Writing Down The Bones: Freeing The Writer Within
Page 17
The beginning always starts off easy. “I want to write a book,” you say. So maybe you take a class or two. Maybe you buy a book on writing. Maybe you join a critique group. In the beginning, you are filled with possibilities, burning with potential and promise. In the beginning, you really believe that in one semester you can learn all there is to learn about writing and be on your way to the Great American Novel. And then the beginning, a time of sweet kisses and daily flower deliveries, turns into the middle. Ideas that were once svelte and flexible and able to party until three o’clock in the morning turn into the same old stories, the same old conversation over and over.
“This is no longer love!” you exclaim, and toss your idea, once burning with fire and promise, onto the pyre of self-loathing and vow to start anew with something fresher, more exciting, more flexible and inspiring than ever before. This new idea’s kisses are even sweeter, the flowers more fragrant. This is the one. And then this beginning becomes another middle. And this middle has a spare tire around its belly. And this middle lost its job. And this middle’s eyesight is failing. What to do? This one was the one! obviously, you don’t know how to pick ’em. Next time you’ll pick one even younger. Stronger. With a faster car.
Stop.
Anyone can fall in love. Not just anyone can stay in love.
The Writing Warrior’s path is about staying in love. The Writing Warrior’s path is about ruthless self-study. The Writing Warrior gazes in the mirror and notices, without judgment, what she sees. She is also aware that she cannot see it all. The Writing Warrior acknowledges that he sees the world through lenses, and he knows each lens creates a distortion. He has the courage to remove the lenses as he becomes aware of them, and he also has the courage to know when he still needs a lens.
The Writing Warrior stands steady in the center of her work, not reaching too far into the past or too far into the future. She is rooted to the earth, and her spine reaches toward heaven. She identifies and acknowledges the distractions and illusions in her path and, with compassion and clarity, strikes them down. She is aware of her patterns and any tendencies to get in her own way, and she can laugh at herself, openly and with wide lips.
The Writing Warrior knows his time on earth is finite and wants to live it fully. He knows he has essays to write, stories to share, poems to create, and he knows it is his charge to write them. She knows that writing is sacred, that it carries great power, and that it takes work. She knows that though the stories and poems appear as gifts, they require her diligence, her patience, and her discipline to realize their full potential. He must be alert. She must be faithful.
The Writing Warrior’s pen is a sword, used both to slice away the mind’s illusions and the illusions of the world around her. The Writing Warrior does not pick up the pen lightly. He respects its power, its magic, and its teachings. He knows it carries responsibilities. She steps up to the page, the morning’s battlefield, bows to the pen, the page, and to herself. She is ready to cut away what does not serve. He is ready to carve out a new landscape. The pen is also ready, and bows to the warrior, offering its ink as a sacred covenant.
Welcome to the path. We have been waiting for you.
CHAPTER 2
Structure Is Alive
No smallest atom of our moral, mental, or physical structure can stand still a year. It grows—it must grow; nothing can prevent it.
—Mark Twain
Structure is alive.
Write this down. Keep it in your heart. Move it into your body. Structure is fluid. It’s essential, but it must breathe. There must be space around any structure you impose—whether it’s around your writing discipline and practice or around the form and shape of an actual project. You must allow air in to the framework you erect. You must allow for some bending, some stretching.
The next chapter will outline the primary practice for this book. It consists of three parts: breathing, shaking, and writing. I offer this discipline as a gift, not a prison. Each section closes with additional writing exercises to help you with your inner writing journey and your primary writing projects. Take what is valuable to you and let the rest go.
Any structure that does not come organically from the person working within it will not hold. Any structure for a novel that does not come organically from the spirit of the work itself will not hold. So proceed deeper into this book with caution. It’s likely you’ll resist some of the practice structures I suggest. That’s OK. But it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try them. It also doesn’t mean you should do them forever. Anything that doesn’t have fluidity will freeze, and being frozen is the last thing you want—in your writing or in your body. Throughout the book I will remind you to look within and ask yourself what is authentically right for you. You, not me, must have the discerning eye for your practice. Are you choosing not to do something because it isn’t the right thing for you, or are you choosing not to do something because you’re practicing avoidance? only you will know the truth.
