Not Everything Belongs on the Page

I’m preparing for an out-of-state move, a big one for my family, and being in-between here and there is chaotic. On one hand, I am researching homes, schools, and logistics and on the other hand, I’m planning dinner, picking up my kids, and (trying to) write.

The mindfulness I teach in my yoga classes—the practice of staying present—is not exactly arriving easily right now.

I know the theory. I know the path. I’ve practiced it through burnout, recovery, and seasons of overwhelm. But knowing and doing are not the same thing.

Slowing down when everything feels urgent is harder than I want to admit.

And I notice the same resistance in my writing.

When I sit down to write, I want to get to the end quickly. To explain everything nd make meaning immediately visible. To tell the reader what its all about before I’ve actually stayed long enough inside the moment to see it.

Just like in life, I’d rather arrive at certainty than linger in the unknown.

But you can’t move forward in writing without going through the slower work of noticing.

I’ve been writing a lot about noticing, about the act of leaning into concrete details in our writing. (If you’re new here, check out my posts On Noticing Tiny Wild Things or Writing Place as a Lived Experience to get a better idea of what I mean).

Many times when we notice we immediately want to translate into writing, but I’m encouraging you to pause in the noticing. To record those details without interpreting them. To ignore the desire to figure out what it all means.

For me that’s the first challenge.

The second challenge it to be intentional and know when to stop. Knowing what to put on the page and what to leave out is just as important as noticing what is out there.

Not everything you notice needs to be, or even should be, included in your writing. In workshops, I often encourage writers to notice through all of the senses, particularly the ones you tend to avoid, but that doesn’t mean you include them all.

For instance, as I write this, I notice these six concrete details:

• a white-grey sky out the window

• the low buzz of the kitchen fan

• the scratchiness of the table cover under my forearms

• a tinge of burning tortillas in the air

• a dirty dish beside me

• unfolded laundry in the living room
  

Together, all of these paint a picture for you. But is that really what I want to show? Is that really the message I’m trying to convey?

Let’s imagine that instead I included these six details:

• the velvety orchid petals from a plant beside me

• the honey-sweet smell of neroli

• a yellow legal pad with a list in blue ink, crossed off

• the wind blowing in the trees through the window

• the silkiness of my keyboard keys on my fingertips

• steam coming from a mug of matcha

I’m in the same place, nothing has changed, and yet the concrete details I choose to reveal completely change the atmosphere and tone of the place.

If I include all twelve of these details, from the white-grey sky to the steaming mug, it would have been overwhelming with no clear pattern or point.

Let’s imagine that I want to emphasize the second set of details. I would ask myself: are all of these details relevant? Do they propel the scene?

For instance, I might decide that the orchid petals and wind are unnecessary and focus on elements outside of the place I want to emphasize. That leaves me with:

• the honey-sweet smell of nerolia

• yellow legal pad with a list in blue ink, crossed off

• the silkiness of my keyboard keys on my fingertips

• steam coming from a mug of matcha

My next question is what is the point, the meaning behind these details? Can those details be enough to convey meaning? Can they be enough for the reader to glean meaning?

This is where a lot of writers balk. Most can be open to including more details, but many are uncertain that is enough. This leads to a lot of unnecessary description and overwriting.

For instance, consider the edits I made to the following sentences, notice how unnecessary the parts are that I crossed out*:

“The honey-sweet scent of neroli drifted through the room, soft and floral, settling into the quiet like a memory that refused to leave.”

Beside my laptop, a yellow legal pad lay angled under the lamplight, its list in blue ink nearly conquered—each task scratched out in impatient, slanting lines.

Steam curled lazily from a mug of matcha, the warmth brushing my face as my fingers moved over the keyboard, each key smooth and silky beneath my fingertips.”

Notice the pull to add more. To explain more and make sure you (the reader) understands exactly what this room feels like, what this moment means, what I am trying to do with it.

That impulse—the urge to over-explain, to rush past the quiet, to fill in every possible gap—is the same impulse I feel as I sit in the middle of this move.

The packing and the planning and the scheduling doesn’t care about nuance. They want completion. Boxes sealed. Decisions made. Next steps confirmed. Life, sorted. But writing is very different.

Writing—and maybe living, too—does not move cleanly from beginning to end. It moves through noticing. Through restraint. Through choosing what matters and allowing the rest to stand on it’s own.

When I return to those few details—matcha steam, blue ink on a legal pad, the softness of keys—they are not only descriptions. They are details of what is in front of me. They are telling me how to be here. Right now.

Present.

This is the practice I keep circling back to in my writing, and life, even when I resist it. Especially when I resist it.

After a lifetime of practicing coming back to the present, I still have to remind myself that mindfulness is not about calm. And it’s not about ease. It is the willingness to stay long enough in a single moment to actually see it.

Leave a comment

*These sentences were purposefully overwritten to illicit a point.