Lately I have been reading The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, a book that, although ostensibly about the craft of writing, is deep down about the practical problem of curing writer's block.
Ms. Cameron strongly advocates that all artists should engage in an activity she calls "Morning Pages," which consists of 3 pages of uninterrupted longhand writing, to be performed every morning as soon as the writer wakes up. Morning Pages must be stream-of-consciousness writing, set down as fast as the writer can go, must be ink-on-paper and not typed, and must be done daily, first thing in the morning. A fairly strict exercise, to say the least.
I have been trying out Morning Pages for the last few weeks, and have formed a few opinions about the practice. First, while it would be nice to open a day with 30 minutes of writing, this is not possible for me with my job. When I am off, I can do it. On workdays, forget it. It gets done when it gets done, and that is not always in the morning. Second, every day is not possible either. I do it when I can and leave it at that. Thirty minutes is a lot of time, and some days I don't have 30 uninterrupted minutes to spare. (I may have 30 minutes, but all in one block is another thing entirely.)
I do, however, like Cameron's prescription that the Morning Pages be stream-of-consciousness writing, getting words down as fast as possible, as soon as the words come into my head. This, in my view, is critical to Morning Pages, because stream-of-consciousness writing helps the writer to overcome that internal editor that often stands between an artist and a blank page. Stream-of-conciousness also is an efficient way to empty the mind each day, and helps me clear my brain of random thoughts. It is a daily brain dump that gets a lot of rattling concepts out onto paper, distractors that otherwise hinder clear thinking. Morning Pages sets the stage for more constructive writing.
And as a side benefit, it also leaves a written record of this cathatic process, so, if any of the results of the brain dump turn out to be worth keeping after all, I can recover them for later use.
But what I like best about the Morning Pages is Cameron's Luddite insistence that the pages must be done on pen and paper. No computer, no typewriter, and, God forbid, no e-tablets or Dragon Dictates. Just plain old pen and paper.
This has been unexpectedly valuable to me. The Morning Pages, it turns out, are something of a meditation exercise. A way to mechanically, methodically, focus on the process of writing for a finite period of time each day. Essentially, meditation through writing.
And when I do it, I find the best way to push myself through 3 written pages of stream-of-consciousness writing is to focus my attention of the tip of the pen as I write. As I fix my mind on the tip of the pen, the pen becomes the conduit of my mind, the contact point where ideas and the muscular contractions of my forearm and hand become sentences. Because I can focus all my attention in one place, at the pen point, I can develop much better than normal concentration on the writing process.
Compare this to writing at the computer. When I write on a computer, my attention is focused on my fingertips where they contact the keyboard, and also at the cursor on the computer screen. My attention is not in one place; it is divided between two. I can remedy this problem partially with touch typing -- by looking solely at the screen instead of at the keyboard, I can keep my attention mainly on the cursor on the screen. This works until I misspell a word.
But it is not the same as pen-and-paper. Even with optimal touch typing, my mind is still somewhat divided between fingertip and cursor, and this slight division makes a difference in my level of concentration. For the purpose of meditative writing, pen and paper is superior. Meditation is, after all, about developing focus, and centering everything on a pen tip is about as focused as one can get.
This raises the question: If this is so, does this mean that all writing should be done longhand?
I don't think so. That obviously takes a good idea too far. However, I do think it would be beneficial for writers if every important writing project involved pen and paper at some stage. An initial rough draft in longhand, longhand notes on index cards, an outline, a hard copy with pencilled in revisions -- at some stage, every bit of writing could involve pen and paper, even if the bulk of the work is computerized. This step could help writers focus on their writing, perhaps improving clarity and concision.
Would it improve the quality of writing in general? There are no studies to show, but my intuition is that it may not. There has been, in the last 20-30 years, a gradual shift from longhand writing to digital creations, and there has been no discernible difference in writing quality over this period. Sure, you will find critics who argue that the quality of writing in the digital age is going to hell, but I defy any of them to pick up a book off any shelf and tell me if it was written on a word processor or by hand. It can't be done.
I think the benefit of longhand writing accrues not the the reader, but to the writer. That is to say, writers should engage in longhand writing from time to time, not because it will improve the quality of their product, but because it make the writing process more enjoyable and therapeutic for the writer.
Since the writing process is a something of a journey, we can compare it to travel. If you travel from your own home to a friend's home, does it matter to him if you took the bus, your own car, or a bike? No, not at all. But it matters to you. The difference between a cycling trip, a walk, or a car ride is significant. On a bike, you feel the wind, the rain, the temperature. You have to be much more mindful of pedestrians, wet roads, mud, and the cold than you do if you ride in a car.
Auto drivers generally consider travel time to be dead time. In a car, you listen to music, adjust the climate control, and think about your destination. On a bike, you check the weather before you leave, both for the time you leave and for the time you will be coming back. You feel the wind, notice the hills, and curse at the indifferent motorist who cut you off. On a bike, you are much more focused on what you are doing than if you drive. The experience is entirely different, even if it has no effect on what happens when you arrive at your friend's house.
This, I think, is also true of longhand writing. Handwriting is more laborious, more careful, and you are aware of more things as you do it. You notice the sensation of your hand on the paper, the flow of the pen, the texture of the page, the ink smears as you write. When you dot the i's and cross the t's (or if you do). When your hand gets tired. The tactile effect the handwriting process has on the writer is much different from more clinical experience of cranking out words on a word processor.
I am not advocating abandoning the computer. I wrote this article entirely on the computer. (Nor would I advocate abandoning cars for every purpose and only relying on the bicycle.) But pen-on-paper is a different traveling experience from computer writing, and if you are the type of writer who writes not only to create product but also to allow the writing process to change you (which is the way I think all writing ought to be), then spending some time with pen and paper will benefit you. It forces you to pay closer attention to every word as it curls out, and puts you in more organic, concentrated, and undistracted connection with the writing process. It makes the writing process more present.
I know of no word that better describes it than presence, being in the moment, and thus being more completely in the writing. Pen and paper writing can take you to places in your mind that digital writing is not likely to lead you.
But like all writing craft, this sense of presence does not emerge immediately. You have to do it daily, and exercise it until, in time, it exercises you.