This book is dedicated to the spirit of writing and all who dance with her



gazing at the moon

face reflected in the glass

a blank page awaits



A Note on the Exercises in This Book

I know from experience as a writer and mentor that a lot of us don’t know how to begin. Or keep going. Or finish a piece. I promise you, it’s totally normal. Luckily, writing exercises can help.

Sometimes all it takes is to say, “Tell me about…” and set yourself a timer for five minutes, ten minutes, half an hour. Tell me about your grandmother. Tell me about apples. Tell me about the last time you got hurt. Pick a topic—off you go. But when we set our own exercises, our biases and tendencies are already at work, so getting writing exercises from other places can really help. In this book there are fifty writing exercises for you to try. As you write, it’s quite possible that these exercises will open the floodgates for all sorts of things to come up and spill out. That is absolutely okay. In fact, it’s welcome. But it’s really important that you take responsibility for your own self-care in this process. Find some support and seek professional help if you need it. Allow whatever wants to come up to come up, but be gentle on yourself as you write it down.

I encourage you to try every exercise at least once. Spend as little or as much time as you like. Use a timer, or don’t. It’s up to you. I encourage you to write without editing as you go, to get into the habit of writing down whatever wants to be written without censoring between brain and page.

You can repeat any exercise on a different day, in a different season, or at a different life stage, or relate it to a new project, and you will get something different every time. You can follow all the exercises in the book with a writing group, or you can take the book on retreat and binge several exercises in a day. You could combine two or more exercises to birth a hybrid one of your own. It’s up to you.

I encourage you to start a new notebook so that you can look back at the end and see how far you have traveled. Take your writing seriously, but don’t be too serious. Write something funny from time to time. Have fun. I have no doubt that there will be times when you are staggered by the depth and beauty of the words you produce. Let’s not perpetuate the myth that all writing is hard and painful. It’s often a joyful, liberating experience. I hope these exercises will help you to connect with the sense of freedom that writing can bring.

Okay, it’s time to write. Come as you are and let things flow.

* * *

PS: Whenever you share work that has come from one of these exercises, feel free to tag me @bethkempton #fearlesswriter. I’d love to see what you write.



Prologue

The taxi driver pulled up suddenly, jabbing his finger toward a side street and indicating that this was as far as my ride would go. I handed over a 20 yuán note and stepped out into a downpour. By the time he had screeched off, rain was needling its way along my spine, my hair was stuck to my face, and I was questioning my decision to meet up with colleagues from the China office in some random Beijing bar.

The side street was all silver and black, moonlight reflected in rippling puddles as far as I could see. There was no sign of any nightlife, but the driver had been clear that it was down this way. A crack of thunder urged me on through the rain, following the narrow road around a bend. Wearing glasses made it harder to see, but I could make out an orange glow up ahead. Shoulders hunched against the weather, I hurried toward it and burst in, expecting excitable chatter, music perhaps. But as the door closed behind me muffling the storm outside, a bell tinkled—and then silence.

I removed my glasses, wiped them on my trouser leg, and put them back on as my eyes adjusted to the light. I took in a man behind a counter in the corner who nodded and went back to his book. None of the usual “huānyíng guānglín” to welcome a new customer.

This was not a bar. It was a bookshop. But not a bookshop like any bookshop I had ever been in. It was tiny, with shelves and shelves of leather-bound old books in shades of brown and red. There was something odd about it, but I wasn’t quite sure what.

A head popped out from behind the tall stack at the back and said, in a Canadian accent, “Have you read the Dáodéjīng?” “Sorry?” I replied, apologizing in the form of a question in the way we do when we’re nervous. I had an undergraduate degree from the Department of East Asian Studies at a good British university, and a masters from another. I had a copy of the Dáodéjīng back home, having been inspired to buy it years ago after a late-night drunken conversation on the meaning of life. But East Asian Studies was vast, and I had majored in Japanese, which had taken up a lot of headspace, so this most important of ancient Chinese texts had languished on the shelf.

While I was searching my brain for the details of the teaching and wondering why the stranger behind the bookshelf was asking me about it, he glanced over to the shopkeeper and said something in rapid Mandarin. They both looked at me, then looked back at each other half-laughing, not unkindly, more out of pity. The shopkeeper shrugged and went back to his book.

“Hmm…” the Canadian man murmured, and wandered over to another bookshelf. As he traced his way along the spines, I realized that none of them had titles. That’s why the place felt so weird. His finger stopped at a small brown volume, not much bigger than my hand and about an inch thick. He pulled it off the shelf and handed it to me. “The Dáodéjīng,” he said. “I think you’d like it.”

I put my handbag down, conscious of the rain dripping off the hem of my coat and spreading into small patches on the floor. I stepped toward the man and took the book in both hands. It was soft to the touch, tied with a shoelace of leather. I’ll open it backward then they’ll know I’m not just a tourist, I thought, hoping to claw back a bit of respect for knowing that old Chinese books, like traditional Japanese books, work in reverse, starting at what a Westerner like me might know as the back. The text is written and read from top to bottom, with the lines of characters stacked vertically right to left. Ready to impress, I flipped the book over, held it in my left palm, and carefully opened the cover. But the inside was blank. Every single page was empty.

I looked to the others for an explanation—a copy of the Dáodéjīng should be full of profound ideas, not blank pages—but before I could say anything, the Canadian guy, who was now standing by the shop entrance, started quoting Confucius. “When a friend comes from afar, is it not indeed a pleasure?” Then he called a greeting over his shoulder, held his coat above his head, and disappeared into the wet black night.

The bell tinkled once more. Still the shopkeeper said nothing. Confused, I picked up a book from the display table in front of me and flicked through the pages. Nothing there either. I went from shelf to shelf, pulling books down, but to no avail. It felt like some kind of Zen kōan: a doorway to some important truth. But all the words were missing.



From One Writer to Another

Oh hello there, do come in.

I may look like I’m just sitting here, pen in hand scribbling in my notebook, but I’m not. I am actually perched with my feet on the moon, watching the world at play beneath me. Did you know I can make those people fall in love and those people fight? Oh yes. I can give that man courage and that child a new friend. I can despair at the state of the world, or try to make sense of it. I can reach into the hearts of other people and make them feel less alone.

Now I am flying across time zones and centuries, guided by the wind, my way lit by the stars. I am woman, I am bird. I am the wild shadow of sorrow and the fragrant flower of life. I am hope, I am memory. I am time itself.

Maybe later today I will carve poetry into the riven bark of the weeping willow in the garden of my childhood home. I might go to the shore, smash my hurt on the rocks, and watch my tears become the ocean. Perhaps I will sleep in the forest and wake to a world of talking animals. I might gather with others around a fire telling stories of seeds and bones buried deep—or fill ancient caves with laughter and song. Or I might just be here, quietly at my desk, sipping tea, waiting for the sun to rise.

This is the writing life.

Sounds pretty special, right? It can be. But before you cast this book aside thinking that it’s all right for me but you have family obligations, an exhausting job, and self-doubt you wear strung around your neck like a favorite scarf, let me tell you a few things about myself. I didn’t have a book published until the year I turned forty. I have two small children and run my own business, and I have carried so much self-doubt that I’m still amazed that my words have made it to the printed page. Until my first book, Freedom Seeker, came out, my work kept me behind the scenes, and I was wholly unsure about stepping in front of the curtain to share personal stories with the world. But the book demanded to be written, so I had to find a way.

