Writing With Alert Watchfulness

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by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

The first time I rode a motorcycle I ran into a fence.

One of my college roommates, Rick, got a bike. One day I asked him if I could try it. He showed me the basics of clutch and throttle. No problem. At the time I was driving my dad’s old three-on-the-tree Ford Maverick. I knew the drill.

Only it’s different when it’s your first time using hands instead of feet. I let the clutch out too fast and twisted the throttle too hard. I lurched forward and before I could turn I rammed into a wooden fence. The bike listed and jammed my right ankle into a post.

When Rick stopped laughing he suggested I sign up for lessons with the local CHP.

I thought about that experience the other day while reading The World Beyond Your Head by Matthew B. Crawford. It’s about authentic identity getting lost in the midst of the noise and distraction of our digital age. We have what Crawford calls a “crisis of attention” which leads to fractured perceptions of the world. Crawford contrasts that with the intense concentration required of an ice-hockey player, a short-order cook, or the maker of fine pipe organs.

Also, Motocross champions. To compete at the top level, you have to develop what is called “alert watchfulness without meddling.” This makes possible a focus on what’s immediate and consequential, like an unforeseen bump in the track. In other words, you no longer need to stress about clutch and throttle; those are ingrained. Instead you rely on an intuition formed by long experience. Crawford explains:

This “alert watchfulness without meddling” by the conscious mind while one is riding on the street often takes the form of hunches: hypotheses about what might happen that are conscious but not fully articulate, because they don’t need to be. You recognize a familiar situation: there are strip malls on either side of a major thoroughfare, each with entries to the main road. The street numbers are posted only erratically, on haphazard buildings set far back from the main road. The car in front of you slows down, then speeds up, repeatedly. Hypothesis: this person is looking for a particular business, and when he spots it he may quickly veer across two lanes to get to it. Your motor responses are cocked and loaded, as it were, because you recognize the pattern.

That seems to me to describe what goes on in the head of an experienced writer engaged in the act of writing itself. Be the writer a planner or a discoverer (as we’ve discussed many times here) when they are into the writing of an actual scene “alert watchfulness without meddling” is the optimum practice.

For example, if you have structured your scene in advance (as explained here) you write with purpose. But if something pops up during the writing, some new possibility, your experience should “recognize the pattern.” You can consider it without “meddling” (which we often refer to as the “inner critic”). You form a hypothesis of how it might fit the overall story.

On the other hand, the wild-eyed panster should be “watchfully alert” against straying too far away from a pattern that best serves the story (not every “discovery” is a brilliant idea; not every glittering  nugget is gold).

How do you develop this alert watchfulness sans meddling? Writing and craft study. Writing alone can bring forth lots of words with little value. Just like a new golfer and ingrain bad habits by going out just to “play.” (Groundskeepers call that hunting gophers.)

On the other hand, just reading about the craft yields nothing without practice. In my early years studying writing, long before I was published, I’d design writing exercises based on what I’d learned in a book. This proved invaluable.

In college I also performed close-up magic. I got to occasionally hang out at the Magic Castle, the private club for pro magicians in Hollywood. Many of the legends of card magic, now in their 70s and 80s, were still around.

One of them was Dai Vernon, reputed to be the best card mechanic of the 20th century. I got to watch him up close, informally showing fellow magicians some moves.

Dai Vernon

I got all his magic books. In one of them he had “The Trick That Cannot Be Explained.” The reason was that he never performed it the same way twice. Everything was based on what the audience member did, from choosing a card to shuffling a deck. Vernon always produced the selected card in a surprising way, because he knew from experience literally hundreds of ways to manipulate cards. He would choose his method based on his “alert watchfulness” of what was happening. He didn’t have to take time to “meddle.” He just knew, instinctively, what to do.

I like that analogy applied to writing. When you have practiced your craft fruitfully and for a long time, you can perform “tricks that cannot be explained.” You form “hypotheses about what might happen that are conscious but not fully articulate, because they don’t need to be. You recognize a familiar situation.”

Does this resonate with you? Think about what’s going on in your mind as you write a scene. Are  you alert? Meddling? Hesitant? Risk averse? Or do you let it all out, even though you might run into a fence?

15 thoughts on “Writing With Alert Watchfulness”

  1. Honestly, I was checking a hypothesis. I calculated the sum of my weight plus the bike’s weight against the strength of the fence and figured I would pass right through it. On trying it, not so much. Back to the drawing board.

  2. “Are you alert? Meddling? Hesitant? Risk averse? Or do you let it all out, even though you might run into a fence?”

    I think all of the above, depending on where I am in the book. I run into a lot of fences when I’m getting acquainted with new characters (such as with my recent stand alone). Some scenes seem to require little, if any, meddling, but for trickier plot points, I have to slow down and be extra mindful.
    After 30+ books, a lot becomes intuitive.

  3. What a great concept, Jim. Thanks for sharing this.

    On a good writing day, I’m alert, revving the throttle, racing forward, swerving around obstacles, jumping over fences. On not-so-good days, I have a blowout and need to push the bike home to repair the tire. But then it’s back on the track for another adrenaline rush.

    As Terry says, “a lot becomes intuitive.”

    • Great analogy about having a blow-out and having to push the bike home. I recently “crashed” and haven’t yet had the guts to get back on the bike.

    • I’ve walked several bikes to the shop, Debbie. But I’ve put together a pretty decent repair kit that I carry with me. It took a good amount of time to get it together, and is quite valuable now.

  4. I have to echo Debbie. Terrific concept, Jim. Internalizing fiction writing craft is essential both mastering story and, like Dai Vernon, being able to practice “alert watchfulness.”

    I often start out hesitant and/or meddling, with my mysteries, as I’m playing four dimensional chess (the fourth dimension is of course time) and working with the murderer’s story in the back of my brain.

    I do lots of outlining before and take breaks in drafting Act I and early Act II for more brainstorming, until I reach a point where alert mindfulness can take over. Like with craft, at that point, I’ve internalized the bones of the story and can open up the throttle and ride faster, alert to possibilities as I hopefully go with the flow.

    • Nicely put, Dale. I can imagine (only imagine!) what a motorcyclist feels when they’re able to let loose on the open road. But, like you, there are writing times that are just that way.

  5. Jim, your motorcycle story reminds me of . . . me!

    Once when I was visiting my parents decades ago (and old enough to know better), I decided to give my teenage brother’s motor bike a try. I tried to ride it over a small footbridge which spanned a creek on their property. Can you say “Deb ended up in the creek with the bike on top of her”? With said brother laughing his fool head off. Not a pretty picture.

    Great post here.

    It’s about authentic identity getting lost in the midst of the noise and distraction of our digital age. We have what Crawford calls a “crisis of attention” which leads to fractured perceptions of the world.

    This resonates with me at about the 2-ton level. Not sure if this is what he meant, but my focus is so fractured right now (over mostly things out of my control) that I’m having a hard time just writing this comment.

    Maybe I should just try writing one sentence, or paragraph a day that makes sense. 🙂

    BTW, I have two stacks of 3×5 cards on my desk, on which I’m writing scene ideas for two infant WIPs. It’s fun!

    Have a great Labor Day weekend…

  6. Thanks for this thought-provoking post, Jim. I had to read through it twice to feel like I got the essence of the thing.

    “Are you alert? Meddling? Hesitant? Risk averse?” I’m not risk averse in writing. Maybe that’s why I find myself going down the wrong road and running into fences during the first draft. Oddly, I don’t mind it too much. Even though some scenes end up in the trash, they served a purpose that may get me to that “alert watchfulness without meddling” stage as I mature. That plus craft study.

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