From the Archives | Dear Lizard Brain: Whatever It Is That Scares You, Write That

Lit Salon addresses why we shirk + Vivian Gornick's mandate to "write from the very center" + the strange paradox of needing to look away in order to actually see to the center of the thing itself

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the following Lit Salon post was originally published September 2023

This week’s stellar Lit Salon question comes from a participant in the Lyric Essay in 12 Steps Challenge—and it’s such a great topic: the idea of how to know, especially if we trend to minimalist, short-form writing, whether we’re truly leaving it all on the page, writing into the center of whatever it is we’re trying to say, or if we might be … shirking.

It’s the possibility of shirking I will (perhaps not surprisingly!) focus on in my response today, because shirking is interesting.

It’s interesting because we all do it, but most of us don’t really want to do it. Plus, if our dear writer, Lizard Brain, is doing everything just right, if she’s writing all the way up to her full capacity, well, there’s no real question to answer. On the other hand, exploring the idea of shirking (how we can recognize it in ourselves, what to do about it) is potentially useful to everyone. Finally, I figure since Lizard Brain took the time to type the question, they probably believe there is indeed at least a real possibility they are shirking (even though they might not be).

Therefore, I will try to address the question of writing around the edges of a topic, writing around the periphery of aboutness, but stopping short of writing the truest thing we know from the very center of the thing itself. As the brilliant Vivian Gornick put it (and I am indebted to the wonderful Dinty Moore for posting this quote from Gornick just the other day!):

You have to learn to write from the very center, and to have the courage to look at that center.

Writing from the very center is complicated, though. Because sometimes, in order to look at the “very center,” one must … look away from it, just slightly.

I love that paradox and got the chance to speak of it just yesterday in the comments section of last week’s Essay Challenge post (and to note, the conversations happening in those comment sections are deep, intricate, and amazing; in and of themselves, the comments are a master class in not just writing, but in literary community and, in my opinion, very well worth a subscription if you enjoy thoughtful, generous, insightful dialogue on specific craft challenges of literary writing as well as specific challenges of the writing life in general).

And as an example, here’s the exchange in the comments that feels so relevant to this week’s Lit Salon question:

What I’m finding interesting about this “essay course” process is how, even when busy w/other work stuff, you and this community keep me feeling connected to the writing... also interesting how the days away from obsessive focus—along w/some of the exercises—feel like time to breathe, simmer, clarify focus.

Like looking away helps one look more clearly. 

What I said was in response was this:

I love that paradox—how looking away helps one look more clearly. Up at our cabin, my husband and I could see a small constellation called the Pleiades -- but only if we softened our gaze and looked away from it a bit, in which case it twinkled brightly and obviously, but when we stared straight at it, it disappeared into the night sky. Isn't that strange, and yet ... there's something there to be learned!

And another writer then chimed in:

For 22 years my husband and I lived out in the desert—dark sky country—and did the same thing with the Pleiades in order to see it. Looking away, softening our gaze...magic on many levels.

This whole phenomenon with the Pleiades shows us how wise nature is, how much we can learn about our art (and ourselves) from noticing the ways of the outer world. It also shows us the deep, immersive value in a thoughtful writing community exploring together the intricacies of the craft and the ways in which craft intersects with life.

On that note, let’s dive into this week’s Lit Salon question from Lizard Brain, wherein I’ll share my heartfelt thoughts on how to sense the line between “not enough” and “all we’ve got.”

And by the way, Lit Salon is a weekly feature for paid subscribers and I’m so very grateful for the love and support subscribers have offered for this in-depth feature. Remember, you can post a question in the comments on this post, or email it in response to this post, or post it on any other post. I keep a queue of questions and draw from one each Monday and from there, we let the conversation continue in the comments, which is my favorite part, so please join in!

Lit Salon

Dear Lizard Brain: Whatever It Is That Scares You, Write That

Dear Jeannine,

This definitely feels like a week when I'm being called to settle in, calm down, and infuse all the play of the past weeks with some "work." A current struggle: I enjoy creating as much emotion and detail as possible with few words. When it comes time to write deeper and longer, however, my brain shuts down. My lizard brain will tell me it's because I have nothing of depth to explore, but I'm trying hard to push through those thoughts and see what surfaces. Currently, every time I push myself to write longer, it just feels like words that don't add anything of value to what I'm trying to evoke. And at this point, I can't tell if I need to keep reshaping the clay and see what transpires by writing more, or if I'm just more of a minimal writer and perhaps I should honor that.

Signed,

Lizard Brain

Dear Lizard Brain,

I love your question so much, and could write a whole book chapter—or maybe a whole book!—in response to it, because you’re really asking so many things. For example, you’re asking about evoking a lot of emotion on the page without a lot of words, and I’m actually teaching a class on that right now at Stillwater Prison (The Feeling of What Happens: Advanced Techniques for Writing that Stirs Emotion)  and I will be teaching to that same theme in my Writing in the Dark workshop starting this November.

Again, a favorite topic of mine!

But, in a way, that’s not the heart of your question, I’ve come to realize. Because you also say that when it comes to writing “deeper and longer” your brain shuts down. And I notice that you say “deeper and longer,” just “longer,” and your use of the word “deeper” points to something for me, which I’ll return to.

Meanwhile, back to your question, you do say only the word “longer” when you say this:

I push myself to write longer, it just feels like words that don't add anything of value to what I'm trying to evoke. And at this point, I can't tell if I need to keep reshaping the clay and see what transpires by writing more, or if I'm just more of a minimal writer and perhaps I should honor that.

This presents an interesting conundrum, especially when I have a strong bias toward restraint and a certain amount of minimalism in emotionally evocative writing—because I find profound beauty in that kind of writing, writing that communicates something profound in a very small container. I often think of Tyler Barton’s micro flash fiction “Grand Am” as gut-wrenching example of this.

But “Grand Am,” despite its tiny size and heavy reliance on implication, certainly in my view leaves it all on the page, holds nothing back from the reader (as long as the reader shows up for it). Another example of this kind of work is “That Place on Daniel Island” by FR Martinez, and “Swerve” by Brenda Miller, and “Still” by Casey Mulligan Walsh. I could go on. There are so many examples of emotionally gripping work that is spare, minimalist, and very very short.

The examples I’ve provided (and again, there are so many I could add to the list—perhaps I should work on a repository of examples!) differ greatly in content, style, and even to an extent form, but they share one thing wholly in common: all of them are