A very simple exercise in looking for the Four Elements in writing – simple is so often best.
As a writing experiment, select an extract of your own writing and share it with a reader, or even better exchange extracts with a writing partner. Looking for the Four Elements in someone else’s work will help you develop this way of looking at your own writing too.
Ask them to tell you:
* What is its fire? Where does the energy of its voice rise and fall? (We can’t be high-energy all the time, after all.) Where does the reader feel the most energy in the piece, and why and how: which events or images or words grab their attention and make a difference in some way? What brings it to life?
* What is its water? How does the writing make the reader feel? And how might its emotional charge shift within a scene and the piece overall: how might the reader describe the emotional pitch at the start, and then at the end?
* What is its earth? What experiences of the material world are embodied in the writing? What sensory perceptions make an impact during the reading: visual images, sounds, smells, tastes, textures? What actions and gestures carry the piece forward? And what lingers afterwards?
* What is its air? What is clearly understood from this piece: what ideas have been conveyed, or what might it make the reader think about? Are characters and settings clearly distinguished from each other? Is the writing’s organisation and structure easy to follow – what might need clarification or focus?
Sometimes we get or need more detailed feedback, but it can help to keep things crisp and concise. One of the challenges of working with feedback and revising your work is getting overwhelmed, so finding ways to cut through to what’s important can be empowering.
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 observingmind and judgingmind. 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.
If you’ve recently received feedback on your writing, e.g., after attending a writers’ conference or sharing with your writing group or getting a manuscript critique, here aresome broad suggestions towards working out what to do next.
* First, check your ego at the door. You will collect it later, but for now be open to suggestion. Disavow yourself of attachment. What you shared with readers was just a draft anyway – wasn’t it? You might also have been looking for validation (or even a book deal) – which is fine. But if this is a moving and fluid process leading to a desired outcome (that deal), you might need more than strokes to the ego. Patience and some crafty application are probably what will count most. Be reflective, be contemplative.
* Ideally, feedback won’t be too prescriptive, particularly at early stages, and it should not be regarded as such.
* Some feedback will make sense right away, some might suggest alternatives, some will not really work. Some might suggest the reader doesn’t get you or your vision, in which case: also ask yourself if you need to be clearer, or maybe find other readers.
* Some feedback might be contradictory, even from the same person. Good feedback often is. Tussling with the contradictions can force you to go deeper to really figure out what needs to be done. Embrace the idea of negative capability, and even revel in the contradictions. In many ways, after all, contradictions are simply different choices. Which will you take? Be decisive. Or be experimental with different decisions, at least for a while.
* Maybe avoid thinking in terms of agreement or disagreement with feedback. In some ways, agreement and disagreement are irrelevant. The ideas of right and wrong don’t really apply in creative writing; you’re not writing a technical manual (and clear-cut ideas of right and wrong don’t always apply even there). Instead, simply listen, then hold everything that seems relevant in suspension (maybe along with some of the stuff that seems irrelevant), and then act upon it through revising and drafting to take the work where it needs to go.
(I admit I sometimes get irritated when writers tell me they ‘agree’ or ‘disagree’ with what I say – and not just because I am NEVER wrong! But it can suggest we’ve been talking at cross purposes. I’m delighted if writers ‘disagree’ 100% with things I raise but are then prompted to act on their writing in ways that make it stronger. The suggestions I make are not meant as hard and fast ideas waiting for acceptance, but intended as ideas for thinking about. Feedback is often about exploring departure points for future drafts, and sometimes it’s good for a reader to get provocative suggestions or comments, which can often spur. Sometimes writers need to be challenged. Or: writing needs a challenge. There is too much undercooked writing out there. Come on, we can do better! So the idea of disagreement/agreement seems moot at this stage, or premature. Or simply not really relevant.)
* Be systematic. Create a system – not least as it will take your ego and neuroses out of consideration.
* E.g., lay out on a table in different piles each piece of feedback, whether these are edited scripts you go through comparing them page by page, or a memo from a book doctor, or emails from beta readers you’ve printed out, or Post-its on which you jotted notes and impressions given verbally by readers. You’ll start to ground all of these words of feedback in something tangible; for some weird reason, I think that interacting with things physically makes a difference. It steps you out of yourself, and if you do a lot of your writing on screen it can lead you out of that locked-in work of constant scrolling through a document.
* E.g., you’re a writer, so do what writers do: write. Write yourself a memo or an editorial letter in which you synthesise all the feedback you have received, perhaps summarising different takes with a paragraph each.
* Or write lists of pros and cons.
* Or write yourself a manifesto or a mission statement that brings focus and clarity to what you are trying to do with and for this piece of writing. Maybe rewrite this – or write several manifestos – as you go through different drafts: give your project freedom to evolve. Maybe write a manifesto for yourself as a writer, too.
