"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am"—Sylvia Plath

From the Archive | Visceral Self: Writing Through the Body | "I Would Break Into Blossom"

This archival post was originally published during our spring Visceral Self intensive for embodied writing which was incredible. It stands alone beautifully, so feel free to give the whole thing a try today. ❤️

I want to offer a quick “table of contents” for this post, which includes, in this order:

• Thoughts on breathing (it’s good! we should do it!)

• Resources on close reading and a sample from my graduate work (it’s much easier than you think!)

• An achingly beautiful poem (it will stay with you, this one!)

• One of my favorite structured, embodied writing exercises (please join us in the comments!)

This week, we breathe.Then we write and meditate. We’ll just lengthen our exhales and notice the white space and move (and write) more slowly than we might usually. Or at least, that will be your invitation.

For those following along with the immersive meditation and yoga experience, you can access this week’s audio and playlist of songs for release here:

Now, about breathing. Did you know that the longest ever recorded dive by a whale was made by a Cuvier's beaked whale, and it lasted 222 minutes and broke the record for diving mammals?

According to the Natural History Museum of the United Kingdom, other “whales can also hold their breath for a very long time. A sperm whale can spend around 90 minutes hunting underwater before it has to come back to the surface to breathe.”

And once, a writer named Elise Moore heard a whale breathe. She wrote about it for Christian Science Monitor:

I heard a whale breathe. It was this incredible sound. My husband and I were in Antarctica. It was 10:30 at night in the deep twilight of an austral summer evening. We were on our balcony as the ship slipped noiselessly through waters as still as glass. Right in front of us a humpback whale surfaced and blew. She glided instead of submerging, and in the profound stillness we could hear her breathe. There was no visible sign. No water spouted, she just breathed.

It gives me shivers to imagine whales breathing, how much effort and intention they must bring to it, coming to the surface, as they must.

How fortunate we humans are, that our breathing is just always “happening,” with or without our awareness or attention. But also, how unfortunate we are, that we can so easily lose sight of this constant miracle of the breath, this beautiful rhythmic reminder of our embodiment, of our living selves, and the undulating world.

That’s why, this week, we’ll pause to notice our breath.

As for close reading, I’m so grateful to the writers who’ve asked specifically for more direction on that topic! I’m grateful because it gives me a chance to shine a light on this crucial practice—what it really is, ways to approach it, strategies to make it easier, less intimidating, and more fruitful, and, finally, the incredible ways it helps us grow as writers and humans. It has changed my writing life in genuinely profound ways.

So, here goes!

What Close Reading Really Is

Turns out, that’s hard to say. A frustrating internet search revealed that lots of smart people have lots of different ideas about close reading, some of which are very academic and intellectual and not at all reflective of the way I practice or teach close reading.

So, here’s my take on it, with the big disclaimer that it’s just my take, and not an official definition:

Close reading is simply when we read the text closely, the text itself, and talk about the text from the perspective of what it actually says—the actual words, phrases, and structures the writer uses—instead of focusing on our thoughts, feelings, and theories about the text.

In other words, I practice the close reading process as an extension of (or as a close cousin to) my whole “the thing itself” mode of writing. When I am close reading, I want to try to keep my attention “inside the frame” of the text, rather than allowing my attention to spill mostly or entirely outside the frame of the text toward my own experiences (“this reminds me of a time …”) or my own theories (“I think this writer is saying…”).

Why?

Because trying to stay within the frame of the text focuses my attention on the writer’s craft, the work the writer did, the choices they made, words they chose (and didn’t choose), and the things they left unsaid. Focusing that way is how I grow most as a writer.

If you want a very in-depth example of close reading in action, you can go to the footnote at the end of this post, at your convenience, and read a close reading I did of a New Yorker story for my brilliant MFA advisor, Martha Southgate, who writes in the dark with us, hi, Martha!, and who insisted I learn to close read. I will be forever grateful to Martha for requiring this, for it really did change my writing in a lasting way. ¹

Strategies to Make Close Reading Easier, Less Intimidating, and More Fruitful

What worked best for me and still does was to stop overthinking it! What works best is to just look at the words and sentences and try to see them as they are in order to understand the work they are doing. What works best is to read the piece, and re-read it. To give it my full undivided attention, and then eventually to try to say something simple about it. Like, “This piece uses the word red 17 times.”

What makes close reading harder is overthinking it, and feeling like we have to come up with some super original insight or observation. We don’t! We just have to try to see the text.

Close reading is a way of learning to see.

And anything that helps us see better ultimately helps us write better.

So, the best way to make close reading easier and more fruitful is to not try so hard, and just look really closely at the words and try to see them, and when we finally notice something that stands out about the words (or sentences or structure), name it.

That’s it.

The Incredible Ways Close Reading Helps Us Grow As Writers and Humans

Okay, well, I just addressed the part about growing as writers. Listen, I know it might feel boring to talk about texts in such a literal way, but something really happens when we bring our attention to the text itself rather than our (always fast to reach conclusions) thoughts about the text.

In my live, synchronous workshops, we practice this skill really, really hard—and I think it’s no coincidence that so much incredible and well-published work has come out of these workshops! I briefly describe that workshop methodology here.

But how does close reading make us better people? Well, I suppose the answer to that question is much the same—by teaching us to see and hear better, feel more, and be more precise with our words. Close reading fosters radical listening and deeper empathy, which is why Rita Charon, founder of the narrative medicine program at Columbia University and, indeed, founder of the field of narrative medicine itself, teaches close reading as a cornerstone of the practice of narrative medicine.

Charon says this about the topic:

Teaching healthcare professionals how to be close readers assures that they can listen with attention and empathy to what their patients tell them. The close reader pays attention to such narrative features as temporality, narrative situation, voice, metaphor, and mood.…Close reading helps narrative medicine to achieve its goals of justice in healthcare, participatory practice, egalitarian learning, and deep relationships in practice. With the benefit of the capacities learned in close reading, clinicians and their patients can face the unknown, tolerating the ambiguity that always surrounds illness.

But remember, always, that the real key to close reading is to keep it simple, keep it easy. We do not need to overcomplicate it! I can say, “I notice it’s written in second person,” or, “I notice the sentences are mostly very long.” That’s close reading.

It’s just one simple observation after the next.

Also, and this is very important: you do not have to try to close read in the way I’ve just described if you don’t like it or don’t find it useful! Not at all!

Please don’t feel hemmed in by my thoughts and feelings about close reading. This is simply how I practice the method because it works for me and I’ve seen it work for others. But there’s never just one right way. Read the way you like, and offer the observations that feel right to you. There is no wrong way to do this. I’m just offering a path in case it’s also helpful to you.

Now, for this week’s poem, our collective discussion (I can’t wait!) and one of my favorite structured writing exercises. I just used this exercise with a group of therapists in training for psychedelic assisted therapy, and it was one of the most beautiful hours I have spent in a long while. I can’t wait to receive your words this week.

Oh, and Billie’s audio meditation made me cry and felt truly holy. I hope you love it, too!

Week Five Writing Exercise | I Would Break Into Blossom

A poem, two options for multi-step structured writing exercises, and an example of a close reading.