People ask me over and over again how ten-minute timed writings can translate into short stories, novels, essays. Then they ask me, "But what do you do with all these rimed writings?"

　　My first answer is, "I don't know." I mean that. What do I do after I drink a glass of water? I suppose I put down the glass and go out the door. What do I do with waking up in the morning or going to sleep at night? What can we do with the moon or a sidewalk or a garbage can?

　　Writing practice is simply something fundamental, like the colors black and white or moving one foot in front of the other when you walk. The problem is we don't notice that move-ment of one foot in front of the other. We just move our feet. Writing practice asks you to notice not only how your feet move but also how your mind moves. And not only that, it makes you notice your mind and begin to trust it and under-stand it. This is good. It is basic for writing. If you get this,

　　the rest is none of my business. You can do what you want. You are now capable of writing a novel or a short story because you have the fundamental tools. Think of something now that you sincerely want to tell and go ahead and tell it. You'll know to keep your hand moving, to lose control and let the story take over, to be grounded in detail. Now it is your choice what you want to do.

　　Knowing the basics of writing practice is what kindness is about. It is about developing a foundation as a writer. Just as we would never ask a child to multiply by six-digit numbers the first day of first grade, we shouldn't ask ourselves to begin page one of the great American novel the first day after we have realized our wish to write. We have to build slowly. This is kind consideration. We acknowledge who we are in the present moment and what we need in order to continue. I often hear of a beginning writer immediately bringing his work to a critique group. His work is ripped apart and he leaves, devastated. If you know the fundamentals of writing practice and have been doing them, you have something to stand on. No one can knock you over. This is true confidence. Even if someone criticizes your work, you can go home with a trust in your experience and your mind. You can begin again and again with the simple act of keeping your hand moving, and this practice will bleed into all the other writing you are doing.

　　Over and over I have done timed writings beginning with "I remember," "I am looking at," "I know," "I am thinking of." Here is the last paragraph of an essay I wrote a year and a half ago in Paris.

　　I look up from my notebook. There are two women across from me. They are both drinking a deep green liqueur. No, not deep green, it is emerald

　　green with ice. They are young, in their late twen-ties. The one with blond hair is wearing big circle earrings and has a dark fur coat flung over her seat. I look at their small table. There is a round silver tray with a white cup and saucer, two cubes of sugar, a white teapot with Ceylon tea brewing in it, and a small white pitcher with hot water to dilute the tea. I look at the space between the small pitcher and the teapot and my mind remem-bers a large boulevard in Norfolk, Nebraska. It is summer there and a man in his twenties lives in an upstairs apartment. I broke his heart. I did not mean to. It was years ago. His loving was sweet and tender and simple. I didn't believe in love then. My marriage had just broken up. I remember Kevin sitting at his kitchen table, his glasses off, wearing a yellow nylon shirt. I had a dream then that I was looking for lemon lozenges in the aisle of a drug-store. In the next aisle was Kevin and in the aisle past that was Paris. I knew about Paris and I woke up happy.

　　When I wrote that paragraph, I was not aware of anything but writing it. Now I see how my writing practice has affected it.

　　A cafe scene in a foreign country can be very confusing. What do you begin to write about? I started with what I saw and I kept my hand moving. It helped to steady me. I could have become frantic, but instead I applied gentleness to myself. Okay, dear, what do you know to write about? Well, I can see those two women across from me. Good, put it down. What next? There's a small table in front of me. Good, write about that.

　　I relied on the simple sentence structure of "I look" and "I remember," which I've used many times in my writing practice. Because I had practiced it so much, it came innately. I exercised the basic faculty of sight and let it ricochet back into memory and dream, two other things I'd become very familiar with in my writing practice.

　　We never graduate from first grade. Over and over, we have to go back to the beginning. We should not be ashamed of this. It is good. It's like drinking water; we don't drink a glass once and never have to drink one again. We don't finish one poem or novel and never have to write one again. Over and over, we begin. This is good. This is kindness. We don't forget our roots.

　　Finally, don't listen to me. What do I know? Go out there yourself into the open page. I don't want to control you. I can't anyway. I know a certain thing, I tell you about it. Beyond that, I am of no use. I can't help. All those hours of our life are our own. We have to figure out what to do with them, but having our feet on the ground is a good beginning. Writing practice can set you in the right direction, then you go off on your own journey.

　　Try this:

　　Do a timed writing for ten minutes. Begin it with "I remember" and keep going. Every time you get stuck and feel you have nothing to say, write, "I remember" again and keep going. To begin with "I remember" does not mean you have to write only about your past. Once you get going, you follow your own mind where it takes you. You can fall into one memory of your mother's teeth for ten minutes of writing or you can list lots of short memories. The memory can be something that happened five seconds ago. When you write a memory, it isn't in the past anyway. It's alive right now.

　　Okay, after the ten minutes, stop. Walk around your kitchen table or get a piece of leftover fish from last night's dinner to nibble on, but don't talk. Now go for another ten minutes. This rime, begin with "I don't remember" and keep going. This is good. It gets to the underbelly of your mind, the blank, dark spaces of your thoughts.

　　Sometimes we write along one highway of "I remember," seat-belt ourselves in and drive. Using the negative, "I don't remember," allows us to make a U-turn and see how things look in the night. What are the things you don't care to remember, have repressed, but remember underneath all the same?

　　Now try "I'm thinking of" for ten minutes. Then, "I'm not thinking of for ten minutes. Write, beginning with "I know," then "I don't know," for ten minutes. The list is endless: "I am, I'm not"; "I want, I don't want"; "I feel, I don't feel."

　　I use these for warm-ups. It stretches my mind in positive

　　and negative directions, in obvious and hidden places, in the conscious and the unconscious. It also is a chance to survey my mind and limber me up before I direct my thoughts to whatever I am working on.