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The Science of Writing

I came upon this article from Real Simple Magazine the other day, where Jonah Lehrer writes about the science of thinking. He mentions indecision, which leads to panic, which I relate to well:

  • I can’t decide what I want to cook for dinner (because, really, I don’t want to cook dinner). Then, the kids ask the dreaded question: what’s for dinner? I panic.
  • I fall into half an hour of quiet time. For twenty minutes, I consider the pros and cons of doing this, that, or the other. Then, I realize I have ten minutes left to start and finish whatever I decide. I panic.
  • I want to insert a third bullet here, because I think three is better than two. But, I can’t decide which anecdote fits best. Oh, boy.

With interest, I read Mr. Lehrer’s 10 tips to streamline my thinking and rid me of constant doubt. At one point, he suggests I “consider alternative points of view.” So I did.

I re-read his article through my writer’s eye and honed in on a few correlations between the science of thinking and the science of writing:

He says, “Tap your emotions.”
My writer’s mind translates, Don’t just regurgitate them into a journal, channel that resentment or frustration or elation into a good story.

He warns, “Don’t think under pressure.”
My writer’s eye twitches. Pound out and publish that blog post too quickly, and you’ll spend the rest of the night in bed staring at the ceiling, in a panic.

He suggests, “Be skeptical of your memories.”
My writer’s mind preaches, If working on a “he said, she said” memoir, start wearing a wire. Even if your brain falters, your digital recording won’t.

He encourages, “Go ahead and daydream.”
My writer’s brain fantasizes, Write like you’re getting paid for it.

He advises, “Think about thinking.”
My writer’s head nods, Write about writing.

Then, my writer’s eye squints, And get back to rewriting that novel, missy.

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Photos don’t lie.

In a few short days, I turn 39, on the brink of middle-age.

I’m not sure how this is possible. I mean, my birth certificate says 1970, but I don’t feel like I’ve aged since 1997. So, either I’m young at heart, or I’m immature.

I suppose, in the scheme of life, 39 is still young. But, my body keeps throwing out mixed signals.

I love taking hand held photos – close ups of me and my daughter or me and my son. Once in a while, I convince my husband to join me behind the macro lens. The end photos used to be cute and silly. Now, digital camera playbacks make me shutter. In the photo, I see a set of eyes surrounded by a roadmap of wrinkles. Squinting in macro shots is no longer an option.

Finding a pair of pants that fits well is a growing concern. Not because I’m an odd size, but because there’s an area around my waist that refuses to stay in line and will not be contained. Low waist jeans are too unwieldy. High waist jeans are too ’80’s. I wonder why we don’t just bring back the girdle. Oh, right, they did. It’s called Spanx.

At the beginning of summer, I bought a new, daring, swimsuit: halter top style. But, when I put it on, I questioned my sanity. The top bared too much cleavage for an “almost 40, mother of two.” I wore it only twice, and each time I got a familiar response from bystanders, familiar because I have done the same thing when confronted with a 60-something woman at the beach who crossed the line. Avert the eyes. Stare. Avert. Stare. Wow.

One of my favorite quotes from my dad is one he tossed out when flipping through vacation photos:
Who’s that old man in the picture?

I understand that level of denial now.

For me, my age shows up briefly in photos, in swimsuits, in the tug of my pants. But a letter from the Department of Motor Vehicles stung even more. Apparently, this year, I’m due for a new driver’s license, new photo required. The letter might as well have read, “you’re old, Ms. Craig. Quick trying to fake it.”

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Emily Post Uncovered

EtiquetteI pulled out my copy of Emily Post’s Etiquette* today. I referenced her in my blog introduction. And while I’m not researching manners, I am easily offended, by people like the dentist or nurses in the doctor’s office or PTA presidents.  I wondered how more of her etiquette discourse might translate from 1922 to 2009.

I admit, I judged this author well before I ever read her. For years, mention of Emily Post threw me into flashbacks of meals at my sorority house.

Every Sunday we had a formal dinner. We were strongly encouraged to dress up and attend. Most of us showed up more for the house boys who served us, than for the food. One Sunday dinner, a visiting alum–or Emily Post groupie perhaps–gave a captivating presentation on the mysteries of the salad vs. dinner vs. dessert fork. On another occasion, my fellow sisters called me out to run around the table in my formal dress, while they clapped and sang an embarrassing reminder to “keep your elbows off the table, Christi Craig!” I assumed Emily Post set out with one purpose: to transform young sorority girls like us into proper women, “best society,” as she calls it in her book. After too many Sunday dinners, and several Women’s Studies courses under my belt, I left the sorority house and slammed the door on Emily Post.

Then, today, I read her definition of “best society”:

Best society is not at all like a court with an especial queen or king, nor is it confined to any one place or group, but might better be described as an unlimited brotherhood which spreads over the entire surface of the globe, the members of which are invariably people of cultivation and wordly knowledge (p. 2).

I fell into a moment of silence. I thought she only went as deep as cloth napkins and formal invitations. But, here she speaks against separate camps, in favor of “unlimited” brotherly love, and for international relations. A little further into the chapter, she says, “etiquette must, if it is to be of more than trifling use, include ethics as well as manners” (p. 3). Emily Post should be required reading in Political Science, I think: politics and etiquette, etiquette in politics.

I’m sure, well into the book, Ms. Post dives into details on when to wear gloves, how to serve tea, and how to behave in public. Still, I imagine that reading Etiquette could be like an archeological dig. Underneath all the niceties, I may find evidence of the true Emily Post: the woman behind the fan, the woman with her hat off and her hair down, the woman who wrote about manners in order to publish her own philosophy on life.

* Post, Emily. Etiquette. United States of America: Funk & Wagnalls Company, 1922.