for my writing friends
WRITING AIKIDO
This past January marks twenty years that I have been practicing Aikido. I’ve been a writer of children’s and young adult fiction for about twenty-five. At first glance there wouldn’t seem to be obvious parallels between fiction writing and Aikido, one pursuit almost entirely mental and the other almost entirely physical. Still, both involve a constant pursuit of excellence, daily practice, and a never-ending effort to improve, learn, and adjust. I’m finding lately that the two disciplines have more common ground than I ever imagined.
I first began to see the connections about five years ago, when I attended a writing workshop with the late Sid Fleischman, the grand old man of children’s literature. Among other bits of practical advice, Sid said that it takes two ideas to make a story, just as it takes two sticks to make a fire. One idea won’t catch fire; it’s just a stick without that second idea to rub against it.
Around this same time, Itoh Sensei often said in class that it takes two forces to take uke’s balance - movement in two directions. For example, up and forward. Without the forward, up is just a stretch. Without the up, forward is just pushing. I mentioned this to Sid after the writing workshop, and he was very excited to have another practical illustration of his point.
Itoh Sensei has recently focused on breaking down techniques into four parts: Ki (introduction), Shou (development), Ten (turn), and Ketsu (conclusion). The first time I heard this analysis, I thought it described equally well the structure of a story. Each of these parts, in Aikido and in writing, must occur in its place, distinct but essential to the integrity of the whole. Ki sets everything in motion, and just as we practice entries over and over, I write and rewrite the beginning of a novel more often than any other part. That all-important first chapter is my chance both to hook a reader and to set up the basics of the plot. Shou keeps that first motion going forward. For me it’s the hardest part of a technique to get right, the subtlest to understand - and it is the hardest part of a book to write as well, that “now what?” piece after the set-up, where the plot needs to deepen and develop. Ten is the place where nage takes control of the technique. In a novel it is the key moment when some action of the hero’s changes everything. Ketsu concludes the technique. In writing we often say the ideal plot resolution is one of “inevitable surprise” - an unexpected ending that, on reflection, seems the only logical one. I want my reader to say, “I didn’t see that coming,” but also to say, “Of course! I should have seen that coming!” I’m not sure there’s a better description of the feeling uke has at the end of a technique. Even when we practice something familiar, with a known outcome, it should end with inevitable surprise.
Beyond these broader concepts, I find that over the years I’ve learned a lot from daily practice that translates to my writing, and vice versa. For example:
- Keep your uke off balance. Writers like to talk about “maintaining tension” but what they really mean is, don’t let your main character (or your reader) get his or her balance back. If you do, you have to work twice as hard to take it away again, and by then the reader may have stopped reading.
- One big step is more effective than a lot of little shuffling ones. When revising a story, I find myself cutting so many little shuffling steps - unnecessary words like “almost” and “started to” and “very,” as well as repetitive dialogue. One big step - one bold sentence - is better.
- Sometimes half an inch is all it takes. So often in kokyuho, nage moves in, brings me (as uke) right to the point where my balance is almost gone - and then gives up and says, “it’s not working!” Half an inch more would bring me to the mat. Sometimes a scene in a novel doesn’t seem to be working. It doesn’t necessarily mean the whole thing is wrong. The point may just need to be pushed that extra half-inch further.
- (This one’s also from Sid Fleischman) The stronger the villain, or opposing force, the stronger the hero. As uke, your committed attack is a gift to nage. A wimpy problem makes a wimpy story, just as it’s hard to execute a decent technique from a wimpy attack.
- Sometimes there are plateaus. You get stuck in a frustrating pattern and you think you’re never going to be better at Aikido, you’re just going to keep using too much muscle or not extending far enough or messing up your posture forever. Sometimes you think nothing you write is ever going to have wings again. One huge gift from experience in both disciplines is knowing that a plateau usually comes just before a breakthrough - though some plateaus are definitely longer than others...
- If you’re working too hard at it, you’re probably approaching it from the wrong angle. It turns out my characters don’t like being forced to do things any more than I do. If I go with their momentum, let their movements come organically out of the situation, we’re all a lot happier than if I wrestle them into submission.
I enjoy bringing Aikido into my writing life, and blending the two in my mind. Sometimes, as the writer, I am nage. Sometimes my main character, or even the story itself, is nage. Uke is sometimes the antagonist, sometimes the story, sometimes the reader, sometimes even myself. We take turns at our different roles, back and forth in the familiar rhythm of practice. If writing is a mental art, a “fine” art, I like to think there is also something martial in it.