The Beginning of Learning
The joy of researching a new topic
Sometimes you have to learn something new. Recently, for me, that something new has been Shakespeare. Sure, I read Shakespeare in high school, briefly dabbled in the sonnets since then. This year, however, I set myself the goal to read one Shakespeare play per month.
In January, I read Hamlet. I finished it January 26. I watched two film versions, and then very quickly dove into Macbeth, which I finished by February 8. What was I going to do with myself for the rest of the month? To paraphrase Ariel in The Little Mermaid, “I wanted moooooooore!”
I could have started reading another play. Instead, I started a new writing project, working title The Shakespeare Killer. About a year ago, I wrote a silly poem about a guy who decides to eradicate all traces of Shakespeare from the literary and cultural canon. A difficult task, no doubt. But let’s say he succeeds. What happens next? What are the effects of this gaping hole in English literature?
I wrote the poem and thought that was it. My idea was out on paper, just a silly experiment. But now I am experiencing Shakespeare’s works firsthand again, and discovering the wonder and joy of them. And The Shakespeare Killer idea came back to the front of my mind, pounding on the door of my workshop. “All right,” I said, “give me a minute to get ready.” But it burst in and started blathering on and on about this and that, and it was all I could do to keep up.
I wrote the first scene in an evening. The hero of the story, an underground Shakespeare scholar, is brought before the villain—the Shakespeare Killer—in his high-security tower. The Shakespeare Killer, SK for short, invites the hero to consider the rationale for his “project” of eliminating Shakespeare. How will he do this? By using the writings of Shakespeare to make his claims (it is a little ironic, but how else can it happen? In order to destroy Shakespeare, SK had to become Shakespeare).
To write these arguments, I’ll have to read more Shakespeare. But that’s not all. I’d also like to be at least mildly conversant with other Shakespeare details, such as the authorship controversies, his biography, his contemporaries, and, of course, his influence on English language and literature since. This will require research, and I really, really like research, especially at the beginning, when I know almost nothing, and every new fact, no matter how mundane, is like a precious jewel shimmering in my mind.
Oh, the joy of initial research, when you are not yet encumbered with the burden of all you don’t know. Your brain is on fire with all the possibilities of what little you do know so far. It’s like gazing at the evening sky as the earth spins toward night. At first, you see the brightest stars, and can make connections between them, recognizing constellations, creating your own. You have not yet seen the density of stars in the Milky Way, are not yet swallowed by the dark, sparkling night.
Research is also one of my most effective procrastination tools. Instead of actually writing, I can read more. Instead of actually writing, I can type up my notes. Instead of actually writing, I can look into this new topic I’ve been meaning to explore.
(Before I get my inner critic too excited, I want to say that sometimes “the work” is to not do the work; sometimes the writing process involves not-writing, taking a break, exploring something new—an argument I will make again and again, which may be wisdom, and which may be, as my inner critic would say, a justification of my procrastination.)
At the end of my seminary program, I had to write an exegetical thesis. Once I’d chosen my passage (Genesis 27), I researched for months. I took notes, sketched an outline, formulated my further questions. I wanted to have everything figured out before I started writing. My advisor told me, “Just start writing. You’ll find that you have what you need. And if not, you can address the outstanding questions as they come up. But if you keep researching, you might never get to the writing.” I started writing. Answers to my questions began to appear on the page, in the words and sentences I wrote. I would never have discovered these had my arguments all stayed in my head.
I have several writing projects I’ve been “working on” for years. I’ve written something for each of them, but I tend to get caught up in logistical questions—what are this character’s motivations? Why must this happen? Where did this person come from? What if an audience needs more explanation? These are excellent questions to ask while writing or during the revision stage. I ask these questions before I start writing, and try to work it out in my head beforehand. And the problems never stop popping up. So I postpone my writing while I figure out the solution to a problem that technically doesn’t exist yet. No wonder I’ve been “working on” these projects for years.
A Darker Travel, about a bereaved father who visits heaven in his dreams, is one story I thought would need years of research. What have others written about heaven, from religious texts of various traditions to modern psychologists to fiction writers and poets to filmmakers to musicians and, and, and…
Well, some of that research was helpful. I’m not done researching, but I’ve started writing as well. Writing has led me to unexpected and delightful ideas I may not have found in my research. And the more I write, the more I start to notice themes, motifs, textures, patterns, in what I’ve actually written.
For example, I’ve had to name several characters in quick succession (there’s a lot of people in heaven, you know), and I’ve just made up names on the spot. But then those names begin to take on additional meaning as the scenes progress.
Another example: I was stuck in a moment of abstract discussion, and suddenly I wrote, “There’s a tree.” And that tree became the focal point for the next several scenes, anchoring the “abstract” dialogues that so far make up the bulk of this story.
Now that I’ve written a rough chunk I’m proud of, I can see where I may need to do more research. Where do I still have questions? What other perspectives might round out what I have so far? And some of those research explorations may lead to further sparks of ideas.
As in most things in life, there needs to be a balance between research and writing. Research guides writing and writing guides research. I can’t deny how exciting it is to explore a new topic. Those first forays into unknown fields light up my brain and my heart. But I shouldn’t forget the writing. I just need enough light to see the next step along the dark path my writing will take. And sometimes I don’t need any light at all.
I encourage you this week to explore a new topic, one you’ve been curious about. See what new connections or understanding you discover. Thanks again for reading!