A Mouthful of Water

If I try to talk while I’m swimming, I’ll end up sputtering and splashing and swallowing a mouthful of water.

And before I know it, I’ll have lost my rhythm and my momentum and will have to start all over again or get out of the water and wait for another day.

The same thing happens when I’m writing if I talk about a project too soon, before it’s set in my head, say, or before I’ve gotten enough words down on paper.

I’ll lose my rhythm, my enthusiasm for telling the story, as well as the chance to be surprised by the words as they spill onto the page for the first time.

This is why I don’t talk about works-in-progress with anyone–not my brother, not my best friend, not my wife.

A long time ago I learned that as soon as I open my mouth while writing, I end up with a mouthful of water.

I need to feel that I’m the only one in the world who knows the story, the only one who can write it, and the writing requires privacy, and the privacy fuels my desire to tell the story, to bring it into the world.

Once I tell the story aloud (even the barest outline of the story), my need to write the story disappears, and I’m left empty-handed, the words having disappeared like grains of sand between my fingers.

Some writers can talk endlessly about a project, I suppose, and still write about it. But I’m not one of them.

Other writers talk about their work and end up never writing a single word. By talking they've unwittingly deflated the balloon of energy needed to write their stories.

There are times when I do find talking about a story helpful. That’s when I'm facing a problem, or I've reached a dead-end and can’t figure a way out, can’t find a path. At that point, though, I’m sitting on dry land looking for a way back into the water.

But talking while I’m in the water?

I can’t do it without ending up with a mouthful of water.

What about you? Do you talk about work-in-progress or keep your work to yourself?

Do your friends and family understand this need for privacy? Or do they resent it and encourage you to share your work before you’re ready to share it?

Is there a balance between their expectations (that you share your work) and your own expectations (that you keep it private)?

Let us know when you get a chance if you like talking about your work or prefer writing in private.

Barrier Reefs

Have you ever brushed up against a barrier reef that prevents you from swimming any further?

Whenever that happens to me, I find it helpful to switch directions and alter my course.

If I'm working on a novel, I'll switch to a short story, or turn to my journal, or search through old files to explore long-forgotten works-in-progress.

But sometimes switching directions isn't enough. I have to pull myself out of the water entirely and sit on shore and gaze at the water, trying to figure out a way to swim around the barrier reef.

I'll turn to books on writing, for instance, or I might read about how other artists have managed to swim past barriers in their own work.

That's what happened recently.

I was searching for something in the bookstore to help me swim past a barrier that I'd unexpectedly encountered in a current project, and I wandered into the photography section and found The Tao of Photography: Seeing Beyond Seeing by Philippe L. Gross and S. I. Shapiro.

And I opened the book to a chapter titled "Barriers to Seeing."

Here's one of the passages which helped me see beyond the reef that had kept me from swimming forward:

Many photographers, including Henri Cartier-Bresson, Jeff Berner, and Freeman Patterson, have claimed that the need to control is the greatest barrier to seeing. According to the psychologist Abraham Maslow, the need to control a situation rather than be receptive to it is often driven by "deficiency-motivations," which are primarily related to an individual's need of psychological safety and security.

So, if we find ourselves encountering barriers to "seeing" our stories, our blindness may be attributed to our need to control the story... our desire for "psychological safety and security"... rather than being receptive to the character's needs and desires... and letting the story play itself out.

And then I came across this helpful quote from Kathryn Marx:

A split-second decision determines whether you capture a situation, as well as how well you capture it. You've already thought about your subject and know the reason why you've placed yourself in a particular situation. But once you are there, you must try to empty your mind of all thought in order for you to be completely in the moment and receptive to your intuition and your surroundings. Simply react to them with uncluttered clarity.

Isn't what Marx describes the kind of receptivity that writers strive for in the moment of telling our stories?

And here's another quote that lingered in my mind long after I closed the book:

Beyond its usefulness for creating good photographs, receptivity is also a state of mind worthy of enjoyment in and of itself. When asked what he looks for in photographing, Michael Smith replied: "I am not looking for anything. I'm just looking--trying to have as full an experience as possible. The point is to have a full experience--the photograph is just a bonus."

Maybe that's something to think about the next time you find yourself--like me--bumping up against a barrier reef, unable to swim any further.

Instead of worrying about the story, try to forget the story... and simply enjoy looking, as Smith suggests, and having "as full an experience as possible."

Perhaps then the barrier will disappear and you'll be able to keep swimming.

For more information about the Tao of Photography, visit:
http://books.google.com/books?dq=tao+of+photography&pg=PP1&sig=zwM0ZQcHTU3AAAyS3VtSWpxaZZg&q=tao+of+photography&ct=title&id=yG-lQ17hmaMC&ots=Gh939JyCIp&output=html

And thinking about the tao of photography led, naturally, to thinking about the tao of writing:
http://www.susanborkin.com/excerpt_tao_of_writing.htm