For me, the hardest thing about learning how to type properly was unlearning how I used to type. I began typing in 1980 when we got our first computer. My original technique involved poking at keys one at a time starting with only a single finger, and quickly graduated to two and then four before eventually unleashing all of my digits on the machine’s expensive keyboard. It wasn’t until I took a computer class my senior year that I heard that phrase so common in today’s online society: despite being able to deliver 90-100 words per minute, I was told “you’re doing it wrong.” Unlearning those muscle memories and habits I had spent the previous ten years perfecting was not easy to do, and I never completely switched over to “the right way.” I can still type pretty darn fast using my own method. I also think, due to my stubbornness, I have carpel tunnel; my wrists hurt and my fingers involuntarily twitch after typing all day long.
I went through a similar experience with the guitar. My friends and I invented (out of necessity) weird ways of contorting our fingers to force those electric beasts to emit sounds that sorta-kinda resembled our favorite songs. When I went to my first guitar lesson the instructor wasn’t as dismissive of my form as he was downright befuddled by it. (Me too.) I never mastered the first batch of “traditional” chords he asked me to learn. As a result I relegated myself to canoodling around on the guitar instead of learning how to play it properly, and never progressed much past those primitive riffs I learned 30 years ago.
I am now doing the same thing with my writing.
In my writing class, we’re learning about the structure of a short story. The most important thing I’ve learned so far is that successful novels, short stories, and other works of fiction are structured — by that I mean they follow a rigid framework, and contain specific ingredients that readers expect. In one way that knowledge feels constricting, to know that things must appear in a certain order — but in another way, it’s actually quite enlightening. It feels great to finally understand what makes stories work. Many times in the past I’ve written the same scenes over and over, stabbing in the dark in an attempt to “make things work” in the same way a child might randomly poke at keys on a keyboard in hopes that they might eventually make a word appear. Anyone can pile bricks up until they resemble a wall, but to build a structurally sound one that will withstand weight and strong winds requires practice and knowledge.
I ran all of this past a friend of mine who also writes, and he countered with “short stories don’t need to be that rigid. You can do anything you want in them!” And that’s true, you can. This degree program (Masters of Professional Writing) is not just about writing; it’s about writing things that sell. You are, of course, free to write whatever you want. You can include no characters with dialogue in your short story or a hundred (good luck with both). You can name your protagonist Mr. Bsdunensdoppylxyzzz and have everyone in your story speak a made up language. None of those are likely to sell, but you are free to write them. In musical terms, this program is more about writing hit singles than constructing hour-long free-form jazz performances. In terms of music expression both are equally valid, but one of them is much more likely to put money in your wallet.
