Today we're delighted to host Peter Clothier...

Peter writes: I've always known that I'm a writer.  I've known it since I was twelve years old. I have known it even though I have chosen to do many other things to earn a living, raise a family, pay the bills… I have kept that knowledge firmly in heart and mind.

But what does it mean, to be a writer? In my years as a teacher in academia, I had many students come to tell me that they "wanted to" write. I always told them that "wanting to" was too often a sure way never to do it. If I keep "wanting to" feed the dog, the poor dog soon starves. No, it's not something you want to do; it's something you do. It's a practice.

I know artists and writers who assure me that it's okay with them if the muse doesn't show up, they're willing to hang around until she does. Or that they're waiting for "something to say." Which may work for them, but it has never worked for me. Writing, for me, is not about having something to say. It's dumber than that. It's about hearing the first words and following where they lead. There's that wonderful old adage: How do I know what I think 'til I see what I say? I keep coming back to that one. 

Writing, then, for me, is a process; and to be a writer means to be engaged in that process, to be working away with the medium of words. And I do see words as a medium, not a tool. Writing, as one 20^th century French poet said about poetry, is not a "use of language," it's a madness inside of language, a dance with its intricate complexity of music and image, association, evocation AND meaning, an adventure that leads me I know never quite where.

And a practice. A practice that, like any good art form, takes practice. I do it virtually every day, as I do a meditation practice—which has become, over the years, a great model for the writing. If I start out asking why, it doesn't get done. If I start asking what, it doesn't get done. In meditation, I have learned to show up, sit down, get focused, and persist, despite all the mental distractions that come along. For writing, it's the same. First, I have to show up. If I fail to show up, then nothing gets done.

"Sitting down," in my writing practice, means metaphorically sharpening my pencil—most often, getting logged on to my computer, finding my place, opening a document. "Getting focused" is the process of bleeding out the distractions, getting clear about the intention, noticing the first steps of the dance and where they will lead. And "persisting" is just that: getting past not only the perpetual distractions but also the discouragements, the editorial comments from the critic who stands looking over my shoulder, reminding me helpfully that what I'm writing is never good enough. Again and again, I need to re-focus; to get back to the work.

So that's my full-time and mostly unpaid job, for which I get handsomely rewarded by the occasional reader who is moved—and sometimes, if I'm lucky, whose life is changed—by the words that I write. I can't count myself a "professional" because I could never earn a living doing what I do. But I count it a great privilege and a blessing to be a dedicated and, yes, persistent amateur of the art.   

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Photo by J. Paxon Reyes via Creative Commons.