I am in the process of preparing a presentation on writing and the writing life academically for the Northeast Modern Language Association's meeting in Hartford, CT this coming week. I would like to share the presentation, so please feel free to offer any comments or critiques. Cheers, readers!
Zen Publishing: From Presentation to Juried Article
My presentation today will be a personal reflection
on what I have learned about the writing process and how I have moved work from
its beginning as an idea to publication as an article or book chapter. The three stages I want to address are
process, presentation and publication; I will talk much and personally about
process, some about presentation, and a little about publication at the end, as
that will be more fully discussed by the other panelists.
I have been on sabbatical
this term—my second one—and have reflecting on what makes this one somewhat
more successful than the first one. On
my first sabbatical, I completed the writing goals that I promised, but I also
gained near thirty pounds and was quite unhappy. I have thought for years about doing a talk
called “surviving your sabbatical,”—that is, once I had “survived” one. My second sabbatical has worked much better
as I have become much more contented with my writing and with my solitude, and this
is in part because I have embraced more fully the importance of solitude and
silence. Memoirist May Sarton offers a
useful distinction between solitude and loneliness, when she writes to the effect
that solitude derives from a richness of inner resources whereas loneliness
shows inner deprivation. I have been
using this sabbatical to more fully reorient myself and my career as a writer
and scholar, thinking about the ways that both intersect with the contemplative
life. For me, writing has always been a
contemplative activity, in a religious but non-doctrinaire sense of the
term. It is true that I take my faith
seriously. I am an Anglo-Catholic, a
member of a gay-affirmative church, and deep believer in the Benedictine model
for the religious contemplative. I am also
officially an inquirer with an order of Anglican contemplatives called the
Companions of Our Lady of Walsingham, which is loosely a Benedictine order; and
I started my second sabbatical by a retreat with the Benedictine Brothers at
St. Gregory’s Abbey in Three Rivers, Michigan back in January (I am returning again for some time in May);
I am also learning to icon-write with a master iconographer.
When I focus on process,
two books I turn to for encouragement are Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer
Within and Jane Anne Staw’s Unstuck:
A Supportive and Practical Guide to Working Through Writer's Block—both volumes
which stay perpetually on my nearby reference shelf. Staw gives a nice formula for what each draft
of a project should achieve; I have this posted in my office just in case I get
stuck or feel overwhelmed, trying to (this is disaster!) write the final draft
before I have even put pen to paper.
Goldberg is a constant inspiration to me, although I have only read her
words and never had the pleasure of meeting her. Goldberg reminds us to stay grounded as we
work, focusing on the here and the now.
As she writes, “try sitting…and without too much thinking begin to write. This means letting go…Try for good, strong
first sentences.” Remember, sometimes a
few good sentences is enough of a beginning, enough of a way to move forward
the next time.
The simple mind is a goal
that we should have for our writing.
Simple mind is different from being simplistic; it is a radical openness
that helps as we research and write, both critically and creatively. Ralph Waldo Emerson reflects that “Whenever a
mind is simple and receives a divine wisdom, old things pass away,—means,
teachers, texts, temples fall; it lives now, and absorbs past and future into
the present hour. All things are made
sacred by relation to it,—one thing as much as another. All things are dissolved to their centre by
their cause, and in the universal miracle petty and particular miracles
disappear. This is and must be.”[1]
We find our voice by this process, which in Buddhism is referred to as beginner’s
mind. By keeping beginner’s mind, which is
called shoshin, refers to a radical
openness and humility toward the writing in specific and life in general. There is a time for self-promotion in job
interviews and other moments when people are asking “what makes this person
special”; even here, arrogance will work against you. But when you face the writing at your desk,
in your notebook, or on your laptop, arrogance will literally kill any spark
you have. Keep open, keep relaxed,
keep the peace—these are key for your development from idea to
article.
This brings me to a
couple of points I wish to highlight about the writing life: (1)
Embrace the solitary life of the writer.
Writing is a solitary activity, no matter how much we and others celebrate
collaboration, and takes lengthy times of quiet reading and reflection to find our
voice and vision as academic writers.
The second point I want to make is (2)
Have other solitary but creative activities that you do as and when you write
intensively, as on sabbatical or research trips or even just time off from
teaching and/or administrative activities.
Balance is of major importance.
Most of us have turned our first loves of reading and writing into our
careers; it is important we find other expressions of creativity like cooking,
painting, music—even meditative housework as a means of keeping our writing
fresh and vibrant. The writing must come
first, but these other kinds of solitary creative outlets are important as well
for our health and well-being.
Once you get started with
a project, keep the momentum going. Franz
Kafka reflects rightly that “from a certain point onward there is no longer any
turning back. That is the point that
must be reached.”[2] This is an important insight, for there is
such a thing as spiritual momentum that comes with continue working on a
project, a point after the start when the energy of the project can and will
take over and will carry you onward. Beginnings
are often filled with willed effort, for we are moving from a point of stasis
to movement, and even physics—one of the dreaded STEM disciplines—teaches us
that it takes more energy to start a rock rolling down a hill than once that
rock is started. It is important even
here to always write—keep a notebook or computer page, require yourself a page
or word count per day (more on this later).
However, once the momentum starts, let it carry you. If you have had to step away from a project
for a while (and who among us hasn’t?), start by reading and making notes,
perhaps on a notecard or in a notebook—something to keep alongside the
reading. Make the notes that come to
mind without really changing anything except minor typos as you reacquaint
yourself with your work.
