I’ve complained previously (see: Killing the Muse: College Writing Classes) about the last fiction writing class I took in college. (My Muses have mostly recovered since then. Though they still have the occasional moment of diaspora where they would seem to be better suited writing a term paper than a short story.)
|Writing is a lot like a muscle. The more you use it, the easier it gets.
Daily calisthenics work wonders. Image via Flickr
In the post, I mentioned the image notebook/journal.
This was probably the most useful thing to come of that class.
The image journal is exactly what it sounds like. A journal full of images. Written images, in the writer’s case.
Underneath the clean smell of the rain lay something darker. Headier. A fetid odor. Green earth and bones bearing strips of skin gone to rot.
The image journal is an ongoing creative calisthenic. Its purpose isn’t just to keep you writing, but to keep you thinking about writing.
The idea is to write in it daily. To take it everywhere you go, so that you’re always ready, in a split second, to capture an image (or sound, or odor if you want to get between the lines) in words.
It’s helped me to take pause in my life. To stop and look. Listen. Consider the world and the people around me. And commit what my senses capture to memory. And paper.
I love description. I want to read description in others’ works and I want to write it in my own.
The image journal has proven valuable to me as a collection tool; once I’ve written an image down, it’s typically committed to the archive in my brain and I’m able to pull it up again when it’s pertinent.
It also serves well as a prompt reservoir. Occasionally, I’ve flipped through my journal, found myself captured by an image and, before I know it, I’m writing another scrap or story.
And it’s helped me–through writing more often–avoid the cliches that we all perpetrate now and again. (See also: “eyes blue as the sky”; “teeth shining like pearls”; “you’re as cold as ice….” Sorry Foreigner fans.)
My image notebook is a black, faux-leather bound book I bought at the supermarket for less than $10. It’s currently filled with neatly captured word-paintings, riotous scrawls done in the moments-in-between, half-lies, partial truths, and incomplete sentences of sights or sounds or scents that I just didn’t have the words to finish capturing.
I’ve stuck completely to words in my book.
But an added challenge might be to include a visual–a photograph you’ve taken, or a print of a painting you enjoy–and attempt to capture it in unique, non-cliched language. Maybe even limit yourself to a word count.
But if you want to start simply…just look out your window and tell me what you see, in 50 words or less: