Writing is a Journey to Wonderland
An experimental post written for a challenge in 90 minutes
Welcome to an experiment! I joined Kelsey Rees’ Substack Cowriting Soiree, which turned out to be a challenge: Complete an entire blog post, from conceptualization to publishing, in 90 minutes. The prompt was: “The closest thing I’ve ever seen to magic…”
What follows was brainstormed, written, and edited in 80 minutes. I ran over the allotted 10 minutes a bit for finding the images, adding captions, alt text and subscription buttons, etc. Please forgive the many imperfections due to lack of editing time (and magic).
The closest thing I’ve ever seen to magic is the writer’s trance: that state when you sit down to write and the words flow, and when it’s done, you can’t believe what you’ve created.
It’s the reason I write in the first place.
You can’t predict or control when it happens. You can only invite it to come to you by writing often on a consistent routine, and by fueling your imagination).
It begins with a call. Something enters my mind abruptly, that wasn’t there before, sparkling with importance and urgency.
Sometimes, that’s a scene, my characters in action in their world.
Sometimes it’s a concept, a what-if and its solution.
Sometimes it’s noticing a connection between ideas.
Sometimes it’s a first sentence—and after I write it down, the words keep flowing.
I accept this invitation to enter another world.
So gradually I don’t notice it happening, the room fades away. The traffic and yelling outside disappear, and my sore shoulder muscle stops complaining. My keyboard is gone, and the only part of my computer I see is the screen.
When I write fiction, a movie scene plays out before me in real time. I see characters move and speak. On an especially good day, I hear not only the words they say, but also their accent and the rhythm and texture of their voice. There’s one other element, missing from movies and present in dreams: emotions. If I’m writing from a specific character’s point of view, I feel an echo of their emotions inside me.
Meanwhile, I hear a voiceover, the constant voice of the narrator, describing what I’m witnessing, and what the characters are thinking and feeling.
As I hear the narrator’s words, I type them.
When I’m writing nonfiction, the voiceover remains. However, instead of watching a scene, I’m experiencing the ideas I’m writing about. I might feel what it’s like to be misunderstood as a neurodivergent person. I might picture a brain growing and developing. I often imagine bell curves and spectra.
Meanwhile, each idea feels like a block, and I feel as if I am building a tower, trying to make it ever taller. If my argument is illogical – if the wrong block is put on top--then at least part of the tower collapses. When the tower is finally complete, there’s a giddy sense of relief, of no longer holding my breath.
When I start, I don’t know how the scene is going to end. I find out as I watch and listen to the scene playing out.
The movie is simply happening, and I’m recording it. I’m in the audience, surprised, or chuckling to myself, or even feeling the urge to cry.
This is why so many writers say they are merely channeling from God, or a genius spirit.
It feels as if something precious is being given to you.
It feels like magic.
I don’t know why it’s happening or where it comes from.
Something so opaque to cause and effect, and so emotionally affecting, has to be magic.
Most of my awareness is focused on watching the movie in my mind, but a small part is looking at the screen, making sure I’m transcribing correctly. Occasionally, I delete a typo. It doesn’t break the flow.
I’m not worrying what words to say next, or what examples to use. They’re given to me.
And so it goes, until the last line lands with a punch.
Then I realize the scene – and the first draft of the story – is done.
I examine the thing I just made. I’m impressed at the sheer quantity of text I’ve produced in almost no time.
I read it aloud, once, twice, and I’m amazed by a vivid metaphor here, a clever choice of words there, a line of dialogue that captured a character’s accent, phrasing, and tone. I think, over and over, “wow, I didn’t know I could do that.” I feel surprised, then proud.
I made something. I have added something to the world. I feel the satisfied joy of the baker with a loaf of bread, the cosplayer with a finished costume, the potter with a new pot. I feel even better if I know people will read it.
The other world of inspiration is like Fairyland. Time doesn’t exist, or else it passes more slowly than in the real world. Sometimes you return, three hours later, exhausted, feeling drained, your body crying out for food and water and the toilet.
There’s a price to pay for entering the other world.
The sheer joy of it is addictive. You want to stay forever. You return only because of your body’s needs, or an alarm, or someone else’s interruption. But you would almost rather starve than leave this world.
When someone interrupts you, they are forcibly dragging you back from another world, without following the rules of the world and deliberately using a portal. Being ripped away suddenly is almost painful. You don’t want to lose this other world, and you know if you stop looking and listening to it for too long, it disappears like a soap bubble in the sky.
If fairies are real only when you believe in them, this other world of writing is real only when you pay attention to it.
You don’t come back the same.
If you were writing nonfiction –you discover ideas you didn’t know you believed. If you were journaling or writing a memoir, you become aware of feelings you hadn’t known you had—as if you were talking to a therapist.
Whatever you’ve made has rearranged your thoughts and feelings, leaving you different inside.