* A manifesto can help clarify your intention, which is often at the start of a project quite amorphous. Keep coming back to your intention. You may be able to integrate different responses while remaining true to your vision. Your intention might also grow or move on.
* Separate matters of technique from matters of taste. Matters such as uneven pacing or awkward transitions or clunky syntax or a lack of sentence variety are often things that could/should be fixed. Matters such as excessive adverbs (or some of the above, such as sentence variety) could be changed, but they might also be matters of style (a few adverbs are fine and even essential, else why else would the Goddess have invented them?). I guess the important thing is: don’t be careless.
* If several readers question the same thing, this could be something that requires a fix. Or it could be something that presses buttons. In which case, maybe fix it, or do something to press those buttons even more strongly, or more effectively.
* Be open to experiment. Do try things out free of attachment. E.g., you might not end up using first-person, but it could be worth trying if a couple of readers have asked if you’d thought about using it; just travelling in a character’s first-person narration for a few pages might give you new insights into the world of your book.
* Draw up a checklist of things to do. Things you can do, things you must do, things that you need to think about for a little while.
* Separate these checklists into rounds of edits, then go back into the text and start revising, rewriting, redrafting. Expect further feedback on future drafts, and possibly seek out fresh readers. (The matter of revising is another post, or set of posts.)
* Consider who is giving the feedback. An agent, an editor, a book doctor, a teacher, a beta reader, a writer, a general reader, a member of your writing group, a friend or loved one: each will have a different relationship with you and with writing and reading, and might have different expectations or priorities. (This covers a broad subject, and might be another post too.)
* Ask questions of your readers. In some contexts, this is not possible (in which case, maybe you can make it possible?). And it is possible for discussion to get too circular or unfocused. So make any questioning pointed and specific (as, ideally, feedback should be too). It can often, in fact, be good to raise questions in a note or two when you hand over work for feedback, though too it is often good to solicit views cold (yet another post).
* Tame your monkey mind. Understand that going through feedback can invite all sorts of doubts and chatter, and feed all sorts of anxieties and neuroses. Calm down. Some meditation or mindfulness techniques can help. Or just take the dog for a walk or bake a cake or do some work in the garden.
* Be patient, mostly with yourself. Writing a book takes a long time, and sometimes takes many drafts.
* Give yourself some time and space, too. A pause. Maybe put the writing to one side for a while. Understand the value of emptiness; when you stop thinking about something, your instinct can develop. Ironically (as it’s good not to be too outcome-oriented at this stage), taking some time away can eventually make the task ahead easier, once you return to it. You’ll be surer of what needs to happen.
* A pause in the writing can in fact be a good time to go away and do the other work of a writer.
* E.g., reading. Read widely and deeply in your own genre as well as others. Read this year’s bestsellers, but also read the classics, with a view to understanding how your book might sit beside them. And this is not just about reading for pleasure or reading for your book group or reading because you like an author. This is about reading as a writer, and reading to learn what writing can do and what you can do as a writer. Most every book that has been published can teach you something: aspects of craft, style, conventions, taste. And why did an editor choose to publish this book?
* E.g., identify gaps in your knowledge or obvious areas of improvement, and maybe in the mid- or long-term embark on some self-improvement. Read some books on writing, or take a course, or simply carry out some writing exercises to help with things that could be stronger.
* Sometimes, too, rewrites come quickly. Have confidence in them. Spontaneous writing for a project, even if it is later on edited, often taps into something vital. Follow those tangential thoughts, play around with things at the edges, stop all the clocks to do the rewrite commanded by that brainwave you just enjoyed.
* Know when to stop. At least for now. Revising and editing can go on forever. But …
* Keep writing. Maybe not all of your next books at once, but make some plans for one of them, and be starting work on that. Sometimes a project is put to one side for now, or till later. Sometimes, first major projects are overly ambitious, and it might make sense to work something more manageable in the meantime. If you are writing a novel, that might include, for example, practising the art of fiction by writing short stories.
* Importantly, don’t be harsh on yourself (which you shouldn’t be if you checked your ego at the door!). Try to be as clear-sighted as possible, using that clarity of vision to stop you from feeling wounded or offended by what you hear. Or excessively pumped up: praise can be as harmful as criticism, sometimes.
* More than anything: Listen.
If you have other suggestions or things to say about feedback, do raise in a comment below, and if I have anything to add I can try to follow up on that. In future posts I intend to address more specific aspects of revising and self-editing, and discuss related matters such as ways to solicit feedback, setting up a writing group, and readying your work for submission or publishing.
Postscript Links to another post and articles that consider the idea of feedback in other ways:
