Author: JennyDetroit (Page 25 of 43)

Trusting the process

So I went on a bit of a rant today in my AP Lang class. I brought up the “love boredom” quote from Atomic Habits because a student was wishing/complaining that she wants to be good at things instantaneously. To her credit, she admitted that this was an unrealistic attitude, and she knew that it takes practice and diligence to become good at something. But still, she wants to be good right now, dagnabbit! (I might have added the “dagnabbit” part…)

We were talking about writing, but this could apply to anything, and despite my attempts at sage advice, I can understand where this student is coming from. Several months ago I started a new hobby: naalbinding. I have never knitted before, can barely sew, and I’m not great at spacial reasoning (nor am I nibble of finger). Which means that naalbinding does not come easily. So far I’ve only managed to make a wonky hat that’s too small for anyone in my family to wear (though it fits pretty nicely on a stuffed animal). I am now attempting to make hand-warmers.

It is not going well.

I wish I was amazing at naalbinding. I wish I was good right now. But I know I’ll probably suck for awhile. And what’s hard is trusting the process: trusting that if I practice I *will* get better. It’s the same feeling I’m sure my student has. She knows it takes practice and diligence, but when there’s little-to-no progress — especially in the early stages — it’s hard to trust. It’s hard to put faith in your abilities when the evidence right in front of you is that your abilities stink.

I often wonder what would happen if I practiced naalbinding every day for an entire year. Would I ever be able to make a good hat, or mittens, or socks? If I’m honest with myself, probably not. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m sure I’d get better at it, but “getting better” is not quite the same thing as “getting good.” And I think that’s where my student (and I) both get demoralized. Yes, practice can lead to improvement, but can it lead to mastery? Can it lead to being the kind of writer or naalbinder that we might want to be?

I wonder if sometimes we have to temper our goals. Or better yet, not have any goals. Not to sound defeatist, but if the activity (writing, naalbinding, baking, running, etc.) is something we do for its own sake, then it won’t matter if we master it or not. DOING the activity is its own reward. This mindset is hard to achieve, though. We have to *love* doing the thing, despite our mediocrity. And it can be hard to develop a love for something if we aren’t very good at it.

At some point, we either decide we’re “okay” with mediocrity and keep doing the activity, trusting in the process and knowing that practice will make us better even if it never makes us “good.” Or we give up the activity and move on to something else.

I’m not sure where I stand yet with naalbinding. Part of me wants to “conquer” it: to become really, really good. To prove that I can do it.

But another part of me just enjoys moving the needle through the loops and around my thumb, even if the finished piece kinda sucks.

I’m also not sure where my student stands. Does she want to become a great writer just to say, “I did it!”? Or does she genuinely enjoy moving pen over paper, stringing words together, sharing her ideas through writing?

If it’s only about results, then it’s hard to trust the process. The results may never come — especially if our goals are too high. But if we want to do better — not great or even good, just better — then practice works. The process works. We have to trust it.

Boredom

The only way to become excellent is to be endlessly fascinated by doing the same thing over and over. You have to fall in love with boredom.

James Clear, Atomic Habits (p. 236)

I’m always blathering about practice, practice, practice. My students are probably sick of hearing me wax on about how “even professional musicians practice their scales,” or how basketball players “can never do too many free throws.” But even if they’re sick of my blathering, I’m not gonna abandon my mantra: writers have to write. And the only way to get better is to practice, to form the habit, to do the work everyday.

Often, when I conference with my students individually, I hear them express a sincere desire to get better at writing. But when I give them daily opportunities to write in their writer’s notebooks, many of them don’t seize the opportunity. They do other work. Some of them read a book (which I always encourage), while others try to get caught up on their homework (which I always discourage; do your homework at home, kids!). But the same students who say they want to get better at writing don’t use the time and space I give them in class to practice their writing. The reasons are usually some flavor of “I’m not inspired!” and I quietly remind them that it’s not a good plan to wait for inspiration. Inspiration is fleeting and unpredictable. We can coax the muse by reading a lot, listening to interesting music, looking at interesting cinema, going places, paying attention, taking walks, etc., but even if we feed our muse daily, she’s a fickle creature and won’t always come out to play.

James Clear’s quote about boredom distills a lot of what I’ve been trying to help my students understand. The only way to get better at writing is by doing it OVER AND OVER. The writer’s notebook is one tool that I’ve found immensely helpful; it’s a space where I can write every day. It’s an easy method for making something habitual. Those students who have embraced their notebooks, who have used them frequently, almost daily, are the students who have seen the most growth in their writing. I’m sure they didn’t sit and wait for inspiration. They wrote in their notebooks consistently, letting the routine snowball into something habitual, and eventually that repetition and consistency paid off: they developed the skills they were hoping for.

But for the students who were always waiting for inspiration, the habit never formed. They wanted to get better at writing, but they weren’t able to “fall in love with boredom,” i.e.: the work of writing everyday, even when they were tired or didn’t have anything to write about or didn’t feel inspired.

