Challenges
Impostor Syndrome
Martyn Waites
Yeah. Impostor syndrome. It’s a real thing. And it plays such a massive part in a writer’s life, or indeed potentially any professional’s life, and I don’t think it’s ever fully discussed or given its due as a massive impediment to being able to work.
Writing attracts people who are naturally thin-skinned. Being empathetic and both open to and interpretive of the emotions and actions of others and ourselves is what allows writers to inhabit characters and portray them on the page. In short, it helps us to be good at our job. But the flipside of this can be a nightmare.
Coping with bad reviews, for instance. If you’re in any way sensitive this can be stressful and feel like a personal attack, especially if you define yourself by your work. A writer has to find a way to not let them impede that work, to dismiss them as just an opinion and not a particularly well constructed one at that. And yes, like all writers, I can memorize and repeat the bad reviews, as well as agree with them, but can’t remember a single thing about the good ones.
Then there’s social anxiety. Writers tend to enjoy their own company. It’s a requirement of the job. So when you’re asked to make public appearances, do events and signings, book tours and the like, it can be a daunting experience for someone who has deliberately chosen a career where they don’t voluntarily have to leave the house. Yet it’s part of the job and expected of a writer now. So we just have to deal with it, get on with it, and enjoy it. It’s a privilege to be able to do what we do, to affect someone’s life, so we should be grateful. And not complain.
But there’s the other thing that will get you, no matter what. Impostor syndrome.
What is it? What it says. The feeling that you shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing. That you’re not good enough to be paid to write. That it should be someone else, someone more talented, more incisive, wittier than you who should be writing. You have no penetrating insights to make about the human condition and you can’t tell a story to save your life. And you shouldn’t be allowed to be doing what you’re doing. It can be crippling, a form of writer’s block that can refuse to go away, because it isn’t a question of working out what’s wrong with the story, it’s trying to work out what’s wrong with the writer. Namely, that they shouldn’t be doing what they’re doing.
As I said earlier, it’s a feeling that persists in many professions. The late actor, Don Henderson, was known to stalk rehearsal rooms of plays he was in, asking the other cast members sotto voce, ‘Have they rumbled you yet?’ The answers he received haven’t been recorded. But I can guess the effect the question had. The other actor would have been thinking the same thought already.
Even now, after being a published writer for over twenty years, I go to events, whether they be parties, festivals or panels I’m speaking on, and still expect a hand on my shoulder accompanied by a voice informing me that I’ve had my fun and the real writers will be along in a minute, while guiding me to an exit. So why do I feel like an impostor? I’ve managed to keep a career going for over two decades in a very precarious business, I’ve been a bestseller, a critical success, I’ve won – and lost – awards. And yet. And yet … It persists. I think in part, certainly for me, it’s a question of class and background. I come from a Northern working-class family. I was brought up in a tiny, dying community on the edge lands outside Gateshead. I was constantly told both at home and at school what my career options were – and acting (my original profession) and writing certainly weren’t among them. We were given two options. If we’d done well at our O-levels, we could apply to the Civil Service. If we hadn’t, we could go and work in the Komatsu factory. To a misfit kid with a love of books and comics, neither particularly appealed.
The thing that saved me was acting. I loved it. I went to work backstage at a theatre to see how it functioned. I auditioned for drama school and was accepted. After three years there I went straight into a play and wasn’t out of work for the next two years. I had made it. And yet … It persisted. I was told by other actors that it was wonderful that I, with my regional accent, was allowed to be part of this world, because acting was a classless profession. No it wasn’t and no it isn’t: it’s a middle-class one, even more so now, with opportunities to train and work in the profession more limited for those without money. And anyway, I didn’t see myself as being an actor forever. I wanted to write.
So I wrote a novel. It got published. After five years’ hard slog, I might add. And during this time I was still acting. But auditions and castings were hard. It’s hard accepting rejection on a daily basis when it’s for something you’ve got no control over. Too tall, too fat, too thin, hair all wrong, too Northern, not Northern enough. Impostor syndrome runs rampant then. You really start to believe you shouldn’t be there. Especially when someone else always seems to get the parts you’re up for.
