
Greg
For me, writing is like sledding down a wide, steep slope. You can carefully pick your launching point, but often you don’t know exactly where you’ll end up until you’re already halfway down. You have some freedom to adjust your trajectory as you careen down the hill, but abrupt changes in direction are ill-advised. It may take a few trudges back up the hill and a couple of head-over-heels tumbles, but if you’re persistent you can usually find a reasonably smooth route from top to
bottom.
Lee
For me, writing can be frightening, frenzied and alienating, like rafting solo down a slow stretch of the Amazon with a paper cut, a splintered paddle and a makeshift wooden rig at the height of piranha mating season. Other times, I write more confidently and calmly, feeling more connected to what I’m trying to do with my ideas. In these moments, it’s as though the paddle is intact, the boat is made of some invincible and impervious techno-plastic (or at least it isn’t made of sticks), and I have the help of five Olympic rowing hopefuls. More often than not, my writing is a mix of both: a little frenzy, a decent vessel, no mating piranhas, and two expert rowers (maybe the slower ones).
Ken
Writing is like swimming in the dark. Without direction in unknown waters it can be scary and frightening, but in a familiar setting it can be exciting and exhilarating. Take a deep breath and sink below, your thoughts are your only company. Burst through the surface and find your bearings. Seek out the beacons on the shore, the moon on the horizon; use your guideposts to find your way home. A quick sprint will leave you exhausted in short time. Merely drifting among the waves will lure you off track. Handful by handful, pull your way to the beach. Stop. Pause. Float. Relax. Swim again. Develop a plan. Let the sand between your toes signal your success. Crawl, step, and walk up the beach to the dunes. Look back at your fresh footsteps; exhale and smile.
Ellen
For me, writing is like running. Sometimes I run on the treadmill where the path is cushioned and I know exactly what I’m doing, how long I’m doing it, and where I’m going. It’s like being on autopilot. Other times, I run outside. Here, I meander, jumping over and around obstacles, losing track of the time, and almost always ending completely worn out. While running inside provides me with a sense of comfort and safety, there is definitely something to be said about taking that unexpected turn when you’re on the open road. With all the bumps and miscalculations that running outside involves, I may not end up where I expected, but I’m usually not far from home.
Heather
Writing is a powerful puzzle. Although the end result may seem linear, I don’t think that way. I think in pieces and patterns, and I write that way as well. I almost always do the edge pieces of a puzzle first; then I have my framework, a little something to gauge the relationships between other things in the puzzle. There may be a cloud that I can work on right off of the frame. Or maybe I will need to instead pick out the little red patch of poppies to work on, or that tree that’s a different color than all the rest, or the figure of a particular person. Maybe I’ll first pile all the, say, red pieces together, maybe not. Pieces get added to the puzzle itself as they are discovered, sometimes randomly as I encounter each piece–like cobbling thoughts together. And there are plenty of moments when the piece I’ve picked simply does not fit into that space like I was sure it would. At some point I may be left with just the sky section, for instance, and every piece kind of looks the same. Then I change tactic and sort by shape! As the picture begins to come into view, it begs me to make it a whole representation, a complete text, a clear point. And so it goes. Finally, that last piece goes in, and I just want to run my hands across the surface and stare at it for a while because I’ve managed to create a picture, maybe to get the picture across for others to see and understand.
Julie
For me, writing is like being in a long distance relationship. In the absence of the other person, I have lots of ideas about what that person is like and what I want to happen when we’re together. When we’re together, those ideas may be realized: this person is just how I imagined; our time together goes as I expected. It’s more likely that I discover my ideas don’t match reality and the person isn’t who I thought; our time together is different from what I expected it would be. In this case, I adjust my ideas. It used to be that revising was what I dreaded about writing and relationships; now, it’s the saving grace.
Bill
For me, writing is like canoeing down a river. I know what the destination is, even though I don’t know exactly where it is or what it looks like. The trick is in how to get there. At every tributary, shallows, and rapids I have to make choices and navigate my canoe to find the most direct route. Most of the time I try to forcibly direct my canoe and paddle harder to get to my destination quicker. Often, this leads to hidden snags or wrong turns. I find the process much simpler when I let the current take me.
Risa
Writing is like catching a creature. You work out techniques to make your attempts more successful, but the pursuit and capture are different every time. Finding your creature-your idea, your argument-is usually the most difficult part. They’re small-they could be nearly anywhere. You’re daydreaming at the Daily Grind when you spot a perky green lizard sunning on the bricks. You weren’t expecting her, but it’s exciting to see her so you put down your latte and get to work. For the capture itself, sometimes you’re sneaky – quiet and patient, creeping along. Other times the writing’s a mad dash – the frog has noticed you and it’s starting to move, so you have to get moving too. It’s a messy splash through the water-a little less graceful than you might like-but it gets your heartbeat going, and shows you what you’re capable of. Often you find more success when you enlist help: someone to show you possible escape routes and help you close them off, someone to follow the crab with a flashlight while you chase it along the beach at night. And really, it’s not so bad sharing the glory with others when you’re holding up a crustacean in triumph.
Marko
Writing is very much like working out. Generally, working out is all about a process which has no definitive goal in sight; improvements are always possible and innovation is a necessity. We cannot make progress without being constantly aware of what the body is doing and we have to continually challenge ourselves to make further progress. One exercise cannot work the entire body; we have to be simultaneously responsive to one muscle and the body that is supporting it. There are days when it seems that all our efforts are for naught, and those days when we feel we could support the world on our shoulders. Working out, like writing, is a lesson in perceiving both the particular and the general at once and it is a process that leaves few indifferent.
Bond
For me, writing is like a game of musical chairs. At the beginning, it can be a little confusing; there’s a lot of organizing and moving things around and setting up the record player. So too in my writing process; there’s a good deal of freewriting, jotting lists on papers, getting my research together, and organizing my study just so. Slowly things start to settle. Words, like the players walking in a circle, start to flow in a nice rhythm. As the game goes along, though, things become rather frantic. I start strategizing and moving around even more than before. I am worried that there’s not going to be a chair for me at the end. So too in writing—I worry that I am not going to finish the paper. The other players in musical chairs become like the ideas swirling in my head and I have to find them a seat too lest they disappear. At the end of the game of musical chairs, there’s just one person remaining. So too in writing. It might have started as a collaborative process, but at the end of the day, it’s just my computer and me in the middle of the night.
Meg
For me, writing is like telling a secret. All writing is intensely personal and revealing. It can be anxiety producing-like playing truth or dare at a sleepover as child wondering what mysteries the game would pry out of you. Yet writing is also like telling your best friend your deepest fears and having her assuage them. Like sharing secrets, the pressure involved in producing writing can be intense and the rewards are often surprising.
Mike
Writing is like a coffee mug: warm, comfortable, and useful, but never able to hold enough. But writing is also like skiing on aquatic mammals: very difficult to do on porpoise, although Webster’s defines porpoises, like purposes, as very gregarious. Then again, writing is also like looking for sunsets: setting up camp and building a small fire somewhere in the Sangre de Christo mountains, cooking up ideas between dawns, and never walking quite far enough to see them all, or see the best one, but surprised by another one every day
sumberipun; www.unc.edu