It has taken me several years to realize that it wasn’t just a way, it was a Way: the Way of the Fearless Writer. And I want to share it with you, because it changed my writing life, and it might just change yours.

Why write?

To write is to pay attention to your life and to open up the channel for magic and mystery to flow through you. When I use the word “writing” in this book, I mean any kind of utterance of words onto the page, including short stories, random musings, entire novels, works of nonfiction, poetry, social media posts, magazine articles, plays, academic work, screenwriting, memoir, even personal correspondence.

We tend to put writing into categories, but writing is about so much more than putting words on paper in a certain format or with a particular purpose. It’s about listening. It’s about opening. And it’s about accessing what lives below the surface so that the ink spills beauty, insights, stories, and truth. Even the most formal of writing can be transformed into a powerful, compelling piece by a fearless writer.

Writing can be medicine for our modern ills. It can be a tool to help us excavate our lives and begin to understand ourselves and others. It can help us grapple with desire, navigate change, cope with stress, celebrate, offer thanks, grieve, heal, and inspire others. Writing can be a means of escape, or a way to arrive fully in this moment, appreciating the miracle of life in the smallest details. And, let’s not forget, it can be a pleasure too. But writing cannot be or do any of these things if fear gets in the way and the writer does not write.

An invitation

I invite you to embark on a sacred journey with me, a pilgrimage along an old road: the wild and beautiful path of the fearless writer. If you accept, there is no turning back. You will discover that being a fearless writer has little to do with validation and accolades as we are conditioned to believe. Rather, it is about ritual, dedication, and commitment, developing an acute awareness of beauty, dancing with inspiration, listening to the world outside yourself, and going deep within.

In a radical departure from standard advice about creative success, which involves painful effort, the pursuit of perfection, and the tyranny of critique, this book will show you that there is another way to thrive: a path of ease, discovery, and wonder.

Along the way you will learn how to free your mind so that your body can create, transform your relationship with fear, and write any time, anywhere. You will also notice a growing eagerness to share your work with others, however unlikely that might seem right now, and you’ll experience the joy of shining your light for them.

In theory it has never been easier to share your words, but in reality it has probably never been harder. The smart technology, self-publishing tools, and social media platforms that now make it possible to distribute your words instantly and reach people anywhere, have also bred unprecedented competition, a culture of unsolicited feedback, and the curse of comparison at every turn. Add to this the daily pressures of our busy lives and constant media noise, and it’s no wonder that those of us who long to write find ourselves stumbling and stalling, or simply not writing at all.

Discovering the path

I have been writing for as long as I can remember, but I did not become a fearless writer until the age of thirty-nine when I was cracked wide open by an extraordinary experience that I will share later in the book. Before that I was plagued by fear and self-doubt, like many writers. It was so bad it almost stopped me finishing Freedom Seeker. In fact, it was so bad it nearly stopped me starting. The fear manifested as obsessive perfectionism and a need for control. The more I tried, the harder it got. Until it all got too much, and I finally surrendered. That’s when the whole book came flooding out.

Just a few months later I began working on Wabi Sabi, which took me back to my second home of Japan, and deep into my academic roots of Japanese language, culture, and philosophy. The more I researched, traveled, interviewed, listened, and wrote, the more I understood that so much of what I would pour into Wabi Sabi—particularly ideas about acceptance, impermanence, and dealing with failure—were as true for writing as they were for life.

I got curious about the role of energy, movement, and meditation in my own writing practice, and I trained as a Reiki Master and a yoga teacher, not so that I could offer paid treatments or teach classes, but rather to unravel the connections between mind, body, spirit, breath, and words.

All through this I carried on writing—first Wabi Sabi, then Calm Christmas and We Are in This Together—I watched in astonishment as my books were translated into more than twenty-five languages and sold all over the world.

Something had shifted. I had a sense that I had assimilated my lifelong curiosity about Eastern ideas into my writing practice, but I couldn’t yet articulate quite how.

I had an emerging theory though, and I started to test it out as I guided more than twenty thousand people through online writing sanctuaries and live writing hours, and led seasonal poetry challenges for my Instagram community, inspiring millions of words, including many from people who hadn’t written since school.

Intrigued, I went back to my philosophy texts, cultural commentaries, anthologies of ancient poetry and literature, and more than one hundred of my own journals. I searched for parallels between Eastern ideas about the way the world works and the development of my own writing practice. I traced the evolution of each of my books, paying particular attention to how I had dealt with the myriad fears that arose as I worked on each manuscript. I was hoping to find a clue or two that might help me understand what had changed. What I actually discovered was so much more: there were footprints and a path.

The three sacred gates

I looked at the before and after of my experience of surrender to see what had changed. This is what I was doing before, based on my education and Western societal conditioning:

I was focused on my own desire I had a fixed vision of what I wanted for that first book (for it to be a bestseller), which was putting a huge amount of pressure on me as a first-time author. Although I absolutely wanted the book to inspire people, I am embarrassed to say that my true ambition was related to what the book would do for me and my career. Because my reputation was so caught up with this goal, I was also trying to control what the book would become and how it would be received by the world.

I was obsessed with form I wanted to write the perfect book. Nothing less would do. I had a naive view that I would begin at page one and write until it was done, and I got frustrated when the sentences I tried to write did not flow as I had expected. I was trying to control the quality of my paragraphs and pages without giving them time to breathe. I was also trying to nail down my idea too soon, based on a fixed notion of what it should be.

I was hostage to the idea of our separateness I thought that everyone else was judge, critic, and competition, so I refused to ask anyone for help and got sidetracked by what other authors were doing.

None of it worked, and in a moment of desperation that you’ll read about later, I gave up on all of it. Not on the idea of writing, but on the idea of how writing should be. From then on I approached writing Freedom Seeker like this:

I let go of my own desire, relinquishing any specific ambitions for the book, and I simply focused on the practice of writing instead. I started to treat that practice as sacred. I brought ritual to my work and opened up to not knowing what would happen next. I entertained the paradox that our writing matters immensely, and not at all. In doing so I experienced the freedom of embracing DESIRELESSNESS.

I wrote what wanted to be written, putting it on the page without judgment. I learned that editing was a separate process that I could engage with once I had done the deep work and surfaced the truth of what needed to be said. I abandoned all attempts to force my idea too soon, instead giving it time to be floaty and undefined for a while before gently coaxing it into a shape that would eventually become the book. I realized that there was value in FORMLESSNESS as well as form.

An extraordinary encounter with the natural world at that moment of surrender reminded me of the interconnectedness of everything. I stopped seeing everyone else as judge, critic, and competition, and I proactively started building a network of supportive writers and mentors. I also spent more of my writing time in nature, sensing how we are part of something much bigger than us, and I was reminded of the Buddhist concept of EMPTINESS. Soon after this my research for Wabi Sabi made me think deeply about the notion of impermanence, and how everything arises and dissipates in time, a truth integral to that idea of emptiness.

It was only when I was out walking one day that I realized the significance of all of this. Without realizing it I had metaphorically passed through three sacred gates collectively known in Buddhism as the Three Gates of Liberation: Muganmon (無願門) The Gate of Desirelessness, Musōmon (無相門) The Gate of Formlessness, and Kūmon (空門) The Gate of Emptiness.

With each gate my writing deepened, I found more courage to share my words, and I became more familiar to myself. I was discovering a completely new approach to writing, one where fear does not get in the way.

