Spill Theory

Spill Theory: Getting Free to Write

Do you want to write but there’s a critic in your head?

I’m not talking about critical thinking—the ability to look beneath the surface of things & weigh substance, complexity, & context. That’s an essential skill which can empower us profoundly throughout our lives. I’m asking if there’s a consistently negative literary critic who has taken up residence in your brain.

Take a moment to think about that voice, or it might be a composite of negative voices you’ve heard over the years—parent, teacher, boss, editor, ex, competitor, rejection slip, you name it.

I have good news. You’ve arrived at a safe zone. Take a deep breath. What I am about to tell you may be difficult, at first, to believe.

The critic has left the room.

In fact, the critic was asked to leave the building & is being escorted out the front door. The critic’s walking away, headed for a very long & much-needed vacation. Well-intended but misguided, the critic secretly longs to be a painter but won’t paint because she believes she doesn’t have the talent & time it takes to “really” paint. The critic’s in a cab headed for the airport. The critic’s plane just took off.

The critic is a fuzzy, fading white streak across the sky.

More good news: you are free to write now.

Ignore that expensive, empty, leather-bound journal you’ve been meaning to pick up. Instead, grab a yellow legal pad—or something that doesn’t demand excellence in a first draft. Forget about a pencil; you’ll be tempted to erase. Grab a pen that glides. If you prefer a computer, close every window except your word processing software (and possibly my Prompts page). Nothing else.

You don’t need to know what you’re going to write about. Learn by writing.

Write without stopping, editing, or censoring. Some call this freewriting. I call it a spill: allow your words to fall, flow, or run onto the page, like water moving.

Let your body—your hand/s & fingers—speak. Allow your pen to keep moving across the page. Allow your fingers to glide over the keys.

You don’t have to share what you write with anyone. You don’t have to read it aloud. You can burn, delete, or shred it. You can hide it in a locked box. You can change the names to protect the guilty, including yourself.  You don’t ever have to write again.

Just. Write. Now.

Or, you could check your email or surf your cellphone. But you’ve done that before. You know where that does & doesn’t lead. And at this particular moment, you have a choice. You don’t have to write. But you can.

You can dance the small dance of moving your hand across the page, your fingers across the keyboard.

If you just received a call from the critic, remind her that she’s on vacation & end the call.

Send her a paintbrush.

Turn off your cell phone.