1. Get in the Zone

Pull out your yoga mat (or pull up a chair and get situated at your desk.) Put on comfy, stretchy, breathable clothes. Tune out all humans around you. Is it not rude to wear earplugs at this point in time.

2. Still Your Mind

To begin, you must clear your mind. Pour out all distracting thoughts. This may require writing two, three, or four To-Do Lists, to organize all the clutter in your brain. Open the mind. Test the imagination. Let the ideas flow and wander. Expand upon them.

3. Becoming One (With the Topic)

Pinpoint a topic. Ponder that one. Fall in love with said topic. Gain immediate burst of fierce energy and enthusiasm for said topic. Commit to it with your heart and soul.

Mull it over (for several hours, or several days, depending on the due date of the first draft.)

4. Begin Stretching

Consider the chosen topic from all angles. Yes, this means the angles that are uncomfortable. Stretch your ways of thinking. Experiment. Extend into new positions. Take on viewpoints that may not make sense, or may seem impossible. Brainpuke everywhere. Piece of advice: you may not want to eat a large meal before strenuous yoga (or writing.)

5. Assume Methodical Positions

Do what works best. Make lists. Create an outline. If you lose your balance and fall over, (your outline is a horrific disaster), do no fret. Get up, pretend nobody saw you fall, and simply construct a new outline. Master the outline. Hold the pose.

6. Sweat it Out

Feel one bead of sweat trickle down your face. This is a mark of sheer perseverance. Feel your heartrate accelerate. Take pride. Wipe the sweat, take a drink of water, take a deep breath and press on. 

7. Feel the Rush

Get in the rhythm of the paper. Type freely, without hesitation, fear, or judgement. Allow time to pass without a care. Nothing can break your focus now (well, except maybe an occasional text or Instagram notification.) Feel strength building through the burn. Envision your ideal body (paragraph) and make it happen. Push through the final pose and finish!

8. Accomplished

You have completed your workout! Take extra caution upon standing. You feel weak in the knees, wobbly, and possibly light-headed, yet strangely invigorated and full of life. You feel ten feet tall. Now, all you can think about is your next meal, which you have fully earned. Reward yourself.

Deep within the core of my intellectual greenhouse grows the convoluted tree of my writing. Its ever growing life force began, like so many trees do, as a seed carefully cultivated in my imagination. Slowly, it was fed with ink water and nutrients of recycled paper. The sprouting of this tree was achieved with challenge, but perseverance. Words upon the paper—the earliest results of nourishment, tangible evidence that the sprouting seed was, indeed, growing, and growing swiftly.

It didn’t take long for the sprout to thicken and become a sturdy shoot. To continue its laborious growth from seed to sapling, my tree of writing required a more specific type of nourishment: that of instructional food of thought (e.g., grammar, genre, parts of speech, elements of various forms, etc.). For twelve long, formally structured, and concentric years, the trunk of my writing tree expanded, both in breadth and altitude. A few branches had begun to reach out into the world, each so diverse and distinct from each other, but rooted in the common language of my tree trunk.

Today, my tree stands strong, in the center of my regulated garden, nourished by the sunlight of my passion. The branches are numerous, but varied in length and strength. Climbing my tree, some limbs would support my weight, helping me rise in the world, expanding my horizon. Other branches are merely twigs—small, underdeveloped and malnourished avenues of genre, style, and form. They would snap beneath my entire weight should I try to stand on them. But they are not done growing. Every day, those weak twigs compete for resources from the larger branches: those branches developed from passion and interest, nourished daily by practice and continued pursuit. These sturdy limbs are those of creative writing, literary essay, and psychological research and reviews, and it is these three branches that reach the highest, support the greatest weight, and sprout the most numerous and greenest abundance of leaves.

The smaller twigs of economics and history, biology and business may remain only sprigs with a single or couple of leaves of experience, but they exist, even if only by mere exposure to basic nutrients they manage to siphon here and there. This is not to say that these sprigs are useless altogether. While they may not support my weight as I climb to greater elevations, they are still a bud in my intellectual garden and a notch on my tree of writing. They may still provide a purpose as I continually strive to serve others, offering tendrils of wisdom and guidance from the knowledge that makes up my tree of writing.

