Brendan Marshall | On Writing
Dissecting process and a continuous love affair with the craft
Introduction
Where do you write? Is there a favorite space of refuge in your crowded mind? A breakfast nook where the sun shines at the perfect forty five-degree angle in the morning? An office, three-season porch, or dining room table where your muses meet daily to collaborate and create?
Are you one of those writers who can chameleon into any space when the moment strikes — whether it be an attic, waiting room, or laundromat? No two writers are the same. The answers vary depending on who is polled. Writers experiment, learn and construct the means by which to repeatedly summon the creative flow. That fickle flow!
My preferred space is an airplane, preferably a longer flight (four to five hours), with coffee in my hand and Steely Dan in my ears. Those circumstances create a perfect solitude and space for turning on the creative waves — for me. I’m giddy at the anticipation of reaching 10,000 feet where it is safe to use electronics.
One day I’ll share a large attic, porch, or spare bedroom with my wife —better yet with her growing craft setup staring back at me — while I reside on the other side of the room. All I’ll need is a desk near a window covered with pens, paper, notebooks, and some futuristic computer that takes up just enough space to feel like my own. And, if space permits, a bookshelf to fill with classic works, both new and old.
The room will play host to us for hours upon hours, like a home gym for the mind — stretching, folding, and expanding the imagination, day and night. But for now, I write this story smack dab in the middle of the Great Pandemic of 2020, mounted upon a humble, sturdy, yellow beach-sand colored, wooden desk as seen in the feature image.
Just before the quarantine began, my wife and I moved to a small town on the north shore of Boston. As is our nature, we wasted no time exploring much of the town before its doors closed to the public. Next to one of our favorite Irish Pubs is an independent bookstore called Whitelam Books. After a few Guinness draughts one Friday evening, I took the short walk to peruse their selections. Greeted by a small bell on the door and the intoxicating smell of new paper, I walked each section slowly, methodically.
I have plenty to read at home, in print and online, but yet again failed to resist making a few purchases, adding to a growing inventory of what I call “the un-read” on the shelf. My wife’s voice came in and out, gently warning against adding anything more before finishing what sat idly, patiently waiting, on the shelf. How could I resist? It is my duty to help support local businesses, especially in a new town, and knowing what I know now there are no regrets!
One such title that came home with me is Stephen King’s On Writing. I have just recently cracked the 280-page “Memoir of the Craft,” slowly absorbing its contents into both my bloodstream and subconscious. Before consuming each lesson, and ahead of King’s inevitable verbal hypnosis, I began thinking about process — my own, and all those who write.
I have been writing in some form since the late-90’s. That is over 20-years of experience! Without claiming to be any kind of expert, written reflection brings a few tried-and-true axioms to light. A thorough understanding, analysis, and mapping of the writing process is as important as the writing itself. The following dissects and expands a few of my current views on writing — the tip of the iceberg as far as the conversation goes. Topics include developing habits of persistence and endurance, recognizing ability, engaging with like-minded individuals, and how the process works as therapy.
The Power of Words
During one stretch of this roundabout journey called life, I lived in central Texas. Everything you’ve heard about the state is true, and I quickly grew to love living there. Blame it on the oppressive summer heat or my own unbridled romanticism, but soon after arriving, I tried my hand in dating and growing closer to some of the local flavor. This may sound like some sort of Lawrence Wright-inspired, Lone Star State story-telling, but it’s not. Though if anyone knows Lawrence and wants to pitch it to him, let me know. I’d be happy to expand on how it all came to be.
I’ll be brief. There was a fated encounter — one that I still look back on, smile, and wonder how the stars had aligned. Young ladies in that part of the country draw interest from many gentlemen. Before my window of opportunity closed for good, and in an attempt to strike while the iron was hot, I took my shot. No regrets, right?