I can relate to these students, believe it or not. For many, many, many years, I courted inspiration and only did my work when the “heat” was in me. I had a lot of cool ideas and did some good work, but NOTHING ever came from it. And yet I kept waiting for the muse to carry me off into the wild night. I kept clinging to the idea that art couldn’t be forced or mechanical, that it had to be spontaneous and passionate all the time. And so I never really finished anything worthwhile until I realized — at long last — that waiting for the muse meant waiting my whole life.

After long years and many failures, I know now that I’d much rather write every day — even if I’m not inspired and the words are dross — than to write only in fits and spurts and never make any headway. I’d much rather do the same thing over and over, because it’s in the DOING that I derive my most pleasure. And it’s also how I’ve gotten better. My ability to write didn’t materialize overnight or just by wanting it “badly enough.” It happened because I practiced, and just like the musician and basketball player, I keep practicing. Everyday.

Yes, this means “falling in love with boredom.” Boredom means pleasure… when it’s practicing something you love.

For my students who want to get better at writing, they have to find a way to fall in love with boredom too. They have to be willing to play the scales, run the reps, shoot the free throws, and put pen to paper in order to improve. It’s not glamorous or thrilling. It’s not the muse dancing under starlight. It’s about doing the work, every day. And like a miracle or a magic spell, once the habit forms, it transforms boredom into love.

Dry Sponge

I feel like a dry sponge lately. All I want to do is soak up stuff. I want to read, read, read, and watch cool movies, and listen to tons of music. I don’t have any juice to squeeze out onto the page. My blogging has been perfunctory (but I gotta keep the streak going!). My fiction writing is non-existent at the mo’ (no time). The notebook’s doing alright, but the notebook’s always doing alright (my one constant).

Can a person take a reading holiday? Is that allowed? Can I just spend a week doing nothing but soaking up words, and images, and music?

Maybe that wouldn’t help, though. It’s kinda hard to imagine a whole week of just downtime. I’m so used to getting up when the kids get up, making them breakfast, changing the diapers, refereeing the disputes, buzzing from kitchen to living room to bedroom to bathroom to help with whatever “crisis” is at hand. I’m not sure I could handle an entire week of sitting around and reading. I’m too conditioned for controlled chaos after six and a half years of raising children.

Still. It would nice to have a *bit* more time for reading. For getting lost in an album or two. For having a film noir double-feature on a Saturday afternoon.

I need more input time. It’s a constant refrain, I know. I’m always complaining about not getting enough input. But right now, I’m a dry sponge, crumbling into brittle fibers. I need to get dunked in a bucket of input. A good soak. A trip into the imagination.

Poem #8?

Some words I thought of:

phosphorescent, lyrical, helter skelter, whimsical, dandelion, zoo, languid, poof, timpani, hullabaloo, chunk, sour, Brett, write/right, outside, car, irksome, pissant.

Why did I think of these words? I was preparing to lead a discussion in one of my classes about beautiful-sounding and ugly-sounding words. I wanted to brainstorm my list of “most beautiful” and “ugliest.”

Funny thing is: I’m not sure if any of these words sound ugly. I tried to think of some, but it was a struggle. I don’t love the name “Brett,” but is it really ugly? “Car” is a weird word, especially if you say it over and over again. It’s like there’s something stuck in the back of your mouth. But is it ugly? “Sour” also has a funny mouth-feel; it’s hard for me to say, to get the diphthong just right. But it’s not really ugly, just weird. In a lot of ways, saying the ugly-sounding words out loud can be almost as fun as saying the beautiful-sounding words.

The only truly ugly-sounding words I can think of are hateful pejoratives, but that raises the question: Do I find them ugly because they SOUND ugly, or because I know what they mean and I can’t ignore their hateful meanings? Is their ugly sound a result of the baggage and connotations they carry with them, or do the actual sounds offend my ears and lips?

I’m in love with language not just for its communicative powers, but also for its sounds. I like feeling words come through my lips and off my tongue. I like enunciating. I like hearing words strung together in beautiful and interesting ways. This is one of the reasons modernist and avant-garde poetry has never bugged me; I don’t care what the dang thing means, I just like the sound of it.

Maybe the lesson isn’t that words are “beautiful” or “ugly” sounding, but simply that language is more than just meaning. It’s also sound. It’s also speech. We can’t remove meaning entirely — nor would I want to — but there can be a lot of fun in playing around with the sounds of language. That’s one of the joys of nursery rhymes, in fact. “Higgledy-piggledy, my black hen,”‘ and all that. It’s nonsense, but it’s also not. There’s a sense in the sounds, and those sounds can be pleasurable, playful, and powerful. (See what I did there? ;D)

 

A sound poem:

The phosphorescent shelter held a languid hullabaloo in the zoo.

Brett, wet and sour, bent to hear the lyrical dandelion timpani,

When right outside, the car went on an irksome helter skelter,

Crying out a whimsical chunk of nothing: a pissant and a poof.

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