“I can’t write,” “I hate to write,” “I’m not a good writer,” “I don’t know what to write,” “Writing is hard.” These are all phrases I hear from students and people out and about in the world I bumble around inside, especially when those folks discover my occupation. “Oh, you’re an English Professor; I better clean up the way I talk,” or “I’d do terrible in that class; I can’t write,” they say apologetically and with much insecurity. Without fail, I say, “Oh please, anyone can be a writer, and if you took my class, I’d prove it to you.”

Anyone can be a writer. I believe that. In “On Writing,” Stephen King said, “Take any noun, put it with any verb, and you have a sentence. It never fails. Rocks explode. Jane transmits. Mountains float.” Wa-la, you’re writing. At its core, it’s not that complicated. You have thoughts. Write them down. Do you have more thoughts? Write those down too. You have no thoughts? Write that down. Write whatever is in your head. Write about having nothing in your head. I’m getting ahead of myself. Most folks, when told it’s time to write, absolutely freeze. Freeze or internally weep. Our problem is that somewhere along the way, someone said something that caused you to feel inadequate. And that inadequacy turned into the lies we tell ourselves about ourselves in the form of “I can’t,” which becomes “I won’t.”

I address this in my classes by talking about Word Vomit. As I talk about letting whatever is in your mind and your heart flood the page, a baby spews on the presentation screen behind me. The visual “helps” the students get this idea of word vomit into their heads. Spill yourself onto the paper before you or the keyboard in front of you, whichever it is. They’ll never forget that baby! Chuck Wendig, a writer and blogger I enjoy, calls it, in his article “25 of My Personal Rules for Writing and Telling Stories,” “Bleeding on the Page.” When I discuss his angle on continuous writing with the students, there’s a bloody spill on the screen behind me; in his article, he says to cut yourself open and color your words with your heartsblood! Here, he says it best:

“Don’t write purely to escape pain and fear. Mine it. Extract those wretched little nuggets of hard black hate-coal and use them to fuel the writing of a scene, a chapter, maybe the whole goddamn book. Cut yourself open. Color the words with your heartsblood. I am an advocate of finding the things you fear and opening old wounds to let them splash onto the characters and inform the tale at hand. We’ll know. We’ll feel it, too. This is where your experience matters — it’s not necessarily in the nitty-gritty of mechanical experience but rather in the authenticity of your emotional life. And this is true for the opposite, as well — write about the things that thrill you, that stir hope, that deliver unto you paroxysms of tingly exultation. Be true to yourself and we’ll all grok your lingo, Daddy-O.”

Bleed on the page. Word Vomit. Imagery does wonders for belief. Any of us can pour ourselves out in freewriting—absolutely anyone. My friend, Dr. Douglas Price – the Director of Faculty Development and Global Learning at Tulsa Community College- has recently developed a tool for continuous writing that he and another friend of mine, Professor Amy Rains, are fine-tuning and collecting data on. They received a DaVinci Institute award for their work this past year. Since then, I have gleefully welcomed Dr. Price to my classrooms to share his insights and incredible tool, which assists students in continuous writing – and beyond that, continuous thought.

The practice is continuous writing, without stopping, just letting words and thoughts flow. If you get “stuck” in the writing, have a keyword to fall back on and write that word continuously until a new idea pops into your mind, which you will then write and keep going! Something I like to do is write about being stuck, if I get stuck. When I have had “writer’s block,” I’ve written about it—the feelings involved, the frustration, the despair … and then I have some golden, authentic emotions I can give to a character at another time. Writing our authentic internal thoughts is excellent for multiple reasons: it teaches us to keep going, it frees us to stop worrying about what others will think, it shakes us clear of concern about mistakes and editing. Just write. No stopping. Go. Go. Go. Get it out. Write without stopping; we practice this in freewriting, rough draft writing, journaling, anywhere you need to get words from your head onto a page.

Dr. Price visited my classrooms this week, and we, the students and I (because I love to participate along with them), practiced Dr. Price’s tool for continuous writing.  During this visit, he specifically had us focus on comparisons. Take two words that have nothing to do with one another and see where your mind takes you as you continuously write. No stopping, just writing, and if you get stuck, write about it, or use a keyword to repeat until a new thought appears.

What follows are my freewriting examples from our exercises. I’m pleased with the results, as were the students pleased with their own.  All of these students, who weeks ago, before my class, and the words from King, Wendig, and me, along with Dr. Price’s two visits to the classroom, used to say, “I can’t,” which meant, “I won’t.” Now … they can, and they have, and they will.