I thought being a novelist would change all that. Actually having a copy of something I had accomplished, that I had made myself, a book, well … things would be different now. I could show people what I’d done. ‘This is my novel. I wrote this. I’ve accomplished something that I was meant to do.’ But I soon found out it didn’t work like that. I initially signed a two-book deal. Writing my second novel was even more difficult than the first – because I had already been published. People (admittedly not very many of them) had paid money to read my words. And here I was, sitting at my keyboard daring to write another book, turning my thoughts and words into something people (hopefully more of them this time) would pay money to read. And it paralysed me, just the thought of it. Why would someone pay to read my words, to hear my opinions and thoughts? To see how inept I was at structuring a narrative, at creating characters? I looked on the bookshelf next to me. There were proper writers, ones I had loved, that had inspired and influenced me. They didn’t go through all this. Do you think Graham Greene ever felt like he shouldn’t have been doing what he was doing? Of course not. He was a proper writer. I was just pretending to be one.
Anyway, the second book was published and it had the same seismic effect on British cultural life that the first one had. But it did get some nice reviews and the attention of a bigger publisher. And no one told me I shouldn’t be writing. Apart from a little voice inside my own head, that was.
Impostor syndrome gets worse with every book you publish, every good review you get, every big sale you make, every award you’re nominated for, and especially those rare ones you actually win. You feel that this shouldn’t be happening to you. That you’re not worthy of all this praise, that they’ve got the wrong person. The hand will be on the shoulder soon guiding you to the door and the real writer will arrive. You’ve just been warming his seat, holding his contract or his award for him till he gets here.
I was convinced it was only me who ever experienced this. And I was also convinced that it was because I was Northern and from a working-class background. But here’s the thing: I’m not the only one. I’m not even in a minority. I once mentioned it to a writer friend of mine to find he felt exactly the same. We were chatting after handing in our latest novels and noting with relief that they had been accepted. We’ve got away with it again, he said. And we had. We haven’t been, as Don Henderson would have said, rumbled yet.
I’ve had similar conversations with other writers too, none of whom I’ll name. And everyone I’ve spoken to has had it, continues to have it and will have it. Every one. A journalist once told me about meeting Graham Greene. There was a huge launch party for his latest novel back in the Seventies. It was, if I remember correctly, at the Metropole Hotel in Brighton. This journalist was eager to meet Greene, loved his work, had admired him for years. He got to the room, a huge, high-ceilinged ballroom, where the party was in full swing. Loads of publishing people there, all drinking, chatting, laughing. Enjoying themselves, celebrating the release of Greene’s new book. But no Graham Greene. So this journalist wandered around the party, disappointed. He was at the far end of the room, away from the party guests and about to leave, when he noticed a man standing by one of the high windows, staring upwards. ‘How many curtain rings do you think there are holding these curtains up?’ the man asked. The journalist looked at him. It was Graham Greene. An impostor at his own party.
So what can we do about impostor syndrome, how can we address it? Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. Just acknowledge it, work through it, live with it. And above all, keep going. It’s part of what makes us sensitive enough to want to write in the first place. We just have to tell ourselves that we do deserve to be here, that we’re privileged enough to be able to write. That it’s our voice a reader wants to hear. Don’t ignore the doubts; work with them. Use them to question what we’re doing, help them to improve our work. If you think that you have some kind of God-given talent that needs to be shared with the rest of the waiting world, then good luck with your career; you won’t be around long.
Writing is a balancing act. You have to be arrogant enough to want to write in the first place. To think you have a voice someone wants to hear, or insights to make, stories to tell. On the other side there’s the doubt that inevitably comes – or should come – from wanting to do that. The trick is to get that balance right. To not let the doubts overwhelm you but welcome them, use them to improve your work. And at the same time be confident enough to sit down and write. And trust the words, the story, that emerges.
Ultimately, all a writer has is his or her own voice. And don’t let anyone – least of all yourself – tell you that it shouldn’t be heard.
Writing: A Painful Pleasure
Suzette A. Hill
The most acute pleasure is, of course, when your book is finished, passed and published. Hooray – relief, triumph and celebration! The converse is equally acute: the pain of rejection unleashes gloom, fury, a tearing of hair and a drowning of sorrows. However, between these two rather obvious and crude extremes, the author, whether budding or veteran, will experience a gamut of insidious delights, sudden joys and dark, nagging perplexities. Such mélange is the stuff of writing; and as with all artistic endeavours it contains a strong element of masochism. (Question: Is there an author who experiences no such masochism? If so, please reveal yourself. I shall be most intrigued!)
