This morning, while standing in my closet, my thoughts wandered to the process of dressing to write. Yes, I write. I write mysteries, sci fi, and children’s stories. Have you read me? No. I write for myself–well, not completely. There is an agent out there somewhere destined to fall for my characters and demand they be published. In the meantime, there’s the clothing dilemma.
Writing, like sleuthing, is fully fifty percent wardrobe. Each activity, each part of a case, each word that hits the page deserves the appropriate outfit.
I know writers have a rep–well, female writers do. There’s the casual writer with jeans and baggy shirt or sweater who is often a poet or a great plotter like Sue Grafton. There’s the jogging suit writer doing children’s books or political editorials, always ready to depart for the health club or to pick up the kids. Then there’s the long, loose dress writer penning romantic tales, dressed to disappear (folds of material rustling and flowing) into the fog.
I’m often found in a loose warm sweater and capri pants. They’re versatile, somewhat retro, and I can break for chocolate or to sweep the garage, and I don’t have to change clothes or gears. (I think just as well with a broom in my hand.)
Writers will tell you that their clothing and their writing instrument deeply effect what pours onto the page. In fact, the wrong choice, say, a red-checked flannel shirt instead of a Chinese print lounging gown, can cause your wealthy romantic hero in his mansion overlooking Monte Carlo to be found hiding a closet full of cowboy hats and silver buckles. You have to watch out.
I sell pens. Daily I get calls from people who take writing so seriously that they must have that ruby Sonnet rollerball with broad refills or business comes to a halt. Or the Berol Mirado Black Warrier #1 pencil that you can’t script without. I have personal experience here, as I wrote my first mystery with one on white legal pads.
Those of you who use a pc, beware. The keyboard isnt HALF as inspiring as nib or tip or point to page. I know. I wrote my sci fi trilogy by putting the keyboard in my lap, closing my eyes, and typing what I saw in my head–a grand adventure using string theory. Thank God I had my black drawstring cargos, my black hooded pullover, and my Victoria’s Secret undies–the pc could have dummed it down to a science lesson!
No, when I want to write, I must choose the appropriate wardrobe and writing instrument or it all goes to pieces. Characters refuse their assignments. They throw their lines away, declare rebellion, stab instead of shoot, or flee the scene in a frenzy. Some simply refuse to go on.
As for inspiration, I know of nothing more deadly to a writer’s creativity than formal wear. Write business contracts in your business suit. Put on your lovely sequined gown and go to the ball. But if you want a good case of writer’s block, put on those stockings or a tie. [Well, unless you're writing historic English novels or an article on economics for Forbes.]
Naturally, there are extremists. You’ve probably read works by writers who must disappear to Paris (left bank only) or to the woods to a cabin (read: I vant to be alone…). My view of them is that they haven’t yet learned the meaning of the word Cliche. And have you read their books? Use them for those nights when you have insomnia. You’ll be instantly cured.
One woman wrote a book about going off to an island and living in disgusting conditions chopping wood etc. She lined the pages up on a rough table and agonized over the words. I wanted to gag. Flaubert did that, but he was a pretentious jerk. Writers don’t need to suffer over the process. The suffering is supposed to come from LIVING. Then the writing naturally pours out of you onto the pages. It can’t be helped. If you write, words catch up to you in odd places like public rest rooms, train stations, or the lobby where you’re waiting for a job interview.
Note to those idiots (including the ones with book awards): Forcing yourself to chop wood and live alone eating nuts and berries doesn’t make you a writer. It makes you a girl scout. That writer I mentioned earlier made silly metaphors about clouds–ones that had been done to death. It’s like she just woke up and discovered what every child who looks up discovers–clouds look like other things if your imagination is working….!
I attribute this ghastly serving of words to her lack of wardrobe. I mean, who can write in logging boots? Who? And sequestering yourself in the woods doesn’t mean you see differently. I can appreciate a leaf in Chicago just as well, maybe more, since cities seem to suffer a dearth of colorful leaves. Writing is about seeing. Writing is about telling what you see.
Writing is about dreaming. And…writing is about dressing. Today I’m going to poison the guy who killed off half the characters at my fictional magazine. The poison is odorless and tasteless. He’ll die horribly for his crimes. The words will be ready to spill onto the pages and consume him. How do I know this? I’ve killed before. And today I’m wearing a sleek black silk and cashmere sweater over black straight-leg jeans, low-healed leather boots, and some devastating SOMA undies.
Pen in hand, I approach my wire-bound 5-subject notebook with black cover, and I’m poised to strike. He’s doomed. I’m dressed to kill.
