Your Pilot is Naked
Maybe a great writer just is
What if there are no teachable secrets or ways to break down the steps to becoming a great writer?
Do successful airline pilots bring their passengers into a simulated airplane to show them the unique way they turn the various knobs and levers?
Do we force our top surgeons to play the board game Operation to make sure they can remove those little plastic bones before we let them cut us open?
Do we ask the carnival ride worker to take apart the Tilt-a-Whirl and put it back together before we trust them with our 7-year-old?
We sure don’t.
We just trust they know what they’re doing.
We appreciate Picasso paintings because we like Picasso paintings. Or we don’t.
We seem to be in a strange cultural mindset where we want to know how the sausage is made. We want someone to serve up the steps we can follow for guaranteed success.
Writing is a unique muscle.
It’s entirely within our minds. And until we write something down or type it into our computers, it doesn’t exist.
We all have fleeting thoughts and ideas and concepts but that’s not writing, that’s thinking.
And like the chicken and the egg, we never know if an idea is formulated first then transcribed on paper, or by transcribing the idea, it is formulated.
For me, it’s a dynamic process of planting the seed of an idea, throwing something down on paper, then engaging in that mysterious process of controlling the narrative and letting the narrative control me.
It’s like any creative endeavor that eventually has a finished product. Even something as routine as making my daily breakfast is convoluted.
I’ve made eggs thousands of times in my life, but never exactly the same way.
Sometimes, I know before I enter the kitchen that I am going to make a 2-egg omelet. Other times, I’m indecisive. I open the egg carton and stare at them. Sometimes, the eggs talk to me. They say, scramble me, or keep my yolk intact.
I wonder if a chicken could talk, how would they suggest I prepare their eggs. Would they be grateful not to have to raise so many chicks or would they accuse me of chicken murder?
No matter the process, I always end up with some kind of cooked egg. Are they delicious? I think so. Would my neighbor like them? I hope they would. If they didn’t, I’d be disappointed. But I wouldn’t stop making eggs.
Is there really a difference between an average egg maker and a brilliant one?
If a writer never goes viral, does that mean they suck?
Yes. Yes, it does. But who cares?
If a cook scrambles your eggs when you wanted them sunny side up, does it make them a bad chef?
Yes. Yes, it does. But who cares?
If a pilot has to crash a few planes before they learn to fly properly, does it really matter?
Does it matter if a surgeon has to kill a few people before they get the hang of that surgery thing?
If a carnival ride operator has to have a few rides fall apart in mid-flight before they remember to tighten the screws, does it really matter?
Yes. Yes, it does. And we care a lot. Because we could die from their incompetence.
To date, nobody has ever died from bad writing.
Nobody has ever gone to prison for bad punctuation, grammar, or redundancy.
Are you properly capturing your brilliant inner voice?
Are your readers receiving your intended message?
Are you funny?
Are your eggs any good?
Who cares?
To paraphrase Hemmingway, it takes tremendous courage to bleed in front of the world.
Writing is a little like dreaming you’re naked in the classroom. Part of us is mortified, and part of us wonders why everyone else is dressed.
Work your writing muscle, amuse yourself….but get off the plane if your pilot is naked.
About the Creator
Jonathan Morris Schwartz
Jonathan Morris Schwartz is a speech language pathologist living in Ocala, Florida. He studied television production at Emerson College in Boston and did his graduate work at The City College of New York.
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