As Marilee Swirczek said,

Writing is the act of selecting and organizing words–creating prose with words–with the purpose of providing the reader with an insight, or truth, into the human condition.

Yes, one can write simply to entertain or to produce a laugh or a reaction, but insight is the higher goal of writing, The Art, if you will.

There are many reasons people study martial arts: Some want to get in shape, some want self confidence, and some want to beat people up. Those who make a serious study of martial arts ultimately pursue a higher path: Enlightenment. There are many philosophies and analogies to describe what enlightenment means; because, like writing, it is unique to each individual. A simple way of describing it is thus:  The pursuit of martial arts is the act of selecting thoughts and actions and organizing them–creating prose with movement–with the purpose of discovering an insight into one’s own state or condition.

Both of these arts achieve similar goals. Both of these arts are vast, lifelong pursuits with an ever-expanding horizon. This literally means that the more I learn about each, the larger the field of possibility becomes, the more I understand how little I know. There is an odd comfort in seeking excellence in this way. Sure, it stings at first. This pursuit of an ever expanding target is much like the Christian pursuit of God. One strives to be like perfection, knowing that the effort is vain, that each step forward is still infinitely far away. But it’s still one step closer.

There is a humbling peace in this discovery. I can let go of feelings of inadequacy and the need to achieve and excel and to conceal my ignorance and failures. They are par for the course. The arts I strive to grow in are too vast for any to master in full. Wherever I am on the path relative to another, we are both still at the beginning. Another may be a horizon away from me, but still looks to an even farther horizon of his own.

And, with each new discovery of the craft, I may only grow one step closer to enlightenment; but, I also understand my companions for the journey just a bit more intimately, and find a little more capacity to love the diversity of culture and pragmatism that is a human being. It is all about the journey and nothing about the destination.

In regards to your post…I think churches and museums are places for our minds and spirits to exercise.

I had a lot of thoughts on this; too many to fit in the comments section. So, without further introduction…

Sharon,

In a gym, you perform repetitious exercises, physical actions that passively improve your body. In a museum, you observe, although you are occasionally inspired to think, which is positive.

While I will grant that catholic mass does involve some repetitious exercise of thought and can–if you make it so–involve movement of spirit, most churches are simply observation. The purpose is worship and often education, but not fitness. Some involve a good deal of singing and there are exceptional branches which understand the need for participation, but this is child’s play for your mind and spirit. It’s like doing five pushups a day and calling your body fit. It’s like reciting your phone number and considering your memory healthy.

There are ways to exercise the mind and spirit if you search for them, but it is not a widely recognized need to do so. Even among the non-spiritual and supposedly practical belief patterns, there is no common pursuit of mental fitness. How often have you been reminded the importance of strengthening your memory? How often have you been presented with analytical problems or puzzles for the sake of expanding your reasoning and non-linear thinking? When was the last time someone suggested that understanding communication and practicing things like rapport, listening skills, or word choice could propel your personal relationships to a whole new level? Why is this stuff relegated to the realm of self help and fringe society? Why isn’t the need to upkeep you body, mind, and spirit part of high school curricula?

My suspicion is that our need to tell everyone they are okay just as they are has surpassed our thirst for excellence or even moderate capacity as functional people.  That our society has become so media, consumerist driven that the idea of thinking for oneself, seeking excellence, or–dare I even say it–wishing physical, mental, and spiritual growth and excellence has become foreign, implies some sort of deficiency or problem. (And we know that none of us have deficiencies or problems!)

It baffles me that more people are not engrossed with these aspects of their lives and the vast, vast world that is opened by pursuit of personal development and excellence of being. But then, being from a martial arts upbringing, there are many things about the goals and practices of others that baffle me.

Lady Glamis wrote an excellent series about outlines over on her blog, The Innocent Flower, which she later appended with a post titled, “It’s In the Firsts.”  Here’s a quick teaser of her provoking thoughts:

I’ve noticed more and more writers saying they just have to get out the first draft before they can do any planning, any serious mapping or thinking, or pretty much anything besides pushing through to the end of that new story.

Speaking as someone in the transition from apprentice to journeyman, I can say that, at first, there was no way I could develop an interesting story from an outline; I needed to explore the whole story on paper just to work through the immensity of it.

Now, as I’ve become more efficient, I find that many parts of the story can be worked in my head. Some parts still need to be written to flower, and, of course, the writing always takes surprising turns; this is to be expected in any creative process.

In martial arts, one learns to spar by simply getting in there and being punched in the face for a while. You make it up as you go. A journeyman in martial arts has a set of techniques and tries them when they seem appropriate, but the fight is still a mystery as it unfolds, though he recognizes patterns and can occasionally predict what will follow.

The master knows simply from how his opponent moves, what his environment is, and an intuitive sense of things, how he will attempt to impose his will and what his opponent is likely to attempt. If given the opportunity–such as in the sports arena–he will formulate deep plans and contingencies for all his opponent’s tactics and strengths. During the conflict, he will constantly be thinking far ahead: he may counter with this, if so I’ll go here, if not I’ll go there; after that I’ll be here, unless he stops this and then I’ll be there.