Growing up, I learned to use written words as a tool to express a gamut of strong emotions. They all ran a similar course from the gut and heart to the brain stem and frontal lobe. The words would, without fail, elicit some sort of reaction for better and for worse. The art of articulation would become a strong point in my quiver of arrows. Where I needed to spend more time was in predicting on which side the final outcome would land. Hindsight is a cruel but fair teacher.
This Texas-sized outpouring fit that description, so I threw caution into the wind and leaned heavier into my writing to lift what I perceived to be a “competitive advantage” — true emotion, written clearly. Fast forward to the ending — pressing SEND on the carefully crafted email was akin to watching a rocket ship take off, awestruck by its initial beauty as it streaks through the sky headed for the edge of the atmosphere, before blowing up into smithereens.
I would later learn that the end result was caused by an overpowering — saying too much, too soon, instead of keeping it simple and playing it cool. Likewise, no one wants to hear those words for the first time in email form, adding an extra layer of “What if” to this debacle. After studying the crash site, there are two takeaways from a writing perspective that stand out from the rest:
- Less is more
- The power of words and their effects on human emotion is something not to be taken lightly
Words, regardless of the language of origin or degree of complexity, collectively comprise a superpower with unpredictable range.
The book Titan by Ron Chernow includes a dive into the global influence of a lone female muckraking journalist at the end of the 19th century. Backed by the magazine McClure’s, she acted as an early catalyst for dismantling one of the world’s largest known companies, Standard Oil, of John D. Rockefeller, Sr. fame. Ida Tarbell constructed a series of articles that explained in plain detail much of the company’s inner workings and shady methods for building such a vast empire. She armed the tip of her spear with cunning words and approached a fortress wall never before penetrated by any outside man or woman.
The Northwest Pennsylvania native avoided directly sparring, picketing, rioting, or even politicking against the businessmen — rather, slowly and methodically, she harnessed the power of the written word to reach hundreds of thousands of readers each month, including incumbent president of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt. The rest is history begun from humble, written beginnings.
Words, when used to their full power, can propel their authors to great heights, moving mountains. But, if left unchecked and out of sorts, the tools can become the cause of crumble for entire behemoths like Standard Oil. The key, first, is to recognize and harness the power.
The Discovery and Embrace of Natural Ability
When my family got a dog way back in 1997, I fell in love with the beast. Not a month later a framed copy of one of my first pieces of poetry hung on the wall. The inspiration and subsequent work — putting pen to paper — came seemingly out of nowhere. This curious, disobedient, and adorable dog stirred the depths of unknown expression, knocking the words off the table with his furry tail to pick up one at a time. The exercise opened a door to the conscious imagination for the first time, like walking on the road of life and suddenly coming to the entrance of an enormous, unassuming kingdom.
In middle school, just a year or two later, the trend continued. English assignments were like little Christmas presents — a joy to receive, expanding the breadth of this written adventure. The empty pages, left to be filled, were the dessert to homework’s meal. This little seed planted years earlier had begun to spring ever-so-slightly out of the ground. Then one day these metaphors of quiet work and imagination came to life.
One of the most seminal moments occurred during my sophomore year of high school, and some effect still lingers to this day. In a prior class, the English teacher assigned each student to write a short prayer — pulled from the heart, reflecting some personal sentiment. He collected submissions, handed out grades, and kept copies of some of his favorites. Flash forward three years later, I’m pulled out of a class by the said teacher, which typically meant you were in trouble or something was wrong. The conversation went something like this:
“What’s up, Mr. Flanigan?” I asked.
“Hi Brendan, sorry to pull you out of class…so, a few years ago I submitted something that you wrote for me to a publisher who was collecting written works from Jesuit High School students. It was a long collection period, apparently, but they just reached out to tell me that…”He hands me a letter, which I open to read the following:
“…Please inform Mr. Marshall that his poem, Our Heads Above Water, has been selected as part of an upcoming volume to be published…”
I froze, both in disbelief and deeply grateful that he had followed through with my submission. The book was published and delivered a year later, I’d nearly forgotten about it before two copies arrived at my home.
