Martial Arts and Writing
For the last fifteen years, I’ve been training in Tae Kwon Do. If there is one lesson I’ve carried out of the dojang, it’s this: you must be willing to try and fail. The clue is right there in the name. Do means “the way” or “the path,” but it also means action. You must do.
You can watch your Master demonstrate a flawless technique and your brain will register the movement, but the moment you attempt it yourself; you fail to execute it perfectly.
The reality is that your body lacks the mileage. Without thousands, if not millions of repetitions, your muscle memory bank is empty.
A perfect side kick comes from thousands of repetitions not from reading about it or thinking about it. It is forged through relentless and grueling repetition, where every attempt will likely be a failure. I was once told that in a set of ten kicks, only two or three will be close to perfect, if you are lucky. The rest are steps to improvement. There are no shortcuts in martial arts; there is only work.
Writing is no different.
As writers we study the great writers and published authors, only to look at our initial attempts with frustration. We stare at the words we’ve strung together and despair because they hardly sound like the greats. Our first drafts are messy, clumsy and imperfect. Nothing like those published books on our shelves.
But the only way to become a better writer is to just do. To write and to repeat.
We have to give ourselves permission to write and write badly. It is the same discipline in martial arts. You must throw those first awkward punches, endure those unbalanced kicks, and stand in those imperfect stances. If you refuse to fail, you refuse to improve.
When we face the blank page and find ourselves comparing our raw drafts to those great writers, we have to remember this: put down the ugly words. Write the clumsy scenes. It is the only way to find your path.
Just do. Just write.
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