| John Donohue Writing about culture, identity, and action |
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| 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! |
Why Write....
Philip Schultz, the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, writes in the Sept. 4, 2011 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
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.
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.
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.
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.
MORE.....
Philip Schultz, the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, writes in the Sept. 4, 2011 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
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.
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.
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.
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.
MORE.....