So in other words, writing is hard work. Do not expect otherwise. And please forgive me if I sound caustic or curmudgeonly when I say that those who declare they have a novel ‘inside’ them, waiting to be released, simply don’t know the half of it! A novel is not something that lies dormant within, prefabricated and all ready to leap out at a convenient time; and strong thoughts about a topic, even one involving crime and detection, do not in themselves make a story. The abstract idea must become an artefact – and therein lies the rub.
Like any writing, a novel is fundamentally the manipulation of language for maximum effect. Nascent concepts have to be transmuted into a medium of words, sentences, concrete structures. They have to be developed through the creation of realistic characters, operate in contexts which are palpable, and be given a treatment sufficiently striking and evocative to convince and engage the reader. The writer will need to judge when and where to inject the elements of drama, pathos, surprise, action, reflection; when to increase or slacken the tempo, where to place dialogue and for what purpose … et cetera, et cetera. In short, he or she will not only have to invent and present the material but as with painting and music, or any art form, to select and orchestrate it. This is indeed the hard work – but also the challenge and excitement.
The foregoing general observations will probably be shared by most of my colleagues, but it would be wrong to assume that our writing styles, techniques, preferences, interests and methods are identical. Far from it! Each of us is different (thank goodness), and while there may be common links, the choosing and handling of data can vary enormously. Thus there are those authors for whom the plot is absolutely central and provides their greatest stimulus. Indeed it is the plot that calls the shots. Other aspects, while important, are there primarily to serve the necessities of that major element. For such authors, and indeed their readers, it is the puzzle itself that counts, and the way that the elements of plot are so woven as to produce an exquisitely complex spider’s web to tantalize and intrigue. The deft treatment of plot, especially in crime fiction, is a wonderful skill … and how I envy those who have it!
By contrast my own tales are almost entirely character-driven and evolutionary. That is to say, the events and narrative twists grow out of the characters and their interaction. This is perhaps ironic, as long before I ventured into the fiction genre someone once said, ‘You ought to write a novel’, to which I gave the dismissive reply, ‘Oh I couldn’t possibly – besides, I’m not good on people.’ And yet strangely when I eventually did take to writing, it was people – with all their quirks, oddities, problems and absurdities – that most engaged me. (And as a result, I suspect that despite the unfortunate corpses strewn around, my novels are nearer to social comedies than to full-blooded crime fiction.)
In this respect, and also before I had begun to write, I heard a novelist being interviewed on the radio. I can’t remember who she was but I certainly found her talk illuminating – until she said something to the effect that she had little control over her characters; that they had a life of their own and she wasn’t always sure what they were going to do next. At the time, and in my bumptious ignorance, I felt that was ridiculous. Surely, I thought, being the author she is the one in charge, the omniscient controller. Her claim that her inventions are somehow independent of their creator is pretentious hooey! … Not so. I have since discovered that characters, especially those which have become dear to you or whose personalities are strongly portrayed, do indeed seem to direct proceedings and slyly nudge you along paths you wouldn’t normally have thought of. They exert a subversive power!
So, if creation of character (much of it through dialogue) is my pleasure, the plotting aspect is definitely not. This is probably because I cannot think in the abstract: before an overarching narrative structure can evolve there must be individuals, scenes and situations on the page – or at least in my mind’s eye. Plots need plans. And alas, my plans are vague and readily collapsible. There is rarely a clear superimposed scheme.
In some ways such an ill-defined approach can be entertaining, in that it means I am telling myself a story and I never quite know how it is going to unfold, let alone resolve. Thus I write to find out. This process may be fun and intriguing, but it can also be painful. Building a preliminary framework is sometimes compared to producing a helpful skeleton: first put the bones in place and then fatten them with flesh. My problem is that I tend to reverse the order. It is not so much the flesh – the texture – that bothers me but rather how to find the structure, that convenient and friendly skeleton. The beast is elusive, or at best crippled with arthritis. Thus to allay angst and boredom I will often compose in fragments – devising isolated scenes, conversations, random episodes. This gets me into the spirit of the thing and enables the creation of a world whose burgeoning reality compels further exploration, and from which directions and harmonies begin to emerge. Such an approach might be described as working from the particulars to the general, or from flesh to bone.
