Chapter 2

Learning to Let Go

Because of the way you have been trained in school, you are often dealing with the critic in your head, that voice that tells you what is wrong with everything you do, that voice that makes you doubt yourself.

To combat that voice, it’s important to open up that notebook, look at the first clean page, and start to write. This process is hindered or destroyed by allowing yourself to worry about whether what you are writing is good or bad, polished or rough, acceptable to others or not. You have to believe that nothing matters at this stage of the process except the words that flow from your pen onto the page. Resist the temptation to revise as you go along. Instead, allow your subconscious mind to take over and write what happens when you do.

I’ve always believed that the wise old woman who lives in your belly, that one who operates on instinct, knows what you need to write, what stories you need to tell. When you let your mind control what you write, you lose the electricity and vitality of the initial impulse, the basic truth that the old woman knows, that truth that makes our writing powerful.

The Greeks believed that poets could hear the voices of the gods and had the ability to interpret their wishes. The Greeks understood that poets are born with one less layer of skin, and are open to what is true about being human, as well as courageous about stating those truths. Modern life is full of noise and busyness, which can distract you from discerning these truths. That’s why it is an important part of the process to find stillness and quiet each day, so you can tap into that part of yourself where truth abides.

When confronting that blank page, you must allow yourself the freedom to loosen up. If you catch yourself changing lines, crossing out, going back to revise, you are not letting go. You cannot get to a deeper place inside yourself or in your writing, unless you’re willing to trust your instincts. You cannot control this process with your mind.

I realized the importance of this when Diane di Prima and I were on a reading tour, and she suggested that I bring painting supplies. After we arrived at the hotel, she left me alone in my room to paint. I started to get very nervous when confronted by the blank drawing pad. My hands felt stiff and unnatural. I became increasingly upset that I couldn’t draw a perfect rose even though I was staring at one in front of the window. I kept tearing off sheets and trying again, and finally I had a pile of muddied, blurred paintings.

Suddenly, I realized this is the very thing I cautioned my writing students against. I took a deep breath, and tried to let go, the way I had learned years ago with my writing. The painting did not have to be perfect; it did not have to be anyone else’s idea of the perfect rose. I had to look at the world through my own eyes and paint it, the same way I did when writing a poem.

Once I realized that, I was able to paint, and my hand and wrist loosened; I was happy with my creation. I stopped worrying about whether it was good or bad. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was painting and I was pleased because the colors and shapes were translations of what I saw in my mind.

The time alone in that room, I see now, was a gift. In writing, you must give yourself the same gift. Twenty minutes are enough to write a draft of a poem. Believe that, and your hand, too, will loosen up and you will be surprised and delighted by your own creation.