With the benefit of hindsight I can see how the path of pilgrimage I have walked—from self-conscious secretive writer to grateful published author—has allowed me to shed my conditioning and pass through these three sacred gates. I have written myself free. And now, five books later, here I am at my writing desk, sipping tea, talking to you, and waiting for the sun to rise.

I believe that a flourishing writing life is waiting for you too. This book will guide you through those sacred gates toward it.

In Japan, gates are as symbolic as they are practical. Temple and shrine gates signify a passage from the mundane everyday world outside the gate to the sacred space within. This book is divided into three parts—Invitation, Initiation, and Integration—representing the three stages of your journey toward becoming a fearless writer. Each part leads you toward one of the gates, which you must pass through to continue on to the next part of the journey. As we cross the threshold of each gate we will release what we no longer need, and we will grow in confidence as fearless writers.

Each part of the book begins with a Journey Note: a contemplative essay offering a principle for you to carry with you on that section of the journey. I have taken inspiration from the Japanese essay style known as zuihitsu, which means “writing freely without any particular structure or form.” A free-flowing stream of loosely connected ideas, observations, and musings. A following of the ink-wet brush. I have chosen this style to reflect, as closely as possible, the way my mind works when I am writing. That is a risk, because my writing mind does not work in a logical way. It meanders from memory to meditation, from a fragment of philosophy to the glimpse of a dream. But I want you to see this so that you know that when your writing mind does the same, it’s okay. It’s safe. It will lead you somewhere.

You will see from each Journey Note that ideas pour in from all over, swirl around each other, merge together, and flow toward some vast place just out of view, the way that a river leads to the sea. I hope you will read these essays with an open mind, following the thought trail, not grasping for exact definitions, but allowing the words to wash over you, spilling your own ideas into the river, and drinking all you need.

Each essay is followed by four practical chapters, which serve as the four steps up toward the next gate. Each chapter offers a host of honest stories from my own writing life along with writing exercises for you to try, so by the time you arrive at the next gate you will be ready to pass through it and proceed to the next stage of the path.

I am sharing this with you not as a guru who has reached the end of the path, but as a fellow pilgrim still walking it—always walking it—simply reaching back and offering a friendly guiding hand as you join me on the path so that we can walk it together.

I encourage you to read the book from start to finish, in order, so that you don’t miss anything, ideally completing each writing exercise as you go. I hope that you will then keep the book on your writing desk to dip into for reminders and inspiration at any time.

Although The Way of the Fearless Writer is inspired by ideas from Japan and China, this book is not an in-depth guide to any particular aspect of philosophy, religion or history. Rather, it is a radical approach to writing (and care of the writer) informed by over two decades of exposure to Japanese ideas, culture, and language, some of which have distant roots in China. Some of those ideas are too complex to investigate fully in a book about writing, and I offer them here simply as invitations. I encourage you to contemplate each offering as a portal to your own vault of wisdom.

So, my friend, the time has come. Take a deep breath and open your heart to the mystery. May the sacred journey begin.

BONUS CONTENT

To help you on your way, I have prepared some special bonus content for you, which you can find online at bethkempton.com/ fearlesswriter. This includes a meditation album and The Fearless Writer’s Toolkit, a package of resources to support you on your journey. Help yourself!



Part One Invitation



Chapter 1

QUIETENING



隗より始めよ (kai yori hajimeyo)

When embarking on a great project, start where you are with something small.

JAPANESE PROVERB

“A thousand-mile journey begins with a single step.”1 So says the Dáodéjīng, collated more than two thousand years ago by the sage Laozi (sometimes referred to as Lao Tzu). It also says, “Confront the difficult while it is still easy.”2

However great our ambitions for writing, let’s start small, with a single word. Any word will do. Scribble it right there in the margin, or open a new notebook and write it on the first page. One word. That’s all. Just sit with that word for a moment. Ponder why that particular word came to you. Write a bit about that, if you like. Now you have started, here’s a question for you: as we set out on this pilgrimage together, what is your intention? Write that down too.

We often make a huge deal of starting. We make all sorts of excuses. Maybe it’ll be easier to concentrate when the children are in bed. Maybe tomorrow we’ll have a clearer head. Maybe next month we’ll get a new job so we have Mondays to write. Yes maybe, but don’t spend today wondering about the maybes. Spend today writing. Always spend today writing, and before you know it you’ll be living a writing life, and the maybes will have taken care of themselves.

It’s really not that complicated. We simply need to choose to begin.

If I’m stuck, I will often write “Today” on my page, and then capture a few precious fragments.

Today. Small hands baking gingerbread hearts. Gray streaks in my hair. White streaks in the sky. A family of ducks on the lawn. Lettuces popping. Ferns unfurling. A poem about wonder and a pocket full of pennies.

* * *

There, a few words on the page, and I have begun. Try it yourself. Doing this regularly makes it easier to begin every time you show up.

Writing any time, anywhere

There is a common thread woven through my favorite poems and passages from long-ago Japan. They were written by people who actively sought out solitude and silence on the road or in quiet mountain huts, such as poet and Zen Master Ryōkan Taigu who lived alone on Mount Kugami two centuries ago. In one beautiful untitled poem he wrote of playing a lute with no string, with a silent melody that entered wind and cloud, mingled with a stream, filled out the dark valley, blew through the vast forest, and then disappeared. Peering into the heart of the human condition he asked, “Other than those who hear emptiness, / Who will capture this rare sound?”3

Finding space and quiet to ponder life in this way is neither easy nor practical for many of us in the modern world. We have jobs to go to, bills to pay, and families to care for, not to mention a media addiction to attend to. But those are just logistics to deal with, not reasons not to write.

Solitude is fertile. We need to find ways to step away from the noise and enter a sacred writing space. We need a hermitage of our own: a humble, empty room with a crack in the roof where the moon shines through. In this hermitage we can write without distraction and reach through what is in front of us to discover what lies beyond.

A sacred writing space does not have to be a physical place. It can be a state of the heart that you enter through ritual and silence.

The grandest version of this might be a separate physical place to retreat to, set days of the week dedicated to writing, or time away somewhere peaceful. If those things are possible for you, by all means embrace them, but don’t let them become prerequisites for writing.

* * *

When you wake in the night and the world is still, pay attention. When the wind shows its presence by rustling leaves, pay attention. When you take a slow deep breath and feel the beating of your own heart, pay attention. These quiet moments are secret ways in.

My sacred morning ritual looks like this. I wake at 5 a.m. and go downstairs in the dark. I switch on the fairy lights in the kitchen and put the kettle on. While the water is boiling I do a simple movement sequence to loosen up my body. Then I make tea and toast, take it into my study, and close the door behind me. I sit at my desk, where my notebook and pen are waiting, along with a candle and a box of matches. I take a few deep breaths, inhaling the gentle energy of early morning, then I light the candle and welcome a new page.

I write the time, the date, and the place, anchoring myself to the moment, a still point in the rushing river of life. 5:10 a.m. Thursday 16 January. At my desk. Then I write what I notice. Still dark. Silver rain is falling from the street lamp. The hot water just clicked on. Every day is slightly different, depending on the season.

Often I read some poetry, a short passage from a favorite book, or some words of my own. I call this my Daily Spark. It’s usually enough to set the words flowing. If I don’t feel any words bubbling up, I might meditate on the candle for a while and come up with a question. Then I’ll respond to that question in my notebook, and off I go. When you approach writing with this kind of ritual, you never really have a blank page.