Because writing methods are so personal I hesitate to give specific advice (other than nil desperandum). However, there is one thing that I feel quite strongly about and believe is relevant to most novels: namely a tangible context. People do not operate in a vacuum; their feelings and actions occur within palpable settings. And if such settings – social and physical – are absent or only vaguely sketched, then credibility suffers. It is the author’s task to ensure that the reader can see or sense the world (or living room) in which the protagonists act out their dramas. The context may be a figment but it needs fabric; without that fabric or sense of environment, situations lack substance. And if, as is often the case, the author chooses an actual location in which to place his/her characters, such as Barnsley or Bognor, then its features must be accurately portrayed. (NB. Get it wrong, and the locals object!) However, the danger here is that in one’s eagerness to confer authenticity and bring the place to life, one can be overzealous. That is to say there is such a plethora of locational detail that the story sinks beneath its weight, and the whole thing achieves the subtlety of a travel brochure. As with most things, it is all a question of balance and nice judgement – a compound that the struggling author is endlessly trying to perfect.
In conclusion I can offer a further tip – in this case ‘advice’ being far too prescriptive a term. It is about the dreaded writer’s block. The aspiring or novice author may be unacquainted with the condition. But be assured, sooner or later, in some form or degree, it will surely strike. Authors have different ways of coping with this malady, like a bracing walk with the dog, a break from routine (if such you have), the diversion of a book other than your own, or the old standby – consumption of strong drink. But this last resource, while palliative, is rarely curative, and one is still faced with an intractable blank page or screen.
As King Lear observed, nothing will come of nothing. And thus my own pet aid in such circumstances is to cover that yawning space with words. But what words? you may ask. After all, if ideas are being so elusive what precisely do you propose to write? To which I answer: broadly speaking anything at all – a snippet of a scene, a few lines of dialogue, a tiny episode; in fact anything that will get the mind moving again and oil the creaking Muse. We assume, rightly, that ideas generate words. But the converse is also true: words can stir, shape and determine thought. Thus, for example, one might jot down something like the following: Entering the room, he lit a cigarette and stared disconsolately out of the window at the sodden lawn. The roses were lax and bedraggled; and the copper beech, blasted by sheets of rain, a ghostly blur … And yet from the blur something seemed to be moving. Yes, two figures walking slowly in the direction of the boathouse. Despite the foul weather they seemed lost in earnest conversation. Surely it couldn’t be … oh yes it was! But they loathed each other, or so it had always seemed. How very extraordinary … And so on, and so on.
Already such doodles have produced a mini-scenario, an incipient puzzle, images to spark the imagination and, with luck, to galvanize further pursuit. I do not suggest that such a piece be slotted wholesale into the existing narrative (though it might be), but it can be useful in striking chords; or, as is sometimes the case, it will goad the emerging tangent into making fresh paths. The essential thing is to get something down in front of you. It will rebuild confidence.
The process, of course, is not infallible; but with luck it can set you going again and ease you out of a tight corner into which, naturally, you had so blithely written yourself. However, as said, solutions will vary. And rather than push the pen in idle jottings, some people might simply prefer to walk the dog.
Writer’s Block
David Stuart Davies
‘How time flies; another ten days and I have achieved nothing. It doesn’t come off. A page now and then is successful, but I can’t keep it up, the next day I am powerless.’
Franz Kafka
The blank page – the curse of the creative writing profession. You sit down at your computer in readiness to produce something eminently readable, full of originality and verve – and suddenly freeze with fear. You cannot think of a thing to write. The imagination has dried up. The dreaded writer’s block has struck.
Individuals whose occupation is writing depend on an active and fertile imagination fizzing with ideas, interesting plots and characters. If that lets you down, you are creatively impotent. It’s like removing tools from a carpenter, paint and brushes from an artist, or access to a kitchen from a chef.
