The Gray Rock: Ambivalence and the Writing Process




Christine Little-English

 

The ability to write will lead to an ambivalence about doing it.

This phenomena is positive since it means that there isn’t a sharp dualism in the act of writing. It is neither terrific nor frightening to be engaged in writing; to write constitutes neither a success nor a potential failure. Writing is simply an act one does, something I am doing. It is a motion in time. It is as beautiful and as basic as mindfully breathing.

It is an ambivalent productivity.

The trick about experiencing this state of ambivalent productivity is that you can become doubtful of the writing because it doesn’t contain that outburst of joy and relief you might expect. You might even want those emotional sensations as a sort of reward for all your struggle. Additionally, you can start believing that what you're writing is worthless or boring because some excitement is not accompanying the ability to write. Your perception of the content of your work can be negatively affected.

It is crucial to not expect that a sensation of thrill will accompany your sudden ability to write.

It’s especially important to remember this idea after a period of time has passed in which you were (seemingly) unable to write anything.

Another quality must fuel the ability to continue the writing project: the acceptance of the way things are being expressed and a belief in the goodness of that communication. If you are entertaining the added thought that you expect a thrill, you are detracting from the writing. Any thoughts of ambition, excitement, or even disappointment are extraneous material which lessens a concentrated experience of writing. Zen master Suzuki wrote, “when you do something, you should do it with your whole body and mind; you should be concentrated on what you do. You should do it completely, like a good bonfire.”

Sometimes after a difficult stretch in which writing does not happen to my satisfaction, I have had to remind myself that what is important is to not become excited about this reappearance of my ability to write.

Instead, I should use equanimity and see how in the moment, writing is the necessary thing to do. By necessary, I do not mean that writing is special or virtuous, but instead that it is the activity which is just happening right now. Its happening is linked inextricably with that moment.

When we realize the naturalness of writing to the particular moment in our lives, we are completely absorbed by the task. We forget all worries, personal or those explicitly related to our writing goals. Hours pass. Writing hardly exhausts us because we are so at peace with it. To be exhausted by writing would be as nonsensical as being tired from just sitting in a chair.

Choices arise naturally, such as whether to add this sentence or delete that adjective.

Our hands feel warm leaning on the alphabet of the keyboard. It is often at such writing moments that totally unexpected new material and ideas arise. This is when we start to feel “inspired.” We can begin whole new creative directions after achieving ambivalence and calm in writing.

The risk is that we can overvalue this calming process in itself. We can falsely fixate upon trying to achieve calm as a vehicle to write. When writers rely on routines or addiction in order to stimulate a prolific experience, they are essentially trying to recreate that inner calm and ambivalence. To do so will inevitably cause the opposite effect, leaving the writer blocked and frustrated.

New Year Wishes For Your Writing



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Best wishes to you and your writing in this New Year.

May every moment of writing for you be a fresh arising,

may every breath be its own book,

and may you dwell in possibility.

Flux



Pink Sherbert Photography
 

Our real environment—one of of constant change—works for us as writers, not against us.

One of the main tasks of mindful writing involves accepting changes in your writing experience along the way.

Nothing stays the same. Mindful writing is built upon the premise of groundlessness. Everything is in flux; everything is impermanent: even writing ability, even writing blocks.

Your feelings about your writing are constantly changing in subtle or not so subtle ways.

Instead of becoming locked into a death grip with one type of feeling about your writing—whether it’s a pessimistic or optimisitic view—let that feeling happen without judgment and fear and just watch how the feeling fluctuates.

If we hold on to a particular view of our writing, we will eventually suffer. Suffering in the Buddhist sense is caused by not admitting impermanence. For writers, that suffering takes the form of what we call a "writer's block." (I define "writer's block" as an inattention to the Present moment and specifically a lack of acceptance of the impermanence of the Present moment.)

I find that my perception of my own writing varies tremendously.

On some days, I am filled with bouyancy and confidence that what I am writing is worthwhile. Just the next day, I may find myself thinking, “What right do I have to be writing about this topic? What do I know?” I may really like a piece I've just finished and a week later have doubts. Or I may be excited at the prospect of a long weekend to do more writing but then only find myself distracted by plans with my family once I'm actually sitting at my desk.

Trying to replicate a positive writing experience will only last so long as well. Writers are notorious for their superstitions and repetitive working habits: these are strategies to gain some (false) semblance of control over impermanence.

Throughout my writing career, I have found that any gimic I cling to eventually leaves me high & dry upon a beach of blank thought.

In contrast, if I train myself to return to the Present in those times and watch it with acceptance, I invariably find myself in a better day of writing. It may take a few days or even a week, but the next change (one I welcome or would select) does happen.

Many scholars on writing (Peter Elbow, Linda Flower and John Hayes, Keith Hjortshoj, Don Murray, Sondra Perl, Mike Rose just to name a few) have emphasized the recursivity of the writing experience. That is, they have usefully drawn our attention to the time line of writing, pointing out how people engaged in composing a text regularly "loop" around through the different parts of writing--inventing, drafting, rewriting, editing, etc. Broadly speaking, scholars have argued against a linear view of the writing process.