Nametag & Parachute

They found it on the ground, not far from the parachute. Her nametag. It lay in the mud, surrounded by remnants of this and that, things unmentionable due to the tragedy of the accident. The parachute had not opened … and she plummeted to her death. The newspaper would tell all the details, but for now, standing in the midst of it, the coroner just stared at the nametag. Chelsea. Her name was Chelsea Street. A young woman, it appeared. Probably full of life and laughter, excited to jump from a plane for the first time. Or maybe she was an expert and had done this many times, only this time, the chute did not open. Time would reveal that information to the CSI team, but the coroner’s job at this moment was to observe the body, so she took her attention from the nametag which was an embroidered piece of fabric that still semi-clung to the jacket that lay a few feet from where Chelsea’s body lay indented into the ground.

“Sandy, take a look at this,” said a young man crouched near the body. His name was Dan, and he was her newest assistant. Most didn’t stay with her long; she didn’t understand why, but she had come to accept the revolving door.

Sandy stepped closer to the body, and she looked down at the woman whose life had tragically ended that morning. How did this happen, Chelsea? Did the chute not open as it should? She waited and, before long, Chelsea spoke to her only in a voice no one could hear but her. “I didn’t open it.” The coroner heard the words, let them sink in a moment, and asked, “You did this on purpose?” Chelsea replied, “Yes.” And Sandy knew the CSI would find no flaws in the chute.

Snail & Dumpster

It was a long way to the top, but Herbert kept going. He knew the ‘promised land’ would await him once he reached the top. He had heard about the inside of the giant thing from some flies that he knew, though his parents told him not to associate with the flies. They were bad seeds, his dad said. But Herbie wanted to find out what was on the other side, or even better, on the inside of the giant thing. One of the flies had called it a dumpster; Herbie had seen it plenty of times but never knew its name. It was unmentionable. Something his parents ignored, even though it was larger than life.

Stick to the rocks. Stick to the shoreline. Don’t go on the concrete. Don’t go where the people go. Stay safe. Herbie didn’t want to play it safely. He tried to “LIVE.” You know, like the flies. He wished he had wings instead of this shell. Being a snail restrained him. He didn’t like carrying around the weight of his room all day, every day. He wanted to sprout wings and be a fly, though he heard that snails lived longer than flies, so there was that. But heck, even in their short lives, they got to see things that snails never did … and so, that morning, Herbert had kissed his mother and told her he was going to snail school, only he didn’t go. He made his way to the concrete and slowly took his first slide onto the hard surface, not knowing how it would feel. It wasn’t so bad, so he kept going, and before long, though the sun had fully changed positions, he looked up and saw the giant dumpster before him. It was even bigger up close, and his heart swelled with excitement. At the top, he saw flies flying around, doing what they do, and he tried calling out, “Hey, guys! Hey, flies!” But no one heard him, so he found a spot where he could begin his climb, and Herbie began edging upward. So far. At some point, a fly noticed him and whizzed past him …

Cauliflower & Guitar

He strummed the guitar no more than five feet from me. The music was soft, and I was sleepy. I needed to wake up. Something, anything. And then, my food arrived. So grateful for something to do – you know, feed my face. And … there was cauliflower on my plate next to my steak. I did not order cauliflower. Gross. It’s one of the nastiest substances on this planet; I will not eat it. But I don’t want to cause a scene. This place is quiet except for the lullaby floating around in the space from that man’s infernal guitar. He plays on and on, and I think this concert is for senior citizens.

Looking around, no, there aren’t any of those here, but I seem to be the only person squirming in my seat because the music is so dull! My husband seems content with the food on his plate. His steak and broccoli sit there ready to become one with him, as they usually do when he orders them. It’s a routine, and he is happy. But they gave me cauliflower. Ugh. I can’t eat it anyway – even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. So … what to do with it? Everyone is distracted here. No one is paying attention to me. I wonder … I could break the cauliflower into little pieces and try to toss it inside the guitar. He’s only 5 feet away … I bet I could make it. I’m a basketball player after all. Naturally, I will think of making a basket!