From talking to fellow crime writers, it’s clear that this debilitating state is not as rare as one might suppose. It may strike at any time and even the most successful and prolific of authors can be affected. Writer’s block does not only produce angst and bouts of depression but can also be responsible for severe physical conditions. One eminent crime novelist revealed to me that when he fell foul of the block he suffered with severe stomach pains as a result of not being able to write creatively.
So how does one cope with this crippling condition? It has to be said that overcoming its effects is not easy. One of the major problems with the onset of writer’s block is that if you have a few sessions when the words will not come, it can trigger the belief that they never will again. Similar to insomnia, it can have a built-in cyclical trigger. However, the key to extracting yourself from this mire of despond is to force yourself to have a positive attitude and try various techniques recommended to help you to regain your inspiration and fluency.
In talking to fellow writers they have suggested a variety of approaches which have helped them individually to come through the tunnel and into the daylight once more.
One of the simplest suggestions is to give yourself a break from writing – a holiday from the page. Become involved in some other activity which will engage your brain and allow it to relax and refresh itself. It is often the case that when the mind is occupied with other things, fresh ideas spring forth. The release of the pressure of having to produce quality written material for a time may very well allow that block to crumble.
It’s important not to suffer in silence or alone. Writers can feel embarrassed or ashamed if we are somehow failing in our task, but it is a mistake to bottle up the problem. One author observed, ‘Set up a network of fellow writers with whom you can share the ghastliness and bliss of the business. When things get really bad, forget writing and meet someone for lunch.’ Certainly, talking over your concerns with another writer is real medicine, which will not only ease the pain but will also help you recover.
In those periods when I’ve experienced the drying up of the creative juices, I’ve tried reading some of my previously published work in order to prove to myself, ‘Yes, I can do it. On a good day I can do it and surely another good day will arrive soon.’ It worked for me, but I have to admit the result was not instant – more a gradual reawakening of the spirit. Of course, this ploy could lead you into thinking that you’ll never be able to write as well again – but above all you must force yourself to avoid those negative thoughts.
Another successful crime novelist with over fifty books to his name suddenly found his latest novel was going nowhere. Various personal events, including the loss of a loved one, had brought on a clinical depression that affected his ability to write. However, he approached this problem in a very disciplined fashion – a technique which contradicts much of what has already been suggested in this piece. He kept to a routine, religiously going to his desk each day and writing for four hours. ‘It was hard,’ he told me, ‘and you might think it was pointless since so many drafts went in the bin, but the discipline is what mattered and finally the problem eased.’ It took him over six months to get back on track, but his dedication to his strict routine worked for him – and it may well for you.
It is clear, therefore, that one has to try various techniques – a suck-it-and-see approach – to find one that works for you and helps you to shrug off this darkest of black dogs. And talking of dogs, one writer even bought a puppy so that he had something to care for and make demands on him; walking the dog brought him into contact with fresh air and solitude, where ideas gradually began to percolate. Indeed, getting out of the house and taking the air was recommended by quite a few authors. To write well, you must be healthy and relaxed. A tired mind will only produce tired writing. Driving yourself to remain hunched over your computer for long hours is not healthy for body or prose.
For writers who create a series featuring a regular character, the challenge of coming up with something fresh and a little different for each new book can be daunting and bring about the dreaded block. There is always the niggling thought that the next novel has to be better or at least as good as the last. One writer who suffered from this creative blockage in their series solved it by writing something completely different from their usual work: new characters, new scenario. They found it a great release. It was stimulating and invigorating to try something outside their comfort zone, and it had the knock-on effect of bringing a freshness to their writing. Once the new book was finished, they felt ready to return to the series. Thanks to facing the demon with a positive and determined attitude, the shadows gradually disappeared. Fingers began flying over the keyboard once again.
Improvising
Stella Duffy
I came to writing from performance, first as an actor, then a stand-up, then an improviser. I still occasionally do some performance work, usually improvising with old friends who have companies that create work and perform regularly. I have always seen a clear link between improvising and writing: in its most basic form improvising is writing without pen and paper and writing is (in first draft at least) improvising alone. For many years, whenever I’m asked to teach a writing workshop, I have offered improvising for writers, and writing for improvisers. Improvising techniques help us to explore and play with the basic rules that every improviser uses to help us to create story, build characters, and develop scenes – above all, they help us to say yes to our own creative selves.
