Unit of resistance
There’s something to be said for making the act of writing difficult.
At the time when I started writing commentaries regularly for Vermont Public Radio, in addition to editing a magazine and teaching at the university, my life was so hectic that the only time I had to write was when I was driving.
Twice a month I’d drive from my home in Burlington 100 miles down to the VPR recording studio in Windsor, knowing that if I didn’t come up with some fresh ideas in those four hours on the road, the chances were that I’d start falling behind.
I soon discovered that there’s nothing more valuable than thinking in essays but not being able to write them. Ideas and phrases go round and round in your head like laundry, until all the dirt and the sweat and the stiffness has been beaten out of them and you can pull them out, fresh and supple, and fold them onto the page.
But writing involves both thinking and recording, and I kept finding that by the time I got to Windsor, half my good ideas had been washed out. So one day, while heading down Interstate 89 at 85 mph–sorry, officer, 65 mph–I felt around the floor of the car for a pencil and an envelope and started making notes.
The great advantage of this method was that what with bends and passing cars it was well-nigh impossible to write more than half a dozen words at a time, though I suppose in Kansas you could write whole novels. If I tried writing more than one line I either started writing over what I’d already written–a far more effective way of obliterating it than crossing it out, by the way–or found myself swerving to avoid running into a thirty-foot face of blasted rock.
The unit of resistance, then–the ohm of writing™–enforced a very high thinking-to-recording ratio: at the end of the trip I’d have no more than a couple of dozen well-considered phrases, each of which would have an almost poetic quality because of the degree of compression of thought involved.
Some of my best commentaries were written this way. Knowing I couldn’t write out complete sentences also made me consider the subject as a whole rather than plodding through the specific train of thought, which in turn meant that I wasn’t as likely to get seduced by the momentum of my own syntax.
While I was captivated by the physics of this theory, of course, my then-wife recognized it as suicidal lunacy. She handed me an office products catalog, open at a display of dictaphones.
“Pick one,” she said. “I’ll pay for it.”
The result, though well-intentioned, was unmitigated drivel. At first, the dictaphone seemed both secret and potent, a dashing combination of introspection and action, and under its influence I completely forgot how to write. I would ponder for about ten seconds, dictate a sentence, ponder for another ten seconds, dictate another sentence and all the time, like some Chamber of Commerce nitwit cheerleader, I was thinking, “Productivity is up, up, up! More is being achieved in less time with less work!”
It was surely a miracle, a revolutionary moment in the history of writing. Soon Japanese Public Radio would be sending teams of observers over to see how they could write their commentaries more efficiently. It was just a question of time before I hired a secretary so I could arrive back in Burlington, flip her the cassette, and say, “Transcribe this, Miss Palooka: three for VPR, one for NPR, one for the BBC and one for the archives at the Smithsonian.” She’d bat her eyelashes at me and purr “Oh, Mr. Brookes, you’re so prolific.”
The reverse was true. On the one occasion when I thought I’d dictated two whole commentaries on the way south, I realized afterwards that the first was utterly trivial, and in the second I had gone galloping off astride a false premise, so intoxicated by the thunder of my own prose that I never stopped to realize that what I was saying was complete garbage. In making the process of recording so smooth–reducing the ohmage of writing–I had virtually guaranteed the lowest possible thought-to-recording ratio—namely, 1:1.
I had created a technique that would ensure that my reflections contained no reflection whatever. Worse, essays are like journeys by steam train: you expend so much mental energy huffing through the landscape of your subject that in the end you let out a loud and prolonged sigh, and the urge you once had to think along those lines is now exhausted. Your mind just wants to have a cup of tea and put its feet up. In the pre-dictaphone days, I had arrived home with my orphan fragments and envelope phrases demanding to be typed into shape before I lost the envelope or couldn’t read my own writing—an exciting creative challenge. When I composed an essay on tape, on the other hand, its fire went out, and transcribing it was just a drag.
So I’ve gone back to writing on envelopes and post-its. If I have to die for my art, so be it. In the interest of public safety, though, the least I can do is tell you my license plate number: 8L424. If you’re driving the Interstate and you see me, pull over. I may just be listening to the radio, but it’s better to be safe.
First broadcast on Vermont Public Radio around 1991.
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19 users responded in this post
Rating: 2.
Comments:
First, this is great fun.
Second, I’m going to struggle with the numbering (part of, but not the only reason I chose 2). Why make 1 bad and 3 good?
Third, I’m finding it tricky evaluating something written for radio, but read as text. Felt a bit wordy till I read out loud. A general problem about translating spoken to written and would be interested to hear your thoughts.
Fourth. Previous comments general, now specifics about this text. Felt a bit queasy to start with about the thought of writing while driving. Greater safety culture now than when you first wrote it. Nearly put me off reading further and wonder if you could hint at what comes later to reassure. Totally liked the main point about enforced discipline. Coincidence – was talking to D earlier today about writing poetry (only writing I do) while walking (when I do it) and being better polished on the hoof rather than written down too early. BUT there is the phrase that gets lost.
Summary: hit the spot once I got into it.
Look toward to reading more.
Unit of Resistance: Rating/1. Gosh I hate to rate it 1, because I was delighted to laugh at the Miss Palooka bit. But, I don’t particularly find it enjoyable to read about the struggles others have with their creative processes. Plus, the whole thing made me nervous (driving and writing, no, no!)Don’t get me wrong – I loved reading this post, but I don’t think I’d love it as much as part of a more formal collection.