Each essay, each story, every novel, and every piece of poetry is another leaf on the branches of my tree. Each leaf has its own purposeful path from germination to maturity; its own format and organization, each one distinct and different from the other, but they all originate from the same base—the same roots that have entrenched themselves deep in my mind.

My tree of writing is the heart of my intellectual garden. The roots are well situated and reach deep into my past, present, and future. The branches continue to develop and bloom with persistent sunlight and practice, producing more and more leaves through the relentlessness of time. My writing tree shall never see an autumn or winter, where leaves are shed and lost. My writing will endure; it will remain green and prosperous in a never ending spring and summer that will continually provide passionate sunlight and knowledge-based waters for its eternal growth.

Okay, I’m supposed to write a “Writing Manifesto.” Here goes. I sit down and open my laptop. But first I hear my wife’s voice telling me to sit up straight because my posture is terrible. My posture is terrible, but my house is crooked; I figure they balance each other out (no, seriously, my house is crooked. My daughter will drop a round toy and watch it roll all the way from the kitchen into the bathroom).

I arch my back, overcompensating, roll my shoulders, and lean in. Oh, great. Now I’m doing that young-adult-first-person-present-tense thing that I can’t stand. It’s everywhere! Stop it! It might have been okay the first time, but now its just annoying. It’s not possible for someone to experience what’s going on and at the same time be writing about it. This isn’t a documentary, this is supposed to be literature. Ugh. Sorry. Let’s get back to my writing manifesto. I begin to type:

The writer wakes up at five in the morning. He must do so if he wishes to accomplish anything word related before his children and wife wake. It’s still dark outside. Sitting down at his desk, he remembers something crucial: coffee. Five minutes later, mug in hand, he sits back down and stares at the white screen. The cursor blinks.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

He types a few words.

Writing Manifesto.—Eh, That’s okay, I guess. I’ll change it later.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

His stomach begins to hurt and he remembers something else: food. There’s no time to make anything too substantial, so he pops some bread into a toaster and sits back down to stare while secretly just waiting for his toast.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

       Writing Manifesto.

Writing is a means — delete. No.

Blink. Pop!

Oh, relief! He pushes back from the desk and the taunting blank screen of his computer. The toast is retrieved, buttered, peanut-buttered, and hastily consumed, because the writer has important things to write. He sits back down.

He shifts his posture, rolls his shoulders, slumps back in his chair and sighs.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Writing Manifesto.

I love writing. — delete. Stupid, and not really even true (don’t fire me!).

Blink. Blink. Blink. I want more toast. Why can’t I savor anything?

His hands run through his hair, he sits up, arches his back and rests his hands on the keyboard as he leans forward, as though his laptop will whisper the words he can’t find.

His vision blurs. He shakes his head and rolls his shoulders again.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

My Writing Manifesto.

Writing is a way of communication — delete, delete. Boring. Writing is the       manifestation of thoughts in — delete, delete, delete! “Manifestation.” What a jackass.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Cry!

The baby awakens! There will be no more writing today. This is not the first time the writer wonders why he ever bothers attempting to create something on a page, and it certainly won’t be the last.

But he continues to bother the pages with his blank, vacant stares and the occasional tips and taps of his fingers on the keyboard, interspersed with sighs and groans of frustration and infrequent vocal undulations.

He stays up into the wee hours of the morning, knowing he will regret it in the morning when even his coffee fails to enlighten him. And yet, he pushes through, thinking and thinking and thinking, until, finally, writing. A gasp forms in his mouth as he surprises even himself. He has thought of something worthy of the computer screen! He types it! He reads it back to himself, and it is glorious.

Blink.

      My Writing Manifesto. A Writer’s Manifesto.

Ever since I was young, I entertained the idea of being a writer; then I grew up.— Perfect.

He feels accomplished, therefore, he is done for the day. The next day he reads what he wrote.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

My Writing Manifesto. A Writer’s Manifesto.

Ever since I was young, I entertained the idea of being a writer, then I grew up.— Are you kidding me? What trash! What complete and utter drivel!

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

He wants to delete it, erase it entirely for the universe’s memory, but the idea is still there. It needs to be communicated. So he changes the words. And he thinks it sounds better, and then he hates it again.

Then he is inspired:

A Writer’s Manifesto.