The ritual signals that it’s time to write. The more you do it, the quicker you’ll be able to go deep when you arrive at the page. Just as the ritual of bowing by host and guests begins and ends a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, your writing ritual gives shape to your writing session with a clear opening and closing.

We tend to organize our days as if they are linear, but when you begin a writing session with a ritual, you carve out a circular space off to the side of your day. You leave the day at a given point—and come back to it. A casual observer might think that just a few minutes have passed and nothing special has happened, but you know the truth. For a while you entered a place where time bends, ideas hover, and anything is possible. Every time you step into your own sacred writing space to greet your words you change a little, grow a little. And then, when you are ready, you close the ritual, come back to your day, and carry on, as if you haven’t just traveled to other worlds and back.

HOW TO CREATE YOUR OWN SACRED WRITING SPACE

Step one: leave the world behind

Physically step away from the world (close a door, or go to a café perhaps).Switch off your phone and get quiet.Step two: settle in

Light a candle, breathe mindfully, do a short meditation or use some other intentional marker to signify that it is time to write.Open your notebook or laptop and write the moment onto the page. This might include details such as the date and time, your location, and any sensory observations.Step three: write

You can simply keep writing, or you can prompt something unexpected in one of the following ways:

Read or listen to a “spark” (a stimulus such as a poem, passage or a writing exercise). Write a response and carry on from there.Pull out an existing piece of writing and go deeper on it.Ask a question and let your pen lead you toward an answer.Step four: prepare to wrap up

Come to a close with a timer or bell, or at a natural point.Be mindful about the last sentence, consciously signing off or marking your place so that you can return easily next time.Close your notebook or laptop.Take a moment for gratitude.Step five: return to the world

Reverse the ritual to close the session (for example, blow out the candle).Consciously exit the space and rejoin the world outside.Have a plan for the next time you are going to return to your sacred writing space. Write it on your calendar. Show up again.

You don’t have to roll out the full ritual every time. It’s like muscle memory. Once you have done it regularly for a while, there will come a time when recreating even one single aspect of it, like taking out your favorite notebook, will draw you in, ready to write. Sometimes I’m too tired to get up at 5 a.m., so I start later in the day. I skip the toast but make the tea, then I breathe deeply and let the spark lead me in. Sometimes I do a full yoga practice, step outside to gaze at the moon, or go for a long walk, before sitting down to write. It depends on the day, and the season.

I like writing at my desk, but I don’t make it a condition of writing. I like lighting a candle first, but I don’t make that a condition of writing. I like the rhythm of showing up early before the day begins, but I don’t make that a condition of writing either. While routine and a dedicated writing space can encourage you to write, there is value in novelty too. Mixing up where and when you write can bring a potent mix of freshness and serendipity.

Sometimes I sit and write. Sometimes I walk and use my phone to send ideas to myself as they come to me. Inspiration doesn’t just arrive obediently when we happen to be sitting at a writing desk. It is at work all the time. Sometimes it comes thundering in, but more often it hovers quietly at the edges of our day and we just can’t hear it for the noise. That’s why carving out time and space, and honoring your ritual, can really help.

The simplest ritual of all is to breathe mindfully before you write. It centers you, prepares you, and focuses your energy and attention on this writing moment. A few deep breaths can be enough to get the ink flowing, and you can do that any time, anywhere.

WRITE NOW #01

You will need a candle for this exercise, but if you don’t have one, simply use your imagination. Sit comfortably, spine tall. Light the candle, rest your hands in your lap, and just watch the flame for ten slow breaths. Now put your hands on your belly and imagine a ball of light and heat behind your palms. Keep breathing slowly, imagining you are drawing the fire from the candle into your body to intensify the fire in your belly. Stay here for a few minutes and let the power of this visualization fill you. Then pick up your pen and write whatever wants to be written.

Find the time to write

If you are struggling to find time to write, it may be because you aren’t clear on why you want to write. Take a moment to think about that. Having only ever known writing books with small children in my life, my greatest hindrance to putting in the time needed has always been parental guilt. For a long time I couldn’t sit down without the voice in my head insisting that I should be with my family, instead of closing the door on them and spending an hour with my ideas.

When I thought about why I write, I came up with many reasons. I do it because it is how I make sense of the world. I do it because it makes me feel connected in a profound way. I do it because it feels good. But perhaps most significantly, I am a better, more awake version of myself for having written. I feel recharged, and I have more patience, compassion, and enthusiasm for everything and everyone else once I have written.

Realizing that writing can be good for me and for my family has really helped me to deal with guilt and get to the page.

Even if you never share your words with anyone else, your writing is not just for you. The positive impact writing can have on your spirit and outlook will benefit your loved ones too. Just this morning my six-year-old asked to borrow my stapler so that she could make her own book, “To be like you, Mummy.”

I’ll say it again: I am a better version of myself for having written. You might be too.

* * *

Sometimes life happens and genuine emergencies keep us from the page. Mostly though, it’s just a choice as to whether or not we arrive there. If you are struggling to find time to write, make a list of everything you are finding time to do instead, and start making different choices. Stop ironing. Quit bingeing box sets. Batch-cook dinners. Get up earlier. We can all find a pocket of quiet somewhere: during the baby’s nap, on a tea break, or at the bedside of a cared-for loved one. I challenge you to find a pocket of time to write every day for seven days in a row and see how much easier it becomes.

When you’re not choosing writing, why is that? What message are you sending yourself and your family? Ponder this for a while, and then pick up your pen.

WRITE NOW #02

Empty your pockets or your bag for me. Show me what you carry. Tell me a story about that.

Find the energy to write

When I was seven my parents signed me up for jūdō. It was my first exposure to anything Japanese. I remember standing barefoot on the mat in the dōjō (the practice hall) fiddling with my new white outfit and wondering how on earth I was going to fight the huge teenagers further along the line.

I found out soon enough, when we were taught how to throw using our own balance, concentration, and flow of movement, combined with our opponent’s own body weight. My favorite throw was tai otoshi (体落とし) which means “body drop.” We had to grip our opponent’s lapel with one hand and their sleeve with the other, then break their balance by twisting the lapel and pulling on the sleeve. A right foot toward them, and a circling of the left foot round behind us would position us to their side. Then, right leg out, flowing body twist, gravity assists, teenager on the floor. I was astonished every time my small body managed it.

I loved being encouraged to utter a kiai (気合), which for me sounded something like “hyā!” This spirited shout from the belly is an audible release of stored energy which can intimidate an opponent. It made me feel stronger and more capable as I focused my breath and attention into this single sound and let it fly out of my body.

Jūdō (柔道) literally means “yielding path” and is often described as “the way of gentleness.” It is built on a unifying principle known as seiryoku zenyō (精力善用), which advocates the most efficient and effective use of one’s spiritual and physical energies to achieve an intended purpose.4 This can be applied to writing, too. To write we need openness, intuition, and belief as much as we need technique, stamina, and vitality.

* * *

We can consciously cultivate these energies to support our writing practice, and we can use our writing practice to tune in to and take care of ourselves in return. We can also pay attention to what is draining our energy in everyday life, and take action to address that.

ELEVEN WAYS TO CULTIVATE AND BALANCE YOUR ENERGY

Eat wellSleep wellStay hydratedPractice breath awarenessGet lots of fresh airSpend time in natureDo regular movement practices such as yoga, tai chi, and qigongBecome aware of rhythm: your own heartbeat, in music, the cycle of the seasonsDo things that bring you joyBe conscious of the energy of those you spend time withBe truthful on the page, using it as a release when you need toWhen we cultivate our energy—along with our curiosity—away from the page in preparation for our time at the page, we are engaged in vital work preparing the ground for all we are yet to write.

