The Write Stuff

Write a bestseller in just five minutes!

I know a lot of writers. Real writers. Writers who write every day, or close to. Writers who know that all it takes to write (beyond learning the alphabet and the rudimentaries of stringing words into thoughts) is to write. Some of them have published bestselling novels. Some are regular columnists for respected papers. Some have been published locally or have self-published. Many haven't been published. Yet. But they write.

I know a lot of wannabe writers. Wannabes who talk about how much they want to write. Wannabes who complain they have to much to do (families, jobs, responsibilities, for pete's sake!) to find the time to write. Not one of them has written a worst-selling novel. Not one of them has a column with the most pathetic of papers. Not one of them has been published locally (at least not since school) or has self-published. And they won't be. Because they don't write.

It doesn't take much to write. Sure, a lot of people will tell you to write at least 500 words, 1000 words, 2000 words every day. Others will say write for at least half an hour, an hour, two hours every day. And to the wannabe whose excuse is that there's no time, those are nearly impossible goals to agree to stick to. That's when we turn to Jerry Cheaver's Immediate Fiction: A Complete Writing Course.

John Cheaver's primary, numero uno, can't miss rule in Immediate Fiction is to spend at least five minutes every day on your work in progress.

That's right. Just five minutes.

Okay. I can hear you through the computer. "How on earth will anyone get anywhere if they only write five minutes? Get real."

First, just because you promise yourself you'll write at least five minutes doesn't mean you can't write more. Sometimes (maybe even often) you will. But if you only promise yourself at least five minutes, you will always be able to find the time. Even if it means hiding in the bathroom away from the kids or coworkers. Five minutes is ridiculously doable.

B.^* When you spend time actively thinking about your work in progress every day -- even just five minutes -- the story stays with you. You think about it both consciously and subconsciously throughout the day, week, month. You work out problems without even trying ("Hey! Chapter two would work better at the end of the book. Duh!"). And, when you do sit down to write for those five minutes, the story is fresh. You know it. You know where you are. You don't have to reacquaint yourself with the world, the plot, the characters.

and 3.^* When you're struggling to find something to write, when you can't figure out what needs to happen next, when you're body curls up arthritically to cringe away from "writer's block," knowing you need only write for five minutes can be freeing. If you're writing for just five minutes, you can let the story go in an unexpected direction. You can let your characters behave uncharacteristically. You can play and experiment. What's the worst that happens? You later choose not to keep those few sentences or paragraphs. But maybe the experiment pays off. Maybe you get past whatever your hang-up was. Maybe you discover something amazing about your story. Five minutes sets you free.

^*My numbering brainmeats had a Paul Reiser moment.

We all have things we pretend we don't have time to do. What can you tackle for just five minutes every day?

This is your brain on...

Just five minutes can make difference, but it's not always the difference you mean to make.

When I was in Junior High, my counselor made a difference in both my life and the life of my best friend. Nicole and I were voracious readers, shy, awkward, quiet, smart. Obviously troublemakers.

Just how much trouble we courted became apparent when the two of us were called out of our respective classes and summoned to the counselor's office. The empty hallway had never been longer, the echoes of our footsteps never more ominous. What did he want with us? Slump-shouldered, I handed the secretary my summons. Nicole did the same. The secretary ushered us into the counselor's office.

Nicole and I sat on the chairs near his desk. Mr. Counselor opened his window, then sat to face us. He broke the tension with a joke at the expense of the anonymous student who had just left. We laughed along, but I, at least, was not pacified. Why had we been called to the counselor's office? What had we done?

He offered more inconsequential chatter: he was going to paint his house over the weekend and hoped the weather held. We must have talked about that paint job for 10 minutes. My mind screamed: "I don't care about your house!  Why am I here?"

Finally.

Finally he got to the five minutes that would actually make a difference.

Finally he folded his hands and gave us his best counselor-priest-jailor acting-in-your-best-interest look.

"It's been brought to my attention that you girls like to read."

We looked at each other and back at him. We nodded.

"A lot."

We both nodded again, waiting for the other book to drop.

"I'm concerned about you. Books are like drugs."


I'd like to be able to tell you that that moment turned my life around. I'd like to tell you that because of Mr. Counselor, I got off books. I'd like to tell you that, but I can't. The way he affected my life, and, I'm afraid, the life of my friend, was to make us more secretive. In class, our book reading became furtive, hidden behind text books or three-ring binders. Lunch hours we hid in the library, not wanting to get caught with literary contraband, knowing that the pushers librarians weren't going to narc.

Fortunately our parents treated the situation the way it deserved to be treated. Mine ignored it. They had tons of books in the house, and I was encouraged to read any I wanted. Nicole's house was also filled with books. Her father called the school and told Mr. Counselor exactly what he thought of him, even asking if Mr. Counselor considered him a dealer, since he managed a local bookstore.

Although they weren't the differences he meant to make, in those five minutes when Mr. Counselor tried to convince us that reading was as deleterious as drugs, he did make two real differences in my Jr. High life. He reinforced the message of fellow students: being quiet, smart, and different was a terrible thing. And he drove home what I'd already suspected:  having a degree or position of authority doesn't mean someone is worth listening to.

When you spend five minutes to make a difference, will it be the difference you want to make?