A Writing Tip by Layla Murphy
IN A WRITING RUT? TRY FREE ASSOCIATING

Estimated reading time: 7 minutes

The idea that psychoanalysis and the art of writing have significant common ground is not revolutionary. What is explored, what can be learned, what challenges must be faced—in writing as in psychotherapy, the answer can be found in the complex emotional fabric of a human life. For that reason, we can easily apply the techniques used in one of these fields to aid our struggles in the other.

Free association was a therapeutic tool developed by Freud which consisted of the patient verbalizing unrelated, seemingly unimportant thoughts as they come to mind. Freud’s theories and techniques are now mostly debunked, which is fine for us because we aren’t using free association to heal our inner child, but as a tool for generative writing. What makes this tool so helpful for writing is that it disabuses us of pretense when attempting to write from an uninspired headspace. Writing when we aren’t feeling inventive leads to work that is ostentatious and inauthentic. When instead we use free association to capture a series of random thoughts without the intention of sounding particularly literary, we are shown throughlines which would not have appeared to us by forcing output. These throughlines are revelatory: they show what’s really been on our mind, what ideas are captivating us, what concepts are ripe for investigation. I use this technique when I’m struggling to write poetry, but it can be useful for any type of writing. Like a campfire game in which the last letter of one player’s word must begin the next, you can compose a complete work by threading together disparate thoughts brought about by free association. Once you have created this jumble of disconnected thoughts and ideas, you have a bank of ideas and phrases to draw from.

Here is my process. First, I sit down outside and begin to pay attention to my surroundings. The outside part is optional, but I always feel most calm in nature. Becoming observant helps me get the first thought on paper—the first word in the campfire game, so to speak. Once the first phrase is written down, I sit peacefully and allow thoughts to come to me. Each thought that comes, I write down on the page. When I tried this the other day, I spent about twenty minutes on writing. If no thoughts come, I wait until they do. I do not judge or analyze the thoughts that came—there is no time to! I write thoughts down quickly, before the next one appears in my mind. Below is what came of my twenty minutes of free association.

I think it’s an owl droning on between the songbirds
I’ve finished my drink and crushed the can
I’m too aware of my breasts today
I like this straw mat I’m sitting on
My pants are loose and comfortable
Twenty minutes feels like enough
I see someone’s ear through the window—or is that a pair of glasses?
I’m a bit cold now—I freeze up though I know I should be moving
This feels like getting to the beach too late
Why’d I bring my phone out here?
A phone is so silly when you’re beneath the evening sun
I ought to do this more, and play my guitar
Why do I have that thing anyway? 
It’s good not to wash my hair so much
I hate to shave my body hair but the guys at work are republicans
I hope I’m cool when I’m old, and that I can pick stuff up, and that my kids want to be around me
I’m not sure what that sound is in the leaves behind me—that’s not where owls hang out
I have a sense we’ve beat culture now, beat like hit or the other one
People have kidneys that aren’t working and I have this straw mat on the grass (it’s fake grass, but hey, I have two working kidneys)
I fucking hate styrofoam and saying the word “die” in songs
I was a runner twice before. Now i go to physical therapy and I watch Ellen (not sure her name) learn to stand up and sit down—she used to be a pro at that, like I am 
This crushed can of lime soda is very green, but nothing beats that aloe plant in the sunlight
I like when old people talk about sex. Those ones write good poetry
I read Camus and I maybe shouldn’t have—I ought to hope more, confront the absurd less
I can’t believe so many lives transpired in rooms (I’ve been reading Emily Dickinson)
I must look silly shivering—it’s 63 degrees out 
Turns out twenty minutes wasn’t enough

I leave the brain dump in my notebook for a few days. When I have a chance, I come back to it, and attempt to make some poetry out of this disjointed jumble. I read it over a few times, and notice any themes that appear repeatedly. I make a mental note of these. Then, on a new page, I copy any phrases that fit the theme. I don’t bother to name it—just feeling it is enough. If I had to guess, there was something in my last attempt about nature, animals, bodies, aging, and sex:

I think it’s an owl droning on between the songbirds
I’m too aware of my breasts today
I’m a bit cold now—I freeze up though I know I should be moving
I hope I’m cool when I’m old, and that I can pick stuff up, and that my kids want to be around me
I’m not sure what that sound is in the leaves behind me
I was a runner twice before. Now i go to physical therapy and I watch Ellen (not sure her name) learn to stand up and sit down—she used to be a pro at that, like I am 
I like when old people talk about sex. Those ones write good poetry

Once I have these on the page, I begin to compose. Now, instead of free associating, I begin weaving. These pieces can be strung together—I have felt the throughline. Now, it is a matter of finding the poetic twine and tying the phrases to each other in a way that makes sense. I allow myself to deviate from what I initially wrote down when and if it felt natural—certainly, I change tenses and parts of speech at will. Having a bit of a scaffold like this is a lot less overwhelming than a blank page. This most recent time, it took me only a few minutes to compose the first draft. Then, with a few edits, I came to this:

Whether what I’ve composed here has great implications for revealing the intimate secrets of my psyche, I will leave to my therapist to decide. But for the purposes of composing a poem when inspiration eluded me, this tool has served me very well.

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