Ripping open a padded envelope postmarked from Missouri, lifting its paperback weight, studying the glossy finish, that new paper smell, and turning to the table of contents to see where I landed —
P. 124
It is a feeling that begs replication. I had written something deemed worthy of publication. Savoring the byline, I digested each word, revisiting the headspace of my younger writer self before adding the volume to the shelf. Its physical presence elicited a strong sense of pride and accomplishment, which toppled over into other parts of life as well.
Between fifth and tenth grades, the timely and bountiful exposure to writing helped set a strong foundation for what would come many years later. I lost my way in college, convinced to focus more on business while carving out a logical career path. Hindsight be damned, but looking back, it is painfully obvious that I had the answer in my hands. Oh, if I could go back and talk to my 18-year-old self! But, regardless, this is my journey to own.
I still leaned heavily on the ability to communicate clearly. Without the joy of crafting and editing — writing about the world with understanding — getting through any education would have been exponentially more difficult. The degrees that I can add to my resume, I owe to the writing. It is a talent that brings an abundant natural flow; a place that the mind can always go. Years later now, while dividing the time of a given day or week, I dedicate several hours to come into a blank page, according to Stephen King, “Any way but lightly.”
And what joy it brings. Do we, as writers, know exactly where the words come to life? When summoned, their droplets condensate from the ether of our brains, taking from both the conscious and that which hides deep down below. We hold on dearly to this, like a secret, feeding it to grow into whatever it might one day become. The words represent a manifestation of the imagination, entering the pages in ways that make sense — or frustrate to no end. It is a grind, an arduous craft that demands dedicated solitude and continuous practice.
There is so much to learn from those who have made their mark on the industry, on world cultures, and on the hearts of readers everywhere. Writers read — the books that come before our time are the instruction manuals in which to develop one’s own voice and style. This talent, this ability — how much do you love the act of writing to do it ALL the time? How do you feel deep down when the results finally come to life? Would you dare try to turn it into a career? Of course, you would.
Writing as a Profession
It perhaps takes just as long to learn about process — the many points of entry and achieving some sort of stable standing — as it is to actually arrive at “success.” Process, both personal and tried-and-true methodology, is crucial.
If the trunk of a writing tree is comprised of all of the words in every language, and every topic that there is to write about, then the branches extending from this mammoth redwood go on infinitely for as far as the eye can see. And the roots run as deep into the ground as the imagination can extend. Oh, what an image! Set my tent up under its cover to study and collect all that is bestows upon the world.
Published authors stem from every industry known to man, not just the literary community. With that in mind, the first question to answer after deciding that writing is the path to pursue is:
Where will I focus my attention in order to break through?
Sometimes I’ll look at a stack of books, ignoring at first the authors, cover art, thickness, or anything noticeable about the actual construction, and instead focus on the subject and genre. Ambitious souls somewhere out in the world created this from the figments of their imagination. Where did that start?
Take A Season on the Brink by John Feinstein, for instance. John, both a journalist and sportscaster by trade, positioned himself to spend a year in the 1980s with famed Indiana University basketball coach, Bob Knight. Feinstein witnessed, chronicled, and described in great detail (nearly) all that he saw, articulating that experience word-by-word into what some call the greatest sports journalism book of the 20th century. And in 2002, for good measure, someone turned that book, that experience, into a screenplay to be released as a movie.
It is evident that Feinstein has an incredible knack for writing, which, unless a ghostwriter is commissioned to conduct that leg of the operation, is a significant motivator for creating such a book — the act of creating.
But what about the specific area in which the author leaned in to study? His or her love for the subject matter, the world which they observe, the characters they dissect and stitch back up again, all contribute to the wherewithal — the drive, motivation, and endurance — to take one step in front of the other towards completion. No easy task.
