The Joy of Writing may not be as enticing as The Joy of Sex or as yummy as The Joy of Cooking.
It doesn’t require pictorial diagrams or recipes with ingredient lists and step-by-step directions.
I haven’t opened a copy of The Joy of Sex, though I’ve seen it in bookstores as I browse for other less sexy books.
As for The Joy of Cooking, I have a copy in my kitchen cupboard, mostly unused because I stick to my mother’s recipes the few times that I cook.
However, if The Joy of Writing existed, I would buy it to find out the secret to achieving a state of joy in writing, just like I’ve been trying to figure out the meaning of life since I understood that there was meaning to it.
Writing is work. It takes discipline. And it takes time away from real, three-dimensional living.
It takes motivation.
It requires sitting in a chair.
And it can cause pain from unbidden emotion, or pride in something finished.
Joy, according to my Webster’s thesaurus, means mirth, cheerfulness, delight, pleasure, gratification, revelry, frolic, playfulness, merrymaking, high or good spirits, jubilation and celebration.
It’s opposite is complaining, weeping and wailing.
Writing causes me to experience both, except maybe for the wailing bit.
The Joy of Writing, if such a book existed, would let writers know that first they need to understand the elements of storytelling and the structure of a short story or novel; ways to develop plot, character and setting; and where and how to find their voice before they can get comfortable in writing.
Once the writing becomes comfortable but not easy because it never is, the writer can get lost in the process. It’s like learning to read where seeing and then understanding the meaning of each individual word is difficult, but with practice, the individual words aren’t required to get that meaning. Instead, the mind makes a moving picture from the words so that each one loses its rigid structure on the page and becomes part of a visual and sensual world.
The same thing can happen in writing.
After a great deal of practice and fast fingers on the keypad (or a fast hand with the pen or pencil), the words disappear into thought, and then into full scenes that are unfolding with the typing. It’s as if, for me at least, the subconscious mind comes forward with memory, imagination and a touch of soul to connect the known physical world and the physical words describing that world with the undefined – writers describe this as their characters taking over.
Is it inspiration? Is it creativity? Is it something that’s plotted and planned with room for what’s not understood until the writing happens?
For me, when I enter my writing and lose the words – the fact that I’m typing, the noises around me, that I’m in a different room than where I am in the story – this is when I experience joy, mirth and play. I feel childlike in this purity of experience, the running wild with the words.
(See next week’s blog on how I try to practice this joy, despite …)