Do you take time to practice writing small pieces? Or do you focus on the next big writing project?
Sometimes writing can feel like a race. We rush to finish the next manuscript or the next novel or the next short story. We try to be factories that churn out narratives that will sell. We jump from one project to the next because we've been told consumers demand a constant flow of new things to devour.
This race can be exhausting and discouraging. In the midst of it, we can lose sight of the fact that writing, like any art, is a craft that needs to be practiced to be perfected. There is value in slowing down, taking a break from larger works, and practicing small things.
Great Artists Practiced
When I visited the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, one thing I was struck by was the vast amount of practice sketches Van Gogh had done. The museum had a few of his many journals on display. The pages were filled with sketches of hands and faces and shoulders and legs.
Van Gogh's studies of hands for “The Potato Eaters”
Nothing was complete. The same body part or flower was drawn over and over again.
When I visited the National Gallary of Art in Washington D.C., they had similar sketches from da Vinci. His journals were filled with page after page after page of small things: noses, ears, hands, legs, mouths. Under each of da Vinci's sketches were notes explaining which masterpiece experts think he might have been working on at the time.
Before committing paint to canvas, he studied and practiced the small things he knew would make up the larger work. Before tackling the Last Super, da Vinci drew thousands of faces and hands and flowing robes.
I imagine for both Van Gogh and da Vinci, sometimes this practice was intentional: “I'm working on shaping a hand in this way because I will need hands on this piece.” Other times, this practice was simply for the sake of practice. There was no masterpiece in mind. They drew noses to perfect their abilities to draw noses.
Writers Practice Writing, Too
We, as writers, can do the same. Not everything we write needs to be a part of some larger work. There is value to be found in writing small, simple paragraphs solely for the sake of building our abilities. By spending thirty minutes writing a description of a simple object, or describing a person we've seen, or building an image of a place we've been, we practice writing and refine skills that will come in handy when we produce longer work.
I like to do this when I go new places. This weekend, for example, my wife and I went to New York. We used the subway system to get around. Being trapped in a small car with people for twenty to thirty minutes gave me a lot of time to study and practice describing them.
At night, before going to bed, I took fifteen minutes to write short sentences in my journal about the people and places I'd seen that day. Here are a few quick excerpts of things I scribbled down:
- There was the short Hispanic man with tired eyes dressed in all black, carrying a can concealed in a black bag that he sipped from as we rode through a straw.
- The saxophone was larger than the girl's torso. It's once shiny gold color had bronzed with age and use. Still, despite looking like it was ready to retire, the horn's melody sliced through the sounds of traffic and the hustle of the city, demanding the attention of every passerby.
- The young woman had an explosion of tight curly hair that made everyone around her feel like something marvelous was about to happen. Her makeup was so flawless when the train car moved into the sunlight, she appeared to be plastic.
- There was the blond woman in the white tee, faded jeans, and black leather jacket. Her messy blond hair spoke her disdain to the world. She looked like she'd stepped into the present from a Bruce Springsteen video from the 80's. She was everything I imagined New York to be: defiant and ambitious, unique and stereotypical, apathetic and hustling.
I'll likely never use these descriptions in a larger piece, but that wasn't the point. Thinking through what I saw and committing it to words was nothing more than practice.
3 Tips for Writing Small Practice Pieces
Three quick things I try to remember when I practice in this way:
- Using the “right” words is more important that using “more” words. Focus on getting the description succinct. Be aware of the choices you are making.
- The goal is to paint a picture for the reader. Ideally, the reader should be able to walk away with a clean image of what you are portraying.
- This is the moment to try new things. Now is not the time to be cautious with your descriptions. Experiment. Play.
Small Pieces Prepare You for Big Projects
Taking a moment like this to reflect on what you've seen will exercise your writing muscles so they are ready for use when you need them. If we want to be able to describe a room or an object or a person when we are writing big things, we need to be able to do it when we are writing small too.
If you can reflect on your day and describe it with words on a page, you will be able to paint a picture for your reader when you are writing a novel.
Do you have any tips for writing great descriptions? How do you use small pieces to practice writing? Let us know in the comments.
PRACTICE
This week, take a page from master artists and practice something small. Take fifteen minutes to write about a person you saw, or a place you've been, or an object you interacted with. Describe what you remember, keeping in mind the tips above: look for the right word, create a vivid image, and feel free to experiment.
When you're done, share your small practice in the comments below, and be sure to leave feedback for your fellow writers.
Want more examples and more feedback? Tonight I'll be posting all my reflections in Becoming Writer. Come join the community to read what others are doing and get deeper feedback on your work.
This is about a gentleman I saw last summer:
He walked onto the beach without fanfare, neither seeking nor gaining anyone’s attention. As a man of a certain age, he clearly didn’t care what anyone else thought of him or his appearance. A day at the beach was not one to fuss about fashion or ensembles, his clothes were chosen for utility.
HIs feet were covered by the footwear fashion of the previous decade, his black plastic Crocs. They were uniquely functional for the sand and surf, full of holes and waterproof. Several inches above the Crocs, and an unfashionable few inches above his knees, were the frayed cuffs of the black swim trunks. Classic black never went out of style, until it had faded to gray from several summers worth of sunshine. They were likely only used one week a year while on vacation, so why discard something useful just because it showed a little age? He showed a little age too, and he was still here, perfectly functional.
His cover up was a unique garment among beachgoers. Rather than a shirt from the sportswear department, this was more suited for a day at the office rather than the beach. It was a short sleeved, yellow button up from the Hagar collection. It still had a decent amount of life left in it save for the two inch L-shaped tear on the lower left side, roughly where one could have snagged and torn it on a doorknob or chair arm. He obviously couldn’t bear to throw out an article of clothing that still provided use so it served a new purpose as a beach cover. Undoubtedly when the winter months arrived with their indoor chores, it would find yet another life as a paint smock.
Nothing about him made you notice him. No action or activity made him remarkable in any way. He was a free man, requiring no one’s approval for anything he did, or who he was, comfortable in both his skin and his wardrobe. At least he wasn’t wearing socks.
I felt like I could see him. Great work.
Thanks.
That description of the black clothing paralleling his age and nonchalance is awesome. I loved how you picked out something so “unexceptional.” It’s a cool twist, because usually we choose what sparkles and begs for attention, but this guy stood out by NOT doing that in a place where everybody flaunts. I enjoyed reading this. It says something to me about your style, that you can pick out mundane things and, through the simplicity of your presentation, show how profound they can be.
none of the artists we admire and glorify today, needed any advice. They found their path, place and methods all by themselves. When we need encouragement from outside, a sure sign for…
I appreciate the sentiment, Rag. It is tempting to believe that artists emerge from nothing and develop God given talent by scraping their way to the top; which is why I was surprised to learn that there are almost no artists who worked alone.The truth is that art (writing included) is always done in the context of community. Take Van Gogh for example. He was highly influenced by his friendship with Emile Bernard and Paul Guguin when he moved to Paris. They even lived together for a time. And Da Vinci was a student of the painter Andrea Del Verrocchio. He also took several students that worked along side him. I think you would be hard pressed to find an artist in any field who didn’t have some sort of support community around him. Art isn’t developed in a vacuum. While a single name may be attached to it, art is birthed from communities.
Dear Jeff, thank you for the clarification. Certainly we all are connected, to day ever more so… The Difference in Talent is, in my experience, the unstoppable Self Determination, to risk everything to follow that drive , almost like a possession…
We all appreciate Great Masters and try to learn as much as possible. It is our own drive and desire – not stimulated by outside influences. Stefan Zweig wrote a Master Piece on Balzac, how feverishly he produced with the utmost speed to get his Inspirations printed – only to put himself under increasing financial pressure with his failing, ruinous Business speculations. Or Raymond Chandler almost deliberately ruining his Life as a Business Man with Alcohol – to become a Pulp Fiction writer -it is almost Madness to engage in such a Life. It may be the highest price to pay to get to the Mountain top. The Life of an Artist, a writer to me is far more dramatic than anything they accomplished. Life as Art…my experience…
I didn’t follow the prompt to a T, but I did take your advice to step away from my big project and take a break by writing something smaller. I tried writing about the weather today and it spiraled out of control a little bit. I haven’t written poetry in over a year, and I finished this five minutes ago with minimal editing, but reviews are always appreciated!
I used to love rainy days
I remember when I was thirteen
I slipped away from my friends after school
To stand on the hill in the pouring rain
All alone
The water braided my hair
The cold swaddled my bones like an afghan
I am older now
I just finished my first year of college
High school friends trade places with new ones
I take twenty milligrams of Prozac a day
It was a long dark winter in Boston
I remember the first day I woke up
And my limbs weren’t heavy with living
The sun shone
I went outside and the light warmed my face
I had a cup of tea
I read a book
The Earth was good and bright and expectant
Now I am home
And today the sky is gray again
I still go outside
I smell the air
I know Earth and people alike have their cycles
And this too shall pass
I do my best to be patient
But I am ready to walk in the light again
I really enjoyed this; I found it quite relatable. I love this line:
“I remember the first day I woke up
And my limbs weren’t heavy with living”
I’m also intrigued by the afghan line- it’s such an interesting comparison. The rain is swaddling them in cold, but being swaddled in an afghan usually results in warmth. It’s a great way to describe the feeling, and the odd juxtaposition works well.
I think this is such a neat verse! The comparisons you’ve drawn in your “before and after” scenes are quite poignant — sounds like you let go and poured your heart into it. I can relate very well, especially to the part where you’re “home”; this reminds me of how I felt when I was done chemo therapy. Gray, but finding hope in the promise of “this too shall pass.”
Hi, Endless exposition I like your writing very much above all because you could finish it in a very very short time after a long time without writing poetry as you expressed. This should be a big stimulus to you and fill up with hope. I like the poem, the everyday images and the simplicity of the activities-situations.
I am writing my first non fiction book and at this moment Im taking a course of poetry too (in spanish, my native language) because I need to have more tools and learn to write small pieces of text. Congratulations on your achievement
I was totally moved by this piece. The last four lines brought tears.
Strands of shiny, brown hair stuck out of her ponytail. The lunch rush continued to pour into the small taco shop at a relentless pace. Each time the blue bell above the door chimed she looked up and smiled, greeting the new patron like an old friend. Small beads of sweat glistened against her olive tone skin. She pulled the faded red bandana out of her back pocket and dabbed her forehead, careful not to smear her makeup. When at last the line was gone and the sound of happy customers filled the room she slid into the metal chair closet to the fan and let out a sigh of relief.
Great work Tia. I’m a sucker for a any story that has a rhyme in the first sentence. The description is fantastic. I felt like I was there. Just enough detail.
Thank you, Jeff!
The sticky ocean breezed caressed her face. The fresh,
energizing smell of salt and sand always put her at ease. She dug her toes into
the cool sand, letting the gentle waves lap at her toes. There were only a few people
milling along the beach – it was still too early in the morning for other
tourists. The sun was starting to peak behind the horizon, casting buttery
light upon the fishing boats on the ocean. Flocks of ocean birds circled the
boat in hopes of catching breakfast.
She closed her eyes, listening to soothing waves break shore
and squawking of birds flying overhead. These first few moments of the day were
her favorite. The sun began its ascent, filling the sky with magnificent shades
of pink and yellow. The calm ocean glittered under the rising sun. Pink, orange,
and yellow clouds – all painted by the sun – were scattered throughout the sky.
She smiled as the sun rose higher, bathing everything in its warm embrace.
It swirled lazy rainbows across its surface. A rebellious planet, defiant with its delicacy, bouncing through gravity, protected by the most lenient of the laws of physics. Striking wonder in the eyes of wayward children everywhere—I, one of them. The bubbles were as worthy as stars in my eyes. I could see through them, but I didn’t want to. Because inside, demonstrating the diameter of that trembling canvas, ran a grim dark line, like sound waves. The sun was setting. Mixture of lazy sun rays and active darkness created a skyline. The Nashville skyline! I exclaimed.
But, no. It was just heads. Heads of my friends standing around, creating pathways for the psychedelic planets. No, it was just that statue behind me, guarding me from the retiring sun. No, it wasn’t a dreamy Nashville skyline reflected nostalgically in a perfectly round bubble. It was just us, and our imaginations.
And the heartfelt lies we would tell.
I love this idea. It takes the pressure of having to write long monumental pieces. I’m rekindling my love of writing but the realisation that my skill isn’t where I’d like it to be can be demoralising. Funnily enough, I’m also trying to improve my drawing skills so this article had a double impact on me!
Vignettes
The squirrel
“That squirrel had better not shit in my tree.” What? Even if the squirrel should choose the tree for its daily constitutional, what harm would be done. Do squirrels even shit in trees or do they go to the ground for that? How would one discover this little factoid? Now, I’m not “describing” I’m speculating. What shall I describe? The one who asked the first, very odd, question seems the most likely candidate.
A healthy-looking, just turned 80, slightly overweight man with very short white hair. His manner is brusque, slightly disengaged from the current conversation. Otherwise, why would a squirrel seen out the window suddenly become the focus of his attention. He slouches in his chair, as much as one can slouch in a cushioned kitchen bar stool. Does he want the current conversation over – is that why the squirrel has become so interesting? Now the squirrel has moved across the street – well almost, because now the concern of the man on the bar stool is that the squirrel will be hit by a passing car if he doesn’t hurry his progress to the far side of the street. Perhaps if I fall from my stool next to him the squirrel will become less fascinating.
Grandson
His tattoos fit right in with the shaggy hair. I am aware of the smell of leather as he removes a sleeveless leather jacket hangs it over the back of a kitchen bar stool before giving me a hug and saying, “Hi, Grandma.” A few minutes earlier the sound of his Honda motorcycle alerted me to his arrival. He looks the part of a biker, but I remember the small boy, so unsure of himself and still see that boy in his eyes.