Okay, before you laugh and go way, let me just say that by "posture" I am not talking about the way a writer sits at her desk, hands poised ergonomically over the keyboard. This is not about yoga or zen meditation, however cool both those things may be. In using the word "posture" I'm thinking about the writer's view, the way she sees, the attitude she possesses. I'm thinking about something that exists within the writer herself.
I think most of us will agree that good books--enduring books--stand on more than the author's mastery of skills. But would you also agree that the author's inner life effects the execution of his or her work?
The late great Madeleine L’Engle meditates on the writer's inner life in WALKING ON WATER, particularly in regards to the posture of the writer towards art, or writing. And Anne Lamott talks about the idea in BIRD BY BIRD, by concentrating on the posture of the writer towards the world.
For today, let's consider the posture of the writer towards her art:
L’Engle says that for her, writing involves “being.”
“When I am constantly running, there is no time for being. When there is no time for being, there is no time for listening” (13).
Listening to the “work,” the art, she says, is essential. This is because she claims “the work often knows more than I do” (24).
L’Engle sees the artist as the “birth giver,” or the servant of the work (18). The art is larger than the artist; therefore, if the artist does not listen to the work, the result will be less than it could be.
This makes me think of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott,” (hence the gorgeous Waterhouse paintings above and below!). Shut in her high tower, away from the cares of the world, she can weave her “magic web of colors gay.” She can pay attention to her art. But if she looks away from the mirror that shows her the things that are happening in Camelot and sees the world with her own eyes, she will be cursed.
Thank goodness we’re not under such a curse. But it is a delicate balance, isn’t it?
I’ve found that this sort of single-mindedness toward writing requires me to plan ahead, as well as be a bit ruthless about what I take on beyond my normal daily responsibilities. Sure, I long for the Lady’s tower, but since I live in the real world and have a growing family, I have to schedule in blocks of time to contemplate and listen. I’ve also learned to be cautious about what sort of noise I allow into my life, so I don't have a cell phone, or cable, or GPS. For me, they invite too many disruptions. Blips that turn into pauses, pauses that turn into minutes, minutes that turn into half-hours. Time that I need to stay simple and focused on the tasks and people at hand, the ones right in front of me. Going without in this way helps me to listen to my work, even when I am not “doing the work.”
I don’t think L’Engle is saying this sort of listening has to be a solely passive activity. The paradox of any artist is that she must work. L’Engle herself says,
“We must work every day, whether we feel like it or not, otherwise when it comes time to get out of the way and listen to the work, we will not be able to heed it” (24).
I think she is talking more about a constant, intentional awareness of the importance of this work we do. L’Engle gives us permission to acknowledge its magnitude and see it as our master. To realize the “privilege” it is to serve it (23). She helps me see that writing ultimately isn’t about me. The moments of sharp, bright, consuming inspiration don’t make me special. They are gifts. But if I’m not listening, I could miss them.
Kind of humbling, isn’t it?
So how do you make time to be, instead of “act?” How do you make sure you are listening to the work?
(check back next week for Anne Lamott's wisdom on the writer's posture to the world, okay?)
(check back next week for Anne Lamott's wisdom on the writer's posture to the world, okay?)