I have provided a sample structure because structure is essential. However, just like with clothing (no matter what the labels say), a one-size structure does not fit all writers. There are many paths to the same center. But most writers I’ve worked with, myself included, need someplace to start.
The breathing practice I ask you to begin with helps you quiet down and settle into your body and your space.
The shaking practice brings you quickly into your body and, since the body is a holistic organism, as you move energy through it, you will break up stagnation and make space in your mind. (Don’t be scared! I’ll explain this later.) remember, the mind is indeed a part of the body, not its own separate entity—much though it would like to be! making space within allows our art to flow. The shaking practice is simple and fast; however, there are many ways into the body. Try shaking. Of it’s not a fit, then dance, jog, practice yoga, qigong, or gymnastics; find a physical outlet that creates opening, not contraction, for you. But don’t be afraid of the shaking just because it’s unfamiliar.
And finally, the writing practice should be obvious in its intent—thou must write! But it’s more than that. Because of the order of the practices, the writing will often serve more to stretch your writing muscles than to develop a character study or dramatic scene. It’s not the content of the writing that matters here. It’s the consistency. Just like you can’t run a marathon well without training and stretching, you can’t expect to show up at your writing area without priming the pump with some consistency. That’s what we’re looking for with the writing practice—consistency regardless of the outcome. This will help you recognize that your writing, like your body, is different every day. You are not a machine. You cannot produce the same number of pages or words every day for the rest of your life.
You cannot do the same thing every day and remain in balance. Don’t create a structure that does not honor your humanness. After all, it’s your humanity that allows you to see that dogwood tree in just that perfect way so you can write a haiku. It’s your humanity that allows you to experience the wide range of emotions that will allow you to create a compelling plot. It’s your humanity that makes you just like all the rest of us and uniquely you. Honor it. Don’t fight it.
Structure must have flexibility. Don’t be afraid to play with the edges of the structure provided here. Allow it to change as you change. Don’t feel like you have to do this every day forever. Listen within. Go within. The structure that you need will emerge, and it will have more staying power because it came authentically from you. Use the structure in this book as a foundation to leap into what only you can create.
resist the urge to look for a single Holy Grail guide for your writing practice. You are not the same person each day. When you find a practice that works, commit to it, but be flexible with that commitment. The time may come when it is no longer a fit, and you may feel that you’ve “failed” at your writing practice. Don’t place the blame outward. Instead, reflect inward. What didn’t work for you and why? Be hone
st. What would you rather do? or are you observing simple laziness?
Allow for this freedom in your writing too. Yes, you need a container. That container may be a scene or a character or a driving question. But let there be room to bounce around within the container. Don’t hold too tightly to an outcome or a result. That may keep your characters marching in line, but it won’t let them speak with their own voices. As a writer, be ever respectful of your characters’ voices. Let them know that you are there and that you will love them no matter what they say.
Though the bones of a human body create a person’s frame, they are not the person. For there to be life, there must be air—breath and the space within the vertebrae, space within and around the organs. For there to be life, there must be water—the fluids of blood, saliva, water. For there to be life, there must be fire—the electricity of the heart’s pulse. And for there to be life, there must be earth—the flesh itself, the ivory of the teeth, the eternity of the bones. You can arrange a skeleton’s structure, but you won’t get a human being. For that, you need that bit of magic that occurs when everything is in perfect order. And for that to occur, you need patience and persistence.
Show up. That’s all anyone can ask of you, and indeed, that is all you can do. Show up. No conditions. No preconceptions. No agenda. See how light that feels already? conditions, preconceptions, and agendas are bulky and heavy. There’s no need to clutter up your writer’s self with any of that baggage. Lose it on the connecting flight, sit back, and relax. It’s not as complicated as you think.