How to Write at a FreeWrite!
By Ellen Collins
Eight a.m. There are maybe seven or eight other people seated around the table, some with notebooks, some with laptops. All with words in their heads, even though they don’t know what the words are yet. All waiting to set those words free. Welcome to a “FreeWrite!,” a two hour session in which writers of all levels of experience come together to put down on paper whatever surfaces from their minds. They may be nervous, hopeful, enthusiastic, afraid. The common denominator is that all they know is that they love to write and want to explore their voices. A free-write carries no expectations. If you verge off the topic, no one cares. It is all about the act of writing. You can write what you wish for. You can write what you imagine. You can write about what happened last February. You can write about your favorite food, your hated third grade teacher, the day your father died. You can create a quirky character or base a character on your sister. You can write nonsense. You can even spend four minutes on how you have nothing at all to say about the prompt.
A prompt? What is that? A prompt is anything that launches you into a short piece of writing. It might be a poem or a line from that poem. It might be a single word, like “expectations” or “hands,” or it might be a short phrase such as “dream house,” “homecoming queen,” or “the quality of color.” The prompt serves as a launching pad for a short, unplanned piece of writing. Sometimes the prompt is an object: an old tool, a dusty book of recipes, a postcard of a Van Gogh painting.
Often the leader of the meeting brings along a collection of “word tickets.” These are words and phrases written on slips of paper that may be snippets of ads, popular songs, or lines from stories culled from novels and magazines. Writers dip into the box of tickets and pull out a handful that they can incorporate into their pieces as they wish, to get them over an obstacle or to add flavor and detail. Some days the group might be challenged to use as many of their tickets as they can in one piece, which usually results in some humorous writing.
I played it safe at Freewrites! for the first two years, letting my words skim the surface. If I wanted to write about anything that would reveal too much about me, I pretended it was fiction, wrote in second or third person. I mined my love of detail and my hunger for the sounds of words to try to create short, lyrical, sometimes heart-touching pieces. I kept a certain distance, skirting around what Natalie Goldberg calls “first thoughts,” those raw and sometimes uncomfortable topics that spontaneously rise to the surface and are often tamped down. And even if I wondered, “Now where did that come from?”
I knew I had stayed inside of the lines. What I didn’t know then was that in a FreeWrite! there is no judging anyone else. No one snickers, rolls his eyes, or makes a derogatory comment when another writer reads. There is no discussion of the pieces, no constructive or destructive criticism. No one asks if what you have written is truth or fiction. Even the literary merits of the writing is not extolled, such as praising clever openings, that powerful conclusion, that masterful use of verbs. There may be a chuckle or a quiet, “Nice,” but the writers do not gather to show off their talents or to learn new techniques. No one’s writing is any better or any worse than anyone else’s. Every writer’s work is merely an opportunity to practice, to plumb the depths, to tumble and wrestle and roughhouse with language. Once I had attended half a dozen meetings, I began to relax.
But first thoughts won’t be silenced, and after a while I found my own true voice sidling in. I started to feel more comfortable with the format and the people who sat around the table. I began to sense that it was a safe place. When I had first attended these sessions I was afraid that I would not be able to think of anything, I would hear the prompt and my mind would blanch itself of any thoughts. So I would arrive with a general topic in my head, something like Alzheimer’s or gardens or school or cooking. On the ride to the library I would think about my topic, pull up what I knew about it, directions I could take. I was pretty sure that whatever the prompt was, I could relate it to my hidden topic. I would not face that panicked paralysis of my pen. After several months I realized I wasn’t doing that any more. I had learned to trust that my mind would not fail to show me a direction. I was learning to trust myself as a writer, and my writing deepened as a result.
Then on one August morning, when the prompt was “to be afraid,” I took a deep breath and vowed not to write about my childhood fear of dogs or my dental phobia. Without pausing to plan or think, I let my fingers stumble and then race across the keyboard. And even though I began in second person, there was no doubt that I was describing myself.
“To be afraid of everything—the murky darkness at the bottom of pools, birds beating their wings over the ocean headfirst for you, the moment between now and then when you don’t know what then will be. To be afraid is to be shut out, to feel like a stranger. To be afraid of things you cannot name out loud because you are ashamed of them, because you don’t want to let anyone into that room where you live, with the secrets on the wall like garish flowers, to be that afraid makes you want to run away. You feel suffocated, you feel everyone looking at you and expecting you to be like them but you aren’t and you don’t know how to tell them so you look for excuses, reasons you can’t go on that trip with them, thin reasons that are so transparent that you know no one will buy them. And you want to tell them, “Listen, I am afraid of flying I am afraid of being stuck in a house in another city with other people who think I am like them I am afraid of not having my own room I am afraid of not being able to sleep I am afraid of eating in the restaurants and the food you will cook and I am afraid and I hate it but that is the way I am and all I want is for you to accept that and love me anyway.”
As I read the piece aloud, I began to cry, not the lip-trembling, catch-in-the-throat crying but a full flood of tears pouring down my face. How could I have written this, and more, how could I have shared it? These were not merely first thoughts; my words had rocked me to the core. It was a piece that came unbidden. I had a vague idea where I was going when I started, but as I continued the words came on their own and when I reached the last few phrases they wrote themselves.
Someone got up and brought me a handful of paper towels from the kitchen. “There weren’t any tissues,” he explained as I dabbed my face, as my whole body shook. I didn’t tell him that I already had Kleenex in my purse; it was just so touching the way he brought me the towels. I felt something moving around the table, from me to the other people and back again, like a ribbon tying us together.I knew that I was in a safe place.
