My Toolbox, How I'm Like Michael Jordan, Nothing Groundbreaking

Stephen King begins his chapter "Toolbox" with a long description of a moment from his childhood when his uncle carries a hundred pound toolbox from the workshop to the window where he's replacing a window screen. Quite an effort. He uses a screwdriver, replaces the screen. Job over. I almost said out loud, "Why the hell did he carry that great big thing all the way out there when all he needed was a screwdriver to replace some loopscrews?"

Then eight-year old Steven King: "I asked him why he'd lugged Fazza's toolbox all the way around the house, if all he'd needed was that one screwdriver.

"Yeah, but Stevie," he said, bending to grasp the handles, "I didn't know what else I might find to do once I got out here, did I? It's best to have your tools with you. If you don't, you're apt to find something you didn't expect and get discouraged."

I want to suggest that to write to your best abilities, it behooves you to construct your own toolbox and then build up enough muscle so you can carry it with you. (On Writing 106)

There's nothing more, really, I can add to that, especially considering the fact that King spends another 28 pages describing a writerly toolbox. What can I add?

Except to say that I am (re)building my own toolbox in my own way. I've talked about Burroway and Prose and here a touch about King, and there is no limit to how much these writers are helping me build it and fill it up.

But I'm not relying on fiction writers alone for help. I'm also teaching a junior-level composition class, using Gerald Graff and Cathy Birkenstein's They Say / I Say: The Moves That Matter in Academic Writing." A book that sings the praises of, provides examples of, and teaches students to use . . . templates. Hazah! But I don't mean to be sarcastic. Nor do I mean to belabor an introduction of the book.

Consider the opening paragraph of the introduction "Entering the Conversation":

Think about an activity that you do particularly well: cooking, playing the piano, shooting a basketball, even something as basic as driving a car. If you reflect on this activity, you'll realize that once you mastered it you no longer had to give much conscious thought to the various moves that go into doing it. Performing this activity, in other words, depends on your having learned a series of complicated moves--moves that may seem mysterious or difficult to those who haven't yet learned them. (1)

This notion -- that writing is a complicated set of simple procedures -- is something that I could not acknowledge over the past few months. I have, rather, been trying to sit down and finish a novel about the early days of the oil industry. In the midst of my desperation resulting from Scrap, each time I sat down, I became overwhelmed by the 80,000 words staring at me and the notion that there might be 20,000-40,000 more that I needed to get down before I could even begin a revision, and then, and then, and then, oh my hell. It's little wonder the words fell to pieces when I looked at them. The language became shrouded in mystery, because all those moves had ceased to exist.

In similar fashion, I have a hard time imagining Michael Jordon returning to basketball after five months away from the court and leaping from the foul line after his first dribble.

Now, though, I'm working again on those small simple steps. I'm reconsidering what I know about showing vs. telling. I'm thinking about character, setting, dialogue. I'm reading like a writer again. It's all part and parcel, though, right? I'm simply repeating myself with every entry, with everything I read. Oooh, did I mention the inspiration for Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird?  If you've read the book, you'll recall:

Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. [It] was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

So, yes, I am repeating myself. No these lessons are nothing new, really. Nothing groundbreaking in any given thought, but the repetition itself speaks to the practice at the heart of this regenerative process: the sustained, consistent effort.