What I am suggesting is a finer grained notion of the time involved in the act of writing. Micro-beats instead of macro-beats. We should pay attention to changes not just in large phases of the writing process (for instance, how a writer might return to drafting after a stretch of editing) but also look at the moment by moment changes.

Our real environment—one of of constant change—works for us as writers, not against us.

 

Already Perfect

zigazou 76
 


"So to be a human being is to be a Buddha. Buddha nature is just another name for human nature, our true human nature. Thus even though you do not do anything, you are actually doing something. You are expressing yourself. You are expressing your true nature."
          —Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind

What would it be like—what arises in your thoughts—if I said that what you are as a writer is already wonderful, already Buddha? If your writing was “perfect as it is,” right now? 

What would it be like to write if there was no need to change anything about you as a writer?

In part, this is a question about our discursive thinking—or how we self-talk about our writing ability and our current writing projects.

Many people maintain potent preconceptions about their writing ability, and the idea that they are already perfect writers can be startling to them.

Basically, the notion that they are perfect writers heightens their self-talk. The notion makes their normal discursive thinking about their writing more obvious: all-caps and on a billboard rather than naturalized as a background murmur.

Few of us know what is like to cease trying to change ourselves as writers.

We carry around a burden of a wish that we were different. It can be refreshing to suddenly be in accord with the Present as opposed to, well, always being in opposition to it.

Dropping that constant push to be other-than-yourself-as-a-writer provides a whole different type of energy about the act of writing. It's a knapsack made of stone that you may have carried around for years without even noticing it.

This is also an exercise in developing maitri or an acceptance of ourselves and what arises in our inner states.

Again: What would it be like—what would arise in your thoughts right now—if what you are as a writer is already wonderful, already Buddha? If your writing was “perfect as it is” right now?

Jot down observations:

What images pass over your mind when I say this?

Breathe into these images. Follow them. What do you notice?

What emotions are you feeling when I say this?

What color is one of those emotions?

Breathe into this emotion. Follow it. What do you notice?
 

The Looming Genre Cliff: A Reflection

Ben 124
 

The Looming Genre Cliff

This morning, I'm starting a brand-new writing project—one that's in a different genre than my usual—and I’m experiencing all sorts of emotional turbulence. It’s helping me remember what it is like to have a writing block. Puts me in touch with what others who are facing writing blocks—what they might be feeling.

The fear. The sense of standing at the edge of a glass wave that's also a sort of cliff.

This fear of the unknown is compounded by all sorts of predetermined thoughts I might hold about that new not-yet-written piece: daydreams of outcome, reactions of as-of-yet non-existent audiences. I’m even anticipating my own pleasure at the contemplation of a final version of this writing project.

Those are the (mostly) pleasant thoughts.

Then there’s the fact that my pulse is elevated and my breathing constricted.

I’m anxious. This situation heightens the inner conversation I am having about my writing ability and writing quality. What normally hums non-stop behind the scenes at inaudible levels is now vibrating and in bold letters.

Any noise (someone coughing in the household, the branch of heavy black footsteps overhead) is a spike in irritation because it makes me more aware of standing on this precipice between writing and not-writing. Also, those disturbances increase the volume of my inner talk about my current writing situation.

But, hey, I’ve recently been looking for something to shake me out of my lassitude with poetry. I’m done writing 95% of my next book. No longer invested in the invention phase for the manuscript, my energies had tilted toward editing and sculpting it for readers. I can’t dwell any longer in the creating phase for this book; it’s almost as though I’m being forced out of its space.

Well, starting a new genre and a new project has definitely taken the lethargy out of me (Evidence A: rapid pulse staring at screen).

I think this is happening to me because I've got a nice routine established.  By having a morning poetry practice (which I probably do 360 days out of the year), I've established a comfortable way to re-engage my inner voice each day for the purposes of this type of writing. The pens and notebook I use, the coffee I make, the sequence of events that gets me to my writing desk fifteen minutes after waking up.

With this new genre, I'm mainly noticing my discomfort, but I appreciate this situation. I’m not going to push this discomfort away. Instead, I’ll stand at the edge of this genre cliff and observe, watching my breath, and observe.

Build-A-Poem



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Build-A-Poem Workshop

[To become aware of our discursive thinking around the act of writing, we do a“Build-a-Poem” activity through a series of steps and discuss each stage of the experience.]

Many of us are not aware of the messages with which we bombard ourselves when we’re writing. We’re not aware of how much we try to predetermine our writing experience and outcome.

Discursive thinking refers here to the self-talk we engage in: that constant sorting of experience into good, bad, neutral. It’s a type of inner talk or inner rhetoric that carries tremendous influence, as Jean Nienkamp among others has pointed out. We frequently persuade ourselves through our self-talk without realizing it.

What follows is an activity I’ve used with students and when giving talks to help people become more aware of their own discursive thinking around the act of writing. (I've left quite a bit of page space between each step; try not to scroll ahead beyond the asterisk until you've jotted down the current line.)

