Stirring Point

A reader recently asked me how I chose ideas to write about, so I thought I’d share a short piece on how these ideas arrive.

I can’t get it. I can’t find a thread to pull. Why is writing so slippery? Topics slide through my hands like melting ice cubes. In a flash, something jumps forward and shakes its tail. I chase it around my mind like a dog after a rabbit. For a moment, I latch on and squeeze. I think I’ve got it. No, I’m convinced it’s mine. But it jukes from side to side and I faceplant in its footsteps. I hop up and give chase again. Another lunge—I latch; I faceplant.

Ideas come in a flash and they’re gone just as quickly. When they linger, the best thing to do is pounce, start writing, and see where the idea takes you. Some ideas are self-propelled rockets ready to blast themselves into orbit. These ideas do all the writing while the writer sits back and tallies shorthand like a court stenographer. Other times, ideas feel like unsolvable puzzles dreamed up by gaslighting hucksters. The writer fumbles about, flipping the idea this way and that, and spends much of the time ready to chuck the puzzle against the closest brick wall. 

Often, ideas show up like wooden blocks waiting to be carved. The material is dry, the tools are in hand and the setting is prime for work. The wooden block holds potential, and slowly, the writer shaves off layer after layer of its surface. Knots and veins give character to the mass and decisions on how to preserve or emphasize its character are constant. The writer gives meaning to the block and imbues it with an essence. The potential is found in unique angles and odd points of view. So he whittles and whittles and whittles…

There are countless false starts and frustrating dead ends. Some pieces are overstuffed and need more thinning. Full paragraphs are culled at the behest of clarity. Other pieces are underpacked, missing integral layers that rob the reader of details, connective tissue or plot. If the writer spends too much time sifting sand, myopia sets in and coherence is lost. The writer becomes blind to the glaring holes he’s created—holes his readers eventually tumble into with no discernible way to climb out.

Some writers wait to catch lightning in a bottle. Muses, inspiration: free-flowing thoughts that’ll lead them to a full page. Others painstakingly plot out point after point, outlining and diagramming structures like their 6th grade teacher taught them to. The rest of us stare at a blank page, squeezing our minds in cheek-biting frustration, hoping like hell that something, anything, delivers us from an idealess purgatory. We flip through our notes, searching the chicken scratch along the margins for an idea that’ll travel with us for the entirety of a piece. 

The problem is not a dearth of topics. The “idea well” never runs dry. Write about nature, politics, religion, food—the list is endless. The crux is getting the idea to align with one’s momentary disposition. We think of disposition as static, but our temperament shifts under weight. Can the mind connect with nature right now? Do you give a damn about politics today? Last week’s idea is this week’s hurdle. 

There are few joys that match a ripe idea that comes to a writer with ease. The sensation mimics a day at the beach, the laughter of your loved ones, the comfort of your own bed. And when it arrives, the writer lunges for his desk, grinning like a madman, and holds on for dear life.