Chip's Writing Lessons #92

In this issue:

Four Questions with Diana Dawson

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Diana Dawson is an award-winning reporter who for 25 years has taught news and

feature writing at the University of Texas at Austin. Sheå is the founding director of

the Moody Writing Support Program, which provides peer writing coaching for

students in journalism, public relations, advertising and film.

Dawson’s own work in newsrooms won scores of national, regional and local

awards, including making her an Ernie Pyle finalist. She has freelanced as a writing

consultant for corporations, a writing coach for newsrooms and as a writer for many

publications including the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune and Austin Monthly

magazine.

What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned as a writer?

Relax. Writer’s block happens when we think what we’re writing is Important with a

capital I. If we can take ourselves a bit less seriously, we can just tell the story.

As a young newspaper reporter, I remember telling myself, “This story will only

come my way once. I must do it justice.” But I did that on nearly every piece. I’m

afraid I didn’t really learn my own best lesson until after I left the newsroom to

teach journalism and I saw students frozen by anxiety.

I have learned to fling a rubber chicken at them when they have that look. It takes

them off guard enough that they start laughing. The laughter relaxes them to the

point where they can tell me the story and, then, they can write it.

Just relax. Stories may be important, but not Important.

What has been the biggest surprise of your writing life?

Magic exists in writing if we’re just open to embracing it. I’ve had my share of days

when I twisted the arms off Gummi Bears in frustration or mopped the floor three

times as I struggled with organizing a story or crafting a lead. Sometimes, though,

the magic saves us.

One evening I learned that a friend and former newspaper colleague had died of

cancer at 36. That woman crafted phrases and images like no one I’d ever known.

The next morning, I sat down in my newsroom, surrounded by boxes of notes,

recordings and outlines, to begin writing a magazine-length love story about a man

caring for his wife who had Alzheimer’s disease. I closed my eyes, a tear slid down

my cheek and I said aloud, “Terry, this one’s for you.” The words spilled onto the

screen without effort. One draft. Not one word changed in editing. Magic.

Months later when I was writing another complicated newspaper narrative, my

editor called me into his office to ask how I planned to organize it. After I admitted

I was wrestling with structure, he slammed his coffee cup on the table and yelled,

“Just make sure it reads like damned poetry.” Not helpful.

That night I read over all my notes again before I went to bed, turned off the lamp

and rolled over to sleep. In the middle of the night, I dreamed the organization. It

made the puzzle pieces come together to create the picture I’d imagined. Magic.

And that jerk of an editor? He said it read like poetry.

If you had to use a metaphor to describe yourself as a writer, what would it be?

I am a Hoover vacuum cleaner of detail.

We all know one of the toughest parts of writing is throwing out three-quarters of

what we collect. If we didn’t gather and process it, though, we would lack the fuel

for our writing. My interviews go beyond the questions I need to answer and take

longer because I always dig deeper by following up.

I take a roll call of my senses: What am I hearing, seeing, feeling, smelling or even

tasting that relates to the focus of this story? As I’m talking to this person or

observing this scene, what’s making me laugh, cry or recoil in disgust? I take

photos and jot down details I cannot imagine needing.

I write down every bit of detail when I’m on the scene. During an interview, I’ll ask

a question I don’t need answered so I can use the time to jot down observations.

We think we’ll remember these things, but a car cutting us off at the traffic light as

we leave or a what’s-for-dinner phone call dilutes our memory.

When I empty that Hoover vacuum bag, I always toss plenty of stuff, but I’ve never

regretted gathering more than I’ll need.

What’s the single best piece of writing advice anyone ever gave you?

When you’re gathering information, pay attention to how you’re physically reacting

to what you’re seeing or hearing. Is there a moment when you chuckle or choke

back tears? Isolate the detail evoking that emotion and then weave it into your

writing. If you do it gracefully, your reader will experience the same emotion.