When I was younger, my imagination ran wild, but only in my head. I had crazy    ideas, but I never shared them. I had an idea for a story, and once when I was twelve, I wrote some of the things down in a notebook. I made it four pages before I quit. It took me twenty years before I tried again. Looking back, I see what my problem was: fear.

I was afraid to try, not, or at least not solely, because of a fear of being mocked for            my silly ideas. I was afraid to try because I did not want to fail. I did not want to have put          in so much effort only to have it amount to nothing. I would write occasionally, but I        constantly questioned if what I was writing down was the best way to say it, or if I had         credibility, or if people would just laugh at me. This still happens today, and this is why I         can honestly say, that most of the time, I hate writing.

It is so hard, and I second-guess everything, and I will spend hours and only be happy with less than five percent of what I have written. And even then I’ll look at that five percent the next day and toss the whole thing. But every once in awhile, I’ll write something I don’t mind that much, so I decide I’ll keep it.

I realize, now, why I hate writing most of the time, and it’s because I fear it, in a way. Writing is incredibly vulnerable. It makes me self-conscious, because the reality is that writing is a way of communication, so, logically, someone else should read it. Writing isn’t just a person’s thoughts, it’s his polished thoughts. It’s his prepared-beforehand thoughts, and, therefore, he has had time to decide if this is what he wants to say, and how he wants to say it. That says way more about what his real thoughts are than if he were to just have a conversation.

I had another realization. I don’t have to share all of my writing, so I shouldn’t obsess over how I’m saying what I’m trying to say. I should just say it, or in this case write it, and worry about the “how” once I’ve actually fully figured out the “what.” I need to let go of my fear before I can truly write, before my thoughts can fully manifest into my writing. — Get it? Writing Manifesto? Manifest into my writing? Moron. This is stupid. I have a better idea. This will be hilariously and pretentiously meta:

                               (Go to the top of the page. Read from there.)

“What’s wrong, my young traveler?” Gandalf the Grey asked the weary writer as he approached him slouched over a pile of papers in his study.

The old wizard took off his large grey hat and set it on the coat rack in Conner’s study. The room was Conner’s work area, where he spent his time organizing his thoughts and completing his daily academic and professional responsibilities.

“You wouldn’t understand, Gandalf. You’ve always known what your purpose was. I just can’t seem to figure out mine,” said Conner. “By the way, you’re late.”

“A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to,” Gandalf said [1].

“Whatever you say, Gandalf. I just hope you can help me. I’ve been having a lot of doubts lately.”

Conner had recently focused his efforts on a rather intimidating personal journey: writing. He wanted so badly to affect change, to challenge the thought processes of others, and to stimulate intellectual conversations with other people. He found that he could best do this through written word, though he did not anticipate the obstacles that he would come up against along his journey. Of those obstacles, self-efficacy was among the greatest.

“My dear boy, I would argue that you absolutely know your purpose,” Gandalf said. “You have always been an achiever, someone that always felt that they could contribute in some way to the causes you felt most passionately about.”

“But Gandalf, how do I know that I’m not wasting my time? What if people think I’m a fool for even trying? After all, I’m only one person. How can I alone make a difference?” Conner asked the old wizard.

“A very wise old elf was once asked that same question by a single traveler with many of the same doubts that you now have. She reassured him: ‘Even the smallest person can change the course of the future,’” Gandalf said [2].

Conner seemed to rise up a bit, as if the self-doubt that was holding him down had begun to lessen in weight.

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us,” said Gandalf [3].

“Right, he is.”

The calm voice came from behind Conner as Jedi Master Yoda approached him. The small, green Jedi assisted himself with a cane when he walked, but he had the demeanor that he could pounce into action whenever necessary.

“Willing to take chances, you must be,” Yoda said. “Stray from your heart, you must not, if even your endeavors do not first succeed.”

“I guess I’ll just keep trying my best,” Conner said halfheartedly.

“Do, or do not. There is no try,” said Yoda [4].

“So I should just chase this ambition without any sort of caution? What if my writing isn’t good enough?” Conner asked.

A being appeared in the corner of the room with a loud crack; Albus Dumbledore had just apparated into their presence.

“It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities,” Dumbledore said [5]. “The very fact that you so desire to inspire good and denounce evil in the world tells a great deal about your character.”

