| THE WRITER"S DOJO |
| There is an old Japanese saying, "bunbu ryodo" that suggests that the ways of pen and sword are the same. And I've come to believe this: the twin paths of studying martial ways and of writing have some important things in common. Certainly the lessons I've picked up in the dojo have in some ways shaped my approach to writing. This page will be devoted to sharing some ideas about the topic. Enjoy! |
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First thoughts
The Writer’s Dojo
Walking the Creative Path
You don’t do it simply because it’s hard. You do it because it’s meaningful. It requires
persistence, the mastery of skill, and a capacity for ruthless self-criticism. It’s not for
learning and the satisfaction of putting it into practice is something that’s got hold of you.
At a certain point, you don’t do it because you can; you do it instead because it has
become part of who you are.
The Writer’s Dojo
Walking the Creative Path
You don’t do it simply because it’s hard. You do it because it’s meaningful. It requires
persistence, the mastery of skill, and a capacity for ruthless self-criticism. It’s not for
learning and the satisfaction of putting it into practice is something that’s got hold of you.
At a certain point, you don’t do it because you can; you do it instead because it has
become part of who you are.
Sept 4 2011
Why Write....
Philip Schultz, the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, writes in today's New York Times, that to
learn to read and write is the human effort to find a way to be less alone.
For the writer, the craft is just that--a way to reach out, to connect with others, to take
all those images and ideas that swirl around in the head and get them out, drag them
into the light of day, and pointing, say here, here I am.... come sit beside me.
Like most complex forms of communication, writing entails some rules, some
structure--you have to be a member of the club, know its conventions and symbols, in
order to benefit. And acquiring the tools to send and receive messages in the written
medium is vitally important. Which is why teaching writing often seems to be a
painstaking process of working with people to help them clarify what they've written, to
make it conform to conventions. In the process, I sometimes see students flinch. It's
because every time I point something out that needs correcting, they are not only
experiencing the pain of trial and error, but also the real fear that they are somehow
being ejected from the club--that their overture of connectivity is being rejected.
Writing is an emotionally fraught experience because, as Schultz points out, it involves
not only an admission of our need for one another, but also the fear that we might be
left alone.
Why Write....
Philip Schultz, the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, writes in today's New York Times, that to
learn to read and write is the human effort to find a way to be less alone.
For the writer, the craft is just that--a way to reach out, to connect with others, to take
all those images and ideas that swirl around in the head and get them out, drag them
into the light of day, and pointing, say here, here I am.... come sit beside me.
Like most complex forms of communication, writing entails some rules, some
structure--you have to be a member of the club, know its conventions and symbols, in
order to benefit. And acquiring the tools to send and receive messages in the written
medium is vitally important. Which is why teaching writing often seems to be a
painstaking process of working with people to help them clarify what they've written, to
make it conform to conventions. In the process, I sometimes see students flinch. It's
because every time I point something out that needs correcting, they are not only
experiencing the pain of trial and error, but also the real fear that they are somehow
being ejected from the club--that their overture of connectivity is being rejected.
Writing is an emotionally fraught experience because, as Schultz points out, it involves
not only an admission of our need for one another, but also the fear that we might be
left alone.
September 9 2011
Bowing In
The world of the martial artist is filled with traditions and ritual actions that are meant
to symbolize obedience, fealty, submission, and humility. In kendo and many other
arts, students "bow in" and "bow out," actions that embody the internal commitment
each trainee has made to the art, its purpose and technical rules, as well as to the
authority of the sensei, or teacher. In traditional martial arts, students apprentice
themselves to a tradition and work hard to emulate their masters and to learn how to
master the elements of their art. They do this by participation, by observation, and
reflection.
Working at the writer's craft requires this same type of apprenticeship and
commitment. In the Way of the Pen, we need to master the technicalities of writing,
engaging in an apprenticeship that began with learning our ABC's and will continue
through life. Developing our skill requires a willingness to learn and obey the
conventions of written communication. We need humility and discipline to do this.
