My best friend Lisa and I started taking piano lessons when we were about six years old.  We had the same teacher, and were quite competitive (well, at least she  was).  I recall Lisa was never able to come out and play between 6:00 and 6:30 because it was her set time to practice piano.  There was a wind up kitchen timer always sitting on top of her piano, and her mother would set the timer for 30 minutes, during which Lisa was to practice her Hanon and scales, do the workbook exercises we were set each week, and then practice her pieces.

I have to confess, my practice techniqe was much more haphazard.  I would sit down for 15 or 20 minutes in the morning before school, and usually play for a while as a way of relaxing after I came home.  I often did the workbook pages in the car on the way to my lesson.  As for Hanon and scales – well, let’s just say I didn’t get many gold stars on those pages in my lesson book.  My parents never forced me to practice, or chided me if I didn’t.  I loved playing, and since I seemed to be at the piano for a good portion of every day, they were never too careful about exactly what I was doing. 

A few weeks ago, we talked about our writing practice in terms of an activity we held in high esteem in our lives, approaching it almost as a spiritual, ritualistic event.  This week, with the beginning of a new school year upon us, I’m thinking of writing practice in a bit more, well, practical  sense.  Here’s how Natalie Goldberg describes it:

This is the practice shool of writing.  Like running, the more you do it, the better you get at it.  Some days you don’t want to run and you resist every step of the three miles, but you do it anyway.  You practice whether you want to or not.  You don’t wait around for inspiration and a deep desire to run.  It’ll never happen, especially if you’re out of shape and avoiding it.  But if you run regularly, you train your mind to cut through or ignore your resistance.  You just do it.  And in the middle of the run, you love it.  When you come to the end, you never want it to stop.

That’s how writing is, too.  Once you’re deep into it, you wonder what took you so long to finally settle down at the desk.  Through practice you actually do get better.  You learn to trust your deep self more and not give in to your voice that wants to avoid writing.  It is odd that we never question the feasibilty of a footballe team practicing long hours for one game; yet in writing we rarely give ourselves the space for practice.

I have a long standing writing practice, and I admit it’s a bit like my piano practice.  I write every day, with a cheap, ball point pen, in a brightly colored spiral notebook, three pages of anything.  Sometimes it’s stream of consciousness garbage, sometimes it’s a list of everything I’m worried about, or happy about, or thinking about.  More often than not, it starts out as one thing and becomes something else – today, what began as a simple memory about a conversation I overheard as a child turned into five pages about my neighborhood. 

My favorite time for writing practice is first thing in the morning, after one cup of coffee and about 15 minutes of reading.  Often, something in my reading will ignite an idea for writing -this morning, it was a passage in Richard Russo’s Bridge of Sighs that got me started. 

I don’t hold myself to any time limit (no kitchen timers for me!), but I usually find myself spending about 20 or 30 minutes on these pages.  I write loosely, and messily, on one side of the page.  This writing is for me, and it doesn’t matter whether it’s grammatically correct.  When I’m really “on,” the pen can barely keep up with my racing thoughts – sometimes, I feel as if my brain is running away with me, like flying down a steep hill on my bike.

“This writing practice is a warm-up for anything else you might want to write,” Goldberg continues.  “It is the bottom line, the most primitive, essential beginning of writing.”  Through the daily writing, we learn to listen to our own voice and trust it, we learn to free our thoughts and then corral them into words, to improvise like a jazz musician at the keyboard, experimenting with the tools of the trade. 

So this week, I’m channeling my friend Lisa’s mother – if you don’t regularly practice writing, challenge yourself to do so.  Get yourself some brightly colored spiral notebooks (they’re on sale everywhere just now!) and a package of pens.  Find a time each day when you can sit down for a few minutes and just write.  No need to pressure yourself – you’ll know when you’ve said all that need to be said. 

By the way, lest you’re wondering how our musical career’s ended up – my friend Lisa stopped lessons in 10th grade, and hasn’t played since.  Me, on the other hand – well, I’ve been playing the piano regularly for the last 42 years, working as an accompanist, a solist, and just playing for the pure love of music.

How about you? Do you have a writing practice?  What’s it like?  How has it helped you become a better writer?  If you’re thinking about starting a writing practice, how do you envision it?  What would work for you?

Occasionally, Write On Wednesday  will offer a writing activity to use in your writing practice notebook, or as an idea to blog about.  Here’s one to start you off…

Writing Practice Idea: Write about a time in your life when you were learning a new activity – a musical instrument, a sport, a language – and how you went about practicing it.