Dumbledore had that special twinkle in his light blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles that made him seem so comforting; ever since he was a child, Conner always found solace when in Dumbledore’s company.

“So you’re saying I can actually help people with my writing?” Conner asked as his face lit up.

“Of course you can,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle. “Words are, in my not-so humble-opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic, capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it.” [6].

“I found it is the small, everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love,” Gandalf added [7].

“Much power, your words have,” Yoda said. “Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter,” Yoda said as he pinched Conner’s shoulder [8].

Conner had always been good at many things, but never great at one. He struggled to find his path in life, always unaware of what he was meant to do. He was born with an athlete’s body and demeanor; he knew how to focus his physical and mental strength to accomplish his goals in a competitive manner, and he always thought that those inherent characteristics would define him and force him on a path he was not sure he wanted to take. But then Conner realized he had the power to make his own path, to embark on the journey that he desired, and become the person that he wanted to be.

He decided that he would use his writing to influence change and encourage good in the world, to condemn those that sought to spread hate and greed. And he discovered that the ending of the journey was realizing that it never really does end, that he will always continue to grow as a person and as a writer. The journey itself is the goal, for that is when he will discover new things about himself and the world around him.

“Is any of this actually real? Are all of you really here, or is it all just happening inside my head?” Conner asked as the three insightful beings began their departure.

“Well of course it’s happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” said Dumbledore [9].

References:

1. Quote from Gandalf the Grey in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
2. Quote from Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
3. Quote from Gandalf the Grey in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
4. Quote from Jedi Master Yoda in Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
5. Quote from Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
6. Quote from Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
7. Quote from Gandalf the Grey in The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey
8. Quote from Jedi Master Yoda in Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
9. Quote from Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

I write about anything and everything
I write not so the world can see me, but so that I can see the world

I write because I want an escape
I write because I feel compassion towards my characters and their life stories
I write because it is how I learn and discover the world
I write because I get to express a simple concept into a novel
I write because I can be myself and ask all the questions I want and then answer them in the most realistic way

I write to understand consequences for actions
I write to understand what happens in the psyche of individuals based on background and experience
I write to understand psychology
I write to understand mental health
I write to understand people

I write to predict what may be out there in the world
I write to experience adventure
I write to free my imagination
I write to understand my feelings in relation to my actions

I write because I am empowered by strong leads
I write because it helps me be a better listener
I write because my mind and heart can’t be controlled
I write because it teaches me about my feelings and my questions
I write because it is my mind and my heart coming together to create something beautiful

I write to experience emotions I’ve never felt before
I write to understand the importance of life and love
I write to have a connection with something inside myself
I write to understand my complex self
I write to discover myself

I write to know what love feels like
I write to know what loss feels like
I write to know what fear feels like
I write to know what trust feels like
I write to know what forgiveness feels like

I write because I feel misunderstood in the real world but understood in my world
I write because it shows me what I value and what I find is important
I write because I’m a hopeless romantic
I write because I can learn and understand other people’s values
I write because it opens up parts of myself that only come out when truly inspired

I write to experience an alternate universe that is just as real as this life
I write to experience love, grief, betrayal, etc. in the fiercest moments life has to offer
I write to detach from my own body and immerse myself in the moment of a fully developed fictional character
I write to gain empathy of the struggles of people that are so different from each other
I write to live situations that I would never experience on my own

I write to understand why people do what they do because of who they are and how they feel
I write to connect with many alter egos that could respond and view a situation in a many various ways
I write to feel emotions that I could only feel through the life of a character
I write to connect with a deep piece of my soul that can only ever be expressed through writing

I write because as any person in this society, I am attracted to things that are different from myself
I write because no one will judge me there
I write because I feel like my writing supports me and gives me answers
I write because I can experience more excitement and involvement than the real world
I write because when reality slows down, an alternate reality comes to life

I write to quench my curiosity
I write to understand the world I live in
I write to explain to people how I see the world
I write to live vicariously through others
I write to filter the chaos of my mind into one fluid mosaic of literature

I write to make sense of the world in all its glory and catastrophe
I write to live adventure, learn new things, and grow
I write to learn from the mistakes of my characters
I write to love myself and others no matter what the circumstance
I write to live within the enigma of myself and expand it to the world
I write to no one and I write for no one but myself