Writing from the Inside Out (4 page)

In Wolfram von Eschenbach's story of the quest for the holy grail, the hero, Parzival, at last comes upon the grail castle not through the force of his own will, and not by any map, but by allowing his horse to lead him there. As is the case with the archetype of the hero, Parzival begins his life's quest as the fool and succeeds not by his knightly training, not through his worldly conditioning, but through the volition of his innate nature in the midst of everything else. The metaphor of the horse serves well as a symbol of the subconscious. Questing wholeheartedly, I create, and what I express may carry my signature — yet is, in truth, part of something that does not begin or end when I do. Seeing writing as a practice makes me more attentive to that higher and deeper truth moving through all things.

Devotion to a practice makes me take responsibility for self-realization, which means I can no longer claim that realization is limited to me by external factors. By numbing out and closing off to what nature calls me to express, I suffer — and I produce more suffering in the world. I really need to surrender to the inner call to be wholly alive in what is truly my practice and not be limited by the outward form of that practice.

The grail castle only appears to those whom it deems worthy, and the rule is that the castle will only appear a single time. Yet Parzival was a guest in the grail castle twice. The first time, he failed at the quest, because he obeyed his social conditioning rather than the call of his innate nature. The castle appeared to him again — but he was not acting as the same person he was before. The second time, he succeeded at the quest, because he was not attached to the nonaction that was socially encouraged. Compassion moved him.

A similar paradigm shift can be found in a story from the Zen tradition known as the Ten Bull Woodcuts, which is told in verse accompanied by ten woodcut illustrations. The main character is on a quest to tame a bull (the mind). Originally, and for a long time, the story was told using only seven woodcuts. The story concluded at the seventh image, where the bull is subdued and brought back to the monk's house in the wilderness, where he meditates in tranquility. Then the tradition changed, and it became clear that there was a larger story to tell. The larger story was not finished at the conquest — more needed to be overcome. So, three frames were added after the old ending, and the story arc changed. The new story ends with a return to society. Thus, our perception of what constitutes true resolution was enlarged. It could have concluded earlier, but the larger story — the one that transcends the self — hadn't been told.

 

 

Creation is a continual act; I can look outside and see it. Plants grow and change form, seasons come and pass, and change brings new activity. Nature continually bears fruit. Looking within, I see the same nature that I see on the outside. At the moment of recognition, I am drawn to taking responsibility for creative action. Am I breathing life into my highest truth? Every act is a potentially artful one. Just what constitutes art is open to debate, and the debate, undertaken courageously and sincerely, makes art more resonant.

I face a page in every moment. Even filling the page with words, I find that more can be written. I can look at creation in one sense and see that I have no alternative. I am here; nature is as it is. The fullest experience requires that I come to terms with that. I experience freedom only in taking action toward liberation. Picking up the pen does not require self-conscious thought. A life of inevitable meditation is the artistic path. In a Romantic sense, we are all artists. What emerges could not have been known before the moment of expression. It is fresh, and nothing will ever be the same again.

I listened to a recording of Lead Belly playing “Little Liza Jane.” In the recording, Lead Belly was informed that someone had recently made a record of that very song. Lead Belly's response was “No, not like that.” I never tracked down the recording spoken of by the interviewer. I didn't need to hear it to be able to agree with Lead Belly.

Years ago when I was a student, I was working late in a ceramics class. Just the custodian and I were in the studio. I was applying some glaze to a bowl I had made. I placed the bowl onto a shelf to await firing in the kiln. Several other bowls were on the shelf. Our assignment had been to make a bowl of a certain size. I was looking at the others and mine when the custodian approached. He answered my thought: “I see a lot of students here working and wondering whether their piece looks different than all the rest. They're all unique — I appreciate seeing any of these pieces on display. They're all unique and carry the artist's signature because they made it — even when they try to do the assignment perfectly and make it exactly according to design, it really is their own.”

So much for the idea that everything has already been done. The custodian was right. Even without trying, I have a unique style, and the more sensitively I follow my interests, the more that style gets brought out. The painter Marty Avrett said, “Any time you sit down to do something, it may be the most important thing you've ever done.” Having that awareness opens me to a wider truth. Each new thing that I write might be the most important thing I've ever done. Also, it may not end up being so important after all, and that, too, is freeing. Acknowledging that I can't know the result in advance, it's my responsibility to pay attention, get loose, and have fun.

Frustration, worry, anxiety, and judgment all have to take the back seat. There's no getting anywhere when judgment is at the forefront. I can only judge a thing after it's made. When I try and judge in advance, I prevent free-flowing expression. Maybe it will end up for the best — maybe it won't. Often it will exceed the wildest abilities of my own judgment, and all that's left is to witness with appreciation and curiosity something well beyond myself.

Judgment, criticism, and anger will never actually go away, but I can relegate them to their proper place. When I do that, these motives reveal that they are actually powerful tools. Judgment in the back seat means that as I'm writing and creating, I listen to maybe 3% of my internal critic and no more. The critical part of me is watching, and may desire to be the driver, but that desire to be the driver simply creates more energy for witnessing the actual moment of creation. If — for some reason — I'm headed for a ravine, the critic speaks so loudly that I will be able to take that into account even at only 3% volume. What the critic competes with is the still, small voice.

It's good to think about whom I am writing to, whom I am writing for — but it's also valuable to remember that I am simply writing. Sometimes I am talking precisely through the letters at the ends of my fingertips, and sometimes I am all wagging tongue and funny voice. Within the precise moment, I more or less consciously give shape to thoughts and feelings and lay them out on the page. They're there, recorded in a form that is durable and can be read later — and, through being read, experienced anew.

We've come a long way since stone tablets. Still, writing is a durable record of the shape of thoughts. Even the thoughts we think and the manner in which we record them can be artful. Nothing is better than being devoted to unbounded realization, giving form to that loyalty in writing and in life.

Great writing begins with movements of the mind and hand, unconstrained by style, form, or even expectation, unburdened by self-representation or importance. Because the creative moment is unconditioned, I can't know what will be represented, but I should trust that when I am heartfelt, the work will express the moment's truth.

When I embody the unconstrained writer, spontaneously and upon revision, I trust the reader, trust the process, trust the brain's ability to form useful patterns. As the unconstrained writer, I trust my heart's ability to express, to transcend the perceived limitations of form or function. Unburdened writing is prolific writing.

The transformation into unconstraint takes faith. I get better as a writer by employing useful criticism. I need to know what to make of the material I produce. But, first, there must be enough material to survive critique. The goal is to produce enlivened, energetic, original, creative work. It's good to envision perfection not as the absence of flaws but as the presence of something original.

The emotions propel and sustain me far better than the intellect does. It's more valuable to improve the best parts of work than to focus on parts that aren't working, better to try something strange and interesting than to dwell on preconceived notions of what defines a successful piece of writing.

I am told time and time again that writing is hard work. Of course writing can be very hard work, but it will never be the same as digging ditches. Ideally, the challenges of writing don't feel like a burden. It is best when any work — whether ditch digging or phrase turning — is so fulfilling that I am compelled to work hard at it.

My editorial ego usually wants to assert itself by deleting material, or preventing the material from ever being written. As a writer, there is really no sense in letting my internal editor have its way. Instead, I remember that the editorial or critical ego is potentially the greatest service to the creative impulse. My drive to criticize can ultimately lead me to being my most productive; in fact, the work I produce can only get better when the impulse to create is informed and guided by my internal critic. The critic wants to have fun, and the creator wants to be directed to where the stakes are high.

During creation, the primary force at work is the chaotic, the uncontainable. Its opposite, the formed, the boundaried, the conscious, is most admirable when it is not believed to be the final truth. I have within my capable reach the force of the sublime domain of madness and music.