Remember all the times you took your notebook to the café, ordered your latte, found a quiet table by the window or in the corner — wherever you were least likely to be distracted — and just wrote? You didn’t have any intentions for the writing, or any expectations. You just wrote.

Or the times beneath the sycamore tree in the park, or in the shade beside the river, or in your car parked at the viewpoint above the ocean as gulls swooped outside your open window? In your bed at night with pillows piled high behind you and a mug of chamomile tea within sipping range, notebook propped on jammied knee? Writing about thunderstorms in August when lightning flings a sideways strike across the sky or the smell of lavender in your grandmother’s bedroom, the dark furniture and papered walls? The taste of strawberries fresh picked from the garden?

All those times, just you and your notebook, writing, writing, writing. When you lost track of time and place and even yourself, and rode the sweet edge of imagination, your pen as vessel and your notebook, the deep reaches of inner or outer space you explored.

This is writing practice. The occasion in which you are able to move out of your self-consciousness and surrender to the page. You become the writing. This state of total engrossment is what psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi calls “flow.” You are absolutely in the moment, doing what you are doing, unconscious of time or place or the space around you. “If you are a writer, writing and being are the same,” wrote Gail Sher.

When you write in this manner, you are practicing your craft, you’re honoring your practice of writing and yourself as writer.

Writing practice is what writers do naturally. Like imagining and wondering and daydreaming. It’s only when we begin to have expectations of ourselves or our writing that we resist what is so normal to us. Then writing becomes a series of “shoulds” (I should finish that story, I should write more often, I should write something important, I should get this stuff together and try to publish it). For us, writing practice is like breathing; we need never remind ourselves we should.

Within the daily ritual of writing practice, the stories that want to be written find their way from our deepest self and onto our pages. We may not even know what these stories are. One of the most common remarks heard in writing practice groups is, “I don’t know where that came from.” This, after a writer reads from her notebook what she has written and is utterly amazed at what she finds on her page. (The other common remark is, “I can’t read my own handwriting,” which comes, too, after a writer has lost himself to the moment and handwriting, spelling, grammar, and other elements of style are dust in the wind of this reckoning with truth.)

When we are called to writing, in contrast to those who find their voice through music or by flinging paint onto canvas or hunched over the potter’s wheel or any other creative expressions of our experience, we don’t always know what we want to write about. We may think we know. Ideas come to us brilliant as fireworks or slip into our dreams silken as moths’ wings, but even as we try to put these ideas into words, what we really want to write about appears on the page as if by a magic solution applied to disappearing ink. Words and images form, seemingly out of nowhere, and rush onto the page in a surge of energy as unstoppable as a birth.

“Where did that come from?”

You can trust what appears in your notebook during writing practice. This is where your authentic voice explores its range. The noise you make on the page — ungainly and messy as it may be — is your own true voice. Consider practice to be voice lessons.

Of course, there is a time when the writer must move back from the practice and step into the second role of editor, paging through the material to discover what stories lie within all these rambling pages. Just as there is a time to let loose and let fly, there comes a time to sort through the chaos of the practice notebook to find the spine of the creature that we have formed. These bones we will lift as carefully as an archaeologist and place into the transformative technology of our computers, where we will rearrange and chip away and add to and polish up as best we can into the shape that the spine suggests. But this is not the same function as practice. At the computer, we use both sides of the brain. As our own editors we analyze and judge and compare and measure and qualify. But at the time of practice, we abandon all that, take off the protective eyeshade of the editor, and get ourselves as much out of the way as possible.

Why Practice?

“But does all this practice ever really produce anything?” you may ask. My students ask this question all the time. At least those who are new to the practice of practice. “I mean what’s the point?” they say. “I fill my notebook and then start another and what?”

After nearly a decade of regular writing practice, done both alone and with groups, here’s what I know:

Notebooks will be filled. Page after page of your original writing. Not all of it good. But not all of it bad, either. And some of it will be absolutely gorgeous. For some writers, this is enough. Making daily contact with their writing self is a way of touching home. It is an affirmation of their deepest longing. For them, the process is what matters most.

Others discover what they want to write about. Through practice sessions where no directive is given except Write, they find their voice and the genre in which it hits the truest notes. Some, who thought they wanted to write memoirs, might be surprised to hear the chatter of fictional characters joining in the re-created dialogue of nearest and dearest. (“Where did that come from?”) I know a poet who began writing personal narrative essays during practice times and a fiction writer who turned to screenplays. A woman who intended to write screenplays found herself reliving her Berkshires childhood, creating full and rounded sketches of aunts and cousins and detailed stories of her mother.

Many fiction writers use practice sessions to explore scenes and characters. The better part of my novel found its way out of writing practice beginnings. Instead of writing from my own point of view, I turn the pages over to Lily or Louise or Anna. And I’m not the only one who writes fiction this way. Amy and Joe and Greg and Steve and Wendy and David and Lavina and Dian are just a few of the fiction writers I know who use practice sessions to create the first raw drafts of their stories. Something about the freedom and no-holds-barred atmosphere of a practice session encourages the authentic expression these writers crave. Like dancing without a partner. It’s not about following or leading, you just give yourself over to the music.

Then there is the freedom to take risks. You can try anything. What the heck, this is just practice. You can always tear out the page. Nobody has to actually see those fumbling attempts at haiku. Or the outrageous made-up monologue of your aunt who used to be a go-go dancer, big hair, white boots, fluorescent body paint and all. You can write the things that scare you most even as you cross out every other word and your handwriting gets more pinched and crabbed with every line and you can hardly breathe. Still, you keep going because it is, after all, only practice.

