People ask me over and over again how ten-minute timed writings can translate into short stories, novels, essays. Then they ask me, “But what do you do with these timed writings?”

My answer is, “I don’t know.” I mean that. What do I do after I drink a glass of water? I suppose I put down the glass and go out the door. What do I do with waking up in the morning or going to sleep at night? What can we do with the moon or a sidewalk or a garbage can?

Writing practice is simply fundamental, like the colors black and white or moving one foot in front of the other when you walk. The problem is we don’t notice the movement of one foot in front of the other. We just move our feet. Writing practice asks you to notice not only how your feet move but also how your mind moves. And not only that, it makes you notice your mind and begin to trust it and understand it. This is good. It is basic for writing. If you get this, the rest is none of my business. You can do what you want. You are capable of writing a novel or a short story because you have the fundamental tools. Think of something now that you sincerely want to tell and go ahead and tell it. You’ll know to keep your hand moving, to lose control and let the story take over, to be grounded in detail. Now it is your choice what you want to do.

Knowing the basics of writing practice is what kindness is about. It is about developing a foundation as a writer. Just as we would never ask a child to multiply by six-digit numbers on the first day of first grade, we shouldn’t ask ourselves to begin page one of the great American novel the first day after we have realized our wish to write. We have to build slowly. This is kind consideration. We acknowledge who were are in the present moment and what we need to order to continue. I often hear of a beginning writer immediately bring his work to a critique group. His work is ripped apart and he leaves, devastated. If you know the fundamentals of writing practice and have been doing them, you have something to stand on. No one can knock you over. This is true confidence. Even if someone criticizes your work, you can go home with a trust in your experience and your mind. You can begin again and again with the simple act of keeping your hand moving, and this practice will bleed into all other writing you are doing.

We never graduate from first grade. Over and over, we have to go back to the beginning. We should not be ashamed of this. It is good. It’s like drinking water; we don’t drink a glass of once and never have to drink one again. We don’t finish one poem or novel and never have to write one again. Over and over, we begin. This is kindness. We don’t forget our roots.  – Natalie Goldberg

I like this passage because it speaks so well of what kindness is, and it echoes so much to my Midwestern roots. Kindness.

The simplest story I can say about who Midwesterners are is when it snows and when you are done with clearing your driveway and walkways – you look over to your neighbor and wonder “Huh, maybe they need some help.” You go over and knock on their door and with your shovel in hand or plow parked at the end of the driveway and smile, “Do you need help?” Or you just go and do it.

One of my friends said to me the other day that she would like to return to the writing workshop we both went to. However, she feels she didn’t do enough to earn to go back. “I didn’t do enough with my last piece when I was there. I could apply for a scholarship and maybe return, but I don’t want to take the place of someone else who perhaps earned it more than me.”

It’s this conundrum of always trying to be kind to yourself as well as others, and the meeting in the middle is sometimes hard. And like my friend says when her kids say to her, “Mom this is hard.” Math is hard or reading and writing are hard. Her response, “Yes, life is hard.”

But, what I love is how Natalie Goldberg brings you back. You don’t drink a glass of water once and never have to drink one again. You don’t do geometry before fractions.

You don’t be cruel to say I am going to write this Great American Novel today. We don’t sit down and write the Great American Novel today – we do it in bits and pieces and we do it with kindness.

We do it in kindness to nurture ourselves. Do you see the water kettle pouring onto the flower bed right now? We do it with writing practice and we do it in life practice.

A glass of water perhaps. A sharp pencil. A hot cup of tea?

Much love. Drink water, run if you run, bake if you bake, write if you write, whittle if you whittle, and shine that old kettle into a new glowing pot. Dance! And listen to Mary Poppins it is magical.

Work Cited:

Wild Mind – Natalie Goldberg