Words Out of Nowhere. When a Piece Writes Itself.

It’s a fact: any writer who works at it long enough and has had enough successes will ultimately become obsessed with that part of who they are. Once ‘writer’ has been established, it will latch on like an appendage—like another ear, like another eye, like a groping tentacle always reaching for words meaningful and magical enough.

There’s nowhere to set it down once it gets in there. It’s not like knitting or painting, where we can walk away, go do something else, and when we come back it’s exactly the way we left it. Words aren’t like that. Words swim. They’ll gather together and latch onto something solid now and then but if we’re not there to grab them they’ll break apart and swim off, each going their separate ways.

The trick is to be there at the ready when they decide to favor us with some pleasing combination. We keep trying to conjure them, to call them up, but there are no guarantees. Never any guarantees. So we train ourselves to be ever aware of the right mix of words. We can never be far from thinking about words. They are our comfort and our bugaboos.

We have signed on for a lifetime of servitude, with words being our masters. Words own us. We’re beholden to words. Yet we have no idea how any of it works, so when someone asks us how we do it we either have to pretend we didn’t hear them or pretend we have an answer.

Or we could be honest and say we don’t know.

So here I am to say I don’t know. I’ve never known where anything I’ve written comes from. I don’t mean the surface stuff—the inspiration, the ideas, the hints, the facts—I mean the ability that suddenly pops up when I sit down at my desk with the thoughts I have in my head, thinking maybe I’ll come up with something useful, something worthy to send out to my readers.

The struggle is a given. Nothing comes from nothing. I don’t expect it to. Except yesterday it did.

I’m writing this today, here at Writer Everlasting, because yesterday morning I sat down at my desk with just a title in my head (“Because America Needs Us. That’s Why”) and completed an essay for my other publication, Constant Commoner, in little more than an hour. From start to finish.

That doesn’t happen often—almost never—but when it does it feels like cheating. As if not devoting enough time to a piece has to make it second rate. But when I came to the end, that piece felt done. It said what I wanted it to say, but I still let it sit for an hour or so, as I always do. I walked away. I came back. I switched pictures around and fiddled with a few paragraphs, but I didn’t change a word. And when I hit the “Publish” button I felt no anxiety at all. Another first for me. No, it felt good. And it still does.

I’m focusing on the magic of words today because it’s so rare for any of them to just take a notion to arrange themselves with almost no help from me. I’m fascinated by the process. I mean, who needs AI? (Nobody!)

I’ve read about other writers who have had it happen to them, so I know I’m not alone. But what could possibly create that kind of effortless flow? I’m going to try not to dwell on it, but I do know the format I chose made it easier. It wouldn’t have happened if it had been anything but my own thoughts. There were no links, no outside quotes, nothing that required extensive factchecking, or even rethinking.

It came in at 1200 words. Five minutes reading time. Just about right. I didn’t plan that, either.

Showing up as rarely as they do, I consider the easy ones a gift. At the same time, I wouldn’t want to make a habit of them. I’m suspicious of any writing that comes that easily. It’s not natural. I expect to rewrite. I like to rewrite. It’s the polish. The finishing touch. I want my pieces to shine.

And then there’s this. Confession time: It has taken me far longer to write this piece than it did that easy piece. Hours longer. I’ve changed nearly everything, including the original title—twice—and the original premise, paragraphs of which are safely embedded in their own draft, waiting to become a different piece altogether.

I have to laugh at how much I’ve struggled to get this one right, and I’m still not sure I have. Describing how easy it was to write yesterday’s essay is hard! But I feel better now. This doubt, this conflict, is normal. This is how it should be.

At ease.

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Constant Commoner