ENDLESS ROLL // SITE ARCHIVE

in descending chronological order

Search

walking inventory

Take a walk. It can be around the room, your apartment, your house, your neighborhood. Find at least ten details you’ve never noticed before. Make

cognates and neighbors

Choose a central verb from your writing. Then in a column on a page, write as many synonyms, cognates, or near neighbors to that verb

self-interview with borrowed voice

Do a self-interview—an exercise wherein you fully perform the role of both questioner and answerer. Start by asking yourself what’s been surfacing in your writing.

ostentatious labeling

Draw a map of the room you are in including its many objects. Label each one in a baroque, ostentatious manner. Where you could use

letter of questions

Read over what you’ve written so far, and then write yourself a letter full of questions. Ask about the things that haven’t been included. Ask

minute list trawl

Do four minute-lists* of your own choosing. Go back through them with a second color pen and circle any words that please you.  * MINUTE

a story guide

Visualize the world of the thing you are writing: its geographic center, its horizons. Then imagine a figure who could know about that world, perhaps

week reflection

Reflect on your week of writing. What has surfaced that surprised you? What approaches to the practice (time of day, duration of session, writing implements,

two-tone etude

Write a tiny narrative of a fictional event that uses only words beginning with two letters of your choice. Borrow a bit of letter-color synesthesia

sounding line

Imagine your writing can work like a sounding line, going from a surface to a depth and back up again. You can think of that

100 words

Write 100 words, each one as categorically unrelated as possible to the one prior. 

the social yesterday

Set a timer for 5 minutes and try to record all the thoughts you had yesterday about your own experience while navigating any social, communal

minute lists (3)

Choose 4 or 5 categories for minute lists.* If you’re in the middle of a process, then let at least a few of them related

contents of your mind

Set a timer and write for 4 minutes trying to articulate the contents of your mind as you are today—the recurrent questions, habits of understanding,

your weather style

Write three days of weather reports using baroque, preposterous words. Then add one more in a deliberate monotone. Then write one more, splitting the difference,

soft edge of present mind

Write one or two full pages that try to braid together your own running mental monologue with an account of what’s happening at this moment

object description

Find a few objects and arrange them in front of you. Spend five minutes writing a description of the scene. Perhaps approach it from the

rest and energy interleave

Do a timed writing (suggested 7 minutes) reflecting on things that give you energy and things that bring you to rest. Interleave the two directions,

accretion (day 30)

To bring this accretion to a close, make yourself a list of questions. Let your list be expansive and open-ended. Ask questions about what you

accretion (day 29)

Deliver a gift somewhere, somehow, with or within your writing today—to a character or figure inside it, or maybe a kind of hidden easter egg

accretion (day 28)

Even today, the third to last day of this accretion, something new is happening in your writing. Read through everything you’ve written and identify a

accretion (day 27)

Four days remain in this accretion. There is always the option to simply add each day. Don’t forget the option to insert or intervene in

accretion (day 26)

Take a break from the way you have been working. If you have been writing less frequently than you wish, maybe today is a day

Architecture of a Day (Notes on Practice)

One of the things I do with my time is facilitate writing groups, both short and ongoing seasons of writing in the presence of others through a series of cycles, which may be locally defined as writing weeks, or writing fortnights, or other durations. Usually I begin our meetings by asking each writer to report on how their practice of writing went in the last cycle. It’s seductive to meet this request for a report by reporting on the interval between what one wanted to do and what one did. I wanted to write daily but on I only wrote once, and so on. I wanted to develop this other project but instead I transcribed fragments from my notebooks. 

Maybe there is something in this metric of lack that has some use? Maybe it allows us to sidestep the question, what is this writing that I actually wrote, labels the writing as not our real writing, something less than our real writing, where “real” takes on the old romantic connotation of a glorious capital-R Real that somehow exceeds the illusory, fragmented confusion of the actual world we find ourselves in. But I am interested in perceiving the being of the writing that has actually been written, which includes a perception of its futurities, its potentialities, its realities, perhaps, but attends most closely to what it is now. 

If a writer reports on the gap between plan and actuality as a form of lack or failure, I ask them to reframe the gap. The writing that happened: how did it happen? What were you doing when you wrote? In distinction to what you thought you needed to do to get yourself writing, what did you find out you actually need? How does the perceived failure to follow the plan teach you something about the expansive conditions in which writing can get written? The interval between what we project and what we find ourselves doing can be playful, can be a conversation, rather than just a source of disappointment. 

The question comes up again and again, what actually constitutes “the writing”? 

The other question is: Could we play with different understandings of the architecture of a day, a week, or a month, and the way that writing or making or just being with that free creative impulse might live within that rhythm. What containers create enough containment that we feel back inside their flow when we return to them? 

Some containers are marked by time. In one group, a writer shared her practice of folding her writing day into the way the light changed. On days she wrote, she would begin in late afternoon, in daylight, without any lamps or lights on, and continue writing through dusk as her room slowly darkened. In another group, a writer chose the same window but at the other pole of the day, rising in the dark and writing until the day was full day. In another group, another writer wrote late at night before bed, freely making a mess, then re-read her night pages first thing in the morning, making morning notes toward bringing them into some kind of order. All of these practices embedded themselves in the rhythms of the day and night. They might have been productive of something, but they were also, like toothbrushing, like eating, like waking and sleeping, something that belonged to the day and not only to the writing’s future as something that might circulate among others. 

In other groups, with other writers, different containers were found. Letting go of the ideal of dailiness, something else functions as a sustaining rhythm. Often these containers are documents combined with particular and limited tasks. One writer who is always with her phone, not only because we’re all always with our phones, it seems, but because her obligations take her away from her desk for most of her time, keeps an open note in the notes app, and adds to it whenever a small thought crystallizes in mind, and later, maybe only once in a writing cycle, carries these collected entries to her desk and transfers them to new pages, allowing herself to write into them, to reform them, to cull them, in the transfer process. Another writer kept an open document in which she collected words and images that appealed to her. Then once a week, as determined by the obligation to share pages, she looked through that collected pile of appealing things and wrote with or from it, leaving the pile at the end of the document like a combination pantry-compost. Something I am writing these days is held by its document and by a simple task. I open it up on a whim whenever I think of it, no more than once a day and often not for weeks at a time, and I add a single paragraph, either doing a fill-in-the-blanks game that amuses me and repeats as a grounding pulse throughout the ever-growing document, or picking up another thread that also carries through the pages. The limitation of the single paragraph is a pleasure for me, an inveterate spewer and piler-up of raw source material. Instead of going on and on, I fold as much pleasure-treasure into my paragraph as my whim that day holds and the paragraph can take. Then I close the document and forget about it. 

If the desire is to create writing that is alive, rather than writing that is good (thanks to Agnes Borinsky for reminding me recently of this way of renaming and so enlarging and enlivening the desire that attends the relationship we each have to our own writing), could we think of aliveness as something that is in cooperation with and maybe nourishing to our own aliveness. What does that mean for how writing occurs and is invited in the architecture of a day or week or year? Within what time cycle do we track its living energy? What numerical freedoms and mysteries are at play in its pattern of occurrence? What would its scene of communication be?