After a writing session we often carry the spirit of our words into our day. Even if we don’t consciously think about it, our ideas percolate in the background, and often they will have shape-shifted by the time we sit down to write again. In my experience this happens much more frequently when I spend the time in between nourishing mind, body or spirit in some way.

Let the words go

Writing is both sacred and ordinary if ordinary means part of our day-to-day life, and something that anyone can do without any particular training, or money or experience. Yet when we make it sacred in the simplest of ways, by giving it our full attention, we send ourselves an important message about its place in our lives. But it’s the process that’s sacred, not the individual words that come out. I think we sometimes confuse the two, holding on to specific sentences, stories, and scenes because we like them, even if they don’t fit. Sometimes we get attached because they might make us sound smart, or literary, or because we are astounded at how they seemed to arrive fully formed, almost channeled, and we are paralyzed by the miracle.

It is in letting go of most of our words that we get to the few that really matter.

Many words end up being sacrificial: we have to spill the surface ones to get to the good stuff. We can carve away the surplus later. For now, let’s relax and hold all the words lightly, not being too attached to what lands on the page. Let’s allow writing to be our meditation. Nothing more, nothing less.

WRITE NOW #03

Choose one of the topics below and make a list:

Things you have lostDoors you have walked throughWays you have been hungryPromises you have keptBraveries you have witnessedWhen you have finished your list, pick one thing on it and write about that.

The work of the fearless writer

My first book, Freedom Seeker, led me to this definition: freedom is the willingness and ability to choose your path and live as your authentic self. Since then I have discovered that fearless writing is a form of freedom, which is to say: fearless writing is the willingness and ability to choose your writing path, and write as your authentic self.

The work of the fearless writer is done step by step, day by day.

That authentic self is not the ego-construction that we put out in the world and measure against other people, but the consciousness beneath everything, which speaks through the intelligent heart. In the modern world it can be difficult to access this, but with practice, we can. This doesn’t mean that you won’t ever have doubts or be afraid, because the ego shows up all the time. But you will never be alone with your heart as your compass and writing as your guide. Fewer fears will arise, you will fear less often, and the intensity of your fear will reduce with practice and experience. If your path opens up new fears, you will know to return to your heart and deal with them too.

WRITE NOW #04

Write about the last dream you can remember. Turn it into a story, or look for a message in it. Then, when you go to bed tonight, put a notepad and pen by your bed. If you wake in the night, scribble on it in the dark. Otherwise, note down a few words on waking. Don’t look at your notes for a day or so, and then use them as a spark for new writing.

Show up.

Get quiet.

Write.



Chapter 2

RELEASING



Breath is a bridge between body and mind.

KAZUAKI TANAHASHI1

I used to lodge with a laid-back Japanese man whose favorite phrase was 気にしないで (ki ni shinaide), which means “Don’t worry about it.” It only recently struck me that the literal translation of this is “Don’t turn it into energy.” Yet this is often exactly what we do with worries. We can get so fixated on a fear-based thought that we turn it into stuck energy in the body, where it acts as a creative block that gets in the way of our work.

In this chapter we are going to explore ways to use breath and movement to release energy blocks and get the words flowing. I encourage you to approach this in a playful way. Try reconnecting with your inner child. There is an old Japanese proverb that says 三つ子の魂百まで (mitsugo no tamashii hyaku made), which means “A person’s character at three years old is their character at one hundred.” Think back to what you were like when you were young. What did you love to do? What was fun for you? Try that again.

Any time I ask my children if they want to play something or have a dance party they always say yes. We have journaling club every Monday after school. We cut stuff out of magazines, stamp with our fingers, draw maps and houses, write about our dreams. We are not trying to achieve anything; we are just enjoying time together creating, with snacks. I try to bring this attitude to my work. To be honest, writing is often just me and my words enjoying time together, with snacks.

When you feel that you are stagnating, let movement shake things up.

Music can work wonders for cultivating our sense of play too, encouraging us to shake off any seriousness and feel the beat. We can use music to shift our energy and lift our spirits. Listen to the words, feel the rhythm, and let your body follow it. Loud, quiet, fast or slow. Tune in to another culture’s music, or sing your heart out to some old favorites. Stick a blank sheet of paper on the wall and write as you dance.

Whole-body writing

The forest was vibrating. Hulking waves of sound rolled through it, unearthing scents and stories from the ground beneath my feet. In the darkness I felt my way along a path between towering sugi trees leading up to Murodani Shrine on the outskirts of a small village an hour north of Kyōto. Following village resident Teruyuki Kuchū, I climbed the shrine steps to a low building pulsating with the rhythm of Japanese taiko (drums).

“Welcome to Saturday night in Kanbayashi!” he said.

The drumming stopped. Silence thundered into the void, and every cell in my body boomed. Then it began again, beating the ground like an ancient call for rain.

That night, lying on my thin futon on the tatami floor of an old house in the village, I couldn’t sleep. The memory of the drums pulsated in my bones. I did a body scan to still my mind, but that night, instead of finding areas of tension to relax, I found old stories of my life in Japan swimming beneath my skin. The dull ache in my back was an overnight ferry crossing from Ōsaka to Beppu in my teens, sleeping alongside a hundred other passengers on tatami mats with just a few beans in my pocket. My right elbow sank heavily into the mattress and I relived clutching the doorframe of a friend’s kitchen during an earthquake. An involuntary jerk of my ankle released an image of me stepping into a wooden canoe a friend had hand carved and named after me when I went to live in Tōkyō, and how I had wobbled with the emotion of it and nearly fallen in. My body was alive with stories wanting to be heard. I sat up, switched on the small lamp, and wrote for hours.

Moving our bodies before and as we write can bring a whole new dimension to our writing.

We are often told to use all our senses in descriptions. To recreate a scene in a temple garden for example, we might think about the sound of water trickling into the bamboo pipe designed for scaring off deer. We use our minds to imagine what the body senses, but we are rarely taught to use the body’s capacity for physical experience to help us write. The drumming woke up something in me that calls every time I come to write a vignette or personal story. I sometimes use my physical body to transport me to the kind of experience I am writing about, and at other times I just awaken my body with stretching, breathwork, yoga, or dance, to call the memory to the surface, free my mind to go deep into the experience, and write from there.

* * *

Physical stimuli like the rhythmic drumming of the taiko or other powerful sounds, scents, visual reminders or objects open up a trail of possibilities, inviting us to explore what we might not come up with using the mind alone.

If you have never done anything like this, you might feel a little self-conscious to begin with. That’s normal. But remember, as we take a step toward the Gate of Desirelessness we are acting in service of the writing, not the ego. Don’t worry about what you look like. Have fun!

WRITE NOW #05

You will need headphones and some music with a drum- beat. Try searching the famous drumming troupe Kodō taiko on YouTube. Don’t play the music yet. Then follow these steps:

In your notebook write something about the place where you are right now. Go for five minutes.

Remove your shoes and stand barefoot for a minute or so, with your feet hip distance apart—or feel the connection where you are sitting. Relax your shoulders and hold your arms out to the sides, palms facing forward, opening your heart. Imagine that there are roots growing down from your body into the earth beneath you. As you inhale, draw energy up from the earth. As you exhale, release anything you need to release into the earth, knowing that it will be composted. Stay here for twenty breaths.

