Getting Started: Proposals as Prewriting

I spend a lot of time in the “getting started at getting started” phase of the writing process. For me, that’s the phase that comes after I’ve decided on a topic. I know what I’m writing about, but I’m not sure yet about how I’ll frame what I’m saying, what tone I’ll use, or how I’ll structure the piece.

I spend hours, days--for larger projects, sometimes even weeks--getting started at getting started. I play with ideas in my own head. I’ll talk options over with myself while I shower or walk the dog or with a friend during commercial breaks (only during commercials, though. We don’t talk when Olivia’s on screen. I mean, we aren’t heathens). I read things that might be useful as sources or models, highlighting standout information, phrases, or rhetorical devices. I jot down a few sentences--sometimes even whole paragraphs--that might be good starting points or conclusions or transitions.

In many ways, all this pre-start starting is useful. It helps me declutter my mind and focus. It gives me starting points and direction for when I'm ready to actually bust out a draft. It's also useful because I'm super distractible--OMG SHINY THINGS ON THE INTERNET YAY!--so having a more drawn out getting started phase keeps my head in the game.

But sometimes I just can't move from getting started at getting started to actually, like, starting. I have all the pieces I need, but for some reason I struggle to, as they say, just get 'er done. I'll sit in front of my computer screen, fingers on ASDF and JKL;, ready to tap tap tap out the essay or story or blog post or article or whatever it is and I just. can't. make. it. happen.

It's a problem.

But, over the past year or so, I've happened upon what seems to be a potential solution: proposals.

At its most basic, a written proposal is simply a document in which you offer up your plan for addressing a particular task. Engineers write proposals. Nonprofit groups write proposals. Academics write proposals for conference presentations. My husband, who makes crazy cool custom costumes, writes bids for contracts that function as, you guessed it, proposals. 

My first exposure to detailed proposals came last year, in a graduate level literature class. Our instructor had us write a 1-2 page proposal for our final papers. In the proposal, she asked us to not only explain what our topic would be, but to also give a brief run-down of how we envisioned the paper. She wanted us to map out, in detail, what our final paper would look like. Would it be broken down into sections? What would the introduction be like? The conclusion? What sources were we thinking about including? 

Sitting down to clearly articulate my plans for the final essay in writing got me ready to start writing for real. It was like freewriting and outlining had a baby: it pushed me to get something on the page (freewriting style), but in an organized fashion (a la outlining). And, a month later, when it was time to draft, I was able to turn to my proposal when I struggled to move from getting started at getting started to just, like, doing the damn thing. I was also able to turn back to the proposal as I got deeper into the paper. It was a way to keep me on track.

Since that first experience with writing a detailed proposal for a writing assignment, I've written many more proposals. Some (conference panel proposals; a proposal for a book chapter; my thesis prospectus) have been assignments in and of themselves and have been directed at outside audiences. But most have been proposals I've written just to get started. Writing a proposal has become a standard part of my writing process. Added bonus: it gives me an excuse to watch Single Ladies again and again.

And again.

If you find yourself struggling to get started, I recommend you give proposals a go. The Purdue University OWL has some fantastic sample academic proposals to give you some inspiration. And Dr. Karen Kelsky over at The Professor Is In gives proposal-writing advice that can also help you clarify your intended topic.

So, write on.

Freewriting: Writing Your Way Off the Struggle Bus

Is your mind full of the various assignments, final papers, projects, and exams quickly approaching? Are you attempting to start those papers, but find yourself unable to concentrate on the task at hand without thinking of the ten other things you also need to do?

I feel your pain. I have been suffering from the too-many-things-to-do-in-too-little-time syndrome for the past couple weeks. I am pressed for time and pressed for original ideas. 

So how can we clear the clutter and get to the good stuff?

Freewrite!

Freewriting is a great strategy for getting all your ideas out on paper, even if some of those ideas are, “I wonder what I’m going to do this weekend?” or “I have no ideas.” 

Here is how I describe it sometimes to students who come into the Writing Center – word vomit. Just get it all out and you will feel better for it just like when you have a stomach ache and feel nauseous. 

Sit down and write whatever comes into your mind, and when you hit a road block in your mind, pick a phrase like “struggle bus” and write it over and over until that thought is interrupted by another one.

Focused freewriting is a more specific type of freewriting. You have your topic, you sit down, and write on it or one side of your argument non-stop until you have nothing else to say about it. Then, do the same for the other side of the argument. (If you need a source to help you, follow the link for "Generating Ideas" for some strategies to get started.)