Earlier this summer I listented to an audio book called Hidden Talents, a novel about a rather disparate bunch of people who come together via a little writer’s group at a local bookshop.  Over the course of a year or so, not only do they become better writers (one even gets a book published!), but they become fast friends, learning from each other about plot and characterization, but also about life, love, and family relationships.

So I’ve been thinking longingly about a writer’s group, wishing I could find such a band of hearty souls with whom to share words and wisdom.  Now, don’t be offended – of course all my blogging friends are priceless! But actually meeting face to face with other writers would add an entirely new dimension to the experience. I’ve never had a writing friend, but I’ve certainly had lots of musical friends.  Working together creatively to achieve a common goal is exciting and energizing, and I’d really love to bring that dynamic into my writing practice.

So I was quite excited earlier this week when I saw a flyer posted in my favorite local coffee house:

First Cup  Writer’s Group, Sunday 2:30 p.m.

Open to all fledgling writers

Bring 2-3 pages of something you’re working on to share

We’ll also be discussing Elmore Leonard’s book, Rules for Writing

Yes! I thought, initially filled with enthusiasm.  I certainly have some pages I could share.  And I love First Cup – my favorite barista, Amy, is a writer, so I assumed she was responsible for starting this group.  Then the doubts set in.  But what if they’re all much better than I?  What if they’re pompous and sarcastic and nitpicky and mean…

When Sunday afternoon rolled around,  I had talked myself in and out of going about five times.  As I was dithering around the house, my husband wisely suggested I casually head over to First Cup as I often do on a Sunday afternoon, and spy on quietly observe  the group.  

Superb advice.  The “group” turned out to be three teenagers and the “leader,” a woman of about 35.  (I overheard someone say that Amy wasn’t coming, since she couldn’t get a babysitter.)  In the 30 minutes I listened in, the “discussion” was interrupted three times by cell phone calls, and the topics ranged from the troubles of another member who was apparently having a nervous breakdown, problems getting babysitters, the perfect shade of blue for bedroom curtains, and what classes to register for during your first semester at college.  I did hear one member read about two paragraphs of her story, about which no one had any comment. The “leader,” with much preparatory disclaiming, proceeded to read a bit of her “work in progress.”  However, at just that moment a customer ordered two pounds of coffee beans “ground fine,” so the incessant buzz of the grinder put paid to hearing any of this masterpiece.

Needless to say, I came home very glad I hadn’t let myself in for any of that, and pleased as punch I had taken my husband’s advice and “laid low” for the first meeting.

But the experience started me thinking about what I would want in a “real” writing group, things like these:

• Size: It should be small – five or six people at most;
• Rules: There should be definite rules about critique, at least in the beginning.  Comments should be time limited, and only one person talks at a time.  Perhaps a critique form should be followed ~ what works/doesn’t work about the selection, what does the reader need to know more about, what details or sentences are particularly effective~rather than just blanket statements;
• Genre Specific: The group members should be writing the kinds of things they appreciate reading.  I’m not sure if I could be competently critique a science fiction, fantasy, or western writer, because I don’t read those genres.

And perhaps the most important question – what do I really want to gain?  Do I want honest feedback from other writers, people who aren’t quite editors, but whose realistic and honest opinion could be helpful in honing my work.  Or do I want, as Anne Lamott puts it, to “hang out with all these other people, maybe with another  writer you respect, to get and give response and encouragement, and to hear how other people tell their stories.”  (Bird by Bird)

Thinking back to the characters in Hidden Talents, the most appealing thing about their group was the sense of camraderie which developed as they worked at their craft, the relationships which helped them become better writers, that encouraged them to keep working and take pride and satisfaction in the process, not just in whether their work was published.  Having a supportive writing group or partner allows ideas to fly around the room like sparks from a holiday sparkler.  It helps you see things differently.  It helps you keep going when the words start to dry up.  A group something like this one that Lamott describes:

There are four people, three women and one man, who met in one of my classes and who have been meeting as a group for four years.  I see them together in bookstores or cafes, where they sit at tables with wine or coffee and go over each other’s work, offer criticism and encouragement, ask questions, and figure out where to go next.  They do not actually edit each other’s drafts, but they listen to each other’s work and help each other keep at it.

They’ve gone from being four tense, slightly conceited lonely people who wanted to write to one of those weird little families we fashion out of whoever’s around us.  They’re very tender with one another.  They still look forward to their meetings after all these years.  They are better writers and better people because of their work with each other.

They are better writers and better people because of their work with each other.  What could be a better goal for a writing group - or any group for that matter? 

How about you? Have you ever belonged to a writer’s group? Did it work? Why (or why not?)  What would be your criteria for the perfect writer’s group?