Now write more about the place you are in. How did you end up there? What kind of energy does the place have? No judgment, just observation. Write for five minutes.

Put on your headphones and turn on the drumming music. Feel the rhythm penetrating deep into your bones. Move with it if you feel drawn to do that. Imagine being deep in a forest and hearing these sounds traveling through the trees. If you feel like you want to utter a sound, do it. Do this for as long as you like, but for at least five minutes.

Then pick up your notebook once more, still listening to the drumming, and write whatever wants to come out. Go for five minutes.

Turn off the drums and feel the vibration of the silence in your ears. Write again for five more minutes.

Read what you have written. What do you notice?

Writing when it’s hard

Recently, I was reading The Breathing Book by Donna Farhi, and was struck by her message that breathing is one of the simplest things in the world—we breathe in, and we breathe out—but that does not mean it is easy.2 It’s the same with writing. Moving a pen across a page, or hitting keys on a keyboard is simple, but that does not mean writing itself is easy. When we have had a difficult experience, it can take a huge effort to voice what happened. Writing about it is a powerful way to release its hold on us, but it can be painful to relive every detail. When this is the case, it can help to write just a fragment of memory.

Words heal. Apply liberally.

The physical act of writing itself can have a healing effect. The emotional experience of reading aloud what we have written can be healing too. Treasuring, sharing or burning those words can help to close a wound so that only the scar remains.

* * *

Life is hard and beautiful, often at the same time. Writing can help us to reach toward each other, see ourselves in each other, and know that we are not alone.

WRITE NOW #06

Pick a situation that you want to write about that happened in the past, and make ten detailed observations around the edge of the experience without actually writing about the experience. Where were you? What could you hear, see, smell, taste or feel just before or at the time of the experience? What detail might hint at what was going on? For example, the silhouette of the woman in the doorway, the phone dropped and smashed on the kitchen floor.

Craft some of these fragments of memory into a short piece of writing or a poem in the past tense.

Then rewrite it in the present and see how it alters the piece.

Writing the story beyond the story

When we are struggling to write, grounding ourselves can help. This means physically reconnecting with the ground beneath us, and it can be as simple as lying on the floor, or standing barefoot outside, and feeling a connection to the earth.

Personally, I like to get my hands in the soil. If I am ever stuck for something to write about, I just step into the garden to watch and listen. Sometimes I bring an object back to my writing desk, to see where it takes me. Physically holding an object in your hands, studying it, and letting it speak to you, can yield all sorts of ideas. Take this grubby gardening glove, for example. It fell off the shelf as I opened the shed door, and I want to share with you how I might use it as a stimulus for writing.

I put the glove on and notice how some of the dried earth falls off it as I stretch my fingers. The roughness reminds me of the hours we spent building raised beds during the pandemic. That leads me to a time when I was afraid about food security. I make a note about that. Then I think about what I have done with these gloves. I think of the joy of digging up potatoes with my children, celebrating each one like buried treasure.

I go to the kitchen for a potato and bring it back to my desk, thinking about all the ways we cook and eat them, and how baked ones remind me of my mother. Then I remember Sinead O’Connor’s song “Famine” and how I used to listen to it on repeat at university when I became interested in social justice. I search for it on iTunes, and listen to her raging about the Irish potato famine. I keep listening as she burns with the fact that people were paid not to teach their children Irish, and how that battered their culture and history. As I listen, I feel the activist in me rising, wanting to stand up and fight for something. I make some more notes.

Then I return to the potato and turn it over in my hands, studying its surface, noticing the dents for the eyes, and realize that I find it quite creepy that potatoes have eyes, and I imagine what it’s like to spend your entire life underground, just to be dug up and boiled, mashed, roasted, or fried. Trying not to judge the thought, I make notes about that too.

I sink into the armchair in the corner of the room and remember the dream of a slower life that led us to moving to the countryside to have room to grow potatoes. That leads me to thoughts about planting ourselves in a particular place. I make some notes about that and go back to thinking about the garden.

An ordinary object can take your writing to extraordinary places.

I have a flashback of my youngest daughter holding a bunch of fat radishes in her muddy little hands, and then I have a physical heart contraction as I realize that someone else is eating those radishes this year, because we sold the house. I am floored by a rush of grief for that home, and I realize how we can grieve for all kinds of things: people, animals, places, lost dreams, old lives, or houses we loved and still miss. I write a few notes about that.

I think about the abundance offered by Earth, and our connection to it, and what we are doing to it. And I make notes about that, too.

All that in twenty minutes, simply from picking up a gardening glove. I had no idea where it was going to take me, but I now have a handful of seeds I can use as sparks next time I write. Sometimes I have an idea-gathering session like this. At other times I’ll get as far as the famine, go deep on that and never make it to the radishes.

* * *

Try it for yourself. Pick a thing. Hold it in your hands. Think about your relationship to it. See what happens.

Dissolve writer’s block

I had no idea of Yūko Kubota’s age. She was my reiki teacher, so it would have been rude to ask, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she is twenty years older than she looked. I was conscious of the sweat dripping down my back after a packed subway ride and a dash from the station to her apartment. Kubota-sensei, meanwhile, was cool and serene as she guided me step by step through the first day of my Reiki Master training. It was Tōkyō in August, and it was intense.

“Don’t use your mind to control what you are doing,” she told me. “Release, surrender yourself, and go with the flow of the energy. Take care of your heart and follow its vibration.”

The word reiki (霊気) means spirit–energy. Reiki is a Japanese energy-healing modality, which shines a light on any imbalances in the body, so it can start its own process of rebalancing and healing from within.

Kubota-sensei continued, “The self we normally identify with is a fabrication of our ego. Your true self is like a pure background consciousness that offers forth its wisdom. Sometimes these directions can take a while to come through, but there are ways to access this wisdom by bypassing the mind.”

Reiki is one such way. Fearless writing is another.

Writer’s block is an energy block. Shift the energy, shift the block.

We can become blocked or drained for many reasons, including stress and exhaustion. We can also carry past criticism, assumptions, and beliefs in our bodies. These blockages can manifest in many ways, including physical pain, tightness, mental fog, circular thinking, numbness, or a frustrating sense that something is there but we cannot grasp it. Any of these manifestations can further feed the block, as can trying to think our way out of it. But after writing millions of words and supporting thousands of writers to write, I have come to understand that writer’s block is not a problem we can fix by thinking harder.

* * *

With regular use of the rituals and practices I am sharing in this book, I rarely suffer from writer’s block these days, but I know it well from experience. For me, blocks tend to show up in my physical body in three main ways:

The knot: a problem to unravel

If I am trying to grapple with a complex idea or reconfigure a project, my tangled thinking often shows up as a knot, usually in my stomach, shoulders or back. My natural tendency is to push, to research more, to think harder, to stay longer at my desk. But these just tighten the knot. Instead, when I back off and drop into my body, fully ground myself, and stop forcing, the knot finds a way to unravel itself.

The inkblot: an emotional blockage

When my writing bumps up against a long-held belief or story, or an old wound, I can sense a dense cloud pushing up against the base of my lungs, restricting my breathing or causing a dull ache in my heart space. It feels as thick as an inkblot, and on difficult days it moves up into my head and lodges itself behind my eyes. My instinct is to turn away or push it somewhere I can’t see it. But that doesn’t make it go away. Instead, if I turn toward it with compassion and write around it, or hint at it with words, even if I don’t write it directly, in time it tends to dissolve.

