It’s good
for writers to go back to school every once in a while, even if that “school”
is an old book on technique.
Writing Down
the Bones has been around for a long time and has attracted its core of
disciples. Natalie Goldberg calls her series of exercises ". . .the practice school of
writing." (p.11) "This writing practice is also a warm up for
anything else you might want to write. . .The trust you learn in your own voice
can be directed then into a business letter, a novel, a Ph.D. dissertation, a
play, a memoir." (p. 13)
While this sounds fairly practical,
there are "out there" aspects to Goldberg's book that I find harder
to deal with. The author says things like ". . .writing does writing"
and "You accept what is and put down its truth." (pp. 45 and 46) For the down-to-earth person these kinds of
statements might sound a little “woo woo.”
For someone who earns his/her
living with the written word, doing "writing exercises" seems like a
busman's holiday. Why just play with
words when you spend your life working
with words? Why waste time writing
things you will never use when you spend so much time re-writing things you
will need?
Rather than
attempt to use Goldberg's advice as a series of separate exercises, I used some
of her techniques while re-writing a work-in-process.
Goldberg tells us to give ourselves permission to write junk and, later says
"Allow yourself to be awkward." (p. 36)
I have never really suffered from
writer's block, but I have suffered from writer's hesitation. I define this phrase as knowing what I want to say
while mentally hemming & hawing my way until the right words appear. In the
process of a rewrite I decided to allow myself to write anything, not worrying
about whether I was making the writing better. I'd been plugging along, a page
at a time and wanted to pick up some speed. I knew what the story was. I knew
what I had to say and what kind of sensory details I needed to add, but the
going was slow.
I attempted
to let myself write without self-editing. This practice was difficult as I have
for years written at a very deliberate pace, constantly adding, subtracting,
re-organizing as I work along. I used Goldberg's technique for about three
pages worth of text. And, when I reread it, I found Goldberg was right: it was junk. I didn't touch it, however, I
let it be so I could continue getting to the end. I'd allow myself to re-write
only when I got to the end of the story. Goldberg says we should let ourselves
learn to trust our own voice. After this exercise, I thought my "voice"
was pretty disorganized and rotten. Still, I've been around long enough to
realize that sometimes you have to let first impressions go. More often than
not, you can learn a thing or two. I was willing to give Natalie’s methods a
few more tries.
There is a
lot of time spent in Writing Down the
Bones, discussing Zen Buddhism, quoting this religious thinker or that, and
how their method of thought applies to writing. I found this interesting, but
not, at first, useful. I didn't want to think about spiritual beliefs, I wanted
technique, a cookbook on writing, a set of directions. Natalie Goldberg doesn't
look at her writing life in that way. So how, I wondered, could her methods
help me sort out the mess I was trying to revise?
"Writing
is not psychology. We do not talk "about" feelings. Instead the
writer feels and through her words awakens those feelings in the reader. (p.
68)
"Several
years ago I wrote down a story that someone had told me. My friends said it was
boring. I couldn't understand their reaction; I loved the story. What I realize
now I that I wrote "about" the story, secondhand. I didn’t enter it
and make friends with it. I was outside it; therefore, I couldn't take anyone
else into it. This does not mean you can't write about something you did not
actually experience firsthand; only make sure that you breathe life into it. Otherwise
it is two times removed and you are not present." (p. 69)
Here was the reminder I needed when I
revised my non-fiction. It isn't enough to simply re-tell or report a story. I
must be sure to bring the audience with me so that the reader experiences the same feelings as the
protagonist. In my case, I was writing about a sled dog team attempting to
reach the summit of Mount Washington. One sentence could tell what happened. That wouldn't bring my reader into the story. I
had to show the danger, the
challenge, the adrenaline and, even, the foolishness of the stunt. The first
way was just a sentence. The second could turn it into story.
While doing
this re-write, I was also researching a project on forensic anthropology. I
found Goldberg's advice about making the story feel "first hand" had
made me reading differently. I found new appreciation for the way in which some
of the authors brought me into their world. In Witnesses From the Grave, Christopher Joyce and Eric Stover
describe various cases forensic anthropologist Clyde Snow has examined. The
authors did a wonderful job of bringing me into Snow's story. Here they
describe a case in Brazil:
"While
his companions drowsed in the backseat [of the cab], Snow gazed out of the open
window at the passing show. In the wide doorway of a shop, boys in
sweat-stained T-shirts twisted hot glass for neon tubing into large letters. A
few blocks farther on, two bare-chested boys played on a dirt lot by an old
church, . . .sending tiny clouds of red dust into the air. . .On either side of
the road, new skyscrapers loomed, while at their curbed feet, well-dressed
business people and beggars shared the sidewalks." (Joyce, Stover, pp.
166-167)
The authors
added so much sensory detail, they practically gave me a seat in the back Clyde
Snow's cab. As you work on your projects give readers a "seat in the
cab" too. Golberg says "Writers write about things that other people
don't pay much attention to." (p.99)
But it is these mundane details that give life to story. While we might
not pay attention to the clutter surrounding us, the color of a wall, the
background noise, we are still aware of all these things. The writer's job is
to include the mundane enough to give the reader that same awareness.
One difficulty I have
is "writing through the junk." Maybe this sort of thing happens to
you, too. You have an idea for something. You know what it
should be like in the end but it takes many, many tries before you
get even close to the idea you had.
After so many years as a writer, why can't you go from idea to final
copy in one try? Why doesn't your head do all the revisions? Why do your hands have to be involved with
the middle steps at all? Goldberg offers
advice:
"Don't
worry if you come back six months later and the piece you weren't sure of turns
out to be terrible. The good parts are
already decomposing in your compost pile.
Something good will come out.
Have patience." (p. 158)
It’s a challenge
to bring your reader into the story. It’s
difficult to be patient with the process.
