Brad isn't clever. 30 minutes. Unfiltered. Every day. Rinse. Repeat.

Tonight is definitely one of those nights where I don’t want to write at all.
Tonight is one of those nights where I don’t want to write.
Tonight, I don’t want to write.

I think and speak more in the terms of the first line, but I prefer to write more in terms of the third line - clean and efficient. It can still be just as honest as the first line, but without the gratuitous words in between.

There’s an improv exercise I keep finding myself drawn to in a book I read a while ago (Acting on Impulse). The exercise is called Primal Truth and involves an improviser telling and retelling an actual story.

First, Hazenfeld (Hazenfield? I don’t know… No distractions!) encourages improvisers to tell very personal stories. If I were to tell you the story of how I took out the garbage last week, I wouldn’t find it particularly engaging on an emotional level. You would probably lose interest. When a story is deeply personal, the audience can feel the improviser’s emotional hesitancy to provide all the details. Both parties are compelled - one to tell the story, the other to scoop up every last detail.

Hazenfeld clarifies that it might be easier to pull off these personal stories if the improvisers know and trust one another. They should know that the stories won’t leave the room. I don’t put my trust in many people, but I’d be comfortable doing this exercise with the rest of my troupe. It’s that result of a personal bond forged over the course of a few years together.

But pack to the point: improvisers will first tell the story in a timeframe of two to three minutes. After this, Hazenfeld asks the improviser to repeat the story, but to condense the timeframe down to something like a minute. The improviser will have to sacrifice words and details in order to package it neatly within a minute. It’s not too hard.

Following the second version of the story, Hazenfeld wants the improviser to repeat it again, this time within the context of two to three sentences. The details are less important than ever, but the way the story makes the storyteller feel becomes quite important.

After the third version, improvisers repeat the process one last time: all in one sentence. We’re not talking about a run-on, either… Just one sentence that lasts a few words. If I recall correctly (I read this book two years ago and never went back to it… an error I will soon correct), the goal is to get the improviser to state how he or she feels about the story less than what actually happened. Instead of the three minute story about how you and your girlfriend broke up, Hazenfeld wants to hear the core nugget: I dumped her and regret making that decision daily. Bam. That’s a charged line. You can tell how the person is feeling when they say that. It’s clear cut.

Hazenfeld uses the exercise more to encourage improvisers to identify emotional states and connect with them on stage. I feel like the whole revision process applies particularly well in writing. Instead of getting a writer to connect with emotional states, a writer can connect to solid theses or ideas.

If I could sum up a movie in two sentences so well that you would never have to see it, would you bother watching the movie? I think many people wouldn’t. I think word economy is a precious concept. I only have so many hours a day that I can read. I’d rather read all the essential elements of an article than find my way trudging through paragraph after paragraph of written sludge.

Good writers make you want to keep reading. I think a lot of rookie writers make the mistake of saying too much or going into an unnecessary amount of detail. One of my sisters has a habit of telling stories filled with extraneous details. She’s become much better about it lately, but for a while, it was hard to listen to her tell any story because you knew and wanted to hear about part X, but she first recalled all about lunch at Z and other elements that are completely trivial in comparison.

Regardless, tonight, I don’t want to write. I’m tired. I feel like I can asleep the moment I crawl in bed. That is a rarity. However, these are the nights when I know I must work. I must keep putting forth at least a little effort during the days like this. I must learn to write when unmotivated, and still write well.

The words come, like I said. They always do. You just have to keep typing, even when you eyelids grow heavy and you can’t wait for the timer to go off indicating the completion of 30 minutes of work.

The urge to check that timer grows by the second, but I will fight it. The same basic force that convinced me to start writing everyday will make sure I keep hope alive even in grim times.

Sometimes, I wonder if a mistake was made and that I never set my timer to go off at the end of my daily session. Would it be such a bad fate if I spent extra time writing? No, it would not be.

Ugh, I looked anyway. 5:34… Well, closer to 4:34 because I manage to always set an extra minute in case of interruptions or distractions. That still seems likes a very long time. I am growing exponentially more tired and can’t wait to finish this post.

The easy way out would be to just stop the timer and call the day early. I want to keep going because slightly hard work like this still tends to pay off every now and then.

So, what do you talk about when you’re tired? I’m at the point where my thought process is starting to shut down and I’m losing basic mental facilities. I feel like I would if someone woke me up early and tried to get me out of bed. I’d probably put forward a convincing argument about why I should sleep a bit more, all while not fully cognizant of the situation. Most people would probably leave temporarily after my successful campaign to sleep for an additional two minutes. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

I have no idea where the rest of this is even going. I’m trying my best to stay awake. YES! Time.