I recently read a fascinating book called Trying Not to Try: The Art and Science of Spontaneity by Edward Slingerland. It’s an academic book about the Chinese ideal of wu-wei, which is loosely defined as strategic non-action or, paradoxically, the “action of non-action.” As I read, I found myself relating it to my approach to writing and re-writing the picture-book manuscripts I’m working on as part of my Picture Book Intensive semester at the Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA).

The idea is that body and mind are impressive to behold when they achieve effortless action – kind of like Luke Skywalker when he accesses the Force, or a jazz musician who is improvising. But how do we get into this flow? Through a blend of conscious and subconscious thinking.

Slingerland talks about how evolution has offloaded the bulk of our everyday tasks into our subconscious thinking, which he refers to as hot, automatic, fast, and reliable. We develop skills and habits that seep into this subconscious realm so we can think without thinking. The opposite of the subconscious is obviously conscious thought, which is cold, slow, and costly. When subconscious thinking hits a roadblock, conscious thought springs into action, assessing and trying to fix what is wrong. For me, this is the blend of the intuitive writing of a first draft and the analytical assessment of what I’ve written to figure out what to do next.

The book talks about how conscious control is crucial for civilized life. We need rules about how to live together in this world in order to keep our society functioning. I compare this to writing, which has “rules” we typically follow – and learn how to break when we need to.

Unconscious thought can be wild and untamed. Slingerland compares it to drug-induced writing in the 1960s, which seems brilliant when one is writing it but fails when one sobers. So unconscious thought needs conscious thought to domesticate it, like channeling flood waters. For me, this compares to “pantsing” versus plotting a story. I believe that pantsing only works for so long; at some point in the process, a writer needs to analyze a piece to see what she’s written and find its form.

In wu-wei, the conscious mind can acquire a new desirable goal (such as writing a first draft) and then download the goal onto the unconscious self, where it can be turned into habits and implemented without the need for constant monitoring. For example, learning to drive is a conscious task when we’re first learning it, but it becomes automatic.

How can we achieve wu-wei? Not through intentional effort. Slingerland refers to studies that show we get anxious when we’re trying to relax, depressed when we’re trying to be happy, etc. So we need to try not to try, desire not to desire, find contentment. It’s about keeping the conscious mind in check while being guided by the unconscious. It’s about putting some effort toward a goal without forcing it (trying, but not too hard). It’s about letting go of the goal and being open to the flow.

Of course, there’s a paradox built into wu-wei, which is: How can we try and not try at the same time? The idea is to think of the paradox as a design feature, rather than a problem to overcome.

For me, wu-wei relates to the process of writing and rewriting manuscripts. I have to chase my story idea, but not too vigorously. I have to cultivate beginner mind with each revision. I have to remember to play. I have to take none of it too seriously, even though it all matters to me immensely.

What about you? Does any of this strike a cord for you? Or do you disagree?

I’m a fan of post-it note reminders to myself. I like to copy down wisdom from life or writing-craft books. I post these messages at eye-level in my office, and I keep them there until they become part of my writing practice. Here’s my latest one:

This note came from an exchange with my current faculty advisor at VCFA, the insightful Liz Garton Scanlon, author of numerous books for children, including the Caldecott-honored picture book All the World, illustrated by Marla Frazee. In our conversation, I was sharing information about a manuscript that had gone off-track during revisions, and how I suspected that I had become too focused on smaller revisions and failed to see big-picture characterization and plot concerns. Basically, I didn’t approach each stage of revision with an open mind. I’d already decided that certain aspects of the manuscript were good enough. Liz said, “Yes, I think this can happen once we THINK we know what we’re doing. It’s almost better to go back to Beginner Mind each time.”

Thank you, Liz, for this insight.

“Beginner Mind” is a Zen term made popular by monk and teacher Shunryu Suzuki. It refers to having an attitude of openness and freedom from preconceptions. In his book, Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind: Informal Talks on Zen Meditation and Practice, Suzuki writes, “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.”

How does this relate to writing? When writing our stories, we become the experts on them. It can be hard to put aside all our past experience with our stories and see them fresh. Author and speaker Natalie Goldberg says, “beginner’s mind is what we must come back to every time we sit down and write.” I’d add to that by saying that we need Beginner Mind for revision as well.

My post-it note is a reminder to let go of being an expert. To focus on what works in my story and what does not. To use the spirit of inquiry. To be open to radical and not-so-radical possibilities. To experiment and play. To embrace patience, and revise fully.

Do you write yourself post-it-note reminders? What insights are you trying to keep in mind?