Much has been said about the writing process. Some expostulate at length upon
the importance of interaction (listening to other people talk about themselves),
of immersion (a euphemism for travel) or, most infrequently, literary education
(engaging with the writings of others, AKA “reading”). Some camps trumpet the
importance of learning the writing game in groups; others quietly declare the
crucial requirement of solitude to find one’s inner voice.
Having written fiction and nonfiction, novels and journalism, analyses and
treatments for most of my 44 years, I would throw up the notion that the process
of writing is in fact most akin to vomiting, of restoring one’s equanimity
through purgative means. It is only through the energy of this ejective process
that we show ourselves—our most deep-seated conflicts, our innermost
creative juices, our true colors—for all the world to see.
In fiction, this begins as a vague disturbance at one’s core, a disquietude
along the blurred fault line between the fully-conscious cogito and the
less-accessible molten realm of the subconscious, wherein such disturbances
frequently bubble to the surface. This wellspring of creative expulsion can
often take a great deal of time to raise the gorge of one’s articulative
faculties. But once this epistemological point-of-no-return is reached, it
swiftly gathers both mass and momentum, drawing various disconnected bits of
observation, memory, and off-targeted adverbiage into a congealed lump of
nauseating self-absorption. This primal bolus of expression typically imposes a
series of steadily-increasing pressure avatars upon itself (the addictive
editor, the anal-retentive proofreader, the neurotic and monomaniacal critic)
that causes the whole mess to seek the nearest point of release. As is often the
case with these tortured bouts of self-actualization, there is a prolonged
period of intellectual bruxing and compositional heaving to bring the newborn to
light. However, once the endeavor achieves escape velocity, it is all the writer
can do simply to grasp the framework of presentation tightly with white-knuckled
hands, sweating and trembling with the effort, to ensure a focused stream of
enunciation, with as little peripheral spraying of irrelevancies as possible.
Once the initial storm of alliteration has passed, beware aftershocks of
repetition or tangential inanities. Wipe the strands of dangling modifiers from
your lips, and flush clean away all superfluous characters and clumps of
repugnant quips and trite neologisms. Catch your breath and clear your eyes.
Thus you will be purged of redactive drivel, that you may behold what you have
brought into the world, entirely through the sweat of your own creative
faculties. Be warned—it won’t be for everyone. But it will be well and
truly yours—truly, you.
Adam Dunn
ADAM DUNN is the author of the novels RIVERS OF GOLD, THE BIG DOGS, and SAINT UNDERGROUND, the
forthcoming novel THE UNFATHOMABLE DEEP, and co-writer (with Eric
Anderson) of the forthcoming novel OSIRIS. He spent years as a freelance
writer cultivating an extensive series of networks among the military,
intelligence, law enforcement, and financial communities. His byline has
appeared in 18 publications in four countries. Some of those include: CNN and
BBC News (online); Inc., Paper, SOMA, and Publishers Weekly magazines (glossy);
and the San Francisco Chronicle and South China Morning Post (newsprint). He and
his family have left New York City.
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