What would happen if you were to "let it all hang out" writing-wise? Are you the type of writer that buffers their prose in an effort to keep anyone from being offended or, God forbid, letting the world see that you too can be crass and without manners? I can think of a time or two in which I sugar-coated my writing. I wouldn't want to ruffle anyone's feathers now, would I?
Well, what's wrong with a little ruffling, or rocking if you happen to be in a boat? While you're in the water, make some waves, why don't ya'. (Gotta' love the cliche'.)
In my last post I mentioned a writing exercise that may help some people cast off their writing inhibitions, as it were. This exercise was initially intended to stop writers from chronically self-editing their book on the first draft. But after completing the exercise, I was pleased to find that the exercise had a pleasant side effect. It forces your words to lie naked and exposed in all their uncensored glory.
At first I tried blindfolding myself, starting the kitchen timer and diving in to the exercise. After two minutes, I lost my place on the keyboard and had to peek out from under my blindfold in order to reorient myself. When I looked at the monitor, I was dismayed to find that I had been typing one letter off for the entire two minutes. (BTW, when you do that, it looks a lot like German.) So, grumbling a few choice words, I cast aside the blindfold, reset the timer and turned the monitor away from my view so I couldn't watch what I was typing. Below is 10 minutes of my storytelling at it's first uncensored blush, typos and all:
Our story starts out like any other: quiet and unassuming in a quiet and unassuming town located in America’s heartland. A village really. The town didn’t consist of much. If you were to blink, you’d miss it.
To the west of this town, A vast patchwork of corn fields reached up and around to the north all the way to the horizon. In the South was the Hastings Popcorn plant. And in the west, the little town of Hastings sat, looking like dollhouse miniatures. This town may not look it, but it was growing rapidly. The population sign at the edge of town had always read: Hastings, population 1,302. But recently, just the last five years or so, the sign read: Hastings population 1,302 ½. The ½ was added in red spray paint. This was a scandal in Hastings. Grafitti was the worst crime to have ever been seen here. But there the vandalism stayed. The town didn’t have the funds to pay for a new sign.
With Hasting’s growth, came a lot of children. If you look into the census records, I’m sure you would find that Hastings had more children than adults. The schools were bursting at the seams with young kids, teenagers, tall kids, chubby kids, athletic kids, dirty kids. All kinds of kids. For the most part, they got along fine if not for the occasional scrap on the playground. Hastings was proud of their children; featuring them in the local rag when they won the track meet, spelling bee or or made it a month without any caveties. Hastings was proud of all of their kids except one. You wouldn’t know it, but there was one child that no one in Hastings liked to talk about. As if it were a dirty word, no one mentioned the name Rosie Hawthorne. To do so would bring a pox on your family.
I like this little exercise. The words that I put on paper are more like the way that I think. It is as if I'm holding a microphone and reciting a seat-of-the-pants story for the audience. If you would like to see your writing in a new light, I highly recommend this exercise. Set the timer for 10 minutes or more and go for it. For more details on this exercise, please review my previous post.
Write happy, write often and never give up. :-)
