Golf is like writing. You only need to be told to think about the game differently to improve dramatically.
Imagine the backswing differently. Envision yourself throwing a Frisbee as you rotate. Think wet noodle. Swing through the ball. Forget the ball entirely.
No strength training. No demonstration. No specifics on technique or grip. You don’t even need to practice the new approach to improve. Just listen, absorb, swing, and presto! You hit the ball farther than ever before, and more importantly, you feel good doing it. You find a groove in your swing that never existed before. It’s almost as if one minute, you’re playing one game, and the next minute, you’re playing a new, entirely different game.
Writing is like this as well. I find myself reading a short story by John Updike, listening to dialogue written by Stephen King, or laughing at the humor of Kurt Vonnegut or David Sedaris, and just like that, I am struck by an unexpected revelation.
Wow. Setting can become a character.
Hey. Silence… the absence of a response in dialogue… can be just as meaningful as the use of actual words.
Ah-ha… Using italics to reinforce the right moment of inflection can really change the humor of a sentence.
No practice is required. No lesson or tutorial. No series of explicit directions. Like golf, I only need to be told to think about the craft differently, and my skills are instantly improved.
One moment setting is setting. Next, the possibility of making the setting as pervasive and unique as a character has popped into existence.
One moment, I am pondering an appropriate response for a character amid an argument, and the next, I realize that no response might be the better choice.
One moment, I am struggling to bring humor to a section of the text, and the next, I find the italics sitting in my author’s toolbox.
This is why I despised cross-country running so much. Nothing changes. No immediate gratification. Just running and running and more running.
