The Flash Experiment or: 30 Days of "No Shit, Sherlock."

For the last month, I've been following the titular idea from Anne-Laure Le Cunff's wonderful book Tiny Experiments and set a writing exercise for myself. The act of writing has as of late become a bit of a chore—the joy of trying new things and just enjoying the process has more often than found itself subordinated in favor of warped sense of productivity. This experiment consisted of three parts: I had a cap of 250 words, I had to write daily, and I had to write fully—as in, by the end of the day there needed to be a final draft. I did this for the entire month of June, and I didn't expect much from it, other than hoping to get back a semi-regular routine. And although I did meet this desire, I got more out of it than I thought—not some sort of epiphanic writerly wisdom, but rather finding that many of the writing maxims one comes across in literary circles bear more fruit than I had previously believed. Or, as I would tell myself time and time again, "no shit, Sherlock: of course writing works like this." So, here are some very obvious things I reminded myself about this past month.

Rewriting and Editing

I'm the first to admit that, for a very long time, I found virtually the entire process of revision tedious, annoying, and soul-killing. To past-Elaine the act of creativity was only found in the actual generation of a piece, and editing often felt like an unsexy chore embedded in an act that shouldn't have obligations anywhere near it, and a chore with unclear end goals at that. (Like, when is a piece done? Well, when it's done when it's done, of course, when some mental lever pulls and your brain/soul/etc. lets you go on with your day, which could be anywhere from a few hours to years.)

I didn't come across any magic formula for how to edit, but I came out of June with a few takeaways: the first being that rewrites—not just line edits, but complete and total rewrites, even if you're repeating what you'd originally written word-for-word—are way more necessary and helpful to the finished work. Not rewriting now feels like I'm trying to cook with a tomatillo fresh from the vine, when you really can't consume it unwashed and with the husk still on. Revision allows a lot of literature to blossom. Even in the span of an hour or two, I had a different purview, and I'd pick up on redundancies to cut, and new ways to get at the heart of a what I'd written. Along these same lines, I felt like I had the most success by going over my word count with my first draft, and then carving away at it in subsequent rewrites.

Using Older Ideas

Drafting for me has almost always meant improvising my way through until a story feels like it's ended, or that I've gathered enough to mold it into a coherent narrative. Although I would from time to time refer to preexisting ideas or fragments of writing, it was very much not the norm to use them, unless the idea really had something sparkling that made me want to get into it more. But now I don't quite feel the pressure to always start from scratch; and I'm able to use extant writing from days past as sketches for a bigger "painting" of a story.

The (Imagined) Curse of Endings

My reflex towards the tricky art of endings over the last few years encompasses a sort of overcompensation—as in, I try (note: try) to make an ending work something like an Ancient Roman epigram, wherein the pieces of the beginning gain a new dimension in the end. But sometimes an ending is simply a cessation of narrative and nothing more, no world-shattering takeaway when you finish reading. (Admittedly, however, I think very short fiction makes more explosive endings a very viable option.) My goal with writing has always been less about write what's "on my mind" or "what I want to say", and more trying to pluck something out of the void, and bringing it to fruition as best as I can, regardless of my own predilections for it—and for all I know, an abrupt ending might work perfectly if brevity is key.

Quantity Over Quality or: They Can't All Be Winners

The phrase "quantity over quality", in relation to art, reads as needlessly transactional, as if artists are simply machines—pull the lever, out comes the art, repeat as necessary until one's entertainment gland has been properly milked. Capitalism's prevailing mindset looks at the creative act as a series of products, all the while, the actual process of making things seems to truly pump the heart of this venture. And yet I think the only way to continue to strive as an artist is to keep working at your craft, to avoid the trap of being "perfect" once, and to try new things, and to fail at those things until something clicks in the right way. June brought with it a lot of writing I'm proud of, but just as many (if not more) duds that I sort of had to just sit back and look at after three-ish drafts and call it quits.

In Conclusion

That just about does it. Thank you for reading, and if any of this appeals to you, consider giving Tiny Experiments a read. I'm hoping to share some of what I've written in June in the next few weeks as well, if anyone's interested.