It might sound impossible but it’s a very real skill, and why masters of martial arts seem impossibly fast to react–they are literally a step or three ahead of each action. They are so intimate with the process that they are not consumed by what they are implementing now, but breezing through it while considering what is to come later.

In this way, as we hone our writing talents–and I can say that I’ve already noticed this progression in my own work–it becomes easier and easier to develop an idea in one’s head and requires less and less actual writing to realize an exciting character or plot.

Some exploration is part of any good story development. For the beginner that could mean writing a whole draft and picking out what works well. I think for the master, writing a couple scenes is probably sufficient to feel the arc of the story. Whether that plan manifests in an outline, a chapter synopsis, or stays in the head as the first draft unfolds is a matter of personal approach. But it does exist on some level and is an essential part of efficient writing.

One can always labor after, reworking the draft to add consistency and buildup, plot and structure–there is no unbreakable rule that says planning is essential.  But in making writing a serious career, one would learn to anticipate outcomes; learn that the stronger the first draft, the stronger the revisions will be; learn that the sooner one realizes the larger story arcs, the less months will be spent revising, allowing more energy to pour into the vitality and creativity of the work instead of fixing inconsistencies.

That is not to say that the plot should ever become a shackle for one’s creativity. As Captain Barbossa–one of my favorite villains since Dr. Evil–put it, “the code is more what you’d call ‘guidelines’ than actual rules.” And plots, like stories, like any plan, like any good execution of artistic skill, must be fluid and ready to change as vision and situation demand.

The map is not the territory. The word is not the thing.

It’s a beautiful proverb; one enjoyed by therapists and martial artists the world over. It makes a great meditation, a provoking opening for a poem, and a wise counter for pontificating intellectuals.

But what does it truly mean? Like Smee, I feel “lightning done struck my brain” when I think on it too long.

There is danger in believing we know something of this world.  We live such a short fragment of history, only a wink in the scope of things.

Consider that the phone was invented in 1876–mereley one hundred years ago–and the electric telegraph was less than fifty years its forerunner. The model T (the first combustible engine produced en masse) wasn’t born until 1908.  And computers, ah the viral digital world rivaled only by the television for its invasive hold on our lives, those didn’t arrive on the scene until the late ’50s, and the home computer is a mere thirty years old.

All of these things are possible only because of mass production of steel, an art developed by Bessemer in the mid-1800′s–Henry Bessemer, an unknown name who played a pivotal role in the second half of the industrial revolution.

Our world, as we believe ourselves intimate with it, is only a very brief flash of history. And even this is distilled, idealized, and altered by the men who recorded it. And yet, like those who came before us, we think ourselves masters of history and informed.

Know who else thought themselves informed? Doctors in the 1800′s truly believed they were helping women when they examined them during childbirth. We know now that they killed 1 in 4 because those laughable child’s fancies (i.e. germs), really weren’t so laughable; it really is important to wash one’s hands after examining that dead body and before you check a woman’s cervix for dialation.

The Aztecs firmly believed that they must murder thousands of tribes from the south american jungles in sacrifice or their gods would destroy the world with quakes and pestilence. Yet their sacrifices came to an abrupt halt and the world–even their temples–still stand.

While we cannot become stagnant for fear of our ignorances, we shouldn’t become so arrogant to think our understanding is complete; we shouldn’t think we know things for what they are.

Most all of our knowledge is pure trust; pure belief; pure fantasy — how many of us have seen a whale in the water, a seashell still in the ocean, or touched the moon? We only fabricate an understanding of them based on the preponderance of words we are offered.

It is important to humble ourselves with this epiphany daily so that our knowledge of the world can be tempered by our understanding that we only hold some of the pieces of this puzzle and only a small fragment of history.

For the word is not the thing, and the map is not the territory.

When it comes to topics like freedom, free speech, and protection of creative works (i.e. copyright), there is plenty of emotional outburst available. None of these topics are black and white. None of them are as simple as yes or no. None of them can be answered with child-like tantrums and emotional appeal. What is lacking is rational debate–the ability to consider all facets.

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It is not the critic who counts; Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; Who strives valiantly;

Who errs, and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; But who does actually strive to do the deeds; Who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; Who spends himself in a worthy cause;

Who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worse, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

-Theodore Roosevelt

Air is optional.

I hear so much about how people “need” this and “need” that. So what is it that we really need as a person?

You might argue that, to survive, a person needs food, clothing, shelter, water, and air. But who needs to survive?

At first, I’m sure that question sounds absurd. Let’s try it this way: What is more important to you than your own survival? An ideal? A country? Your family? If your answer is nothing, you’ve ranked yourself beside the guppy in nature’s equivalency test, who gives birth to young and never thinks on them again–unless particularly hungry.

So what do you need? And where am I headed? Obviously not advocating that anybody stop breathing–some sort of oxygen strike. Although I have to admit, to my shame, that I have on occasion wished certain people would do just that.

What I want to challenge are our self imposed limitations. Those things we tell ourselves we can’t live without, like our house, job, or love interest. See, while these things may define our situation, they do not define our heart and inner composition.

