Writers: Obsessively Stupid

Imagine a classroom full of writers, some previously published, some not. All passionate about writing, all passionate about learning about writing, all reading each other’s works and the works of established creative nonfiction writers. All trying to figure out what their MFA projects are; all trying to figure out how their projects fit into the greater dialogue of literature; all trying to figure out the publishing market; and all trying to figure out how and why to write what they think they’re writing about.

Sometimes the uncertainty and lack of self-confidence in our classroom is palpable.

I think we think too much. We analyze our projects and others to pieces, paralyzed by the magnitude of the tasks before us. We need to write. To simply write. But we’re stuck on the following two questions:

Why am I the person to write about this topic?
How do you write 200 pages about one topic?

One question deals with the authority and positionality of the author. The second deals with the writing process and the actual courage to write.

Our professor’s eyes widen in horror as we explain the thoughts behind the questions paralyzing our writing. “Where are these voices coming from? Oh, you need to get rid of these.” Suddenly, she sits as if she’s going to cut the doubt to shreds with an elfin sword. “You want to know how I answer that question? I am the person to write this article because I can’t stop thinking about it! I’m obsessed with it! That’s all the confidence you need!”

Two weeks later, our class sits with Maxine Hong Kingston, asking her the second question. “What do you do with the blank page? How do you fill up 200 pages?”

Kingston rocked forward on her chair in excitement. Talking about writing with us appeared to be her favorite topic. “Oh, I’ll write anything,” she said breathlessly. “And it could be dumb. Give yourself permission to be just stupid. This is the dumbest stuff. Do this as an exercise in stupidity… Just put anything down.”

As she continued to talk about her process, our eyes started widening at the freedom of permission she was giving us. We left her presence wanting to write—which is, perhaps, one of the best compliments writers could give another writer.

These two words, “obsessed” and “stupid,” reverberate through my head. Usually these two words ring with negative connotations and anti-political-correct usage. But when faced with the blank page and voices of self-doubt, though, I find them freeing. To be able to say, “I can’t stop thinking about this and my words sound really stupid and that’s okay because I have permission—no, even better, I have been commanded to be stupid on the page,”—these thoughts actually silence the voices of paralysis.

Asking these questions in the early stages of writing our 200 pages is a bit like asking the horse to push the cart up the hill with his nose. It’s not going to work.

But… permission to be obsessively stupid... it might could work… like giving the cart-pulling horse free rein... it might even be fun…