Nothing begins to break down the sneaky edges of the ego like the writing process. Let it happen. Let yourself be opened over and over again, as far and as deep and as wide as you can go. Here are some thoughts on revision that may be helpful.
1. Accept that you cannot see your work clearly. All writers should have “readers”—friends in a writing group, colleagues, agents, and so on—and we need them like we need oxygen. The more you write and the more you read, the better you’ll be able to see your work, but there will always be blind spots because you’re looking at it through your own beautifully tinted eyeballs.
2. Accept the necessary detachment from your work. Just because you wrote it doesn’t make it precious or priceless or perfect. You just wrote it. Let that be enough. Over time and practice, you may come to believe that the fact that you wrote it really is enough, and that is far more than you thought it could be. No good, no bad, just what it is. Everything you write—everything—brings you closer to the next place. No words are wasted. No attempts are worthless. You wrote it. It is that, and nothing more. Yet see how that is everything?
3. Think of writing early drafts (like, say, the first five or so) as scattering seeds. You throw a handful of seeds into a hole in the earth and you wait. You don’t really know what you put in the ground yet. You don’t know what will be able to grow compatibly, or what will have to be pruned out and planted somewhere else. You’ve got to let things grow a bit before you can see what’s up.
4. Hard part here: WAIT. Imagine some buffed-up cop (or maybe Johnny Depp) saying, “Back away from the manuscript, ma’am. Just back away now!” To go back to my seed analogy, what happens after you throw the seeds into the earth? You’ve got to water them and then wait. Sometimes we have to wait two whole seasons to see what pops out of the ground. I’m currently going back to a project I wrote seven years ago. The time for it is now. Yeah, really, writing is like that.
5. After you wait a while, read your work again. Not with an eye for tearing it apart, but with an ear for listening with compassion to what you were trying to say. One of my favorite teachers told me to use “teabag listening.” He was talking about letting the tea steep for a while and then, over time, listening to (tasting) what flavors surfaced. Be gentle here. Don’t be manic with your work or with yourself. Let your work speak to you while you turn off your critic/editor/shame-based voice (whatever your baggage is from other classes or groups or family) and nod and say thank-you. Don’t listen to your work with a knife at its throat. How much do you think it’ll actually say to you that way?
6. Observe what you’ve sown. If you’ve listened well and authentically, you might now notice that you threw seeds for a pine tree, a strawberry plant, and a sunflower in the same hole. What are the odds that all three story arcs can coexist in the same hole in the ground? Pretty slim. So which story is fighting for survival? Which one desperately wants you to hear it? I don’t know the answer for any individual, but I know a key to finding out is to ask this question: which one did I not know was there? You might do well to remember that the plant (yes, I’m going to extend this metaphor all the way through) that is bullying the other plants may not be the one you really need to write about. The loudest isn’t always the most powerful.
7. Start again. Yes. Again. Dig a new hole (clean piece of paper, empty computer file) and scatter a different handful of seeds again. Maybe this time 75 percent of them are sunflower seeds and only a few are oak trees or eggplants. Wait some more. Maybe you’ll wait as long as the last time, maybe not. But wait. Let things settle and integrate and assemble without you constantly hacking at the roots.
8. What blooms now?
Get the picture? All throughout this process, you’re reading. You’re still writing too. There’s no rule that says thou must only work on one thing at a time. You’re reading, and, did I mention, you’re reading?
Revision teaches you a lot about yourself. I encourage you as you begin your revisions to observe your own behavior. Observe it with the same non-knife-wielding compassion that you use while listening to your work. Notice something, and say, “Hmmm. Look at that.” If it’s not working for you, stop doing it. But don’t shame yourself about it. We’re all beautifully flawed. If you’re tearing yourself up inside and causing suffering to yourself, stop. Ask yourself why you’re causing yourself pain. The answer might surprise you. Over time, you’ll clear out your gut-wrenching resistances to revision, and you’ll find absolute freedom and joy in re-envisioning a piece of your writing. You’ll know that you can toss out those pages because more will come. You’ll know that nothing is wasted. But it takes time to know these things in your body, and if you’re doing this for the first time, expect some suffering. I offer these things to you in the hopes that you can shorten your period of suffering and move more quickly into the freedom of the process. We as writers can resist this stage or we can embrace it. The act itself (the revision) is neutral. Our reaction to it shapes everything.
Revision teaches a lot, indeed. But the biggest thing it will teach you is: are you a writer? And if it turns out you’re not, no big deal. There are lots of glorious things to do in this world that don’t involve so much solitude and ink. Approach everything with openness. Where there’s resistance, there’s struggle. Where there’s struggle, there’s conflict. Go back to that voice I mentioned earlier that’s compelling you to put something on paper. What does it have to tell you? My guess is that it’s saying you’re a writer.
And if all this falls short, remember these words from Margaret Atwood: “A ratio of failures is built into the process of writing. The wastebasket has evolved for a reason.”
