We just wrapped up a time of year almost every American is aware of: March Madness. Whether you’re a fan of college hoops or not, it’s a mighty challenge to avoid hearing about the one-and-dones, Cinderella squads, busted brackets, and Final Four. I’ve been fortunate enough to witness my favorite team win one national championship, but most years the agonizing nail-biting ends somewhere around the round of sixteen remaining teams (the Sweet Sixteen, to be technical).
While watching this year’s match-up between Syracuse and Duke, a friend mentioned an article regarding SU’s center: Paschal Chukwu. Apparently, this guy was an awful free throw shooter until a coach took him aside and instructed him to attempt 100 straight free throws shots during every practice. The kicker (or, shooter)? He couldn’t stop until he hit at least 20 in a row. Chukwu’s practice paid off, and he made several clutch shots during this year’s tournament.
This got me thinking…shooting free throws is, in a bizarre way, kind of like writing. While the physical mechanics stop at holding an item made partially of rubber (if you use an old fashioned number 2 pencil, that is), the principle of practice is (should be) the same.
Writing success doesn’t happen without consist practice.
There isn’t a sports team in the world that can expect to win if their players don’t practice nearly every day. Why should writing be any different?
But we’ve convinced ourselves that it is. I adore writing, but more days that I care to admit I’ll make up some excuse for postponing the day’s dose of pen and paper:
– It’s been a long day.
– I’m too tired.
– The kitchen is a mess.
– There’s NO way any creative sentences are coming out today.
I’m sure you could add some other ideas.
Here’s the other kicker: our art form, craft, or whatever you choose to call your writing time simply won’t improve without practice. Daily practice. Yet somehow we whisper to ourselves that our writing needs to be brilliant, that it needs that special spark of creativity, a flash of artistic energy before the pen will streak across the paper with ease, beautiful words glowing behind. Every writer goes through phases of believing this lie (I’ve yet to meet one who doesn’t).
Even if you don’t believe the lie, I’m positive there have been times where you’ve said no to writing simply because you’re tired. Nothing wrong with that – rest is a God-given gift! But is the reason you’re resting to get rest? Or is it because you subconsciously believe that any phrases you attempt to conjure during times of tiredness will be weak and unfulfilling?
The honest truth is that not all writing is good…but it can be.
Here’s the final kicker: some of your writing will be good. A few snatches will be great. Much will be so-so at best. That’s true for all of us. There are many ways to improve your writing (like reading consistently), but the single best way to increasingly guide your writing into something artful, functional, beautiful, and epic is to just write. Every. Single. Day.
It doesn’t matter how tired (etc.) you are. Still write. Some of your writing will be all sorts of award-winning horrendous but it doesn’t matter. It’s the practice and commitment to getting alone with words that matters. It’s fiddling with sentences. Toying with word choices. Dynamiting the safe phrases you’ve grown comfortable leaning on and experimenting with the wreckage.
If you don’t want anyone to see your junky drafts or practice samples, don’t show anyone. There’s an old photography adage that says: the secret to being a good photographer is not showing anyone your poor pictures. A bit glib, but the point is clear! There must come a point where you seek thoughtful critiques, but it shouldn’t be for every word, sentence, and paragraph you commit to the page.
Take the time to get acquainted with words.
Practice your writing. Practice your craft.
When it’s game time, you will be ready to transform the page with your best writing.
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