Those are defined by our conviction and beliefs, the core of which are truth, honor, and faith.

I submit to you that these are the true things we cannot live without. Everything of this world can be taken from us, even air. So be it. Come what may.

Truth, honor, and faith are the three facets we must cling to. These are the things that comprise our inner identity–not our possessions and successes, thank God, though the world crams that lie in our faces day after day. 

Air is nice, and I’d be sad if it were gone. But I cannot be unsettled by a world that threatens my material composition.  I leave you with the immortal words of two great men who explored this truth so much more intimately and eloquently than I…

Letter to Admiral Son Ko-i:

My life is simple, my food is plain, and my quarters are uncluttered. In all things, I have sought clarity. I face the troubles and problems of life and death willingly. Virtue, integrity and courage are my priorities. I can be approached, but never pushed; befriended but never coerced; killed but never shamed.
Admiral Yi Sun-shin

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
       My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
      I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley

If there’s anything I’ve been told I write well it’s battles. Which begs the question of why I put so few in my books. But I think that’s one powerful part of battles: less is more. The story needs a great deal of buildup and tension to set off a powerful battle, whether it’s one on one or mass melee.

The actual technique of writing believable battles is difficult. With twenty years of martial arts under my belt, and a good study of famous battles, I can conjure them up fairly easily. But as a writer you probably don’t want to spend twenty years perfecting that understanding, so here are some good ways to fake it.

1. Battles are simple.

Battles aren’t won with elaborate strategies or confusing, abstract methods. They are won by simple, well executed plans, which consider all the opponents contingencies.

It’s the little details that make the difference and create favorable odds. The enemy who is led into a soft patch of mud lacks mobility and becomes the victim of his opponent with the spear.

Enraging an opponent so they loose control and make a silly mistake, like slipping off a catwalk or twisting an ankle can end a fight. Often patience and keeping one’s head is enough to see it through.

Stumbling or tripping can spell disaster.

I watched a documentary about Agincourt, a famous battle during which the English were exhausted and outnumbered, but managed to defeat a superior french force using mud and wedge shaped groups of archers (the wikipedia page fails to capture the brilliance of their strategy and hardly mentions the unique shape of their three “battles”, or battalions). 

It’s amazing how a little terrain and angle of attack created such a mess for the french cavalry (striking their horses from the side defeated the calvary’s thick armor) and the french were mired in mud, allowing unarmored bowmen to outfight armored warriors. They were literally defeated by mud and their own armor.

2. Size matters

Bigger, stronger opponents are not easily beaten by fast, lithe warriors, no matter how expert they are. An opponent with a longer and larger weapon has a serious advantage in combat, unless the weapon is cumbersome and hard for him to wield.

Often, a good strong attack can foil any plan; despite the romance we have with the underdog and with how speed and wit can outsmart brute force. It can sometimes level the field, but odds always favor the larger, stronger opponent in melee, whether hand to hand or with weapons.

That’s not to say that mobility and speed aren’t important and effective attributes. But unless you can stay out of an opponents reach and beat them from range, you must come within their guard at some point. And one careless movement or well placed blow ends the fight for the smaller, weaker fighter.

3. Read Sun Tzu

Brilliant generals follow his advice to the letter. Poor generals are the ones who make the mistakes he mentions, or do the opposite of his advice. There’s no greater book about war strategy than Sun Tzu’s.

4. Battles, like dialog, need to progress the story, not just happen.

Good battles in stories are concise, centered on a POV, and each description, each slash, each movement serves the plot. Just like good dialog, there is no fluff, and no extra description for the sake of being thorough. The battle stays focused on what the author wants the reader to feel and experience, on building tension, and on progressing the plot forward.

You don’t have to describe the whole battle, just enough of it to get the grit and feel. You only need enough of the moment to immerse the reader, and the final outcome. Leave the rest out, and you’ll have great battles.

(I originally posted this on CC, but decided I’d like to keep a more permanent copy here)

Wwwwwwowwww… who would have thought that origami could build telescopes?

It’s a rhetorical question, really. After studying martial arts for so many years, I can see how pursuit of mastery and perfection in any art transforms a person into something greater. And, amazingly, in doing so it also transforms the culture and society around that person. It’s an amazing cycle of growth and enlightenment.

In addition to having a great story to tell about how art for the sake of art can change the world, this guy is funny, too.

It also illuminates a beautiful principle that applies equally to writers, programmers, martial artists, and anyone in this world seeking mastery of a craft: When you combine artistic expression with a fundamental understanding of the rules that govern a system, you come out with amazing, beautiful, functional art.

And, from mastery of a beautiful, functional art, you can build a telescope. Or change the world. Take your pick.

Has there been better advice given to anyone trying to accomplish anything?

Over at flexbandit, donkeybandit was discussing how his blog helped advance his career, which is an interesting enough topic in itself.

But he linked over to an article titled Quantity Always Trumps Quality. While I’d argue that always is a dangerous word and balance is probably in order, there was a great excerpt about making it happen.

Check out this excerpt from the book…

The ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality…

Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the “quantity” group was busily churning out piles of work – and learning from their mistakes – the “quality” group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay.