discipline

lately i have been reading a lot of books about how to write. all of them are linked by a common theme: discipline. and the more i read about discipline, the more i realize how much i lack it.

over and over again these authors, who have struggled and succeeded with writing, say that without discipline you will never be a real writer. you'll be a dabbler, a hobbyist--someone who plays with the idea of writing, but doesn't care enough to wake up early, to set aside half an hour every day, to invest in new books, to keep other poets words fresh in your mind, and capture your words when they arrive. i read once that william stafford woke up at 4 am every morning to write, because it was the only time that belonged solely to him. i've talked to peter, a writer who frequents union block here in town, and learned that he has rented out various work spaces over the course of writing his novels. he's written two to date, and is working on a third and a memoir. these people are willing to sacrifice for their work, to delve wholly into it. when do you get to that point?



maybe what frustrates me most about my current lack of discipline is that i have an inkling that writing is something that i really want to do. something that could consume me, give me direction, make me feel purposeful, alive, focused. every time i open a book of poetry, i get a little thrill. words reach into me and grab hold like few other things do. when i read essays about the art and task of writing, i am constantly underlining exercises and insightful remarks, making lists of things to try and to write about in the margins. it isn't that i don't have anything to say, or that i haven't thought about how i would say it, how it would look printed out on paper.

at the root of it, i think i'm scared. scared of committing to this thing that i know could take me over. it's a reasonable fear i think--we all want control over our lives right? we want control over our thoughts and emotions, and if i commit to writing, i know that those things will be closer to the surface, and that i will be more at the mercy of them. it's always scary to think of being taken over by outside forces. at the same time, i have tasted that loss of control before. i've had phases where i had to keep my notebook at hand, because the words were coming all the time, coming unannounced but truer than when i tried to force them. and i want that. it's just so hard to commit.



in "writing down the bones," natalie goldberg says that you have to write five years worth of crap before you will come up with anything that is worth reading. i find this really encouraging because it gives me permission to write over and over again, every single time i sit down, "wow, it's been a long time since i wrote." it also gives me permission to journal, rather than try to force myself to write something more substantive. i figure if i dump enough crap into my journals, eventually i won't have any more complaining to do, and i'll figure out what i wanted to say all along. now the trick is to complain more often and more thoroughly so that i can move on.

b


*****


lately, this poem has been fascinating me:


Ode to Plurality
Adam Zagajewski

I don't understand it all and I am
even glad that the world like a restless
ocean exceeds my ability
to understand the essence of water, rain,
of plunging into Baker's Pond, near
the Bohemian-German border, in
September 1980, a detail without any special
meaning, the deep Germanic pond.
Let the half-oxidized ego breathe
steadily, let the swimmer cross the
meridian, it's evening, owls wake up
from their daily sleep, far away
cars whir lazily. Who once
touched philosophy is lost
and won't be saved by a poem, there is
always the rest, difficult to reckon,
a soreness. Who once learned a wild
run of poetry will not taste anymore
the stony calm of family narratives
whose every chapter is the nest
of a single generation. Who once lived won't
forget the changing delight of seasons,
he will dream even of nettles and burdocks, and the
spiders in his dream won't look any worse
than swallows. Who has once met
irony will burst into laughter
during the prophet's lecture. Who once prayed
with more than just a dry mouth
will remember the presence of the strange echo
coming from a wall. Who once
was silent would rather not talk
over dessert. And who was struck
by the shock of love will return to his books
with an altered face.
You, singular soul, stand before
this abundance. Two eyes, two hands,
ten inventive fingers, and
only one ego, the wedge of an orange,
the youngest of sisters. And the pleasure of
hearing doesn't destroy the pleasure of
hearing doesn't destroy the pleasure of
seeing, though that flurry of freedom disturbs
the peace of the other gentle senses.
Peace, thick nothing, as full of sweet
juice as a pear in September.
Brief moments of happiness vanish
under an avalanche of oxygen, in winter
a lonely rook strikes his beak against the white
surface of the lake, another time
a couple of woodpeckers, scared
by an ax, are looking outside my window
for a poplar that is sick enough.
An absent woman writes long
letters and yearning swells like
opium; in an Egyptian museum,
the same yearning, unshaken and unbroken,
rubbed into a brown papyrus a few thousand years
older. Love letters always end up
in museums, the curious are
more persistent than lovers.
Ego gulps air, reason awakens
from its daily sleep, the swimmer gets out
of the water. A beautiful woman plays
a happy one, men pretend they are braver
than they really are, the Egyptian
museum doesn't hide human weaknesses.
To live, if only to live longer,
giving oneself to the power
of one of the colder stars and mocking it
sometimes because it is slimy and cool
like a frog in a pond. A poem grows
on contradiction but it can't cover it.