Once all your thoughts and ideas are out on paper, you can read through what you have and see what you can glean from your freewriting to use in your paper. 

Who knows?  You just might surprise yourself and kill two birds with one stone this way: you work on your paper, and you might work through a nagging issue in your mind or at least get it out of your mind long enough to concentrate on what you have to accomplish.

Regis, I'd Like to Use a Lifeline: Writing with Writer's Block

“I'm burnt out,” the thought of every writer who has ever experienced writer’s block.

I've been hovering around the topic of writer's block for a couple of weeks now like a helicopter unable to land safely. There is a reason for this. 

I've been experiencing it myself. And if I have to suffer, well, you know what they say. 

Misery loves company. 

And it does. It is true.

So what do I do when I sit there staring at the blank page in front of me waiting for inspiration or some divine intervention to come down and zap the words into my head? 

I sit there staring at the blank page for a while. I bounce ideas - however idiotic or irrelevant - around my head and hope that a word or a phrase will stick out of the lot of them.

And when that doesn't work?

I take a break. I walk away. I eat something since most likely I have forgotten to adhere to normal mealtimes – or to eat at all. I go for a run. Whatever I do, I step away from the blank paper or the empty Word document.

And when that doesn’t work?

I have a minor meltdown. Just kidding, but really I do. Sometimes I panic. What if I never have anything to say about this topic? What if I don’t get it done by my deadline? What if I don’t get it done at all? What if, what if, what if?

It happens, and then I mentally slap myself and tell myself, “Get it together! Just do it!” Meltdown over.

That sounds easy and clean enough. It is not. Believe me, it is not.

In fact, I just experienced it while thinking about writing this blog post and about a midterm paper I have due Thursday. So, what do I write about when the world is my oyster and I have a blog to write and cannot for the life of me think of what to write about? I write about not being able to write.

I am sure somebody who is or was somebody down the road did this as well and is crazy famous for it; in which case, I thank them for the subliminal idea I wrenched from somewhere in the depths of my long-term memory.

And when the world is not your oyster and you are limited to a topic or a prompt given by a teacher or a boss?

Brainstorm. Freewrite. Doodle. Watch TV. Brood. Phone a friend. Ask the audience (in most cases, a boss, a teacher, or a customer). Flip a coin to choose a side.

Do whatever is going to get your mind off of what you have to do enough to let it sit in the back of your mind and stew there for a while. Later, you can come back to it refreshed and rejuvenated.

Writing something witty or persuasive or argumentative enough to capture your audience is not that easy. Just ask anyone who has ever had to write a speech or a proposal, they’ll tell you.

Some people do not realize how hard it can be, especially if writing has always come easy to them. That is the case until they get blocked, and then they search for that “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” lifeline in the hopes that something will come to them.

However, using these strategies or lifelines, if you will, can help get out all the extra fluff (read, “crap”) out of your head and onto the page so you can get the things you really want and need to say to fulfill your duties.

So when you get blocked, remember, you can always say, “Regis, I’d like to use a lifeline.” The best part of this deal is: there is no limit on the number of lifelines you can use. The worst part is, of course, most likely you aren’t going to win excessive amounts of money for doing your homework.

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

It is about that time of year again. You know what I am talking about.

Midterms.

It is that joyful time of year where our minds are filled with all the many group projects, tests, and papers we have to do, study for, and write. It is also about the time we start to anticipate that big end of term paper.

Hyperbolic thoughts like, “I’m going to die. This paper is going to kill me, and if this one doesn’t, one of the three others I have to write will!” inevitably passes [inevitably pass] through our minds.

Fall is here. It is time for football and bonfires, camping and s’mores, Halloween, and hot apple cider - that is, for everyone who doesn’t have multiple research papers or that one huge paper to write.

So how do we get past the “This is going to be the end of me” thoughts and attack this paper?

It is a mountain that just seems too high to climb. It is the Mt. Everest of papers, and we do not feel like one of those people who can withstand the frigid air (the requirements of the assignment), the turbulent weather (life still going on around us) or low oxygen levels (writer’s block?) in order to get to the top (to finish the paper).

Take comfort in the fact that while Everest may have taken some lives, as far as I know, no one has ever died from writing too many papers or too much for one paper. (So for those of you looking to take a page out of the Wedding Crasher’s guidebook: you cannot use the line, “We lost a lot of good men out there” for this.)

