Writing That Sparks Joy
By Molly Rapozo, Lifestyle Editor
I’m obsessed with processes. I have always enjoyed the particular step-by-step movement and rule-following. One particularly fascinating process is writing––the one art form that truly requires loneliness. You can argue around that, but generally speaking, a writer needs to be alone to get anything done. The steps rely on solely the writer and not much else.
What’s interesting in that discussion of writing processes is that they’re almost exclusively talked about with successful writers. I’m not blind to the fact that there’s a reason for that—these people are talented and have made a living off their craft. But, what about all of our friends, young and old, that are dipping their toes in the water, or that chose different paths and are coming back to writing as a side hobby? Their stories and methodology shouldn’t be ignored because they don’t have five best-selling novels. Therefore, I posed questions to my college-aged writing friends to gather bits of their practices.
One thing I noticed immediately is something that’s often preached—write daily. Most writing advice features this sentiment and it’s obviously helpful, given that all of the following writers do it and have success.
A lot of daily writing seems to start with a small idea hatched, ready to grow and expand upon. Darby Hoffman, former Editor-In-Chief of Moda, explains that much of her writing starts with “a few random thoughts, to a lot of random thoughts, to somehow becoming a real-life piece that other humans can understand,” which is a great way of piecing together a feeling that many of us share. It’s ideas that start in every and any place, as Lili Labens, Editor-In-Chief of The Spyglass on Southwestern University’s campus, illustrates. Her writing “starts in the notes section of my phone, then graduates to the sticky notes on my laptop,” where she sorts her ideas. Both of these writers acknowledge that, to put it as Labens did, writing is often “messy and heated.” Random thoughts and queries become bigger questions and sources of inspiration that fall into line to create something relatable, developed and cohesive.
That isn’t to say it can’t be more streamlined, as Nikki Lyssy, writer and student at University of North Texas, explains so delicately.
“My writing process always begins with a thread of an idea, and if I can follow that thread without stopping for at least twenty minutes, or if I can’t get the idea out of my heart…then I understand it’s an idea I need to follow through to the very end.”
That thread is ever-lengthening and could possibly run for miles and miles. Which isn’t to say that it couldn’t also get tangled––but it seems to follow a more clear-cut path, in Lyssy’s case.
Or take the process of Nicholas Gomez, author of Nine Incarnations of Night and other novels, as another example of streamlined approach. He explains that he often tries “to write for at least one hour every day,” that hour involving certain rituals and routines on either end.
“I wake up, shower, journal for five minutes, meditate for 15, then jump straight into writing. I make sure my bedroom door is locked and my blackout curtains are down to eliminate all sensory elements. I also play Erik Satie’s Gymnopedies with noise-canceling headphones.”
That isn’t to assume that his routine doesn’t change, or that writing, in his case, isn’t as organic or heated or messy, but that idea of a regimented ritual is certainly there. In fact, that ritual is seen in everyone’s responses, whether explicitly stated or not. It’s found in the jotting notes into phones, making lists or, alternatively, blocking out all sensory inputs.
The jotting and note-taking comes from many places and illustrates the idea that inspiration is found by these writers in every single thing. It’s in the “small things of beauty in everyday living,” as Ariana King, staff writer for Moda, so nicely puts it. It’s in “movies, music, other people’s writing, jokes and obituaries and articles and poetry that I both like and don’t like,” as Labens puts it, or it’s situational. Gomez uses experiences of his characters “as a means of exploring what these situations would feel like” to himself. The inspiration among these writers ranges from the big things—experiences, situations and entire stories and plotlines—to small, delicate and intricate details of the day-to-day.
One thing Hoffman discussed that struck me as interesting was her knack for noticing the smallest things possible.
“I’m so grateful to be super in tune with my senses. It sounds so silly, but I’m very aware of how warmth and textures feel on my skin, the way my coffee tastes in the morning—if I have a second to experience it—or the way white noise fills a space.” Which, in a different way, is something that Moda’s Deputy Editor, Cassie Hurwitz, agrees with. She often tries “to be mindful” of the world around her, noting a particular “conversation with my roommates about something we’re all struggling with, or an interesting and profound thought a classmate had during discussion.”
At this point, it’s interesting to consider the different identities of those behind the pen, pencil or computer keys. Lyssy and her identical twin sister, Kendal, were born blind. Picking up sensory inputs is a deeply personal experience, of course, and, as you might assume, it’s just as much of a choice and personal preference on what to include and how to go about describing an object in Lyssy’s case as it is with any other writer.
“I’m a very descriptive writer naturally, and I think it’s as a result of my blindness and the vivid imagery I read growing up, but I think I’d still be just as descriptive if I wasn’t blind…When writing about things I’ve never seen, like the first time my character Antonio was driving and got pulled over by the police, my wonderful mentor and friend described for me what I needed to know. I rely on my senses a great deal when writing, but interestingly enough use a lot of vivid descriptions that a sighted person might use to determine what something looks like.”
That persona of blindness is something formative and defining to Lyssy, but she finds its time and place to be apparent.
“It depends entirely on genre. Fiction, you certainly would not know I’m blind, and interestingly enough it’s hard for me to write blind characters. Nonfiction, you do know I’m blind because in most of my essays I am, and I mention it early.”
Gomez explained it well: writing involves exploring situations, and those situations are either tied directly to your identity—as they are in Lyssy’s essays—or they’re linked but not fully tethered, as they are when Gomez is trying to ask what he’d do in a certain circumstance. Or they’re fully absent, as in the situation where Lyssy has a harder time writing a fictional character of a similar identity to her own.
In terms of advice, we’ve all received it in one way or another. It comes directly or indirectly through teachers, mentors and writers we look up to. And a lot of that advice is to write when you don’t want to. B.J. Hollars, author of several non-fiction and essay books, came to Lyssy’s class and told them that, “How much you write outside of class indicates how much you love it,” which she completely agreed with. His advice moves her to write every day, even if she doesn’t necessarily feel like it.
“Whenever I find myself not wanting to write, I always try to anyway because I never want to stop.” That love for writing is certainly palpable by her response. There is no stopping it, there isn’t much fighting it—although, a lot of us try with “writer’s block”—it has to happen daily.
What all these writers have in common is that writing gives them something, and not necessarily the same things. A feeling of belonging, a life that feels complete, a grounding practice, a place to be the most honest you can be—small sparks that contribute to a feeling of fulfillment or purpose.
Those gifts the writers are often given, whatever they may be for each person, are what brings each of them back for more. Writing can certainly be a lonely practice sometimes, requiring a lot of alone time and soul-searching, but it can also be an incredibly rewarding one that brings structure to a life that can be messy. There is clearly much joy and fun to be found in a craft that picks apart things, piece by piece, and pulls them back together in an ever-expansive picture that holds you and every person and thing you’ve ever loved in its frame.