Another exemplary book and author is Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities. The 600-plus-page fictional story describes a New York City bond trader who gets caught up in crime, scandal, and cover-up — and his attempts to hold it all together. I wondered while reading this tense and whimsical page-turner, where Wolfe came up with such an idea? Was he fascinated by someone that he met at a dinner party? A story he’d read in a newspaper? Did he have such disdain for the all-powerful elitist class of the financial district that an entire book could spring from his sentiments? Coincidentally, Bonfire became a movie, too.
Regardless of what holds true for Wolfe, Feinstein, or any author who carries their works to the finish line and into the hands of readers like you and me, there is substance — a sturdy foundation — behind and underneath every single effort. So, I consider before falling to sleep, and even before finishing this sentence, where will I lean into? With my toolbox packed (another Stephen King writing tip), and the compass pointed in the right direction, the odds of creating and sustaining momentum are in my favor. Without that backing, the flame is more likely to flicker out before coming into any pages.
I have ideas, and ultimately will decide upon that cruise-worthy stretch of highway where I can focus year-after-year, but now is the time for broad experimentation and learning. Just keep writing, son. Much endurance required — the ability to suffer through the full process just to begin again. And again.
“One writes out of one thing only — one’s own experience.”
— James Baldwin
Social Media and The Writing Community
Facebook emerged at the end of my senior year of high school just in time to connect virtually with a group of people whom I shared something in common. We used the social network to build a connection of college students—names, pictures, messaging, and other personal information — as a means to break the ice that forms before freshman year. I recall, some 15 years ago, the brief jolt of excitement upon receiving a friend request notification — John from Morristown, NJ, or Kerry from Oswego, NY — who might live in your dorm, or enroll in the same major.
The platform felt so innocent and new back then, a means to no particular end other than meeting people and making a few friends. Since those early days, these social media machines have multiplied, developing into the forms that we now know. Few could imagine back then the president of the United States using Twitter to advance his policy, rhetoric, and political stances. And yet, here we are.
We carry access to such a world in our pockets and have developed habits, wiring our brains, to stay connected. The networks now serve as constant sources of news and entertainment, gaining relevance and harboring controversy as they grow and grow and grow. It’s overwhelming at times. To those who have deleted the applications from their phones or expunged their profiles entirely, denouncers of such connectivity, no one can blame you. And for those who hold on, are the websites merely a distraction, or have you figured out how to use them as a tool?
Major social media has ebbed and flowed out of my personal sphere over the years. I enjoy scrolling through professional photography, vacation destinations, pictures of my niece, updates that friends post about their kids, and some news. Where else can you connect directly with professional athletes? Scientists? Journalists? CEOs? Media moguls? Other writers? It’s all there — everyone gathered on these platforms sharing information in real-time for free. As a passive user, someone who logs on to see the latest a few times per day, the casual existence is easy to maintain. But what if a major cornerstone of certain career advancement depended on how popular you become as an active user — someone who creates content often and adds to the platform directly?
How many followers do you have on Instagram and Twitter? What is your engagement like each day?
How many views and Likes does your page get on Facebook? Do you utilize their advertising options?
What is your most popular story on Medium? Is it still garnering views?
How many subscribers do you have on YouTube? What about monthly views? Have you monetized your videos?
Are you on TikTok yet? What time does your Twitch feed go live?
What if popularity was a pre-requisite and major advantage?
As a writer in 2020, and someone who wants to build success in the decades to come, I see no choice but to carry social media with me along the way. I’m challenged with building a following to help attract attention, and eventually sales, to my work. Those five- and six-digit follower numbers bode very well in the eye of a queried publisher. I could have the next great American novel in my hands, written and edited with the precision of an expert craftsman, and still get turned down by dozens of publishers because of how difficult it is to market these works without an established social media presence — a waiting audience. Is this today’s game? Do I really need to play?