Boat & Cello

My favorite piece of music is “The River Flows in You” – especially when done by Hauser, a member of the group 2 Cellos. His video for “The River Flowers in You” is filmed in a boat on a river, and he beautifully plays the melody on his cello. It is mournful, almost, and the setting sweeps me into emotional flow every time I hear it. It seeps into every fiber of my being, and I am on that river, not with Hauser, but alone … I am there, and I am sad, and I am content. I am hopeful, and I am relaxed, and I am mourning … so many things all wrapped up as the music soars through me and the water gently moves me along. They work in tandem with one another – I lie back in the boat and float on a sea of emotion, but gentle emotion, taking me to a place of serenity where I can be open and free and not have worries or concerns. It is a release, and I long for that at all times. I will play “The River Flows in You” with intent from time to time because I need that music. I need that song … in cello, and I remember the river. I am in that boat, and Hauser plays the melody, and I drift … drifting, drifting … ever down the river of emotion but gentle emotion, soft and sweet, though a tint of mournfulness because Life is serious … Life is to be lived and we are to rest and we are to exult and we are to be in the moment, and in this moment, I am all of those things. I want to be in this boat …

Curtain & Trees

She pulled back the curtains to let in the day.  The morning light spilled in and lit the room. Her eyes adjusted, and she flipped the latch to unlock the window. She heaved because the window was heavy and opened it, allowing the fresh morning air to rush into her bedroom. Ahhhhhh. The morning. There is nothing like morning. Nothing smells like morning. Especially here in the mountains. She smiled and looked out of the window at the forest surrounding her cabin. The mountain rose in the distance beyond the trees, and a few hawks circled above it all. She wanted to be nowhere but right here. A day lay ahead of her where she would play in the sunshine, wander through the trees, explore the base of the mountain, and perhaps skip rocks on the river. No pressure. No worries. No concerns. No sounds just birds, water trickling, and a car’s tires on gravel … Wait, that’s not the sound she should hear. The sound grew louder, and a car came into view – coming down the gravel drive set between dark rows of trees that overhung the simple road. It was her grandfather’s truck, and she wasn’t ready for his bellowing. Maybe she could pretend to be asleep. He’d get what he needed and leave. She pulled the curtains closed a bit and hid behind one of them, hoping he hadn’t seen her in the window. She was not in the mood to listen to any of his stories or help him hunt for this or for that that he left in the kitchen or the garage. It was always something. At those thoughts, she chided herself. He meant well. He always meant well. It wasn’t his fault that he had no volume level other than loud. Bless his heart. He’s hard of hearing … she pulled herself together, slipped on her flip-flops …

Mirror & Trains

She glanced in the mirror and adjusted her hair. A few strands were loosened from the wind outside near the train stop. She wanted to be presentable. No, she needed to be presentable. It has been two years since she last saw him. How has time flown like that? It is cruel, time. She saw the lines in her face were deeper, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice. She hoped that when he saw her, his eyes would light up and time would disappear. She kept looking at herself in the mirror and wondered how life had brought them to this space – to be so distant but love so hard. It was also cruel. Life. The mirror. All of it. He had to take a train. Trains make so many stops, and the time stretches far beyond what a plane ride would take.  Even what a car would produce. And so, it was the train, and time is cruel. She wiped a piece of loose mascara from near her eye and took a deep breath. Two years.  Okay.  You can do this. Her heart raced. Her hands were a bundle of nerves. She hoped he was just as anxious to see her, but she also didn’t wish feeling this anxiety on him, hoping he was happy and on an adventure. Who knows what they would do with their time? She hadn’t made a plan. She wanted whatever time they had together to be spontaneous. She left the restroom and made her way to the train platform outside, again in the wind, and the strands of hair she had corrected chose their own freedom and flew with wild abandonment in the air. The train whistle sounded, and she stared down the track … hoping this was his train!  But another train whizzed past. Not stopping. Ah, the anxiety. And then, another train came into view … and she prayed this was the one. It was time. It was time, ten minutes ago, but that time is cruel … and so, she waited. She watched, and the train came to a stop. Passengers filed off, and she strained to see him.  Desperate to see him, but he wasn’t there. Where was he? Person after person filed past her, and her heart sank. Maybe he had decided not to come. He didn’t want to see her after all. Her hopes dashed, but she understood. She understood that he hadn’t desired to prioritize her in his life after she had left all those years ago.

Why would he? She understood. She crossed her arms, rubbed her hands against her skin, and sighed. Deeply.  No one else remained to come off the train, and she turned to walk back into the sanctuary of the bustling train station, where she could disappear into the people and not be noticed in her sorrow and shame. Out in the air, on the platform, she felt a neon sign flashing above her saying, “Look at that mother who left her son years ago! She doesn’t deserve his love!” But you don’t know my story, she wanted to shout back at the sign and the people and the air.