JoAnne introduces us to "Hot Writing"

My linear, rule-oriented left brain is great. I don’t mean it any disrespect. It’s served me well over the years and even now it’s my go-to brain whenever I have a problem. But that, sadly, is the problem.

These days my challenges are less likely to be mathematical or analytical than challenges of creation: What’s the story’s arc? My sentences just lie there – why won’t they do anything? What telling detail would establish the mood?

Next time I’m stumped, I’ll reflexively head to my left brain. I always do. But its answers will disappoint. It prefers well-trod paths and familiar imagery. It would do just about anything to avoid a mistake. It’s my mother telling me to be careful, get in before dark, don’t swim after eating. "Better safe than sorry," it whispers in my ear.

Yet who wants to read “safe” writing? When it comes to writing, shouldn’t we all be running around with sharp sticks, diving off cliffs not knowing the depth of the water below? If we poke out someone’s metaphorical eye, we can rewind, undo the damage. Or who knows, maybe they were already one-eyed and we’re finally seeing them clearly.

But how do I escape my left brain? Are there ways to access the dreamy intuitive place just below consciousness where unexpected connections and insights are found?

A writer friend taught me a technique. Hot writing. Here’s my friend’s version: Go to your bookshelf, randomly pull off a book, open it to any page, blindly point to a sentence and read it. Close the book and return it to the shelf. (Here I also politely remind my subconscious of the specific problem I’m facing. Only once though. I try not to nag.) Then go about household chores such as doing the dishes or straightening up. Better still, take a short nap. Make no effort to think about the sentence or the problem.

After a half hour, write. Anything at all. Write without stopping for 20 minutes. Do not edit, do not punctuate. Just write. Don’t worry if what’s coming up seems unrelated to your problem. If you don’t know what to write, write that. Keep going.

When I try this, my left brain isn’t happy. It offers “helpful” critique, urges me to reconsider an awkward sentence, notes that I am repeating myself. I ignore it.

I let it know that I’ll happily consider its advice when it’s time to revise. But now, I’m trying to find new angles, the deeper story, the unusual image. I want to make “mistakes.” I want to get off the beaten path.

The farther off the better.