Starting with ourselves
The story does not tell itself – acknowledge your role in the making. At base, writing is a physical activity and we forget this at our peril. It doesn’t matter if we are typing, writing longhand or using voice-activated software, we are using the body, the self, to create. In improvisation this is more obvious: a person is physically present, with or without other performers, and they are making stuff up, live, for a workshop or paying audience. We are physically present as writers too, whether we write alone or in a café; in silence, listening to music, or with the clatter of family life around us.
We use ourselves to make work. Our lives, our thinking, our views all influence the characters we create and the stories we tell with them. It doesn’t matter how far removed from our own lives our stories are, the person who is creating – you, me – has nothing to create from but ourselves. Improvisation helps us reconnect with the childlike imagination, the joy of play, and the possibility of going beyond what we know to what we can grow from the simple (but not at all easy) act of saying yes. Yes to our own desire to create, yes to putting in the work, yes to pushing through boredom or fear, yes to getting it done.
There is a self at the base of all creating. That self is not static. In improvisation we encourage ourselves to pay attention to where we are, to who we are on any given day, in any given hour. To write when all is well is different from writing with overdue bills on the table; with someone we love ill or unhappy; if we are depressed or in pain or irritable or resentful. Sometimes it is easier to write when the negative emotions take over: we can give them to characters and play with them on the page. Other times, it is difficult to the point of impossible.
Paying attention to ourselves will help us pay attention to our characters. Allowing that our own moods and feelings and physical condition affect how and what we do from day to day will help us create full and viable characters with rich dimensions of their own.
Yes, yes and …
Also known as ‘accept and build’. One improviser makes an offer and another accepts it.
| A | Gorgeous day, shall we go for a walk? |
| B | Yes, let’s. There’s something I want to tell you and it might be easier to talk while we’re walking … |
Person B has not only accepted A’s offer of a walk, they’ve built on it by adding some emotional content. They could also have added action (Yes, and let’s take the dog, I fancy a big run) or intent (I’d love that, let’s walk to the beach).
When people are learning to improvise we encourage them not to block like this:
| A | Gorgeous day, shall we go for a walk? |
| B | No. |
The block that is no makes it harder to move the action on, to develop the scene. This is not to suggest that an outright no is always wrong, but it’s valuable to find an alternative offer even when saying no.
| A | Gorgeous day, shall we go for a walk? |
| B | No, let’s stay home and make mad passionate love. |
We also have the choice of showing this build in action as opposed to dialogue
‘Gorgeous day, shall we go for a walk?’
‘No,’ she said, smiling and leading the way back to bed.
There is another no that’s harder to spot and therefore harder to deal with – that’s the no we say to ourselves. The denial of the creative self, the rejection of ourselves as makers and artists. We do this every time we make an excuse not to write. ‘I don’t have time to write’ is the most common.
You know this isn’t true, don’t you? Get off Twitter, Facebook or Instagram. Don’t watch that thirty-minute TV programme. Write instead of reading the paper. Get up an hour before the children wake up and work then – Beryl Bainbridge did. Do it around your full time job like Chekhov, Dostoevsky and Trollope. Yes, they also had full-time wives and servants – that certainly helps – but there have been many women writers who were wives with full-time jobs and yet still made time to write. Spend your week’s or fortnight’s annual holiday writing. Write for an hour every weekend. Write for fifteen minutes every day. Make it as regular as cleaning your teeth. Make it a habit. For most people, 500 words a day is very achievable. Do that for a year (and keep moving forwards, don’t go over and over the same few chapters) and you’ll have a first draft. Then you’ll have something to make better.
You do not need nine months of free time and a villa in Tuscany to write. You need an idea you want to work with and the determination to keep going. That’s it. Stop saying no to your creative self and do the work.
Status
Status is key to improvising. When we pay attention to status, we create rounded characters without having to signal everything to the audience, without having to say everything out loud. Paying attention to status does so much for us, quickly and almost imperceptibly. Think of your own status, how comfortable or otherwise you feel at any one time in relation to other people and to place. It shows up in how you speak, move, stand, sit. Consider the differences when in your own home, in someone else’s home, in a strange place that feels welcoming, in a known space that is uncomfortable. How are you with friends or among strangers?
