It’s 1995. I am nine years old and wear a purple turtleneck with black velour overalls. My brown hair is long, and it is in a single braid that I pull over my right shoulder. Pimples spot my forehead. I’m recovering from a cold and not well enough to go to school, but not sick enough to stay in bed. My mother has her writing group. They meet weekly at Future Bakery in the Annex. Armed with my notebook and turquoise gel-pen I sit at the pushed together cafe tables with real writers. I feel profoundly wise-beyond-my-years and sophisticated. I tighten my overall strap. As my pen moves across the page, I touch the transcendent power of free-flowing creativity. I access characters that I couldn’t possibly have known lived within me. I am electrified. I am hooked.
This is my love-at-first-page introduction to timed writing. The grandmother of this practice is Natalie Goldberg, a renowned writer and meditation teacher. I am grateful for her, and for her lineage of teachers, and theirs.
In case you are unfamiliar, here’s an overview. You choose your prompt (what you will write on), set a timer (for your chosen amount of time), and write, keeping your pen moving, until the timer dings. Then you stop, and if you happen to be in a group, you read what you’ve written. My mother, Sharon, has facilitated this practice in writing groups for over twenty-five years. She is remarkably skilled at what she does, and some of the same folks have written with her for over a decade. When I do this practice alone (which I do, often) I still read aloud.
There is an alchemy in lifting the words from the page; the voice transmuting what’s written into an offering, a wish, a release.
It’s 2011. My dear friend Julia and I meet in coffee shops around the west end of Toronto. We start with timed writing practice, and then dive into our respective projects. I’m twenty-five, with side-swept bangs and a voracious creative appetite. Having recently finished theatre school, I’m working on my first play. Julia and I co-create “these five minutes”, a daily writing project wherein we choose an inspirational "dip" (prompt), set the timer for five minutes, and write. We post these unedited, pocket-sized stories to our website daily, for eight years. From 2011-2020, no matter my external or internal location, I write for (at least) five minutes. This project holds contemplation, monotony, magnificence, discovery, absurdity, and seeds that turn into full-length poems, plays, and stories. I become a disciple of the way the timer works on my moving pen. I can’t overthink.
I’m right here, gliding with my imagination, guided by something bigger than me.
Julia and I go on to host a weekly writing group, as well as seasonal writer’s workouts. Built on pillars that are still central to my art-making - a devotion to process and collaboration - I am immensely proud of “these five minutes”.
I revisit Natalie’s rules of this practice often, which you can find in her book Wild Mind. I reference my copy so often that the spine is broken and the pages are falling out.
“Keep your hand moving. Most of the time when we write, we mix up the editor and the creator. Imagine your writing hand as the creator. If you keep your creator hand moving, the editor can’t catch up with it,” NG explains. The practice of untethering your inner critic/editor/grouchy English teacher from your storyteller - a true and authentic voice - is rigorous and meaningful.
“Lose control. Don’t worry about if it’s correct, polite, or appropriate.” Let go. “Let go of letting go”1. See where you end up!
“Be specific. Not car, but Cadillac. Not bird, but wren.” Specific, concrete details are how we access memory, plot, character, and the pulse of story.
“Don’t think. We usually live in the realm of second or third thoughts, thoughts on thoughts, rather than in the realm of first thoughts, the real way we flash on something.” In having done this practice thousands of times, this element is thrilling and surprising.
“Don’t worry about punctuation, spelling and grammar.”
“You are free to write the worst junk in the universe.”
“Go for the jugular. If something scary comes up, just go for it. That’s where the energy is. Otherwise, you’ll spend all your time writing around whatever makes you nervous. It will probably be abstract, bland writing because you’re avoiding the truth.”
Whether you’re an experienced writer (as I know many reading this are) or are new to it, I encourage you to set some time aside, get out a notebook and pen, do a “dip” in whatever you happen to be reading at the moment, set your timer for five (or seven, or twelve) minutes, and see where it leads you.
“Writing is one of the ways I participate in transformation,” writes Toni Cade Bambara. Let’s write ourselves a new story; one of unbridled creativity, liberation, vulnerability, community and connection.
January’s five things
Listening: and moving to Tributaries, a remix album by Lido Pimienta.
Reading: Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde.
Making: this is the fudgey, chocolatey brownie recipe I’ve been waiting for. And for the GF amongst us, they happen to be flourless.
Learning: about poetry and what it means to be writer, in this episode of the Ezra Klein show with Ada Limón.
Loving: Aftersun, a film by Scottish writer and director Charlotte Wells.
Thank you for reading. If you are moved, please share five things with a friend. Or, take a screenshot of a passage that you enjoyed and post it on your Instagram story! If you do that, don’t forget to tag me: @sasharsw. 🌻
So much YES and even more GRATITUDE! xo