Writing Down The Bones: Freeing The Writer Within

by Natalie Goldberg

  Forget yourself. Disappear into everything you look at—a street, a glass of water, a cornfield. Everything you feel, become totally that feeling, burn all of yourself with it. Don’t worry—your ego will quickly become nervous and stop such ecstasy. But if you can catch that feeling or smell or sight the moment you are one with it, you probably will have a great poem.

  Then we fall back on the earth again. Only the writing stays with the great vision. That’s why we have to go back again and again to books—good books, that is. And read again and again the visions of who we are, how we can be. The struggle we go through as human beings, so we can again and again have compassion for ourselves and treat each other kindly.

  Be an Animal

  WHEN YOU ARE not writing, you are a writer too. It doesn’t leave you. Walk with an animal walk and take in everything around you as prey. Use your senses as an animal does. Watch a cat when he sees something moving in the room. He is perfectly still, and at the same time, his every sense is alive, watching, listening, smelling. This is how you should be when you are in the streets. The cat’s mind is not thinking about how much money he needs, or whom to write a post-card to when he visits Florence: he is watching the mouse or the marble rolling across the floor or the light reflecting in crystal. He is ready with all of him to pounce. Now, you don’t have to get down on all fours and twitch your tail. Only be still—some part of you, at least—and know where you are, no matter how busy you are.

  My friend who went with me to Europe had a phobia about getting lost. She’d never learned to read a city map or pick up simple signals, like “We were in this piazza yesterday. There, across the street, is the Savoy Hotel, where we bought concert tickets, so that must be the turn.” Because she was scared, she lost all touch with her common sense, with the natural senses that we rely on as our survival tools. That place in us that is aware and that is always awake. Katagiri Roshi said: “You are Buddha right now!” Only we forget when we are busy or frightened, as my friend was. Afraid of being lost, she became lost.

  As writers we have to walk in the world in touch with that present, alert part of ourselves, that animal sense part that looks, sees, and notices—street signs, corners, fire hydrants, newspaper stands.

  Also, right before you are planning to write, a good preparation is to become an animal. Move slowly, stalking your prey, which is whatever you plan to write about, no matter what else you might be doing at the moment—taking out the garbage, walking to the library, watering the garden. Get all your senses intent. Turn off your logical mind—empty, no thoughts. Let your words come from your belly. Bring your brain down to your stomach and digest your thoughts. Let them give nourishment to your body. Have a round belly, like Buddha, breathing all the way inside. Don’t hold in your stomach. Be patient and measured. Let the writing percolate below the level of thought forms, in the subconscious and through your veins.

  Then, when you finally pounce, let’s say at ten A.M., your designated time to write that day, add the pressure of timed writing. Write for an hour, or twenty minutes, whatever amount you decide, but write for all it’s worth. Keep your hand moving, pour out everything, straight from your veins, through your pen and onto paper. Don’t stop. Don’t doodle. Don’t daydream. Write until you’re spent.

  But don’t worry. This isn’t your last chance. If you missed the mouse today, you’ll get it tomorrow. You never leave who you are. If you are a writer when writing, you also are a writer when you are cooking, sleeping, walking. And if you are a mother, a painter, a horse, a giraffe, or a carpenter, you will bring that into your writing, too. It comes with you. You can’t divorce yourself from parts of yourself.

  Best come to writing whole with everything in you. And when you’re done writing, best to walk out in the street with everything you are, including your common sense or Buddha nature—something good at the center, to tell you the names of streets, so you won’t get lost. Something to tell you you can come back to your writing tomorrow and stay with your writing in the hours in between, when you are an animal, out stalking the city.

  Make Statements and Answer Questions

  IN THE EARLY seventies there was a study done on women and language that affected me very deeply and also affected my writing. One of the things the study said was that women add on qualifiers to their statements. For instance, “The Vietnam war is awful, isn’t it?” “I like this, don’t you?” In their sentence structure women were always looking for reinforcement for their feelings and opinions. They didn’t just make statements and stand behind them: “This is beautiful.” “This is terrible.” They needed encouragement from outside themselves. (By the way, what they found to be true for women they also mentioned was true for minorities.)

  Another thing women did in their speech was to use a lot of words like perhaps, maybe, somehow. Indefinite modifiers. For instance, “Somehow it happened.” As though the force were beyond understanding and left the woman powerless. “Maybe I’ll go.” Again, not a clear assertive statement like “Yes, I’ll go.”

  The world isn’t always black and white. A person may not be sure if she can go some place, but it is important, especially for a beginning writer, to make clear, assertive statements. “This is good.” “It was a blue horse.” Not “Well, I know it sounds funny, but I think perhaps it was a blue horse.” Making statements is practice in trusting your own mind, in learning to stand up with your thoughts.

