One of the reasons I sat down to write each morning, for years, here, was for “practice” — the discipline of daily deadlines I would set myself and the discipline of allowing first thoughts to form into words, then trimming and tweaking those words just a bit with a light edit.
I have lost that habit.
There are reasons for that loss — unimportant for the moment — but what is important, as a writer, is to reclaim my discipline. To insist on it. To practice.
To be absolutely honest, reclaiming discipline is about far more than the quality of my writing. When I am disciplined in one area of my life, I am disciplined in others. Likewise, when I am undisciplined in an aspect of activity, I struggle to stick to my guns in others. Healthy eating and daily walking come to mind as examples; these are good habits of self-care that are both controlled by and controlling of other behaviors, at least, for me.
I recognize that my recent major move has jarred routines that reinforce helpful discipline. And I have yet to establish new routines that keep me on the straight and narrow. So, I am returning to writing discipline (also “controlling” in a positive way), and I have picked up one of my favorite books, Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones,” in order to follow some of the exercises she recommends.
Goldberg’s exercises are done quickly, some as quickly as five or 10 minutes, and I am determined to do them daily. Given that I have spent much of the past year editing — something I love — but little time writing, it is a humbling process. Nonetheless it is a necessary process, as Goldberg reminds us that we all need the space to “practice” whatever it is that we wish to do well. After all, we practice the piano with scales and Hanon and repetition of challenging passages. We prepare for the half-marathon with stretching, strengthening and practice runs. We become good cooks and powerful speakers and inspiring leaders through study, training, observation, trying, failing, trying again — over time and through the doing of it. Through learning from our mistakes. Through practice.
As writers, we pick up the pen on a regular basis — or should — to tell our stories and convey our ideas, teasing the words onto the page as they initially present themselves. From there, naturally, the “real work” begins.
Essential to the process — we need to set aside the inner critic who would tsk-tsk our imperfect performance — or attempt to undermine it altogether.
The inner critic has long been a part of my life and I have always understood the source of that overreaching and disparaging voice, which doesn’t mean I haven’t battled it — her — for decades. Besides, who doesn’t have their angel on one shoulder and devil on the other? Who doesn’t battle demons that seem overpowering at certain moments, usually when we are most vulnerable? Who doesn’t carry influential negative voices in their heads? Who doesn’t fall into the trap of old, unhelpful patterns from time to time?
While I don’t intend to share my daily writing practice here, though to a large extent I did so for six years (from 2009 through 2014), I will share one five-minute morning exercise pulled from Goldberg’s book. And I remind myself, and possibly you, that while the saying “practice makes perfect” may not result in “perfect,” it certainly results in improvement.
I am also trying to remind myself that vulnerability takes courage. Showing my “practice” exercise isn’t easy for me, which is, perhaps, why I am compelling myself to do it.
One of the other benefits of this sort of exercise, writing almost unconsciously, is the revelation of recurrent themes and mood. What we find may not always please us, but it offers insight. That too may be useful not only to one’s “practice” but to other aspects of daily activity.
In fact, I did three of Goldberg’s morning exercises, devoting five minutes each. I got up and walked away for a few hours (I rise early), then came back to the exercises, selected one, and allowed myself 10 minutes of editing.
I was a little bit surprised at the results, at a certain melancholy that revealed itself despite writing on three very different topics, and that melancholic tendency is something I know I need to work on. More specifically, I need to work on the reasons for it.
My morning exercise:
Write about the quality of light coming through the window.
I see the sheers, their excess, the folds of fabric as it falls, darkening the room more than I anticipated; folds forming thickened ribbons, streams seeming to pour over each other, to weep; folds creating a veil of layers and more layers that obscure the light. I never intended to live behind these layers. I never intended to uncover tears in this new space. I only sought the privacy of an innocuous curtain for windows that are impressively tall, this view so unbroken by sill or stile that I feel as if I am floating in a fishbowl set on a city street with too little standing between my unguarded self and the outside.
The light, nonetheless, is gentle as it makes its way in, a muted, dusty shaft that travels through the glass and through the sheers and beyond the 25-year-old sofa of nubby worn cotton, the sofa my boys played on, slept on, grew up on; beyond the crimson and taupe patterned pillows that my younger son carefully arranged when he was at my side moving furniture and lifting boxes and hanging art and putting up these very curtains that now filter out more than I had hoped. He loves this space as do I, this corner of comfort and color even on a partly cloudy day like today as the sun entertains itself behind its cumulus cohorts.
Anything you are currently practicing to improve? Do you find yourself growing rusty — or possibly lazy — at certain times of the year, or for that matter, certain times in your life? How do you reclaim an activity you love? How do you reclaim your useful routines when they have gone MIA?
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