Rating: 1.
I agree with what has been previously said about the whole driving and writing simultaneously bit. Instead of coming off as funny, it just made me nervous. I liked the analogy about laundry, but I didn’t really take anything away from the piece overall. I also agree with Rose Ippolito that it doesn’t really belong in a “formal collection” like this. There’s something about its overall tone that doesn’t quite do it for me. I think that you probably have other pieces that would make a bigger impact on the reader.
Rating:3 – I can’t support the idea of writing while driving
Oops – that was a 1 – got the rating wrong :-)Please erase my last answer.
3. Excellent. Funny, edgy (note the no. of readers ticked off at your doing something dangerous- itself a solid recommendation for inclusion). Great sprinkling of Brookesisms including Miss Palooka and the ohm of writing. Ends well too.
Definitely a 3! I think it’s a unique take on the finer points and nuances of the process of writing. A bit self-deprecating and, in parts, mad cap, and those elements help drive the point home. And that point is that writing (especially good writing) is much more than a collection of words…it’s the result of a creative process that is as unique to each individual creator as a fingerprint and as fragile and fleeting as a snowflake. Of COURSE it’s obvious that writing while driving is nuts. And of COURSE it’s logical to think that a dictaphone would be the answer. But this piece shows that writing, and perhaps creativity of any sort, often peaks at the most impractical times and sprouts from those uncomfortable and unpredictable spaces between good sense and practicality. I hope you keep this in the mix. I think it’s the best of this first set! Don’t let the safety nannies strap this rascally little gem in the backseat!
3 – Thoughtful. Makes me think about my own habits if writing and thinking and composing. Glad I don’t drive in Vermont or anywhere near there. Yes, edgy, I agree with Homer.
Rating: 1. Doesn’t really capture my interest and I agree with everyone who says the whole writing while driving is anxiety-inducing and distracting from the real point of the piece. I think it should be put aside in favor of some stronger pieces that appeal to wider audiences (this seems to be a little more directed toward writers).
Rating: 1
This is definitely a piece that’s better spoken than written. Some of the jokes come off better as interjections in speech, but when seen on the page, it feels a bit forced and cliche. Sorry, but I also don’t particularly like the part with the secretary Ms Palooka. This piece should definitely be set aside for something stronger.
Hello Tim,
Your anthology is a fantastic idea… and I’m delighted to be invited to participate 🙂 I guess I’m the odd ‘man’ out because I’d give this one a 3! My favorite line is “I wasn’t as likely to get seduced by the momentum of my own syntax.” I can so relate (and I think most writers would) because I can write entire chapters in my head and your comment that “Ideas and phrases go round and round in your head like laundry” is a perfect simile. My desk is also littered with sticky notes of character descriptions and plot points (should put them on that neat little plot line I have but then they wouldn’t be under my nose)! I can’t really write while driving because I drive a scooter, however, when I did drive a car I always had a notepad close by. My PR mentor 30 years ago had one mounted on her dashboard! I’m not saying it’s safe but it’s hard to avoid when your brain is going a million miles an hour. If you’re deciding based on majority I guess this one won’t wind up in the anthology but I’m glad you posted it here.
Hope all’s well!
Anne
First: wow you went on an aside? How unlike you, Tim.
I have mixed feelings about this particular essay. It seems trite to me. The idea is good. The idea is solid. Have I ever heard of a dictaphone before? No. Are they still around? Probably not.
Either way, it comes to a good conclusion. You provide us with ostentatious wit and some socially incorrect comments made in good fun (the poke about japanese productivity and your secretary, very politically incorrect). Not a very helpful comment but I think I would score this essay a 1.
Sorry Tim, keep on trucking.
I’d rate this as a one.
What is the point of this piece? Are you giving suggestions how to write, detailing your creative process, or telling an amusing story?
And who is the target? Certainly not young writers because writing while driving is not a wise idea, same goes for traffic cops. Is it for general audience?
Although I find this piece amusing at times, it does not deserve a place in the anthology.
I’d rate this as a 1; although a lot of others’ said that it was anxiety inducing, I didn’t get a sense of anxiousness but more a sense of entitlement that writing is more important than the safety of others/yourself. Not only that, but you lost me in a lot of places and I zoned out.
Rating: 1
For your purposes, I don’t think this has a place in the anthology. Sometimes it was amusing and I found a thing or two very relatable, but I don’t think it is an effective, stand alone piece.
Rating: 3
I think this has potential. I like the concept because “all great writers were great walkers,” or something like that. I like that you note this process. Driving/walking gives one time to notice the world and just be, allowing great phrases and ideas to come to one’s mind. I think if this spent more time on that particular point, then I would include it in the anthology.
Rating: 3
Objectively, I think it offers an interesting glimpse into a writer’s process. This one also hit home for me personally, as I also admire the richness that a single sentence or phrase can take on with sufficient mulling.
1.
I really enjoyed your “Chamber of Commerce nitwit cheerleader” comment and Miss Palooka. I think this is a unique piece with potential but I’m not sure if it is one that would fit in the anthology.
I rate this as a three. There’s more to this piece than a story. This piece offers several little nuggets of thought that the reader can take away and chew on for awhile. It leaves room for the reader to come up with their own like-minded or otherwise different opinion. It isn’t just an entertaining story. I feel that it is pieces like that that you need to include in the anthology.
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