  After I read the article, I went home and looked at a poem I had just written. I made myself take out all vague, indefinite words and phrases. It felt as though I were pulling towels off my body, and I was left standing naked after a shower, exposing who I really was and how I felt. It was scary the first time, but it felt good. It made the poem much better.

  So even though life is not always so clear, it is good to express yourself in clear, affirmative statements. “This is how I think and feel.” “This is who I am in this moment.” It takes practice, but it is very rewarding.

  But while you are practicing writing, do not worry if you see yourself using those indefinite words. Don’t condemn yourself or be critical. Just be aware of it. Keep writing. When you go back over it, you can cut them out.

  Another thing you should watch out for are questions. If you can write a question, you can answer it. When you are writing, if you write a question, that is fine. But immediately go to a deeper level inside yourself and answer it in the next line. “What should I do with my life?” I should eat three brownies, remember the sky, and become the best writer in the world. “Why did I feel weird last night?” Because I ate pigeon for dinner and I wore my shoes on the wrong feet and because I am unhappy. “Where does the wind come from?” It comes from the memory of pioneers on the Croix River. It loves the earth as far as the Dakotas.

  Don’t be afraid to answer the questions. You will find endless resources inside yourself. Writing is the act of burning through the fog in your mind. Don’t carry the fog out on paper. Even if you are not sure of something, express it as though you know yourself. With this practice you eventually will.

  The Action of a Sentence

  VERBS ARE VERY important. They are the action and energy of a sentence. Be aware of how you use them. Try this exercise. Fold a sheet of paper in half the long way. On the left side of the page list ten nouns. Any ten.

  lilacs

  horse

  mustache

  cat

  fiddle

  muscles

  dinosaur

  seed

  plug

  video

  Now turn the paper over to the right column. Think of an occupation; for example, a carpenter, doctor, flight attendant. List fifteen verbs on the right half of the page that go with that position.

  A Cook:

  sauté

  chop

  mince

  slice

  cut

  heat

  broil

  taste

  boil

  bake

&
nbsp; fry

  marinate

  whip

  stir

  scoop

  Open the page. You have nouns listed in a row down the left side and verbs listed on the right. Try joining the nouns with the verbs to see what new combinations you can get, and then finish the sentences, casting the verbs in the past tense if you need to.

  A Cook:

  lilacs sauté

  horse chop

  mustache mince

  cat slice

  fiddle cut

  muscles heat

  dinosaur broil

  seed taste

  plug boil

  video bake

  fry

  marinate

  whip

  stir

  scoop

  Dinosaurs marinate in the earth.

  The fiddles boiled the air with their music.

  The lilacs sliced the sky into purple.

  Here are some other examples of the use of verbs:

  Her husband’s breath sawing her sleep in half . . .

  The sunken light of late day stretches on their propane tank.10

  I exploded when I saw him . . .11

  Others in pairs in cars to the moon flashing river.12

  . . . where angels and gladiolas walk your skin / to sleep in the earth . . .13

  My blood buzzes like a hornet’s nest.14

  This does not mean that while you are writing you should stop and contemplate a new verb for an hour. Only, be aware of your verbs and the power they have and use them in fresh ways. The more you are awake to all aspects of language, the more vibrant your writing will be. You might decide ultimately that run, see, go, are for you. That’s fine, but then it is a choice you make rather than some place in your sentence where you are unaware, asleep and snoring.

  Writing in Restaurants

  I AM SITTING in a dining car in San Cristóbal, New Mexico. The town has about sixty-eight people, and the Spanish woman who runs the diner has owned the land since 1948. She just returned from Arizona and has opened it again. The town says she has to dig her own well, so until she does there is no cooking on the premises. Therefore, my choices for this two-hour writing session are cigarettes, Coke, Mountain Dew, Tom’s Red Twists, Super Bubble in plain, grape, or apple, Snickers, Fire Stix, Alka-Seltzer, Tums, Kool-Aid in raspberry or tropical punch flavor, a quart of milk, or a dozen eggs. I must order something and it must be more than a Coke, because I hope to be here awhile.

  That is the first rule. When you select a café to write in, you must establish a relationship. Go hungry so you will want to eat. There have been times when I wasn’t hungry and ordered a meal anyway, then pushed it aside and took out my notebook. Occasionally, I picked at the fried onions or the spinach salad during the next hour or so. If I order coffee, I don’t take advantage of the free refills. I want the people in the restaurant to know I appreciate the time and space they are giving me. Also, if you are taking up a table for a few hours, leave more than the ordinary tip. The waitress makes money on table turnover, and you are staying longer than your turn. Do not show up at lunch or dinner when they are the most crowded. Go at the end of rush hour when the waitress will be glad to see you, because she is very tired and knows you won’t order a lot and don’t expect fast service.

