[Image description: an open notebook with the words ‘Everyday is a fresh start’ in written in large, bold, black and white letters on the right-hand page].
Writing a PhD means you need to, well, write, and develop a regular practice of writing. I don’t think this is something we talk about enough as academics, even though writing forms common ground for all of us, regardless of discipline. In other words, we’re all writers. That said, everyone has their own relationship with writing, and there is no single, one-size-fits-all approach.
I have realised over the years that for me, the processes of thinking (internal) and writing (putting this internal out in the world) are inseparable. I cannot hope to properly understand something without writing it down, and often it is only through writing that I discover what my argument actually is. Writing helps me unearth hidden connections between ideas, and to find unseen passages between different worlds. This means that writing is a constant activity, and not something that only happens towards the ‘end’ of a project. I write copious comments in the margins of papers, during analysis, on post-it notes. To paraphrase Richard Seymour, I’m swimming in writing.
“When we write, we’re creating new possibilities, and that’s no small thing.”
This doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes have trouble writing, however. I have long struggled with perfectionism, which is inimical to ‘getting writing done’. Often, I am painfully aware of a gulf between how an idea should be represented and my ability to re-present it, and this gulf can feel overwhelming. So, mindful of the intractability of the PhD (it has to get written, at some point), I decided to solidify what I know about my relationship with writing into a specific set of practices and techniques. And since I know a lot of people struggle with writing, I thought I’d record it here.
“The first draft is a space of safety in which I can work out what I mean.”
I decided to try the ‘500 words a day’ method. I didn’t approach this rigidly: 500 words is a goal, not a rule. If one afternoon I’m on a roll and write 800, great. But equally, if I have a wading-through-treacle day and only manage 250, then so be it. It’s still better than nothing, and if I’ve got a few good days in the bag, the week probably still averages out at 500 per day. For me, this is also a good way of salvaging a distraction- or anxiety-filled day: if I only manage to open the document at 4:15pm but by 5pm there are 400 extra words on it, that’s progress. A bad day isn’t a foregone conclusion. There’s always time to turn it around.
Throughout all of this, I try to maintain a disposition of vulnerability towards my writing. One thing that can stop me writing is my perceived inability to render ideas as they should be rendered. In other words, if I write out an idea that is misguided, inaccurate, or ‘wrong’, then this error becomes ‘real’ in a way that it wouldn’t had it simply remained a thought, safely tucked away inside my head. To mitigate this anxiety, I cultivated a strategy of seeing the draft document not as a threat to be feared, but as a space of safety in which I can unburden myself. In practical terms, this vulnerability means keeping in mind that only I have access to the first iteration of my work. The first draft is a space of safety in which I can work out what I mean. With vulnerability comes a commitment to non-linearity: nothing is set in stone, and I can always go back and change it. Ultimately, this also means accepting that writing is not something to be mastered, or brought to heel, and that sometimes, it will get the better of me. The things we write about are much, much bigger than we are, and we have to keep ourselves open to the possibility that they will immobilise us, overwhelm us, or render us speechless. When we write, we’re creating new possibilities, and that’s no small thing.
Matilda Fitzmaurice 