Step One: After opening a blank screen or finding a scrap of paper and pen, take a moment to get comfortable. Observe your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

*

So you’re about to write a poem. Right now. Within the next 3 minutes.

Step Two: For a minute jot down your reactions to what I just said—to the fact that you’re about to write a poem: any reactions.

I purposefully selected poetry because most people have strong reactions to this genre. (I've heard grown people groan at the prospect of a poem.) The idea of an upcoming experience with poetry arouses a whole gamut of emotions and associations from the past.

The reactions you wrote down constitute your discursive thought about this upcoming act of writing.

Step Three: Watching your breathing, come up with a line for each of the prompts I’ll give you. Write down whatever comes to mind, not worrying about quality or audience. Try not to read ahead to upcoming prompts—just spend 30 seconds on each and move on. Each prompt provides the next line.

First line: Think of an emotion you’ve recently felt and compare it to an object in nature using either a metaphor or a simile.

*

Second line: Describe that natural object using one of the senses.

*

Third line: Use a list (you decide what goes in the list).

*

Fourth line: Zoom-in real close to the natural object and describe something microscopically.

*

Fifth line: Something in the background to this natural object is pointing to another emotion you experience. What is it?

*

Sixth line: What’s the weather or climate around this natural object?

*

Seventh line: Something lies within a few feet of this object. It’s an item you haven’t seen since your childhood. What is it?

*

Eighth line: Use a simile (you decide what goes in the simile).

*

Ninth line: There’s a shadow lying on the ground. It belongs to a person you wish you could speak to again. What’s interesting about the shadow?

*

Tenth line: Something is about to change in the setting around this natural object. What is it?

Read through your poem.

(Feel free to share your poem by commenting to this post or email it to me. I'd love to read it.)
 

You wrote this poem in a short span of time. You had no concept of this poem ten minutes ago, and the poem has been relatively unaffected by predetermined thinking. It arose in the moment. It is emblematic of all that can arise in each moment. Did you think you could write a poem like this? Who knows what your next idea or sentence will look like? Take a moment to jot down the thoughts which are passing through your mind right now about writing.

 

 

An Experiment with Post-Its and Other Materials

 

[This post continues conversations about the material dimensions of writing from my October posts.]

Building the Pile:

An exercise I’ve done with students in my writer’s block course involves asking them to bring several different types of paper and writing implements to class.

These materials are heaped on a table.

The heap should include a real variety of paper—be sure to include“marred” paper such as crumbled sheets from the recycling bin--as well as cardboard, fancy paper, a rejection note, the backs of envelopes, newspaper, and, of course, Post-Its. Any type of paper will do. Likewise, the heap should contain a range of writing implements—Magic Markers, crayons, mechanical pencils, cheap pens, fountain pens, red pens, green pens, stubby carpenter pencils, pens you hate to use, pens you love to use.

(I once used this exercise with students who were Industrial Design and Architecture majors, and they contributed an interesting assortment of graph paper and precision drawing pens.)

It’s helpful to do this with other people because an element of chance is introduced. They bring in writing materials that you have to deal with: ones you don’t pick or predetermine.

Freewrite:

Next, freewrite for at least 15-20 minutes, picking up new types of paper when one is filled and switching pens and pencils every few minutes.

What Can Happen:

Look out for the moment in which the physical conditions of writing (those variegated materials) make you start to see your writing. When I say "see," I mean literally seeing the writing as an object coming into existence a few inches from your eyes.

Then look out for the moment in which that seeing of your writing brings a certain calm, a certain grounded and whole feeling. It's the feeling of being mindful, of being clicked into place into the Present moment.

You become a watcher—an audience for your own production of words. (You are in essence mindful, watching the words arise and change.) Everything slows down. There’s a sense of calm, peace, even a state of grace when watching one’s writing.

Why This Works:

I have noticed that when I am writing and it’s going well, when I come up with ideas that interest me, I often switch materials (using, for instance, a different colored pen). My handwriting also often changes—big rounded letters that to me are like drawing more than writing become compact and tiny in a sort of sneak attack, an ambush toward a finished document.

Other people might change the appearance of their writing by suddenly using ALL CAPS when they've found an idea.

What's happening in either case is that a person's relation to their words has changed. Rather than treating the material conditions of writing as invisible, the person changes those conditions (typeface, color of pen) to be in-sync with their changed relationship to words. The physical realities of writing in the moment are called upon to express what's going on in that moment.

The FULL SENSORY EXPERIENCE OF WRITING is important (something that I'll discuss in a later post). We should hear and see our writing while it happens.

The point for now is that writing with sundry materials (heap of paper types and pens) basically simulates the experience of finding an idea and wanting the physical language to reflect the fact that we have found something good.

Writing with mixed materials also heightens our awareness of the present circumstances of writing. We can't help but notice more the act of writing in the moment as our pen pressure and color changes and as the paper type forces us to notice how its texture is different than the previous type.

As a result, our attention is drawn to the moment and away from monkey-mind thoughts about the future (such as about imaginary audiences). The effect is similar to drawing one's attention for the first time all day to one's breathing: suddenly, we are Here and Now, and so are our ideas.