Living on my phone and online — just enough time to engage and keep up with interaction — is mind-numbing. Sitting in front of these screens, blue light glasses fastened to protect my eyeballs, headphones cycling through another Spotify playlist, is a welcomed temporary escape. I literally tune out my wife and our mutual obligations in these sessions. She gets it, it’s a part of who I am.
It is unlikely that I will recreate these moments multiple times per day across multiple platforms in order to build a following and sell my written works. The rest of life beckons and creating those digital habits feels like a slippery slope. Just because I don’t have the motor of someone like Gary Vee, does that mean I don’t want it bad enough? No, it means I want to find an alternative path. I want consistency, not a back-and-forth relationship with the platforms. Is there any way that I can achieve success without handcuffing my body and brain to a digital world multiple hours per day?
Connecting is important, but social media across all channels manifests a thick layer of toxicity that users have grown so accustomed to putting up with. If that’s one price to pay so that book sales go up, I’ll need to get creative in order to avoid the bad and still harness the good. Challenge accepted.
There is an entire #WritingCommunity online that offers countless modes of support for new and established writers alike. Though, the velocity of information churned from this machine is difficult to grasp. Connect with writers, read their works, provide feedback and support, hope for the same in return, sign up for a newsletter, collect its weekly dump, share, read, share, share…repeat.
This community that lives on social media is a powerful tool. If you do catch fire and build a substantial following, will you know how to use it? How do you learn to trust people you’ve never met in person? You may love their writing or guidance, but where does it extend any further than that? Webinars, tutorials, classes, reviews, etc. all itching to add value to your own journey.
The answers vary for every person out there. Some people LOVE life online, and more power to them, but it comes with a price. Others share a digital existence with time dedicated to disconnecting — whether in the woods, on a beach, or with family and friends. They spend time writing with old school pen and paper or allowing the thoughts to marinate until the computer fires up again. There is no set formula for writing well, building a road to success, but every path does share one common thread:
Play the long game.
Writers read and write a lot, which takes time. Even the most gifted authors will work on their craft for months before showing it to one person for their comments and edits. Mental rest, whether stepping away for a single weekend or an entire month, is crucial to the writing process as a whole. Burnout is real!
I might have 10,000 Twitter followers this time next year, I don’t know, that’s not my primary focus. But I do want to break through in some capacity, and a following may become a byproduct of such luck. I’ll continue to mingle throughout the #WritingCommunity in an effort to pledge my allegiance, offering my two cents. And, likewise, will take long stretches away from the tribe to disconnect and recalibrate my mind. That’s my process. As a writer, what combination of ingredients works for you? Where is your balance and how will you work the system — play the game — in order to reach your peak?
Writing as Therapy / Conclusion
Thank you for allowing me to indulge. I’d love to hear your own thoughts on the topic. Writing this post has provided some therapy, some useful clarity. Reading both Ray Bradbury’s Zen In The Art of Writing and King’s On Writing engages a part of my brain that nods attentively and absorbs their musings one sentence at a time. In turn, I create these 4,000 words and more for others to enjoy. This therapeutic cycle continues.
Since that first poem over 20 years ago to present day scribblings on Medium, writing has been a friend, confidant, and therapist in times of joy and strife. Perhaps (I hope) this idea makes sense to fellow writers — that the act of typing or uncapping a pen onto a blank page for a period of time is a form of meditation. I disappear into the silence of my apartment or the Xanax-y voice of Mark Knopfler as he sings ‘Six Blade Knife’ through the headphones. The return to reality feels refreshing, accomplished, my blood pressure and heart rate both low.
Most of all, in these moments of zen, the unscheduled therapy sessions, I feel most like myself. It is this undeniable fact that brings me back to the pages each time. It is this subconscious epiphany, occurring each day as I wake, that beckons and knocks on the door— louder and louder until finding a way to bring it to life. My day will come. For now, it’s off to bed, but not before sneaking in a few more pages of King’s thoughts on his craft. This wonderful journey, decades in the making with decades yet to go, continues in the morning.