The fog: an absence of joy

When I am trying to write about something I am simply uninterested in, it shows up in my mind and body as fog. It can be hard to pinpoint a specific location, but my limbs feel heavy and my mind is dull. I cannot muster the energy to deal with it, and I procrastinate. But if I acknowledge the feeling and give myself permission to write about something else, the fog lifts and I don’t have to abandon writing altogether.

* * *

These might be familiar, or your blocks may show up differently. If you feel stuck on the page, look for clues in your body.

When we are blocked, the pressure builds and we need to release it in some way: physically (like running, singing or dancing), mentally (like journaling or talking about it), emotionally (like crying, screaming or laughing) or spiritually (like through energy work, chanting or spending time in nature). Writing itself can help. There are times when it works to reframe the block as an invitation to get vulnerable and take a risk. Other times it’s better to write about something else. Your choice.

* * *

On the final day of my reiki training, after a simple ceremony with an audience of three large houseplants, I was suddenly hungry for a rice ball and some chilled green tea. I left my teacher’s apartment and headed for her local supermarket, ライフ (pronounced raifu), noticing a new lightness in my body and mind. On arrival I was greeted by a huge sign bearing the supermarket logo—four hearts in the shape of a four-leaf clover—above a friendly English slogan: “Thank you for coming to LIFE.”

WRITE NOW #07

On a piece of paper, write about something heavy that you carry. When you have finished, screw it up, put it into a heatproof bowl, and set light to it carefully. As it burns, feel for a sense of lightness as you watch it transform. Once it has finished burning and the ash has cooled, add a few drops of water and mix well. Dip the end of a matchstick or paintbrush into the ashy ink and draw a symbol or write a word in your notebook.

Write about the experience of burning your words, how you felt about it, and what it represents. Perhaps speak of physics, or the impermanence of everything, or the hope of creating something new from the ashes of something else.

Take care of your body

Yoga is nonnegotiable when I am on a long writing stretch, and my mat is always the first thing I pack when heading off on retreat. Looking after our bodies helps deliver us to the page vital and ready. During a long writing session, it’s important to take regular movement breaks, too. I often take a question for a walk, and return with an unexpected answer. One of my favorite ways to break up a long session at my desk is with a walking meditation, taking one slow deep breath for every step and paying attention to the feeling of my feet on the earth as I walk. I use an ergonomic chair, or, if I am working away from home, I take a portable back support, and I often stand up to write. Over the years I have come to understand that freeing up the body helps free the words within.

WRITE NOW #08

Today, pay close attention to the way you move through a particular space. Any space will do—it could be a room, a town square, a park. As you move through it, notice the following:

What is underfoot and above you?What is changing as you move, as a result of your movement? (The flow of a crowd? The view? Your center of gravity?)What is the air carrying? (Rain? Dust? A fragrance? Good news?)What do you notice about your body as it moves?Slow your walking to the pace of one full breath to one step. What do you notice?Make some notes, then keep writing for at least ten more minutes.

Move your body.

Free your mind.

Write.



Epilogue

Sunlight is reaching through the tall stone windows of Gladstone’s Library in Wales, spilling a tin of gold paint over the stacks of old books. Xavier Rudd’s “Follow the Sun” is pouring into my headphones, taking me back to Costa Rica and the eagle, and the moment after which everything was different.

I am in the mysticism section of the library, and I pull down a book at random from the shelf next to me. Out flies a paper bird. It swoops down to the reading room below, then back up to the vaulted ceiling to join with thousands of others in a silent murmuration.

My heart swells to meet the birds, and I can feel the moment expanding. I scan the walls and wonder how the world has room for any more books, and I know that we must never stop writing books.

I look up again and the birds have become tiny blank pages, floating down gently like paper snow, covering everything.

I pick up my pen to write once more, joining the lineage of all other humans who have been awake to the world and written about it. And suddenly the strange happenings in that bookshop in Beijing all those years ago make sense.

* * *

On the surface, the bookshop was simply an unusual stationery store selling leather-bound journals. The kōan was not the shop itself, but the naming of the blank volume as the Dáodéjīng, one of the most famous books in the world. Kōans are not so much riddles to be solved, as paradoxical phrases to be contemplated, in a way that allows the mind to transcend logic and see beyond.

The truth revealed in that strange old shop in Beijing on that dark rainy night years ago was this:

An empty book holds the potential of everything.

The blank page is a symbol of life in any given moment.

Every page is a new day,

Every word a new beginning,

Every beginning seeded in the ending of all that went before.

We don’t have to be able to explain things to write them,

And yet in writing them we somehow come to know them. All we have to do is pick up a pen.

Just as the Dáodéjīng tells us that the Dáo that can be spoken is not the Dáo,1 the Way of the Fearless Writer that can be fully articulated is not the Way. But we know now that it is deeply intertwined with our experience of the great unfolding, and the endless flow of life as creative beings who use language to express ourselves, reach others, and reinforce the interconnected web of everything. And just as the Dao represents the creative process of the universe, the Way of the Fearless Writer—the journey toward the three gates of liberation—represents the creative process of becoming who we really are, and the freedom found in spilling our words onto the page.

All that can be said has been said.

All that is left cannot be said.

All there is left to do is to write.



Acknowledgments

The books we write are intimately connected to all the other books in the world—the ones we have read, the ones that inspired the authors of those books, the ones our readers have read that set them on a trail to discover ours, and so on. I am grateful to the author of each one, and to every translator whose work has illuminated ideas from long ago and far away.

People often say that writing is a lonely task, but when I turn and look back at the path I have walked, I see the footprints of so many people I am grateful for. Some are still right here alongside me now, and I know there will be others up ahead. To each of you, including my writerly friends, thank you. Specifically, though, I would like to honor my teachers, in particular Naomi Cross, William McClure, Dr. John Weste, Ariko Komiya, Yūko Nakajima, Kaori Nishizawa, Junko Suzuki, Julia Tuff, Roshi Joan Halifax, Kazuaki Tanahashi, and the faculty of the Upaya Zen Center, Darin Lehman, Lacey Hickox Lehman, Srimati Hughes, Sam Bianchini, Hana Pepin, Angie Howell, Yūko Kubota, Dr. Martin Shaw, Mark Nepo, Horatio Clare, and the late Joy Sander.

Behind the scenes of every book there is a team of people who work to get that book out in the world. I am so grateful to my wonderful agent Caroline Hardman of Hardman & Swainson, and to the brilliant Thérèse Coen for doing the deals that have seen my books translated into more than twenty-five languages. It’s more than I ever dreamed of. I am blessed to work with my fantastic editor Jillian Young, and am grateful to all at Piatkus who have helped bring this book to life and get it out in the world, particularly Jillian Stewart, Jan Cutler, Matthew Burne, and Matt Crossey.

I am deeply indebted to Don Starr, Director of Studies (Chinese and Japanese) at the University of Durham, for advice on the Dáodéjīng and the use of Chinese, and to Seiko Mabuchi, Audrey Flett, Teruyuki Kuchū, Craig Anczelowitz, and Reverend Takafumi Kawakami for invaluable advice and guidance on the Japanese references in this book. Any errors or omissions are my responsibility.

To all my students, thank you for showing me that what I had to say about writing was worth writing down.

To all the booksellers, librarians, and readers who have so generously recommended my books to others, and taken the time to let me know how much they have meant to you, thank you. It makes such a difference.