Growing as a writer requires observation as well--in this instance, seeing how other
writers have tackled the issue of how best to create effective and elegant prose. Just
as an aspiring kendo student can be instructed and inspired by the sight of kendo
match between two masters, so too can writers find models and inspiration in the
works of others. Good writers must be good (and voracious) readers.
FInally, aspiring to any type of excellence requires the willingness to engage in critical
self-reflection. We must learn to know ourselves--our strengths and
weaknesses--and be able to dispassionately assess what we write. Not particularly
fun. But it's an essential part of walking the path toward mastery.
Bowing In
The world of the martial artist is filled with traditions and ritual actions that are meant
to symbolize obedience, fealty, submission, and humility. In kendo and many other
arts, students "bow in" and "bow out," actions that embody the internal commitment
each trainee has made to the art, its purpose and technical rules, as well as to the
authority of the sensei, or teacher. In traditional martial arts, students apprentice
themselves to a tradition and work hard to emulate their masters and to learn how to
master the elements of their art. They do this by participation, by observation, and
reflection.
Working at the writer's craft requires this same type of apprenticeship and
commitment. In the Way of the Pen, we need to master the technicalities of writing,
engaging in an apprenticeship that began with learning our ABC's and will continue
through life. Developing our skill requires a willingness to learn and obey the
conventions of written communication. We need humility and discipline to do this.
Growing as a writer requires observation as well--in this instance, seeing how other
writers have tackled the issue of how best to create effective and elegant prose. Just
as an aspiring kendo student can be instructed and inspired by the sight of kendo
match between two masters, so too can writers find models and inspiration in the
works of others. Good writers must be good (and voracious) readers.
FInally, aspiring to any type of excellence requires the willingness to engage in critical
self-reflection. We must learn to know ourselves--our strengths and
weaknesses--and be able to dispassionately assess what we write. Not particularly
fun. But it's an essential part of walking the path toward mastery.
More on the Writer's Dojo Concept: Shu Ha Ri
It’s not unusual for martial artists to talk solemnly about “the Way” and how the life
lessons that have been created through training spill over into the rest of our lives.
These lessons are important ones yet, at the end of the day, they are not
unexpected ones. Even the most elemental list, while unobjectionable, is also not
terribly inspiring: things worth doing are worth doing well; the most rewarding things
in life are often ones that require time and effort and delayed gratification; you can
always do better; and no matter what your level of accomplishment, you should
always stay humble.
Good lessons. Important lessons. But so global in scope that it’s hard to see how
exactly the application of them works.
So I’d like to explore a concrete example from my own life where the lessons and
approaches I’ve gleaned from my lackluster martial arts history have helped me in
an unexpected area of my life.
I do martial arts. I’ve been doing them for more than thirty years (as the various
uniforms, colored belts, pads, armor and archaic weapons scattered around my
house suggest). And I also write. At first it was the purely academic prose that my
professional life as an academic entailed. But over the last decade or so, I’ve been
writing fiction. And as I embarked on that new and different (and terribly fun)
adventure, I’ve had to learn some things. I’ve had to practice. I’ve looked for writers
to inspire me. I’ve had to get used to criticism from readers and rejections from more
agents and publishers than I care to remember. I’ve had to think about what I’m
doing, and how I’m doing it, and why.
So: hope, effort, practice, discomfort, humiliation. It was, perhaps, inevitable that the
process I would adopt as a writer seemed to have many parallels to my life in the
dojo.
The most compact way to illustrate this is through the training adage common to
traditional Japanese martial arts: shu-ha-ri. It’s a shorthand phrase designed to
describe the phases of mastery.
It’s not unusual for martial artists to talk solemnly about “the Way” and how the life
lessons that have been created through training spill over into the rest of our lives.
These lessons are important ones yet, at the end of the day, they are not
unexpected ones. Even the most elemental list, while unobjectionable, is also not
terribly inspiring: things worth doing are worth doing well; the most rewarding things
in life are often ones that require time and effort and delayed gratification; you can
always do better; and no matter what your level of accomplishment, you should
always stay humble.
