Writing under Pressure

Sounds serious, doesn't it?  Yet writing under pressure is what we submit to at writing group when the moderator of the day offers us a prompt to work to, and gives us a time span to work in.  Often it is as long as twenty minutes, but can be as little as ten.  At first thought that seems harsh, but it turns out to be fun.  Everyone at the table is operating under the same conditions, and we all know that the judgements offered will be constructive ones, given with the intention of building up, not tearing down.

The time pressure and prompt constraints force me to abandon the conscious, and often neurotic, self-imposed quality controls that can see me sitting, pen poised or keyboard silent, trying vainly to find worthy words to use, while sinking into what feels like permanent writers block.  My internal procrastinator comes to the fore at such times, offering all sorts of reasons why I should give up, and a vast array of distractions to help me do so.

Instead, the pressure helps me begin, and I write whatever comes to mind - at first, racing the clock to fill part of the page, but soon becoming lost in the developing story and characters.  Is it possible to establish a plot or develop a character in as little as twenty minutes?

As unlikely as it may feel, the answer is often yes.  The time and subject constraints make it easier - the range of options has been narrowed - fewer choices must be made - the ink begins to flow, the words stretch across the page, and I surprise myself.  Sometimes the story is obviously linked to personal experience, but there are unexpected moments, when I sit back at the end of the allotted time, scratch my head, and ask myself "where did that come from?"

Those are the fun moments, when the constraints imposed by the exercise actually set the imagination free.  The writing marathon we had in March included a music driven exercise.  We had only the amount of time during which the music was playing, plus the few seconds it took the moderator to change the CD and select the next track, to write.  Below is what that music dragged out of me......

Track 1.

The darkness is falling across the forests; the shadows are stretching into the farmland.  Smoke is layered above the village and the farmsteads, and little candle light reaches past the tightly closed shutters.

But, at the edge of the forest, sparks fly up into the night and the light of the bonfires flickers and dances across the bright colours of the circled gypsy wagons.  As the birds fall silent, and a distant wolf howls, a lone singer raises her voice.  The encampment falls silent as she sings of the great deeds of their ancestors, the notes soaring skywards with the sparks.

Track 2.

The fiddler steps forward as the singer ends her song and bows her head.  He picks out a tune – at first poignant, but soon lively, and the first of the dancers rise to circle the fire.

Tr 3.

Late in the night, when the little ones are all abed, or asleep in loving arms, a piper joins the fiddler, and voices softly blend, remembering the land that once was their home.  A quiet, measured beat reminds them of the armies that drove them out, and of all they have lost.

Another prompt, with only ten minutes to work in, produced this....

"After a week, he wanted to..."

....be safely back at his desk, in his quiet office.  He could get on with his work, undisturbed by anything other than the weekly faculty meeting and the two hour lectures he was obliged to give, each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Another wave of raucous, shattering sound battered his brain, and someone jostled him in the small of the back.

"Are you alright, Wilfred?"

"Fine dear, just fine.  Someone bumped me, that's all" he said to his wife.  She snuggled closer, and started jiggling even faster than she had been.  Wilfred tried to make his feet move in time with Mariel's but he could find no reference point to work from.  Mariel's jiggling did not match the movements of the crowd around them, and, as for the so-called music, there was no clue contained within its mad noise to guide his steps.

"Oh, darling Wilfred, thank you so much for bringing me.  I've always wanted to do something like this.  It's so wonderful" Mariel said, as she jiggled up on tip toes and kissed him.

Wilfred smiled – well, he hoped it looked like a smile; it was feeling like a grimace from the inside.  All around them, people were laughing, smiling, and swaying or leaping about.  He'd heard people describing the wonders and pleasures of such an adventure, and wondered at their sanity.

He wondered no longer.  If, as the wise man said, Hell is other people, the nethermost basement of hell must be located aboard a Pacific Party Lines cruise ship.

I hope there is no such company as Pacific Party Lines (Google didn't show me one), and, if there is, the reference is entirely co-incidental, as I have never been on such a cruise.  Obviously, my subconscious doesn't particularly want me to, either.

Would I have written either of the above pieces if I had sat down to my desk with pen, blank paper, and equally blank mind?  Probably not - neither topic would have come to mind out of thin air.  Joy, anger, amazement, irritation, love, lust, longing, fear, or hope, can all provide the constraints or narrowing of purpose that our imagination needs when writing - I am not sure that serenity or complacency could ever do the same - but pressure, whether self-imposed, or external can kick start me when the internal procrastinator is gaining control.  

As Ray Bradbury said in a 1973 essay entitled "The Joy of Writing" - "Only this:  if you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer."  For me, at least, if the zest and gusto seem absent, some sort of self imposed pressure can take me to a place where, if nothing else surfaces but anger or resentment, well, that can be harnessed.  Before long, my pet peeve or recent irritation will be flowing onto the page with plenty of gusto, and my zest for writng will have returned.