When in Doubt, Break it Apart
a Process Window 🪟 into how this month's essay came together
I’ve been thinking about how much of the writing process happens out of view.
Without the ability to peer into other people’s processes, I find it’s all too easy to read their beautiful finished work and imagine it came together quickly and effortlessly. Rationally, of course, I know resonance on the page is rarely achieved without invisible rounds of revision, rough cuts, false starts and fits of frenzy.
As someone who’s insatiably nosey about other people’s processes, I’m starting a new series called Process Windows. Each month I’ll share a glimpse into how these essays actually come together—whether it’s a closer look at craft, the process of discovery, or navigating the overlap.
If I’m honest, this month’s essay about writing in circles to find true north began as a bit of a cop-out.
I’d been working on a longer, more emotionally demanding piece (still am!) and by the time I started feeling antsy to share a new essay on Substack, that piece was just nowhere close to even a first draft. I started thinking about what else I could pull together into an essay that still felt like a piece worth writing, just without the same emotional weight to slow me down.
What if I wrote a piece about why I love writing in the braided form, in the style of a braided narrative-driven essay?
The idea arrived all at once (usually a good sign) and right away I thought about people getting lost and walking in circles—a parallel idea I could weave in and explore. Great, I thought. This should be a pretty quick, straightforward essay to write.
(Narrator voice: It would be neither straightforward nor quick.)
I moved through some initial blinking-cursor resistance and generated a bunch of material that passed for a first draft, before the thing that always happens happened.
Certain narrative strands that felt clear and sturdy in my mind petered out once they hit the page. Clumsy transitions between threads revealed gaps in my thinking. I could sense there were places where I was circling the thing, needing to name it more directly and create more pinch. I just didn't know how.
When this happens, I find it helps to change gears somewhat dramatically, and turn the writing process into something more tactile.
✏️ To Try: Get Tactile and Break Things Apart
There's an exercise I learned from Lilly Dancyger's course on writing braided essays that always helps bring more clarity than I think it will. Every time, I resist it—mostly because it feels like extra work.
(It is. But also, it’s worth it.)
Watch the 6 minute video, or keep reading for a breakdown of how it works.
The basic idea is this: once you've generated all your material for an essay with all its different strands or segments, go back and highlight each strand in its own color, and print them all out. Then, cut up each strand into its natural sections or blocks and start arranging them on the floor in different color patterns. Read each version top to bottom, and notice what sticks out.
Are there gaps, or places where you need a better (or different) transition? What happens when different, maybe unexpected sections suddenly appear next to each other on the page? What new layers of meaning emerge?
(I do think a similar approach could work really beautifully for a draft that's not necessarily a 'braided essay' in the strictest sense. Especially if the piece bounces between different timelines, angles, or ideas. Try playing with this approach, and see what it unlocks.)
The beautiful thing about breaking something apart is you never quite know what you’re going to find at the center—or how shaking up our assumptions and norms can make space for something more interesting, even truer, to emerge.
Sometimes there’s just no substitute for getting in there with your hands, to surprise yourself and uncover the thing you were writing toward all along.
I’d love to know:
Whether you’re somebody who writes more for personal fulfillment or for craft, when was the last time you surprised yourself on the page? What got you there?
The Webs We Weave is a place for meaning-makers, featuring essays that weave lived experience with fascinations and sharp-toothed questions as I tangle with what kind of woman I want to be. Thank you for being here.
Omg did you hear me running to read this?
Ooooh I'll have to try this! Thanks for sharing!