The Writing Desert

Working as a mentor for other writers is one of the most rewarding aspects of my job. I feel very privileged that my mentees put their faith in me, not just in my ability as a teacher or an editor, but also in my ability as a cheerleader, because that’s realistically what a writing mentor should do (or at least that’s how I see it) – they should be there to help a writer with the actual business of writing, but they should also be there to help them with the more psychological stuff like writer’s block and imposter syndrome, those questions that build up inside us like “Is there any value in my work?” “Why is writing so hard?” “How can other writers churn out their words so quickly?” “Why can’t I write in the same way I was able to in the past?”

I’ve had some fascinating conversations with my mentees about the psychological side of their writing journeys over the years. One thing that seems universal is the burden created by comparing ourselves to others, but another comparison that I often see is in that final question above – the comparison between present and past, not just contemplating the difference in our writing ability, but also wondering why the psychological stuff only seems to get bigger the more we grow as writers. Surely it should be the other way around? Surely as we become more proficient at our craft, we should be less crippled by doubt?

My explanation for this paradox is a theory I refer to as “the writing desert.” This is based on the idea that we all have “safe oases” and “dangerous deserts”, and it is when we venture into the latter category that the psychological stuff starts to become an issue. Hopefully by the end of this article, that should make some sort of sense. Hopefully, it is helpful, especially if you are in a period of experimentation or development and are starting to feel a little untethered. One thing I feel I should warn you about in advance is that I’ve used the words “desert”, “oasis”, “safe” and “dangerous” several hundred times, and it is almost inevitable that at some point in what you’ll find below, rather than talking about “dangerous deserts”, I’ve instead brought up the intriguing proposition of “dangerous desserts”!

What do I mean by “oases” and “deserts”?

(No typos so far!?)

One of my “safe oases” is writing lyrical flash fiction, pieces that verge on the prose poem with as much emphasis on words as there is on everything else. There will probably be a repeating motif thrown into the mix. There will almost certainly be similes and metaphors and unusual verbs. A neologism or two (or seventy-seven)? An ending that shifts towards hope? A long title (fifty-four words, anyone)? This is what I feel comfortable with as a writer. When I write in this mode, I’m drawing on skills that I’ve honed over many years. I’m not exactly confident (I never am!), but I’m also not entirely out of my depth.

An oasis is a “safe space.” It is a “comfort blanket.” It is a “fortress.” It is “write what you know” both at the level of content and at the level of technique. When we write within our “safe oases”, we’ve dialled the levels of experimentation and risk right down and have dialled up the levels of familiarity and security. That security infuses itself in our writing. Hopefully we as writers feel relatively safe.

When we first start out as writers, we have a single oasis. It’s small, and most of us, being curious by nature, look out with our telescopes and spy other oases nearby. We visit these other oases and purchase Persian rugs and lava lamps and antique rocking chairs that we take back to our oases. We extend our oases outwards and our writing is strengthened as a result.

When we run out of nearby oases, we begin to look further afield. We pack a bag. We hire a dromedary camel called Paco Rabanne. And once we’re ready, we set out on a journey through the dangerous desert.

At first, we’re pretty upbeat. Then we get affected by the heat and the sand; we’re lured by writing mirages that turn out to be tautologous incoherences of meaningless words. This is the point where all that psychological stuff is at its worst. We’ve set out to try new things. We’ve set out to improve our writing craft. But suddenly we’ve forgotten how to string a sentence together. Our tone of voice seems false. Our story ideas seem derivative.

The problem we’re facing is that we’ve left most of our writing tools back in the safe oasis. Poor Paco Rabane the dromedary camel would buckle at the knees if we attempted to strap every armchair and Yucca plant on his bony back. So, we’re attempting new things (which is HARD) without our usual comforts (also HARD) and the results are not what we were hoping for (and this is DISCOURAGING).

Why venture into the “dangerous desert”

(Typo count: knowing my record, it’s probably two or three by now?)

If all that awaits us in the desert is discouragement and hardship, then perhaps it would be better if we simply stayed in our safe oases? That will be the right decision for some of us. If we are constantly striving for bigger, better, more, then we have no time to profit from the skills and knowledge we’ve already gathered. We have no time to polish those skills so they don’t become rusty. We have no time to water the house plants or mend the inevitable wear and tear to the furniture.

We need to spend time in our oases both for the good of our writing and for the good of our sanity. But if we always stay in our safe oases then (a) we won’t improve as writers, and (b) our writing runs the risk of becoming stale. That’s why we venture into the desert. The desert is where we experiment and learn. We are looking for new ideas, new techniques that we can take back with us to our safe oases. Sometimes, we are even looking for a bigger and better oasis where we can set up a new home, wanting to push our writing in a new direction.

As we trek through the desert, we take risks. Risk-taking is how we discover new ideas and ways of writing. Some of these risks will pay off. But many of them will fail. And that’s where discouragement has a habit of creeping in, where the psychological stuff threatens to bury us in a stand storm. We blunder towards mirages. We start talking to rattlesnakes. We just want to lie down and dream of chocolate orange bombe Alaska…

How do we keep ourselves safe on our treks through the desert?

(Typo count: I feel like I’m winning? Or am I being lured by one of those tricksy mirages?)

• Keep reminding yourself of your goal(s). Your reason for trekking through the desert is to learn, explore and experiment. So, if you learn stuff, if you allow yourself to experiment, if you take a few risks, then you’ve achieved your goal. Your time in the desert is not about writing brilliant stories. It’s about gathering new ideas that you can take back with you to your safe oasis.

• Tie a bungee rope around your waist. If you’re going out into the desert in search of new ideas (rather than wanting to trek elsewhere to set up a new writing base) then make it easy for yourself to return to your safe oasis. Make a list of all the things you can do really well. Look at my paragraph above that describes my lyrical-flash-fiction safe oasis and write a similar paragraph for yourself. This is something you can read whenever you’re filled with doubts. Remind yourself what you’re good at!

• Be like Dory. My analogy is probably crumbling at this point (if it isn’t already a pile of dust) since Dory is a creature of the oceans rather than a creature of the sands, but on any journey (I know, I know – some of you are allergic to the J word!), I always come back to Dory from “Finding Nemo” whose mantra is “just keep swimming, just keep swimming.” It’s tempting when we become discouraged to want to sit down and cry or to turn around and scurry back the way we’ve just come. But that wouldn’t get us where we need to go. So, just keep trekking. Just keep reminding yourself you’ll get there when you get there. Most of us, I feel, are in too much of a rush.

Final thoughts

Hopefully, that makes some sort of sense. Often when I start talking about this sort of thing in my mentoring one-to-ones, I notice a familiar glazed expression creeps over my mentees’ faces. But I keep going with it regardless because I’ve got “just keep swimming” pulsing through my head. I **think** my mentees find some encouragement in the idea that writing has different modes and sometimes it is about development, experimentation and learning rather than producing new stories. I also promote this idea in my “Write Beyond The Lightbulb” courses. Yes, make sure you build yourself the safest of “safe oases” but also don’t be afraid to venture out occasionally into the “dangerous desert.” And if you go out there aiming simply to explore, aiming simply to marvel at the world, then maybe you will find that instead of rocks and cacti and sand, what you are trekking through is a landscape of treacle puddings and apple pies and other delightful desserts that aren’t dangerous at all.

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