Writing books requires intense periods of time away from other commitments. I am especially grateful to our business partners Lilla Rogers and Rachael Taylor, and to our team, for your ongoing support, and for doing what you do so well. Thank you also to Kelly Rae Roberts for the reminder that nothing is wasted, Kate Eckman for the name “Braveheart,” Bill and Joanna for the cottage, and Finn for all the coffee.

I am indebted to my mum for filling my childhood with books, supporting my endless projects, and always encouraging me to write, and to my dad for lending me your typewriter (and all your pens) and bravely sharing your own words first.

And, of course, to Mr. K and our girls, Sienna and Maia: thank you for helping me build a hermitage, and filling life outside it with love and laughter. I love your stories best of all.

Finally, I offer my eternal gratitude to the universe, co-author of everything I have ever written.



Bibliography

Bhavabhuti (trans. Schelling, Andrew), Untitled Poem in Dropping the Bow: Poems of Ancient India (New York: White Pine Press, 2008).Dalby, Liza, East Wind Melts the Ice: A Memoir through the Seasons (London: Chatto & Windus, 2007).Ehrlich, Gretel, Facing the Wave: A Journey in the Wake of the Tsunami (New York: Vintage, 2013).Farhi, Donna, The Breathing Book (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 1996).Gogen Yurai (online etymological dictionary), https://gogen-yurai.jp/omoshiroi/. Retrieved March 1, 2022.Halpern, Jack (ed.), The Kodansha Kanji Dictionary (New York: Kodansha USA, 2013).Hanh, Thich Nhat, Awakening of the Heart: Essential Buddhist Sutras and Commentaries (Berkeley: Parallax Press, 2012).Hass, Robert, The Essential Haiku: Versions of Bashō, Buson & Issa (Northumberland: Bloodaxe, 2013).Higginson, William J. and Harter, Penny, The Haiku Handbook: How to Write, Teach, and Appreciate Haiku (New York: Kodansha USA, 2013).Ishiguro, Kazuo, Nobel Lecture, https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/2017/ishiguro/lecture/. Retrieved March 29, 2022.Japan Ministry of the Environment, Nokoshitai nihon no onfūkei hyaku sen, https://www.env.go.jp/air/life/nihon_no_oto/. Retrieved March 7, 2022.Kano, Jigorō, The Best Use of Energy, Taisei, vol.1, no.1, 1922, http://kodokanjudoinstitute.org/en/doctrine/word/seiryoku-zenyo/. Retrieved February 18, 2022.Katagiri, Dainin, The Light That Shines Through Infinity: Zen and the Energy of Life (Boulder: Shambhala, 2017).Lao Tzu (trans. Addiss, Stephen and Lombardo, Stanley), Tao Te Ching (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1993).Lao Tzu (trans. Lau D. C.), Tao Te Ching (London: Penguin, 1963).Lao Tzu (trans. Le Guin, Ursula K. with Seaton, J.P.), Tao Te Ching: A Book About the Way and the Power of the Way (Boulder: Shambhala, 1997).Lao Tzu (trans. Mitchell, Stephen), Tao Te Ching (London: Frances Lincoln, 2015).Matsuo, Bashō (trans. Hamill, Sam) Narrow Road to the Interior (Boston & London: Shambhala, 1991).Nakamura, Hiroshi, Ribbon Chapel, https://www.nakam.info/en/works/ribbon-chapel/. Retrieved March 8, 2022.Ogawa, Tadashi. A Short Study of Japanese RENGA: The Trans-Subjective Creation of Poetic Atmosphere referenced in Marinucci, Lorenzo, Hibiki and Nioi: A Study of Resonance in Japanese Aesthetics http://journals.mimesisedizioni.it/index.php/studi-di-estetica/article/view/879. Retrieved February 11, 2022.Okumura, Shōhaku, The Mountains and Waters Sutra: A Practitioner’s Guide to Dōgen’s Sansuikyō (Somerville: Wisdom, 2018).Oxford Languages https://languages.oup.com/google-dictionary-en/. Retrieved March 13, 2022.Pike, K. L. and Brend, R. M., Language as Particle, Wave, and Field (1972), https://www.semanticscholar.org/paper/LANGUAGE-AS-PARTICLE%2C-WAVE%2C-AND-FIELD-Pike-Brend/7447b4ba7c2eb974b9eb8be6a4d74c5a0158209b. Retrieved January 15, 2022.Reps, Paul (ed.), Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen writings (London: Penguin, 1957).Schelling, Andrew (trans.), Dropping the Bow: Poems of Ancient India (New York: White Pine Press, 2008).Shinmura Izuru (ed.) Kōjien: Dai 5 han (Tōkyō: Iwanami Shoten, 1998).Smith, D. Howard, The Wisdom of the Taoist Mystics (London: Sheldon Press, 1980).Tanahashi, Kazuaki, Brush Mind (Berkeley: Parallax Press, 1998).Tanahashi, Kazuaki, Sky Above Great Wind: The Life and Poetry of Zen Master Ryokan (Boulder: Shambhala, 2012).Tanahashi Kazuaki (ed.), Treasury of the True Dharma Eye: Zen Master Dogen’s Shobo Genzo (Boulder: Shambhala, 2010).Tanizaki, Junichirō, (trans. Harper T.J. and Seidensticker E.G.) In Praise of Shadows (London: Vintage, 2001).Uchiyama, Kōshō, How to Cook Your Life: From the Zen Kitchen to Enlightenment (Boulder: Shambhala, 2005).United Nations University, Where the Sea Whistle Echoes, https://www.YouTube.com/watch?v=sTIf2vA-_JQ. Accessed March 6, 2022.Watts, Alan, with Chung-Liang Huang, Al, Tao: The Watercourse Way (London: Souvenir Press, 2019).Yoshida, Kenkō (trans. Keene, Donald), Essays in Idleness (Tsurezuregusa) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1967).



Resources for Writers

Writing and storytelling courses

Writing courses with me dowhatyouloveforlife.comNational Centre for Writing nationalcentreforwriting.org.ukCurtis Brown Creative curtisbrowncreative.co.ukThe Novelry thenovelry.comThe School of Myth schoolofmyth.comWriting communities

Live Writing Hour with me dowhatyouloveforlife.comLondon Writers’ Salon londonwriterssalon.comJericho Writers jerichowriters.comHope*Writers hopewriters.comShe Writes shewrites.comMslexia mslexia.co.ukWriting retreats

Writing retreats with me dowhatyouloveforlife.comArvon arvon.orgMoniack Mhor moniackmhor.org.ukHedgebrook hedgebrook.orgUnplugged unplugged.restPodcasts

Beautiful Writers Podcast with Linda SivertsenCourage & Spice with Sas PetherickFrom My Kitchen Table with Jo PackhamIn Writing with Hattie CrisellNot Too Busy to Write with Penny Wincer and Ali MillarOn Writing with Joshua PomarePractice You with Elena BrowerThe Creative Penn Podcast with Joanna PennThe Creative Superheroes Podcast with Andrea ScherThe Good Life Project with Jonathan FieldsThe Honest Authors Podcast with Gillian McAllister and Holly SeddonThe Rebel Author with Sacha BlackThe Secret Life of Writers with Jemma BirrellThe Tim Ferriss Podcast with Tim FerrissThe Writer Files with Kelton ReidThe Writers Jam with Brad KingThe Writing Life from the National Centre for WritingWindowsill Chats with Margo TantauWrite Now with Sarah Rhea WernerWrite Now with ScrivenerWrite-Minded with Brooke Warner and Grant FaulknerWriter’s Routine with Dan Simpson


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