Raw and Unprocessed Writing Practice (100% Organic)

2 Mar

Every day I do an hour of writing practice. The core of this practice is what I call freewriting, similar to stream of conscious, but often directed by a basic prompt, such as “I remember” or “I know.” Also, when I come across a memory, I tend to surf the wave of it, letting it carry me forward, but following it from beginning to end. For me, stream of conscious tends to be much more associative and fractured.

Done right, it’s an act of meditation and a great way of generating material for my writing. It is not, in itself, good writing. Writing practice is about uncapping the part of your brain that creates and letting it bubble out like frothing champagne. Thinking about it being good writing just gets in the way, and keeps me from developing trust in my voice.

I’ve decided to post the results of the first round of today’s freewriting here. It’s a 10-minute segment that’s raw, unedited and typo-ridden. The only tweaks I’ve made is where I mistyped a word that would be illegible without a gentle nudge by me. Here it is: a little sloppy slice of my writing practice.

***
I write I write I fight I fight
Through to the morning light
I write I write I fight I fight
Rage against the dying of the night
I write I write I fight I fight

My hands are silver sickles in the moon light. I am letting off some steam. I have been writing and typing since aearly morning but not on my own owrds and not on a typretwriter maching. I am feeling a bit giddyd. I dfind my breath among all the worngs of the world and my body. My typing is sloppy but I cannae do anything about that. I am writing and exposing myself to my love. Had a good weekend with O., very loving, good and celbratory for her birthday and not too expensive. I am talking about ideas often. I want to talk about life and my experience of it. You can see us here at the sushi restaurant, near the end of the meal, O. was polishing off her yellow tail spicy role, the room is busy and thick with people, surprising for a Monday, and the waitress poor girl, is running her feet to flame. All of sudden the music lurches on, and people look up bemusedly from their plates of raw fish, their maki and nigiri and spicy tuna rolls. The music is strange, the horns of a march, and no one can place it at first. But all of a sudden it segues into those familiar notes, the veil is dropped, and we realize they’re playing happy birthday, though it still takes another second to put it to the person, the birthday girl, O. Everyone begins to sing and O.’s head is in her hands but she is laughing. The music is loud, too loud and everyone is looking at O., having spotted the culprit, and is laughing. If it wasn’t so sweet, it’d be jr high all over again. The music comes to a close with a theatrical flourish and the owners wife brings out a big plate of green tea ice cream drizzled in chocolate syrup. Ha ha, we all say, amids the applauds and friendly jeers of the other guests. The lady says happy birthday and winkingly asks O. if she’s going to enjoy being 19. We all dig into the thickrich green tea ice cream using chop sticks, laughing, O. still venting nervous giggles, flushed and cute.

And here we come to the end. The practice comes when you describe.

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