away the self doubt and left the bare and naked souls of the writer. Pens were no longer stilled and blogs were humming with the low thrum of activity like tourists descending upon a beach town for the season. The townies quietly blended into the background while the tourists explored with wide eyed curiosity. The community was abuzz with their chatter and questions about the local culture. The locals pretended not to care but our hopes were renewed. Could we recreate the magic of that first summer, would word spread beyond the borders of our small town? When the summer sun set would the tourists return to the fast paced motion of their lives and tuck away the visit to the small blogging village as a quaint little side trip?

Fueled by the visitors and the locals emerging from self-hibernation I allowed myself once again to be swept away on the waves of their creativity. I drank it in like one who had wandered in the desert unable to command the rocks to yield a droplet of life giving water. I drank until bloated fearful of letting a single drop escape me, inhaling and tasting the sweet nectar that suddenly was in abundance everywhere. But I did not return to my own shop, eating in secret fearful of being discovered and called out for my gluttony of the precious morsels that were plentiful in the space I had come to love. Tucked away in my corner I filled my baskets with the manna of inspiration, piling the storehouses for the inevitable winter.

When the doors of neighboring shops closed for the night I sat on their doorsteps inhaling the aroma of the day and the soft sounds of gentle laugher mixed with the gentle waves floating upward on the iridescent night sky. I had been here before and knew how quickly the lusty headiness of muse could evaporate. If held too tightly I would crush her fragile beauty so I cupped her gently accepting that she could and would fly off again when she chose. Muse is fragile but surprisingly strong in her will to come and go as it pleases. Even now as I try to distill her beauty into words I know that it may elude me causing my words to spin dizzily like the ranting of a woman gone mad. So I simply sit quietly enjoying the beauty of muse and her ability to come to each of us in her form and on her own terms. Together we, this community of writers who dare to hit the publish button, reflect a tapestry of shapes, sounds and colors more beautiful than any that would have been created by just one. I lean back against the sand thankful for this moment for I know that muse is fickle and fleeting and may soon simply dip beneath the moonlit sky once again out of my reach.

Before you leave the village be sure to check out a few neighboring shops:

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Invite the Muse to Tea (highcallingblogs.com)

The Gift of Written Language

January 19, 2010 by Karen Swim

: Image via Wikipedia

I attended a missions conference last week and the guest speaker was an Engineer serving as a Bible translator. As a lover of words and people, I was rapt with attention as he shared stories of both. To translate a language, you must have an alphabet, the building block of the written word. Many languages do not have an alphabet so translators must work with native speakers to define letters and words.

Language is our identity, our heritage. Having a language that can be written enables us to share and pass down our history and stories. We can educate and learn because we have language.

Those who do not possess this wonderful gift proudly embrace the opportunity to own their language by writing it. My eyes teared up at photos of happy faces now able to pass on their stories through the written word.

We take so much for granted in literate nations. We complain about reading and writing. We are lazy and sloppy in our communications. We opt out of mastery of our own languages because we don’t like it or don’t believe we have a natural talent for it.

Perhaps its time to rethink the written word and make more of an effort to honor this gift.

What do you think? Are basic writing skills important?

Resources:

199 Ways to Write with Confidence – In this book, Joanna Young has compiled the best of her writing wisdom from her blog, Confident Writing. I bought the book as soon as it was published and it sits on my shelf for quick reference. This is not an affiliate link, just a good old fashioned recommendation for a great resource.

Naked Trees and Wild Eyed Murderers

November 16, 2009 by Karen Swim

I stood aimlessly looking out the window while waiting for the water to boil for my tea. It was an odd sort of day. The skies were grey but the temperatures were warm. Some of the trees were completely bare and their naked branches clutched at the sky like scraggly fingers. Other trees were full with fall color having survived the few bits of rain and wind of the season.

As I watched the odd little pattern the naked and full trees made, a silver SUV pulled into a slot across the street. The tires bumped the curb making a soft thud. The driver then backed up a bit lopsided and once again hit the curb, as though he were trying to drive over it. My spine tingled as I moved a bit closer to the glass to investigate.

The car was not moving but the taillights were on. I squinted in an effort to see the license plate. Another minute passed and I was certain that the driver was a crazy, inebriated ex who was planning to drive his car through my neighbor’s front door. My mind raced ahead as I mentally planned grabbing my shoes running down the stairs and out the door to save my neighbor from disaster. “Oh no, what if one of the children goes running by,” I thought with panic rising. I would have to move fast but I was sure I could do it.

I moved a little to the side watching the unmoving car. A few moments later the door opened. My mind raced wildly with dizzying questions – Should I call 911? Should I get my bat? I kept watching the car as I plotted to take down the murderer or at the very least call the police.

The minutes ticked away and by now the kettle was boiling. I ignored the sound and kept watching. The door was still open and I saw a shoulder emerge and then disappear back inside the car. Several moments passed and then the figure slowly emerged. I held my breath, watching and waiting. Finally, the door began to close and I drew in my breath, waiting to see the crazed mad man whom I would soon have to take down.

He was hunched over and moving slowly, shuffling really, using his cane to find the ground in front of him before taking a step. My crazed mad man was a sweet little old man who clearly had a little trouble with his eyesight!

140 Characters from Darkness to Light

November 2, 2009 by Karen Swim

: Image via Wikipedia

Regret clings to my soul like cobwebs in a dusty attic. It seems that all that is left of me are memories of what was as hope drains from my heart leaving me empty and lifeless. With head bowed and shoulders intent on greeting each other in sorrow, I sigh deeply and turn on the machine that taunts me as it boots up. Mindlessly I click on Twitter and my eyes capture a flicker, a quote that wraps around my chilled heart and shakes me from my coma of hopelessness.

@GrantThomson A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.- John Barrymore

I do not want to warm myself on chilly nights with fading memories of my past accomplishments playing like a scratched album with the needle stuck in the grooves. A small piece of my old fighting spirit rises to the surface and a longing to make new “bests” that are in the present and now. I fight through the fog that has enshrined me to bring my fingers to the keyboard defiantly tapping out words, ramblings that may or may not become sentences but determined nevertheless to find my way again to life. The fog holds on with a tight grip releasing vapors as I struggle to climb above it, to see the sun that I know exists above the dark clouds. A tiny spark emerges, barely enough to light the way but I focus on the pinprick of light and tap, tap, tap my way from the cave of darkness.

I tap like a madwoman, possessed by the journey, barely seeing, not thinking but suddenly with a fierce need a single minded mission to break free fro the prison of despair. I hear nothing but the tap, tap, tap slowly rising to a crescendo as I battle my way to the light. My furrowed brow is beaded with sweat from the effort of fighting against the enemy of my soul. Tap, tap, tap, shards of remembrance break through, memories of past effort. A tiny voice whispers and I strain to hear it. It does not have to be perfect, just do it.

I tap, tap, tap to drown out the ugly screams of fear as it tries in vain to beat back the flame that threatens to extinguish its presence. Then with racing heart and waning energy I see…the light. I open my eyes wide and drink in the blessed sight of the light gulping it hungrily as one who has wandered in without water in the desert for days on end.

I turn my face toward the warmth as a deep, throaty laugh passes through my parched lips. A tear slips down my cheek and slowly falls to the page, blurring the words that dragged me from the darkness that threatened to silence me forever. I am here and I am thankful.

Have you ever been gripped by discouragement? How did you work your way through?