We experience status interactions and alterations with respect to other people and to place at all times. Status can change over the course of a piece of work. Lady Macbeth is a great example, from medium status to high status to low in less than two hours. It can also happen within a scene – think of Blackadder believing he is in charge and learning that yet again he is definitely not. Malvolio’s certainty in Twelfth Night that he is the beloved and his crushing disappointment when he realizes he is a figure of fun. A tiny addition such as how easily a character sits in a certain location or alongside another person can give your readers all the clues they need without you having to explain everything that they are feeling or experiencing. In this way the readers also dream into the character, making them more invested in the work.
There’s magic in the mistakes
This is something improvisers learn by making those mistakes, live on stage, usually in front of a paying audience. The scene that falters and fades, going nowhere, but out of which one line feeds the next scene, which eventually makes a huge difference to the story. The performer who forgets the ‘rules’ of a game and creates an entirely new game in the process. The two performers who don’t quite understand each other, to the delight of an audience that revels in their discomfort.
While it can be harder to sit with our discomfort as writers when a scene or a chapter or an entire piece of work isn’t going well, it is exactly in staying with that discomfort that the magic lies. Other writers might tell you to go for a walk at this point, or have a drink, or do something – anything – else. They’re all feasible suggestions, but I would suggest that it’s also possible to stay with it – to sit in the discomfort of not being the brilliant writer you want to be, of being the barely adequate one who just can’t make this scene fly, or write this dialogue so it feels real, or find the transitional scene that will bring together two important sections of a story. Sometimes it is in staying in the ‘mistake’, in working through it, that we find the gold.
Find the game
Despite what you may have seen on television, lots of improvisation is not formatted and doesn’t have a game attached. One or more performers may simply come on stage and begin a scene. When we do this, we are looking for the ‘game’, the meat of the scene. We are looking for what else is going on, beyond the dialogue or the physical action. It can be useful to think about this when writing a scene: what else is going on here? If the character is getting ready to go to work, what else is going on for her? None of us is ever doing just one thing – we’re also thinking, feeling, anticipating, daydreaming, remembering. This isn’t relevant for every scene; some of them just are the action that shows on the surface. But in the build-up to a crucial moment, or at a point when you just need to get a character to go from A to B, it is useful to pay attention to what else is going on for them. It gives a welcome extra layer. When we pay attention in this way, it changes how we write the character’s physicality, their attitude to the physical space they are in, the rhythm of their speech or how they speak at all.
Fear
Yes, improvising is scary. So is writing. It is scary to take our precious time and decide we will use it to write. Scary to commit to creating something and then to share it with others. Most of us have impostor syndrome to some degree or another. Very few people are utterly convinced of their own magnificence (and those that are make very good villains). Most of us were told as we grew up that we needed to be well-behaved, not make too much of a fuss, not draw attention to ourselves and certainly not to show off. Yet to make any work, to commit to taking the time to create it, to edit it, to do everything you can to make it as good as possible in this moment – and then to send it out, to offer it up to strangers to critique, to agent, to publish, to read – requires most of us to step out of a comfort zone and risk being rejected, risk being not wanted. That is scary. It brings up loads of fear for all of us – published or unpublished.
On the other hand, it is a choice. You don’t have to do this. You are choosing to write, so you have to choose also to take the tricky bits, the hard bits, along with the good bits. And it’s only writing – you’re not Barbara Hepworth risking ruining a perfect sculpture with one wrong chisel strike. You can always start a new page.
Play
At heart, improvising is about playing, and playing is the perfect counterpoint to the fear. Here’s the truth – the world does not need another book, not from any one of us. It doesn’t need yours and it doesn’t need mine. There are already more stories than we could ever read. Writers face inevitable difficulties. Yet we can balance some of them with play, with joy. Children run, dance, jump at will. They make up songs and stories, they turn tables into caves and chairs into elephants. We were all children once. We can be so again, on the page. We just have to say yes to ourselves and our possibility.
Say yes, make work, be brave. Easy – and also not easy at all – but very worthwhile.
Go and play.