A Typewriter in Every Classroom?

It is Writer’s Week here in New Hampshire, and The New Hampshire Writer’s Project has organized a week-long series of events around the state to help aspiring writers on their journey to the page and beyond. On Tuesday, I presented my answer to that night’s question: What is the one thing you need to know to finish a first draft?

My answer: curiosity.

There were four other speakers: Steve Carter, Richard Adams Carey, Rob Greene and Jim Kelly. They all were the embodiment of warmth, generosity and humor. In the end, we all said the same thing– with our own flavor.

But I want to tell you about Rob Greene because he is doing something extraordinary.

He began his presentation by placing a manual typewriter on the lectern. CTcuJDyWIAEMa1s

Then he pecked away on the keys, saying, “It was a dark and stormy night…” He slapped the return lever to bring the carriage back and continued, “A shot rang out…,” and we all laughed. It was so cliche, so old-school.

His answer to the question of the night: everyone needs a manual typewriter. And he  cataloged its advantages: no internet connection/distraction; too much difficulty changing things, so it is easier to just keep going and not worry over mistakes; a concrete record of progress: that growing pile of pages; accountability: if he tells his wife that he is working on his novel, she can tell by the sound whether he is, in fact, working.

His was a wonderful example of a writer setting himself up for success.

But he said something else that struck me. He is also a high school teacher, and he owns 45 manual typewriters– he scavenges and repairs them– and he brings them into his classroom. He described a class in which the students were all writing– typing. And he likened it to music. Can’t you just imagine it?

And he mentioned that the manual typewriter was a real help for his students who have ADHD: the tactile experience enables them– some, for the first time– to focus more on their writing.

It takes energy to press those keys– to keep pressing them. There is a satisfying “clack” each time. I know because my father is a writer, and when I was little, I could hear him typing out his his manuscripts and articles, really hitting those keys hard to get through two sheets of onion skin paper with a piece of carbon paper in between. (He has since moved on to using a laptop. I don’t know if he still uses only his two forefingers to type).

Rob’s method is a revolution: an intermediate step– and perhaps a very crucial one– between writing by hand and using a computer.

Writing is an act of will as well as an act of thought and imagination. And our will develops first, when we are children, through our bodies, through our physical experience of the world. A healthy will is essential because it is through our will that we manifest our thoughts and feelings into deeds.

I have written on Krista Tippett’s On Being Blog about how we can organize our home life to support the healthy development of will in our children by including them in real work and real play. We nourish the will by doing. Not by talking, not by explaining. Not by thinking. By doing things that our children can imitate. By doing things that are worthy of imitation.

In schools these days, the use of computers is creeping (and I use the word with its malevolent connotation intentionally) into lower and lower grades. Some schools are not  teaching cursive writing anymore in lieu of using a computer. This is a problem. Handwriting is an act of will– it is coordination between the head and the hand. The importance and benefits of the very physicality of the act is not to be overlooked. The quick jump to computers takes out the physical aspect so quickly. Too quickly.

By using manual typewriters in his classes, Rob is setting up his students for success. He has found a way to engage their will in a way that is both physical and mental, practical and creative. This is genius.


The One Thing You Need to Finish a First Draft

NHww11-9 It is Writer’s Week in New Hampshire! The NH Writer’s Project is putting on a week-long series for aspiring writers, and last night, along with four other local authors, I spoke at the Pease Public Library in Plymouth about the one thing you need to finish a first draft.

The other four speakers were fantastic: hilarious and inspiring, (more about them in a following post) and the audience was warm and engaged. Jeff Deck did a great job organizing the event. And I will note, for those of you who know me and wonder if I have, finally, learned to talk without using my hands, that this photo captures the one moment when I was not gesticulating wildly. So: no. No progress on that front.

Here is a synopsis of what I had to say:

The one thing that I believe a writer needs to finish a first draft is curiosity. Curiosity is the other side of the coin opposite judgment. Curiosity holds open the door to possibility.

There are two parts to the question of the night: the finishing and the draft itself.

Finishing is all about you, the writer, and your writing process.

Your inner critic is probably one of your biggest hurdles to finishing. My inner critic begins by saying that my writing is awful and quickly moves on to saying that I am awful. From there, it seems only logical when it suggests that I stop writing– stop embarrassing us all– before I go any further with what is so obviously a disaster. There are a million variations on this theme, but one of the best antidotes for it is curiosity. Curiosity says in response, “Maybe it is awful. Maybe not. But let’s just write one more day and see what happens. Let’s just get another 250 words down and see where they take us.” And if you do that every day, you (along with your inner critic) will eventually find yourselves with a finished draft.

I know of no way to absolutely silence the inner critic, but you can learn to work despite its presence. As I say in Parenting in the Here and Now, fear (a.k.a.: the inner critic) says: “You aren’t enough. You don’t have what it takes.” What fear means is something quite different: “This is important. You are the one. Have courage.” Curiosity can go a long way toward filling in for confidence.

I love hearing other writers describing their writing processes: their habits, their schedules, their tricks. I wrote my first book in the warm room of a hockey rink and the second in our pickup in the parking lot of another hockey rink. I am working on my third at home, but if I get stuck, I may be heading out to the rink again. Some writers will say “you must:” write every day, write first thing in the morning, write only new material without looking back, etc. But most just describe how it works for them, and that is liberating because even the “musts” are all different. There are as many variations as there are writers, and it is your job to be curious about what works for you. Be inspired by how other writers do it, but don’t be bound by it.

Some writers are planners. Every plot point and scene is worked out in advance. There may be a considerable supply of post-its involved, and outlines and lists. I admire these types of writers because I am not one of them. Every other part of my life is organized and planned down to the last detail. But not my writing. Even though I am a non-fiction writer, when I sit down each day to write, I have no idea what I am going to say. Just as Stephen King says in his book, On Writing, I have the seed of an idea but beyond that: nothing. Not till I get to the writing. That is how I excavate the story. Even with my parenting book, where I supposedly had expertise to share, I was still flying by the seat of my pants. I did go so far as to make a list of ten topics before I began, but I never checked the list again. I had a rough idea, and then I let the writing take me where it wanted to go.

And that is the second part: the draft. The draft comes from you, but it is not you. It is more than you. And if you leave room for curiosity as you write– regardless of how much or how little you have planned in advance– you will start to see connections and patterns that you didn’t know were there, that you couldn’t have thought of on your own, on purpose.

I have written two memoirs. Theoretically, I know the story in each because– well, duh– I lived it. The truth? No clue. I had no clue what the story was all about until I had written it.

Approaching your first draft with curiosity opens the door for discovery and inspiration and surprise. And it invites in the reader, as well, because that is why a reader picks up a book in the first place: to see what happens, to discover, to be inspired or surprised. And if you have found those things on the page, then they will, too.

Ultimately, your final draft is your gift to your readers. Your fist draft is your gift to yourself. It is all yours. You write it in utter freedom. In fact, writing a first draft may be the only thing that we adults get to do in utter freedom.

I encourage you to bring curiosity to your first draft: to see what you will bring to the draft, and also, to see what the draft will bring to you.