I was free.
Eight a.m. There are maybe seven or eight other people seated around the table, some with notebooks, some with laptops. All with words in their heads, even though they don’t know what the words are yet. All waiting to set those words free. Welcome to a “FreeWrite!,” a two hour session in which writers of all levels of experience come together to put down on paper whatever surfaces from their minds. They may be nervous, hopeful, enthusiastic, afraid. The common denominator is that all they know is that they love to write and want to explore their voices. A free-write carries no expectations. If you verge off the topic, no one cares. It is all about the act of writing. You can write what you wish for. You can write what you imagine. You can write about what happened last February. You can write about your favorite food, your hated third grade teacher, the day your father died. You can create a quirky character or base a character on your sister. You can write nonsense. You can even spend four minutes on how you have nothing at all to say about the prompt.
A prompt? What is that? A prompt is anything that launches you into a short piece of writing. It might be a poem or a line from that poem. It might be a single word, like “expectations” or “hands,” or it might be a short phrase such as “dream house,” “homecoming queen,” or “the quality of color.” The prompt serves as a launching pad for a short, unplanned piece of writing. Sometimes the prompt is an object: an old tool, a dusty book of recipes, a postcard of a Van Gogh painting.
Often the leader of the meeting brings along a collection of “word tickets.” These are words and phrases written on slips of paper that may be snippets of ads, popular songs, or lines from stories culled from novels and magazines. Writers dip into the box of tickets and pull out a handful that they can incorporate into their pieces as they wish, to get them over an obstacle or to add flavor and detail. Some days the group might be challenged to use as many of their tickets as they can in one piece, which usually results in some humorous writing.
I played it safe at Freewrites! for the first two years, letting my words skim the surface. If I wanted to write about anything that would reveal too much about me, I pretended it was fiction, wrote in second or third person. I mined my love of detail and my hunger for the sounds of words to try to create short, lyrical, sometimes heart-touching pieces. I kept a certain distance, skirting around what Natalie Goldberg calls “first thoughts,” those raw and sometimes uncomfortable topics that spontaneously rise to the surface and are often tamped down. And even if I wondered, “Now where did that come from?”
I knew I had stayed inside of the lines. What I didn’t know then was that in a FreeWrite! there is no judging anyone else. No one snickers, rolls his eyes, or makes a derogatory comment when another writer reads. There is no discussion of the pieces, no constructive or destructive criticism. No one asks if what you have written is truth or fiction. Even the literary merits of the writing is not extolled, such as praising clever openings, that powerful conclusion, that masterful use of verbs. There may be a chuckle or a quiet, “Nice,” but the writers do not gather to show off their talents or to learn new techniques. No one’s writing is any better or any worse than anyone else’s. Every writer’s work is merely an opportunity to practice, to plumb the depths, to tumble and wrestle and roughhouse with language. Once I had attended half a dozen meetings, I began to relax.
But first thoughts won’t be silenced, and after a while I found my own true voice sidling in. I started to feel more comfortable with the format and the people who sat around the table. I began to sense that it was a safe place. When I had first attended these sessions I was afraid that I would not be able to think of anything, I would hear the prompt and my mind would blanch itself of any thoughts. So I would arrive with a general topic in my head, something like Alzheimer’s or gardens or school or cooking. On the ride to the library I would think about my topic, pull up what I knew about it, directions I could take. I was pretty sure that whatever the prompt was, I could relate it to my hidden topic. I would not face that panicked paralysis of my pen. After several months I realized I wasn’t doing that any more. I had learned to trust that my mind would not fail to show me a direction. I was learning to trust myself as a writer, and my writing deepened as a result.
Then on one August morning, when the prompt was “to be afraid,” I took a deep breath and vowed not to write about my childhood fear of dogs or my dental phobia. Without pausing to plan or think, I let my fingers stumble and then race across the keyboard. And even though I began in second person, there was no doubt that I was describing myself.
“To be afraid of everything—the murky darkness at the bottom of pools, birds beating their wings over the ocean headfirst for you, the moment between now and then when you don’t know what then will be. To be afraid is to be shut out, to feel like a stranger. To be afraid of things you cannot name out loud because you are ashamed of them, because you don’t want to let anyone into that room where you live, with the secrets on the wall like garish flowers, to be that afraid makes you want to run away. You feel suffocated, you feel everyone looking at you and expecting you to be like them but you aren’t and you don’t know how to tell them so you look for excuses, reasons you can’t go on that trip with them, thin reasons that are so transparent that you know no one will buy them. And you want to tell them, “Listen, I am afraid of flying I am afraid of being stuck in a house in another city with other people who think I am like them I am afraid of not having my own room I am afraid of not being able to sleep I am afraid of eating in the restaurants and the food you will cook and I am afraid and I hate it but that is the way I am and all I want is for you to accept that and love me anyway.”
As I read the piece aloud, I began to cry, not the lip-trembling, catch-in-the-throat crying but a full flood of tears pouring down my face. How could I have written this, and more, how could I have shared it? These were not merely first thoughts; my words had rocked me to the core. It was a piece that came unbidden. I had a vague idea where I was going when I started, but as I continued the words came on their own and when I reached the last few phrases they wrote themselves.
Someone got up and brought me a handful of paper towels from the kitchen. “There weren’t any tissues,” he explained as I dabbed my face, as my whole body shook. I didn’t tell him that I already had Kleenex in my purse; it was just so touching the way he brought me the towels. I felt something moving around the table, from me to the other people and back again, like a ribbon tying us together.I knew that I was in a safe place.
I was free.