Nieman Narrative Journalism Conference
On a late fall weekend in 2001, the Nieman Program on Narrative Journalism convened its first conference. More than 800 journalists traveled to Cambridge, Massachusetts to take part in three days of interactive seminars, lectures and readings with many of the nation’s leading practitioners. By the end of the conference, there had been 26 seminars, four plenary sessions, and three group readings, and it is from words spoken at these sessions that Nieman Reports compiled the report that follows. — Melissa Ludtke
Steps for Managing Your Stories
Audience members line up to ask questions.
I find that what writers are asking for more than anything is permission—permission to do what we want. And so writers will say, “Could I do this?” And my reaction is usually “Sure. You may fail, but of course you can do it.” I keep a piece of paper over my desk, a quote from Samuel Beckett, the playwright. And it’s three lines: “Fail, fail again, fail better.”
Sigmund Freud once reflected on Friedrich Schiller’s observation that there is within us a watcher at the gates, and that is the critical voice. It is the voice that says, “You suck.” And it is probably one of the key reasons why you can answer the question, “If I manage my time, my stories, and myself better, I would be—” and you’re not those things right now. It’s because of doubt, of the critic’s voice. And it cheats you and me and all of us of the opportunity to experience writing for what it is: a journey, a process of discovery.
So many writers have said, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down.” So the question is how do you get past that? How do you get past the watcher at the gates? Gail Godwin wrote a wonderful essay called “The Watcher at the Gates” in the mid-1970’s in The New York Times in which she said, in essence, my job as a writer is to start writing really fast so I can sneak past that watcher of the gates before the watcher can say, “Hey wait a minute. You suck. You can’t write.” That’s the principle. The device is free writing.
Earlier, a woman looked at me and said, “What are you speaking about?” And I said, “Well, I guess what I’d say is my advice to writers is lower your standards.” She is a teacher, so she was horrified. But that’s what it’s all about. Lower your standards. And the way you do that is free writing.
So if there’s ever a day when you think, I can’t get anything done, just say, “Look. I’m going to write for two minutes.” I don’t just say to myself, “Lower your standards”—I say abandon them.
Writing is all about rewriting, which means you’ve got to get something down. But there is this paradox that I think all of us probably have experienced, those moments where we begin to write and we stop thinking, and we’re just writing. And it begins to flow. The best writing comes from the gut, from the heart, in the sense almost when the mind is shut off or it’s on automatic. And, of course, not everything’s going to be perfect. But if you could at least start every day with writing something, getting something down, you’ve planted a seed that you can nourish all day long.
To manage your stories, there are essentially six steps. One, lower your standards. Get something down. Swallow the bile that rises in your throat when you write a first draft. Because the fact of the matter is, as you learn, that it contains the promise of the final one. Print out early. One of the downsides of the computer is we don’t hit the print button. Print out early. Read aloud. People don’t read aloud. Better yet, have someone else read it to you. If they’re stumbling, it’s probably because it’s not clear enough. It took me a long time to accept the fact, “I’m bored reading this.” Think about all the stories that have been published that if you read them aloud, you’d say, “God, this is boring. Who the hell would read this? I’m only reading it because I’m being paid to.” You have to be honest.
I mean, it’s this paradox. I’m saying, “Wait a minute. I think you said lower your standards?” Sure, lower your standards at first. But then you have to apply very critical standards.
- Lower your standards.
- Get something down.
- Swallow the bile that rises in your throat when you write a first draft.
- Print out early.
- Read aloud.
- Apply very critical standards.
Audience members line up to ask questions.
I find that what writers are asking for more than anything is permission—permission to do what we want. And so writers will say, “Could I do this?” And my reaction is usually “Sure. You may fail, but of course you can do it.” I keep a piece of paper over my desk, a quote from Samuel Beckett, the playwright. And it’s three lines: “Fail, fail again, fail better.”
Sigmund Freud once reflected on Friedrich Schiller’s observation that there is within us a watcher at the gates, and that is the critical voice. It is the voice that says, “You suck.” And it is probably one of the key reasons why you can answer the question, “If I manage my time, my stories, and myself better, I would be—” and you’re not those things right now. It’s because of doubt, of the critic’s voice. And it cheats you and me and all of us of the opportunity to experience writing for what it is: a journey, a process of discovery.
So many writers have said, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down.” So the question is how do you get past that? How do you get past the watcher at the gates? Gail Godwin wrote a wonderful essay called “The Watcher at the Gates” in the mid-1970’s in The New York Times in which she said, in essence, my job as a writer is to start writing really fast so I can sneak past that watcher of the gates before the watcher can say, “Hey wait a minute. You suck. You can’t write.” That’s the principle. The device is free writing.
Earlier, a woman looked at me and said, “What are you speaking about?” And I said, “Well, I guess what I’d say is my advice to writers is lower your standards.” She is a teacher, so she was horrified. But that’s what it’s all about. Lower your standards. And the way you do that is free writing.
So if there’s ever a day when you think, I can’t get anything done, just say, “Look. I’m going to write for two minutes.” I don’t just say to myself, “Lower your standards”—I say abandon them.
Writing is all about rewriting, which means you’ve got to get something down. But there is this paradox that I think all of us probably have experienced, those moments where we begin to write and we stop thinking, and we’re just writing. And it begins to flow. The best writing comes from the gut, from the heart, in the sense almost when the mind is shut off or it’s on automatic. And, of course, not everything’s going to be perfect. But if you could at least start every day with writing something, getting something down, you’ve planted a seed that you can nourish all day long.
To manage your stories, there are essentially six steps. One, lower your standards. Get something down. Swallow the bile that rises in your throat when you write a first draft. Because the fact of the matter is, as you learn, that it contains the promise of the final one. Print out early. One of the downsides of the computer is we don’t hit the print button. Print out early. Read aloud. People don’t read aloud. Better yet, have someone else read it to you. If they’re stumbling, it’s probably because it’s not clear enough. It took me a long time to accept the fact, “I’m bored reading this.” Think about all the stories that have been published that if you read them aloud, you’d say, “God, this is boring. Who the hell would read this? I’m only reading it because I’m being paid to.” You have to be honest.
I mean, it’s this paradox. I’m saying, “Wait a minute. I think you said lower your standards?” Sure, lower your standards at first. But then you have to apply very critical standards.