Which brings me to my third
point: (3) While areas of specialty are
important, they are not paramount to all that we do as writers. It is important that we keep our areas of
specialty up by continuing to read and research in that area of specialty. However, after the dissertation (and perhaps after
tenure, depending on your institution’s stated goals for you), pay attention to
synchronicity. My area of specialty is
the Enlightenment in England and Europe, but I have published broadly, and
today am writing on the Enlightenment legacy in Modernism, a project that
happened indirectly as I tried to backtrack a few years ago over some works I
had heard about in graduate school but had never read.
Final major point in
process: (4) Honour your process, whatever it is, and keep it varied by trying new methods. For me, that means sometimes drafting right
on the computer; for others, it can be returning to keep a physical notebook or
notecards. It also means recognizing
what works best for you. (This is why I
think it is so important for Masters Students to do a thesis if they plan to go
on for the Ph. D. because of what you learn about yourself and your solitary writing
and research habits.) Honouring your process
also means knowing what works best for you as a method for writing itself. Some people, such as my wife who is also a
scholar, write a paper from beginning to end after lots of thought and
process. Writing for her is a distinct
moment toward the end of the time set for a work when it needs to be
accomplished, and after much preparation.
For me, I write best in pieces and not with a deadline looming. Often, I set a goal of word count or page
count: Stephen King in his volume On Writing says that he writes 1000
words every morning. Because I write critical
nonfiction and poetry, I am have set the goal of two notebook pages or, if I am
writing directly to laptop, 500 words minimum.
I also write from the inside out of a project. Often, work I am doing will start as a kind
of commonplace book, a collection of quotations and some notes from various
moments in works that strike me as interesting and very relevant to my thinking.
These are often collected over a long
period and often the connections are not obvious to me or any else at
first. I normally can only vaguely say
at the beginning what I am writing about, but it is enough and it keeps me
progressing.
When it comes to the
presentation, I normally draft a precis or abstract from these various notes
when a conference or session CFP seems to be in line with some of the thoughts I
have been pursuing. This moment can often
galvanize the work I have been collecting and reflecting on in my
notebooks. Recently, because I have been
writing a book, I have drawn my presentations from a cut-down version of an
already longer chapter. What you are
looking for primarily in academic presentations whether at conferences or even
among colleagues and students on your campus is feedback, a sense of being
heard and perhaps some suggestion of where to go with your research and
analysis. I do offer one caution here,
though, about using conferencing as a place to air rougher material or
works-in-progress: make sure that the conference you are presenting is affirmative
and critical, open to discussion and not often or merely a place for grandstanding. Although the national meeting of the Modern Language
Association is a wonderful place to present and hear the best work in our field,
I would not present works-in-progress there because it is a place where many folks,
especially those seeking permanent positions, use the presentations of others
to show off their own work by tearing others down (I have seen this numerous
times there). Just be careful if your
work is work-in-progress at conferences of that ilk; in other words, know your
audience.
Macro-Revision, which
normally comes after the presentation and feedback you receive, is my least
favorite part of the writing process because it takes minute care and is picayune
and obsessive in nature. Yet it is perchance
the most important part. As in a film,
the editing often makes or breaks the project.
Dig into it, embrace the editor or critic we all have within; strive for
perfection, but accept excellence. It is
key during this time to let the paper alone for a few days—up to a week is best—while
you work on some other writing project.
Then, you can go back with fresh eyes. I often first prepare an outline at this stage—a
brief, one page outline is my suggestion, though length is important only
insofar that you a very long amount of time writing it, say no more than a half
hour. This is a moment to return to
first thoughts—that beginner’s mind again!—to see what it is you think you want
to say. Then, use that outline to read
and think through the paper once more;
keep it by your side or somewhere near as you read, perhaps a notebook
or on a sheet of paper, so that you can readily reference it.
As you may have guessed
already, I am a strong believer in synchronicity as a writer, and this has led
to two practices (if they can be called that) that have proven successful for
me the publication stage of the writing process. One of these is a strong belief in the power
of juxtapositions. The other is a belief
already mentioned that writers need to be open to research and writing in more
than just the dissertation area. The
first—that of juxtaposition--has happened to me numerous times. One of the articles that I wrote entitled “Tracing
the Phallic Imagination: Male Desire and Female Aggression in Philip Roth’s
Academic Novels” came from a plane trip where I was alternately reading the
lesbian film criticism of Lynda Hart and, at night, a chapter or two of Philip
Roth’s The Dying Animal. I saw a connection when through Hart I codified
some of the notions of the fear of female sexual power that Roth’s novel explored
as feminists became more present and powerful in the academy of the 1990s. While this idea was in my head, I applied to
a conference CFP on sexual politics; at that conference, I received some nice
feedback on the presentation that caused me to expand it and, once that
happened, I happened on a CFP for a volume on the academic novel. This article has opened many doors for me,
actually, as I have published other work on Roth and also been a blind peer reviewer
for journals on Roth as well. It is
interesting in reflecting that I am neither Jewish nor a scholar of modern
literature, and yet Roth and his work continue to interest and provoke
reflection for me. In other words, look
for what feeds the soul more than what merely styles you as an academic of a
certain means. Your writing will be
stronger as a result and your life will be more meaningful, which is why most
of us are in this profession anyway.
Cheers to you, and best wishes on your writing process and the (mostly) solitary
writing life.
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