On Writing and Perfection

Warning: This entry contains (somewhat hyperbolic) reminiscences about my offspring.

Recently I watched my son Matthew practicing martial arts. I stood amazed as with a steady gaze of almost spooky composure he executed a long series of complex movements in one fluid dance. Why was I amazed? Probably for the same reason I was stunned to behold the arc of his head just moments after his birth. Because perfection – real perfection, not the gnarly “ism” that nags you until you get it right, but the pure-flowing kind – always comes as a delightful surprise.
Why can’t we make perfection happen when we want it to? Because it’s the very serendipitous nature of things (Imagine! Once again a fresh new human being appears!) that makes us say, “Aahh, perfection.” If we could predict it, it wouldn’t be perfect.

Simply by being willing to be surprised – in the act of writing, as elsewhere in life – we throw open a doorway to the miraculous. Those superb moments of beauty and truth (Big “B”, Big “T”) that we know we couldn’t have hatched with a plan.
Yet if we’re ever to meet up with perfection – in our written work, in the martial arts, in the verdant rainforests of heart and mind – we instinctively know it’s going to mean giving up the desire to “do it well,” and giving in to speaking openly and baldly as we can about whatever matters most to us. Otherwise the Inner Critic will take hold of our writing and mash it to a pulp before its unplanned beauty ever has a chance to make its debut.

The snarly, gnarly truth
I can’t Want to write well and expect to write anything good. Years ago I gave up being “good,” on all counts. Now I write with abandon, with the intention to unveil whatever would like to be unveiled in myself and in life. I edit later, not until I reach the End of a first draft. Until that time comes, I keep on “applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair,” as Hemingway said. Writing by the light of an intention to be as truthful as possible, at some point I may glimpse perfection.

Seeing the miraculous emerge from your own words, you’ll be as amazed as anyone. When it arises, you’ll sense its fragility. You won’t dare congratulate yourself. You’ll just read over the bit again and again, appreciating its tenuous beauty. You’ll feel a surpassing love, as though you’re holding a just-born infant. Because you are, kind of. And if at that moment you have any words at all to offer, they’ll probably assemble themselves into a seriously worn cliché: “Thank you.” But my advice is, say them anyway, or write them down, even if (or especially if) you’re all by yourself.

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How to Get Nuggets Out of Your Noggin

First, a word about inspiration. I once believed I had all the time in the world to amaze and amuse myself and others. But that was long ago. I soon learned there are two approaches to inspiration.

Option A: wait for a bolt of brilliance to strike one unaware, or
Option B: make a practice of heightening one’s awareness so that wherever one goes, one is inspired by absolutely everything.

Option B is the same program we’re actively pursuing at ages two, three , and four – all quivering with wonder, because every single thing we see and feel is utterly fresh! So which approach – (a) or (b) – do I recommend? . . . You bet!

“I love smooth words, like gold-enameled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish.”

--Elinor Wylie, from “Pretty Words”

High awareness
Not that kind! Geez. Heightening one’s awareness in the way that I’m talking about, well, it just doesn’t happen overnight. In our book Writing from the Body, John Lee and I waxed philosophical, poetic, and wildly passionate about the kind of attentiveness – body, mind, and soul – that allows a writer or the artist entrance into the hallowed halls of inspiration. Inspiration is a kind of mystical experience, and for that reason I put down my peanut butter sandwich and bow in the direction of the public library whenever I speak of it. How to come by this heightened awarenss that fuels inspiration?

Try this right now.
Stand up straight wherever you are, breathe deeply, and find something interesting in the room. Anything . . . the warm curve of a cup. Light reflected off a painted windowsill. On the floor, a stray computer wire forming a jagged hieroglyphic. Whatever you land on, focus on it. Keep watching until it becomes something else. The door handle curves and dances itself into a 1920s flapper gal who kicks up a little fringe-tossing flip of her skirt. The light on the windowsill begins to effervesce like Alka-Seltzer until out of the mist steps a critter from Planet Wynot with a message for all humankind. Meanwhile, on your desk, the circle of jagged wire evokes a child’s game of marbles: Shoot! Missed it . . . Line ‘em up again, Skeeter!

And that’s how it happens.
You begin by breathing deeply, and becoming aware. Follow a flight of fancy and it’s liable to take you clear to . . . Inspiration. Where truth spills out of innocent doors and windows like nobody’s business. And it is. Nobody’s but your own. Should you decide to share the wealth, remain aware. For as my Uncle Opie often says, once a nugget leaves your noggin, it gains the power to perform alchemy upon itself. Once it burns down to a fine glow, it may even become a good book. And that’s pure gold.

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<$Writers: How to Get Nuggets Out of Your Noggin$>
<$Two approaches to inspiration: (a) the bolt of brilliance and (b)the practice of heightening one’s awareness so that one is inspired by absolutely everything.$>