Good lessons. Important lessons. But so global in scope that it’s hard to see how
exactly the application of them works.
So I’d like to explore a concrete example from my own life where the lessons and
approaches I’ve gleaned from my lackluster martial arts history have helped me in
an unexpected area of my life.
I do martial arts. I’ve been doing them for more than thirty years (as the various
uniforms, colored belts, pads, armor and archaic weapons scattered around my
house suggest). And I also write. At first it was the purely academic prose that my
professional life as an academic entailed. But over the last decade or so, I’ve been
writing fiction. And as I embarked on that new and different (and terribly fun)
adventure, I’ve had to learn some things. I’ve had to practice. I’ve looked for writers
to inspire me. I’ve had to get used to criticism from readers and rejections from more
agents and publishers than I care to remember. I’ve had to think about what I’m
doing, and how I’m doing it, and why.
So: hope, effort, practice, discomfort, humiliation. It was, perhaps, inevitable that the
process I would adopt as a writer seemed to have many parallels to my life in the
dojo.
The most compact way to illustrate this is through the training adage common to
traditional Japanese martial arts: shu-ha-ri. It’s a shorthand phrase designed to
describe the phases of mastery.
Note: the posts are chronological--scroll down for new posts
Sept. 22, 2011
Shu
Shu is the first phase. The word itself means “to obey.” In the martial arts context, it
obviously refers to the need to follow the instructions of your teacher. But in a
larger sense, it also suggests the need to bend your will to the dictates of the
system you study. Those of us who have spent any amount of time in the martial
arts are familiar with the “dojo rangers” who travel from one school to another. They
claim they are there to learn new things, but often seem to spend a great deal of
time pointing out that “so and so chambers the punch this way” or “my old teacher
told us to lift the back heel in the front stance when punching” or a thousand other
observations. They may be trying to impress us all with their vast knowledge and
experience, but really, all they’re doing is wasting valuable training time. And, of
course, missing out on whatever is being taught. One of Donohue’s basic dojo
rules: “you learn best when the eyes and ears are open and the mouth is shut.”
Shu, then, involves the capacity for humility, of admitting that someone may have
something important to teach and (most importantly) that you need to be taught.
Writing, it seems to me is very much a “shu event.” Since we’re all pretty good at
talking, and since it flows naturally and spontaneously, many writers I come across
in my work as a teacher approach the written word as if they were talking. What
they fail to notice is that the structure and conventions of writing are different from
the spoken word. Writing is linked to speech in many ways, but its form and
conventions are different.
And, most importantly, they must be obeyed if you are to develop as an effective
writer. The writer’s world is a type of dojo: it’s devoted to an important human
activity, it requires study and practice and conformity to the system. You are, of
course, certainly free not to conform. But not here. A writer who fails to master the
rudiments of the system is not a writer at all and has no place in this dojo.
Shu
Shu is the first phase. The word itself means “to obey.” In the martial arts context, it
obviously refers to the need to follow the instructions of your teacher. But in a
larger sense, it also suggests the need to bend your will to the dictates of the
system you study. Those of us who have spent any amount of time in the martial
arts are familiar with the “dojo rangers” who travel from one school to another. They
claim they are there to learn new things, but often seem to spend a great deal of
time pointing out that “so and so chambers the punch this way” or “my old teacher
told us to lift the back heel in the front stance when punching” or a thousand other
observations. They may be trying to impress us all with their vast knowledge and
experience, but really, all they’re doing is wasting valuable training time. And, of
course, missing out on whatever is being taught. One of Donohue’s basic dojo
rules: “you learn best when the eyes and ears are open and the mouth is shut.”
Shu, then, involves the capacity for humility, of admitting that someone may have
something important to teach and (most importantly) that you need to be taught.
Writing, it seems to me is very much a “shu event.” Since we’re all pretty good at
talking, and since it flows naturally and spontaneously, many writers I come across
in my work as a teacher approach the written word as if they were talking. What
they fail to notice is that the structure and conventions of writing are different from
the spoken word. Writing is linked to speech in many ways, but its form and
conventions are different.
And, most importantly, they must be obeyed if you are to develop as an effective
writer. The writer’s world is a type of dojo: it’s devoted to an important human
activity, it requires study and practice and conformity to the system. You are, of
course, certainly free not to conform. But not here. A writer who fails to master the
rudiments of the system is not a writer at all and has no place in this dojo.
Sept. 29, 2011
Ha
Ha is the next phase of the learning process. It means “break.” Here we find one of
celebration of conundrum. If we invest tremendous time and effort into the mastery
of form and technique suggested by shu, what then are we to make of a
subsequent phase that insists that we “break” something. Break the rules? I
thought they were to be obeyed. And so they are. Unless, of course, you knowingly
violate them for a greater purpose.
In the martial arts context ha suggests not so much a violation (breaking the rules)
as an event that leads you to a deeper understanding of what the ultimate purpose
of your activity is. A master craftsman stringing together a set of pearls must focus
on each pearl as she sets them on a string. Each is important, and care must be
used in setting the individual pearl in its place on the necklace. But certainly this is
not the point of the action. The point is to create a thing of beauty that is meant to
be worn and viewed with appreciation.
So in the dojo, my mechanical focus on the niceties of stance in the forms known
as kata may make my performance technically correct but may also make it seem
stilted, robotic, without the flow that gives a truly great kata performance its beauty
and emotional resonance.
So, too, with writing. We need to exhibit care in how we write, but sometimes the
larger purpose may dictate that we focus more on the end point than on the rules.
So in a piece of fiction, I may create a sentence fragment for purposes of impact or
rhythm. It’s a violation of the technical rules or writing. It’s an error that is often
found in hundreds of student essays. And it’s wrong. The difference between the
student errors and my use is that I know I’m breaking the rule (having experienced
shu) and am doing it for a reason, while the students in question are simply making
an error in grammar.
Ha is about making the music of writing. It's about rhythm and pacing, the end
process of practice and experience, of careful selection and thought that, despite
the deliberation, comes alive at the performance. Ha is what you get when the
rules and techniques of Shu fit on you like a second skin. At this point, the rules of
writing are no longer something to be obeyed. They become part of you and part
of what you do. Thus, the elements of Shu no longer dictate to you--in a very Zen
way, there is no separation between the self and the conventions of writing.
Ha is what is involved at the moment when craft also becomes art.
Ri
Ri refers to freedom. It forms part of the word randori in judo, the “free fighting”
that forms such an integral part in training in that art. Ri is meant to suggest an
elegant integration of skills, a smooth, seemingly effortless flow that is the
hallmark of a master. The idea behind ri is that the individual internalizes the
lessons of shu until they are second nature, then has the breakthrough moment
of ha, and finally reaches a place where things simply flow. Watching a great
martial arts master go through his paces, seeing the confident fluidity in the
performance and noting as well how the master imparts a certain distinctive
original flair is a “ri event.”
So too with great writers. They’ve internalized the conventions of their craft, they’
ve learned to ply the various techniques to great effect and, in the end, they do
it in original and distinctive ways. They’re playing by the rules of the craft at the
same time that they’re pushing at the boundaries (or even breaking) the rules.
These are also ri events. And it’s this quality that makes good writing memorable
and makes us hunger for more.
Ri is the concrete manifestation of our hope for transformation and our faith in
the human capacity for something greater than the individual.
So when I think about writing, I think about it like a martial artist. I think about
shu, ha, and ri.
In my life, there’s a lot of shu. Occasional moments of ha.
Ri is another story. But I keep writing. I keep trying. Being an author, I find, is just
like being a martial artist. I’m walking a path that has many goals but no end.
So. Back to the dojo.