However, you can think of it in terms of the old adage and new Kelly Clarkson song: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

So stand a little taller knowing this mountainous paper will shortly turn into a mole hill or a grain of sand.

You can do it. You can, and you will. Perhaps you can even take the approach, as I’ve mentioned before, of breaking the writing up into sections to do one at a time.

You will get it done. Just remember – what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

When is a Paper Finished?

People generally worry about beginning an endeavor, not just when writing a paper in college, but when doing anything challenging at all. Which step is the most strenuous and perilous of any journey? 

The first, of course. 

The logic behind this thinking could be dubious, but it does have a certain clichéd wisdom to it as well. Imagine running around a track: once you take that first step, you feel a certain lubrication in your joints. You feel your muscles twitch and scintillate. This beneficial process happens very quickly. It is as if the momentum of your first stride is transferred to the subsequent stride, until, eventually, a person finds it more difficult to arrest his progress than to maintain it. But, in the beginning of an endeavor, there is no momentum to transfer to the first stride, one must move without the aid of any previous movement. (This may also partially explain why getting out of bed in the afternoon often seems impossible).

Writers have a special relationship with the difficulty of beginning to write. The blanching dullness of the empty sheet of paper or the blinking cursor has driven many students and many novelists, as well, to the brink of if not madness, then at least to brink of f-word formulation.

The phrase "writer's block" may not create such a gruesome image, but when I think about it what I imagine is a beheading, or to be more specific a mock-beheading. I envision an executioner, his face concealed behind his mask, his guffaws concealed behind nothing. "You're a writer, are you?" 

I nod meekly; I may articulate a monosyllable with more bass in my voice than usual, attempting to give off the impression of heroic masculinity. But however I choose to vary my affirmation, he proceeds by setting his ax down and then calling over to his assistant who dutifully brings onto the platform a square hunk of wood with the words "writer's block" burned into the side. 

The actors then assume their positions: the executioner on my flank, me on my knees with my head resting on the "writer's block." I await the ax, but it doesn't fall. Rather, the instrument stubbornly defies its manipulator, keeping the entire ensemble poised in a diorama of absurdity.  

As you can see, I have a keen appreciation for the psychological difficulties that confront the writer before the writing has begun. However, I also have a keen appreciation for the process that follows the writer as he writes, especially the moment when he decides to cease writing. 

How does a writer decide when a piece of writing is finished, when his work is done? 

Many students may initially find the question ridiculous. It’s obvious that the piece of writing is finished when the word count reads 501 or 756 or 1001. Respecting the word count limit of a professor is necessary, but a student should be wary of allowing the stipulated limit to dominate their thoughts. 

It seems safe to assume that some students have a more complex mechanism for determining when their work is finished rather than merely checking its length against the requirements stated in the assignment sheet.  

I wonder how this mechanism functions in these students. Presumably, like most writers, these students have to balance the desire to perfect their work with their desire to keep a deadline. They can’t spend years perfecting an essay that is due next Friday. And yet, despite the temporal constraints that bind the writer, a certain amount of perfecting is possible. 

On the surface, grammar mistakes can be corrected in the aftermath of a tempest of composition, punctuation can be made ideal according to one of the guides which ratify such things, perhaps a repetition of words or phrases will be discovered and then omitted. All these improvements help a paper become more perfect, but do such improvements make a paper perfect enough to print and staple and then forget about? 

Is a student finished working on a paper after he has satisfied these basic proofreading techniques, or does he continue to think about what he’s already written and what may be expressed in better words? 

Unlike other endeavors one might prosecute during a lifetime, say, climbing Mount Everest, the completion of a written work is an abstract achievement. You know when you've reached the summit of Mt. Everest; there are signs hammered into the ice. Climbers know when to retrieve their cameras and pose in celebration. Writers, on the other hand, cannot know where the summit is. If any signage exists, it certainly isn't hammered into the ice. In other words the mountain climber can always exclaim: "I'm there! I've done it!" Whereas the writer, poor benighted creature, can only murmur: "Am I there?"    

In a sense, deciding when a paper is finished presents a writer with a different kind of inertial problem. In the beginning, a writer has no momentum to transfer to the composition of his next sentence, which leads to anxiety. 

In the end, a writer has so much momentum that he may not know when to stop himself. This lack of knowledge can lead to a different kind of “writer’s block,” one which doesn’t get the same respect, but can in certain cases lead to similar amounts of anxiety.