  I know this sounds like a very expensive way to write, but this is only the first time. After the initial introduction, you begin quite easily to become a routine. “Oh, there’s the writer. How’s it going? Want a coffee refill on the house?”

  When I lived in Minneapolis, a friend called and said, “A new restaurant just opened at Calhoun Square. Let’s have dinner and write there.” That’s when I first realized that there is an art to selecting a good writing place. This new restaurant was totally inappropriate; I could tell at first glance. First of all, it was too fancy and was bent on serving good, creative dishes. They wanted people eating. They didn’t want great literature written while we leaned on their violet, pale blue, and white linen tablecloths.

  Usually, I pick original places, not chain restaurants like McDonald’s. Besides the fact that chain restaurants are all plastic, the seats are often uncomfortable. You want a place that lends a human atmosphere, not everything efficient, stiff, and bright orange.

  But why go to all this bother? Why not just stay home and write? It is a trick I use. It’s good to change the scenery from time to time, and at home there is the telephone, the refrigerator, the dishes to be washed, a shower to be taken, the letter carrier to greet. It’s good to get away. Also, if you made the effort to get to a café, you can’t leave so quickly to do something else the way you can in your own home.

  And the mind is a trickster. It seems that when I write, a hundred pleasurable activities come to mind that I would rather do. I remember once being given a cabin in northern Minnesota for a week. The second day I was sitting down in front of the typewriter to work on a short story. There was a view of late June aspens and beet leaves, lettuce, zinnias from the garden. A great blue sky. Suddenly I was in a bathing suit, ankle-deep in the lake, which was a quarter of a mile from the cabin. About to dive headfirst, I became awake: “Natalie, what are you doing here? You just sat down to write the third page of your short story!” Usually I don’t get quite that far before I catch myself.

  We can give it different names, but basically it is that part of our mind that is resistant that begins to activate when we do these tricks. What does it want to resist? Work and concentration.

  There was a period last fall when every time I began to write, I went into a perfect blank-minded euphoria, where I stared out the window and felt a love for and oneness with everything. I sat in this state, sometimes for the whole time I had planned to write. I thought to myself, “Lo and behold, I am becoming enlightened! This is much more important than writing, and besides this is where all writing leads.” After this had gone on for quite a while, I asked Katagiri Roshi about it. He said, “Oh, it’s just laziness. Get to work.”

  I have read about flotation tanks, where sensory input is reduced considerably, since you are in a dark box, immersed in ten inches of warm water. Concentration is increased because of the restriction of sensory stimulation.

  Oddly enough, writing in a café can work, too, to improve concentration. But instead of reducing stimulation, the café atmosphere keeps that sensory part of you busy and happy, so that the deeper, quieter part of you that creates and concentrates is free to do so. It is something like occupying a baby with tricks, while slipping the spoon full of applesauce into her mouth. Mozart used to have his wife read stories to him while he was composing for the same reason.

  The stimulation in a restaurant can also be used in another way. Turn to face it and get on that carousel and go for a ride. Keeping your hand moving, write with the waves of energy, throwing in details you catch from around you and mixing them with your own thought flashes. The outside excitement can stimulate and awaken feelings inside you. There is a wonderful give and take.

  In Paris, I was astounded by how many cafés there were. It is considered impolite to hurry a customer. You can order one coffee at eight A.M. and still be sipping it with no pressure at three P.M. Hemingway in A Moveable Feast (it’s a great book!—read it!) tells of writing in cafés in Paris and how James Joyce might be a few tables away. When I arrived there last June, I understood why so many American writers became expatriates: there are probably five cafés to every block in Paris, and they are all beckoning you to write, and writing in them is very acceptable.

  In America, people are wary of writing. Except for filling out a form or writing a check, they think it is very exotic, so they leave you alone, though some are secretly fascinated and glance over at you every once in a while. Writing is not a natural part of the American context. Use that attitude to your advantage. You will be left alone when you write in public. Only once, when I was in Nebraska, did a warm, friendly waitress come over and address it directly: “What are you writing about? Can I read it?�
�� If I hadn’t been on the road and in a rush, I would have gladly sat her down with my last forty pages.

  Oh, yes, in the Rainbow Café, a 3.2 bar in Hill City, Minnesota, a teenager playing pool one afternoon, as I was writing at a nearby booth, yelled over to me, “Hey, you write faster than I think.” And a little later, “If you keep this up and come back tomorrow, the whole town’ll be out here to watch you.” Always laugh, respond, stay friendly.

  Make a list of cafés, restaurants, and bars you’ve been in. Add details, if you want. See where it leads. Be specific.

  Terry’s Cafe in South Dakota, where I wrote postcards to my friends in Minnesota. “Dear Phil: I’m in South Dakota. I’m heading for New Mexico. It is late July. Know I love your cabin by the St. Croix. Remember me. Forgive me for leaving. I am eating a salad with canned beans and saltine crackers.”