CHAPTER 26
Intuition
Trust thyself. Every heart vibrates to that iron string.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Believe it or not, there was a time when you knew the next right thing to do. Some of you might even remember when that time was, or a circumstance where you trusted your intuition. For a lot of us, though, our intuition was one of the things that got pushed out of our psyches in favor of concrete data and proven formulas for actions and responses. It’s our intuition that tells us not to walk down that particular street even though there’s no rational reason not to. It’s our intuition that chooses the cobalt blue crayon to paint the horse’s mane with, even as our logical mind tells us that horses’ manes aren’t cobalt blue. It’s our intuition that calls us to a particular teacher’s writing class, or a class in weaving, or invites us to stop in at the corner café on the day the man you’re going to marry will walk in. It’s our intuition that tells us when it’s time to end a relationship (even though it may take our rational minds years to take action on this). It’s our intuition that helps us choose the puppy from the pound to take home or pull the book off the bookshelf that’s just right for what’s going on in your life.
It’s also your intuition that drops a character you’ve never imagined smack dab in the middle of your novel and demands that you investigate her. Sometimes this intuition is a trickster. Sometimes this intuition brings you the deepest synchronicity in your work. You won’t know its gifts until you follow it along the path.
Don’t reject your intuition because your rational mind tells you something else. Don’t have a preconceived idea in mind for a story that shuts out the surprises that inevitably surface along any writer’s path. Don’t stomp your feet and cry, “No! No! Not in my story! Not in this poem!” Back away. Listen.
As you may have already ascertained, trusting one’s intuition involves trusting one’s self, making space, and developing a relationship with your own inner teacher. If you fundamentally don’t believe that you have anything of value to tell yourself (watch this closely; you may not be aware that you believe this, but your actions and reactions demonstrate a lack of trust in yourself), then you will always be in a place of chasing outer validation. It’s risky to use your intuition to carry a novel through a first draft. After all, most of us have been well-scho
oled in how to make action plans and mission statements. We learned how to navigate the school system with its multiple-choice assessment tests and quantitative objectives.
Intuition is the magic in the writing process. The magic doesn’t come from the mountaintop. It doesn’t come from your finicky, persnickety muse who comes and goes with the wind. It doesn’t come in the form of a lightning bolt or a thunderclap. The magic comes from that still small voice within you that may be only a whisper right now, but it’s there. Listen. Listen. Find the way back to that voice, and as it recognizes your commitment to trusting it, it will become louder. Before you know it, you’ll rely first on intuition, next on hard cold data. Allow the relationship between you and your intuition to flourish by staying in open communication with it.
All the tools we’re cultivating will strengthen our relationship with our intuition. The shaking practice’s seemingly random nature helps us become more in tune with what our bodies intuitively need to release. Practicing self-observation without judgment helps us to see more authentically what is in front of us. The more old patterns, beliefs, and stories we shed, the more space we have to hear our inner voices. You’d be surprised how clear and decisive intuition is when it has room to speak. Journaling is a wonderful tool for cultivating our relationship with intuition.
Become more aware of the surprises along your writing journey. The idea you didn’t think you could possibly write about. The character who jumped out of the cake wearing a jester’s hat. The poem about a tree you’ve never actually seen in “real” life, but have dreamed over and over again.
Your intuition lends you unique insight into the world and into your writing. Let it be your guide and your companion. When it walks hand in hand with you, it will support you. When it feels ignored, it will sabotage you. Intuition is a vital part of what makes us human. Don’t disconnect from your intuition in favor of plans and outlines. Likewise, don’t dismiss the outline. Use all the tools available to you. Resist the tendency to fracture and rank things according to perceived value. A hammer is not more or less valuable than a wrench. Use everything you’ve been blessed with on this journey.
CHAPTER 27
Resistance Is Futile
Control is never achieved when sought after directly. It is the surprising outcome of letting go.
—James Arthur Ray
Writing is hard work. I can’t present an authentic book on writing that tells you it is easy. Lots of people start on the path and then turn back. Lots of people buy a journal, open it up, and then close it, lest they be blinded by the sheer brightness of the blank page. The Writing Warrior stands steady. Your practice has shown you how to discern illusion from authenticity. Your practice has taught you to trust yourself and to notice what is arising without judgment. You know this too shall pass. All you must do is show up. Try and ignore the stories and poems that are bubbling up inside you. Just try. You can shut them away with distractions. Diversions. But sooner or later, the stories in you waiting for expression will make themselves undeniably known. The path is easier if you don’t fight what you’ve been given. But know this, if you choose to walk the Writing Warrior path, you will meet resistance.
Resistance manifests as tension in the body. This is easy to see in yourself. Try to push against the outside wall of your house. You’re pushing with force (resistance) against a structure that is pushing back with exactly the same amount of resistance. Your house may not actually be moving with fingers and arms, but the energy you’re sending into the house is being absorbed and pushed back out at you. You’ll push all day and the next day and the next until you collapse. Neither of you is going anywhere. You can observe your muscles tightening, your belly constricting, your shoulders rising up to your ears as you push and push in a futile attempt to move your house with your hands. You can see this right away in your body. Resistance and tension in the body are contractions. They take up space. As you lose spaciousness within your body, you lose the ability to flow with what is occurring.