Practice is trying out ideas and auditioning words and writing nonsense and secrets and lies. It is the equivalent of an artist’s sketchbook for writers. It is liberating and joyful and playful and exciting and surprising and spontaneous and fulfilling. It is a place for grieving and healing and working through and remembering and recovering. It is expansive.

Give Us This Day

Writing practice is best done daily. It is the both the habit of showing up each day and the cumulative effect of each day’s work that will finally shape you. Think of the river ever running its wet tongue over rocky walls, or the wind ceaselessly breathing against ragged cliff stone.

Writing practice is best done at a certain time every day. Like arising, brushing your teeth, making the coffee, letting out the dog — any of the daily routines that you perform without thinking — daily writing practice becomes habit. You don’t have to plan to set aside the time or mark these activities down on your appointment calendar, you simply do them. (Until you find the best time for your work and before your daily practice becomes routine, putting it on your calendar is a good way to remind yourself of your commitment.)

Also, when you practice at the same time every day, you send a message to your creative self. Like the body preparing to receive massage when you hoist yourself onto the massage table, your creative self will switch into ready mode when the time comes for writing. Writing practice is best done in a specific place every day. The monks of old called their writing places “scriptoria.” These were holy places and the work performed there was considered sacred. So it is with writing practice. You honor your writing and your writing self when you create a special place for your work. Bring to it all that supports and enhances your writing. Keep it clean and free from clutter. You know the old saying that a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind. With all that mess, how can thoughts emerge without their edges catching on whatever is left lying around? Gather round you items that bring you pleasure and evoke creativity. Surround yourself with beauty, for “beauty is to enthuse us for work,” wrote Polish poet Cyprian Norwid, “and work is to raise it up.” Collect and display those things that are meaningful to you. Call this place sacred and claim it as your own holy place. Light a candle before you begin. Offer up a prayer.

This is not to say you must practice only at this time and in this place. Spontaneity adds to writing as a measure of herbs enhances a stew. Take your notebook with you anywhere and everywhere. Plan writing practice field trips — the Beyond Borders exhibit at the museum of photography (write about the photographs and your response to them), the airport, where you go not to board a plane but people-watch and make notes. Take a trip to Thursday’s farmers market. Sample and taste and write it down. Surprise the muse by showing up where she least expects you. She adores spontaneity.

Practice is not just to get better at something. Practice is how you become what you want to be. For most practitioners I know, Writer is what they want to be. To my mind, the only way to be a writer is to write.

Keep the Fire Burning

As a checklist, ask yourself the following questions, which are, in themselves, building blocks for a sustainable process. How you answer them will tell you where you might need to make changes or focus your attention. Answer each question with true/false, yes/no, or always/sometimes/never, whichever works for you. And if you go beyond one-word answers and use your notebook to write a few sentences in response to the questions, you might find yourself in a heart-to-heart dialogue with your writer-self.

1.         I identify myself as writer. When someone asks me what I do, I answer, “I’m a writer.” Or at least I always include it. “I earn my living as a teacher, and I’m a writer.” Or, “I’m a writer and my day job is biomedical research.”

2.         I give myself affirmations, claiming myself as writer: notes in my notebook or journal, stuck on my bulletin board or computer, on the bathroom mirror; or by saying them out loud to myself. “I am a writer writing.” “I honor myself when I write.” “I am most authentic when I write.” (These may sound silly, but writing affirmations really works. Take it from someone who’s done it.)

3.         I have a special writing space. Even if I actually write all over town — in cafés, in my car, at the beach, at the Laundromat — I maintain a sacred space for my writing.

4.         I have the tools and materials and support I need. Computer, printer, notebooks, reference books, pens. I buy or check out from the library books or tapes about writing and subscribe to literary journals and writing publications.

5.         I have writing friends with whom I write or talk about writing or do writing activities.

6.         I do writerly things: I’m a member of a writing group, I go to readings. I read interviews with writers and listen to what they have to say about the art and craft and life of being a writer.

7.         I write to writers whose work has influenced me, and thank them. These aren’t “fan” letters, but I claim myself as writer and tell them what their work means to me — writer to writer.

8.         I make time for my writing on a regular basis.

9.         When I can’t keep my writing date, I acknowledge why (in other words, I don’t just blow it off), and reschedule.

10.      When I see that I consistently break my appointments, I review what might be going on, and make changes where necessary.

• I’ve chosen a time that really doesn’t work for me.

• It’s an especially busy time in my life (moving, houseguests, something unexpected, other deadlines).

• I’ve set my goals too high (no way can I write two hours a day! What was I thinking?).

• Other_______________(fill in the blank).

11.       I put my writing time way up there on my priorities list. Not some vague “as soon as” or “when I can” or “if I have time today.”

12.       I set aside enough time to build consistency — not just once a week, or when I have a few days free, but if not daily, at least several times a week, more days writing than not.

13.       I create special times for writing — a long weekend or a retreat (with other writers or by myself) or to participate in a conference or a seminar where I’ll actually write.

14.       I write. When I go to my writing space, when I set aside the time, when I meet my friends, I don’t just think about writing or talk about writing. I write.

When I’m stuck, I find out what’s holding me back. When I procrastinate, I acknowledge that’s what I’m doing. When I’m afraid, I face my fear and write through it. And when all is said and done, I write.

From the book Writing Alone, Writing Together. Copyright © 2002 by Judy Reeves. Reprinted with permission of New World Library, Novato, CA. www.newworldlibrary.com or 800/972-6657 ext. 52.

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