This last couple of months I’ve had the great privilege of taking once again the online course based on Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down The Bones. It’s made up of a self-paced sequence of videos and readings, with additional live sessions for writing collectively. Most of the live writes had 250-300 people attending, or more. I first took it last year, and this year I signed up to take part in the live sessions (a kind offering from Shambhala Publications).

Every Wednesday and Saturday I sat and wrote off a couple of ten-minute prompts, and then I read out what I wrote to complete strangers in Portland, in New Mexico, in West Yorkshire, in New York State, in Boulder. And then I listened to their writing, and by the end of the session we were no longer complete strangers. It was some of the most special and precious writing I’ve ever heard, or read. Raw, real, true, intimate. Writing is, after all, about far more than being published.

One great feature is Natalie’s presence – even in those videos her spirit and attitude and emotional intelligence are infectious. The live writes were led by a group of wonderful facilitators who’ve worked with Natalie for years, but Natalie also came to some of them, and in addition she hosted three live Q&A sessions herself. It was a delight to see her field questions – direct, quick, wise, funny, generous, sometimes heartbreaking. No wonder she has so many fans.

In addition to Writing Down The Bones, I’d read others of her books before – Wild Mind, Thunder and Lightning, Old Friend From Far Away, Banana Rose – and I’ve been reading a few others recently: Long Quiet Highway, Living Color, The True Secret of Writing, The Great Spring. During these months of quarantine, when I’ve often found it hard to lose myself in a book, Natalie has been great company. Her voice, her concerns, her perceptions. Everyday life, straight talking. Those zen ideas of waking up, of following the mind, of being present. During a time when so much else feels trivial or scary or tedious, Natalie’s writing just feels REAL. I highly recommend anything that she’s written, and not just for writers. Again, Natalie is in all of her work: present.

And she is a phenomenal teacher. I once saw her read at the Boulder Book Store, and she said something I’ll always remember: ‘I think I’m a good writer, but I’m a great teacher.’  The self-insight and honesty of that statement struck me then and strikes me now. I think she is a great writer – a great communicator.

In the online class, as in her in-person workshops, Natalie’s prompted writes have simple rules. Don’t stop, keep the pen moving, don’t cross out, use whatever flashes in your mind – follow the mind, the ‘yooman mind’ as Natalie says, and write it down.

Also: feel free to write the worst crap in America (or Twickenham). I don’t believe in crap in writing, anyway. (Crap in published writing: that’s another matter.) This frees you to write authentically, and explore things on the page without self-consciousness. This is about writing freely, instinctively. This is about writing as a practice.

There are many, many gifts for us in Natalie’s work, but something I took away this time was the idea of sharing our writing without feedback.

When we went into our breakout sessions, we were instructed simply to listen, and then to say thank you, and that was that. (Sometimes you do simple acts of recall, recollecting simple details or impressions created in the writing – this can be one of the most useful pieces of feedback of all.)

This idea of not getting feedback on your writing runs counter to various models of writing workshops, especially in academic and professional contexts, where workshops are often founded on the idea of a dozen or so writers sharing work and then getting feedback one by one. Some workshops have strict guidelines: the writer with work under discussion cannot speak; timed sections of feedback; the word ‘flow’ cannot be used (yes, I’ve heard of that one).

Which is fantastic when it goes well. Deadlines produce work. Your writing is tested on readers. Valuable insights are given, and lessons are learned. A manuscript is revised. Creative community and genuine friendships are made. Sometimes manuscripts turn out to match the tastes and interest of agents and publishers, as well as the market. Happy writer becomes happy author, with happy readers.

But workshops and writing groups can have downsides. (1) Committee mind. Or love-ins. And (2) half-cooked feedback, sometimes made on the basis of the speaker needing to say something, rather than something needing to be said. And (3) half-cooked writing – the writing itself is often shared far too soon for any sort of valuable editorial input. Which can all end up a bit (4) fraying and dispiriting. No wonder writers such as Lucy Ellmann and Todd McEwen and Anis Shivani are so critical of workshops, and periodically culture sections reheat articles on the merits of the MA/MFA in creative writing.

There are other ways to organise workshops or feedback, though; Bhanu Kapil, for example, gets writers in her workshops to work in smaller ‘pods’ of three, which can be more fruitful for meaningful and manageable exchanges. Susan Bell, in The Artful Edit, encourages writers to find writing partners with whom you can exchange work, and many writers prefer to work one on one in that way. Many successful writing groups see writers offering supportive and helpful feedback.

But, too, this Natalie Goldberg rule of No Feedback really gave me pause.

Of course we get feedback on our drafts along the way, and of course we need cheerleaders. But I realised: when and where that feedback comes is vital, as is opening yourself to what comes out of writing when it’s freed of a particular outcome. I’ve blogged about getting feedback before.

What was so powerful about the Writing Down The Bones reads was that the act of listening was emphasised. Listening to other people. Simply listening to people express themselves. And then being listened to by people who say thank you and otherwise remain silent. There is a very straightforward pleasure in these intimate transactions. It’s also a powerful way to develop your intuition.

This class also introduced me to a wonderful listening meditation practice. We usually follow the breath in meditation, but this time we followed what we heard, though without paying attention to it. If you don’t quite grasp that: you had to be there! It felt profound.

Through all of this, what happens most strongly is that you start listening to yourself. You are simply voicing what you have to say in a safe space, aware you are being listened to but not waiting to hear what they think. Instinctively, you start paying attention to your own writing in a new way. You start to feel your own writing – its vibrational qualities, where it comes to life, what you are wanting to say.

I also relate this to the distinction I’ve come across in Buddhist thought between observing mind and judging mind. All writing – or any creative output – relies on a mix of sensory perception with critical evaluation to be rendered into form. (More of that in another post, perhaps.)

We can of course solicit views from the professionals. I give editorial feedback for a living, after all! It’s what editors do. And we can, if given a tangible brief, write towards a tasked outcome with a commission attached. But so often, with creative projects, we have to find our own way. We have to develop an instinct. And whatever other people tell us, we often already know deep down inside what it is we need to express in writing.

We haven’t always got there yet. Sometimes we have to get out of our way first. We have to shelve neurosis, stop grasping, give up trying to second-guess the market. Not least, if we’re interested in publishing, because we know that so often the agents and publishers are second-guessing the market anyway. When they start working with her, Natalie tells writers not to think about publishing. She tells them to go away and write for two years. Develop a writing practice. Discover what you have to say, and how you want to say it. Listen to it.

Sometimes we simply have to rid ourselves of the prospect of feedback (at least for now). By listening to what we have to say, and telling ourselves that the feedback can come later, we start to observe our writing, rather than judge it. What’s there? Suddenly we start to own our writing, and feel its power.

This zen approach to suspending judgment as a means of developing our intuition is not unique to Natalie Goldberg. Lynda Barry, for example, tasks her students on drawing tight spirals as they listen in silence to their colleagues read their work. Otherwise Lynda says, ‘Good! Good!’ And that is it.

That simple act of expression is golden. Read your work to someone else. Be heard. And listen carefully to yourself.

As a writing experiment: Find someone to read your writing to. Exchange prompts, and write for ten minutes on each one. Then read them to each other. Then say thank you. No other feedback. Just thank you. It’s one of the most empowering writing practices you’ll ever develop.

 

Further information

Writing With Natalie Goldberg – Shambhala Publications, including a video selection from the class

Writing Down The Bones: Thirty Years Later – Taos News: a video interview with Natalie (she’s wearing purple, yay! there was lots of purple in the live writes)