Let’s look at resistance in a philosophical way. Yes, on the surface you’re resisting the wall of your house. You want it to be in a different place than it is, so you are fighting it. But what’s underneath resistance is an unwillingness to accept the way things are. If you first tried accepting the way the wall currently is, you’d have one less boundary in the way of finding a different place for the wall. Acceptance—a surrendering to what is—will make space for you to constructively problem solve. Rather than use all your energy to fight pure strength against pure strength, accept the current reality of the situation and use that energy you would have used to fight to examine other ways of changing the scene.
Surrendering creates space. Think about your body again. When you relax into bed after a long day, you’re surrendering everything to the mattress. You’re letting go of all the holding and all the tension in your muscles, joints, and bones. You surrender that energy to the earth, and the earth returns it to you by holding you in her cradle. You are then able to take the energy the earth is giving you and use it, rather than expend it.
So what does this have to do with writing? Well, let’s look at the gazillion ways each of us likely has for resisting what is surfacing in our work. Go ahead and make a list now. OK. What did you discover?
Resistance is going to feel slightly different in each person, but for me, I feel like I’m digging my heels into the earth. I feel a contraction of the breath and a tightening of the jaw. I notice my mind beginning to attach to anything other than the next sentence in the paragraph. Wow. I should take a look at cleaning those blinds. Wonder where that book is I was planning to use for my class next semester? Do I need to order some more (fill in the blank) from (fill in the blank)? Has it been only three minutes since I last checked my e-mail? Maybe I just won the National Book Award. Wait, no I wasn’t nominated for the National Book Award. I’ll never be nominated for the National Book Award. Why doesn’t anyone appreciate my writing? I’m a terrible writer, that’s why. And so the threads spin away.
Resistance occurs for many reasons, and it’s worth exploring on your own what those reasons might be so you can better recognize them. But underneath that initial resistance lies a fear. The fear takes control of the flow and creates a resistance, which blocks energy, contracts muscles, and then stops work.
Instead, try this. Say you’re about to write a scene in which your protagonist must get from the mailbox to her office. It’s mostly a set-up scene, but it’s important because along the way she’s going to encounter someone for the first time who will be significant later. You don’t really want to write it because the person she’s going to encounter is a loosely disguised version of your mother and you just got off the phone with her a few hours ago and you swear you’re about two seconds away from a nervous breakdown. Or the scene bores you, but you know it has to be written or people will be confused. Or you don’t yet know enough about your protagonist; for example, why does she need to get from her mailbox to the office so quickly on that particular day? What is so urgent? What is different?
Return to the idea of surrender. What is the next right thing to write? What is the next step in this character’s arc? The actual next step, not the step that you believe will get her to the next place you feel she needs to be. By writing small, by staying in intimate contact with the words on the page, you’ll maintain a place of flow. By resisting the next word, you’ll create contraction.
Don’t expend needless energy in resistance to what is surfacing. Accept what you are being given to write and be grateful for it. Many people will never have the luxury or the opportunity or even the ability to write. Don’t fight what you’re being given. Use its energy to further your own work. In this way, rather than feeling depleted by your writing, you will be filled up by it.
THE WRITING WARRIOR PRACTICE
I know you’ve heard it a thousand times before. But it’s true—hard work pays off. If you want to be good, you have to practice, practice, pract
ice. If you don’t love something, then don’t do it.
—Ray Bradbury
Part 4, Committing to Your Authentic Path, has provided you with tools for identifying and releasing illusions and obstacles on the writer’s path. We discussed softening our bodies and our inner eyes so we can view ourselves honestly without judgment. We examined the shifting nature of memory and how it affects the way we currently move in the world. Learning to trust your intuition and soften your eyes will also help you revise your work more authentically and completely. Surrendering to the work that is in front of you will release tension in your body and in your writing. Pay attention to your direct experience. Honor it completely.
We tend to experience the deepest resistance when we are about to make the biggest breakthroughs. As a Writing Warrior, stand steady. Use your tools—breathing, shaking, and writing—to dissolve blocks on your path. If you hit something during your writing process that scares you, step back, breathe deeply, and shake it loose. Return to the page cleaner and freer. Take ownership of your journey. Refuse to be a victim to writer’s block. Refuse to be chained by your own hands.
INTERNAL CONVERSATIONS
You can use the following internal conversation exercises for personal work. The deeper your relationship with yourself, the deeper your writing becomes. Feel free to use poetry or prose to respond.
Let’s practice self-observation without judgment. Sit comfortably in front of a mirror. Allow your gaze to soften as you look at yourself. Notice your thoughts. Are you judging your face? Your wrinkles? Your age spots? Notice, but don’t attach. Sit for at least ten minutes gazing at yourself. When you’re finished, free write for at least ten minutes. Then find a photograph of yourself from a different time. Sit with this photograph for a minimum of ten minutes. Let your gaze soften as you look at it. Relax your jaw. Soften your shoulders as you relate once again to this person you used to be. When you feel complete, free write for a minimum of ten minutes.
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