About Gateless Writing
We’ve had the wrong idea about writing for a long time.
For decades, we’ve worshiped the critical mind, believing that “constructive criticism” makes for smarter and stronger writing. There’s no evidence for this approach. A guy in the 1950s made it up and a lot of other people perpetuated it.
In fact, applying analysis and criticism to generative work fires the amygdala, sending us into stress-response and shutting down areas of the brain involved in creativity, receptivity, and curiosity. The critical mind perseverates on our weaknesses, which strengthens those synaptic pathways and makes our weaknesses more prominent. (Research from Marcus Buckingham and Ashley Goodall speaks directly to the fallacy of “constructive criticism” and the immense power of supporting people’s strengths. Check it out in Harvard Business Review.)
The Gateless Writing method was founded by Suzanne Kingsbury, an acclaimed novelist and one of the most sought-after developmental editors in the country.
Based in cognitive neuroscience and eastern spiritual traditions of non-duality, Gateless removes left-brain analysis from the practice of writing, particularly first draft work.
The Gateless methodology creates a safe structure that quiets the critical mind. This allows you to tap into your most original, surprising, and powerful work.
The method also gives you potent craft tools, confidence in your voice, and creative courage, as well as a supportive nationwide community, to help you move first drafts into work that stands out in a crowd.
What happens in a Gateless Writing salon?
We begin salon with a short meditation to relax your mind and focus your attention. Next, I give you a writing prompt to spark and surprise your imagination. We write quietly together for 10 to 25 minutes. Then, each writer reads aloud their work. We use the Gateless Writing rules of engagement so that we can receive the work with smart, precise attention on what is powerful and beautiful.
What happens when I read aloud during a salon?
This is often the scariest part for writers, especially those (ahem, all of us) who’ve had our work criticized, often in its early stages. We follow the Gateless Writing guidelines to give your protective, defensive impulses a break. This allows other parts of your writing brain to perk up — imagination, listening, image-making. The Gateless Writing guidelines guarantee that your work will be met with smart, discerning, specific, positive feedback. This isn’t fluff! This is seeing your work and its potential with a level of attention you’ve likely never gotten before.
First you read aloud, and then your fellow writers give you Gateless feedback. You have two rules to follow:
No disclaimers. No explanations, no apologies. You just start reading. If you start to disclaim, I will gently stop you and guide you to your work.
Just receive. Don’t respond to comments. No need to thank people, manage their reactions to your work, or take care of them. Neither is it time to explain the work after feedback is done. You are simply receiving and giving the work its due.
What happens when I listen and give feedback during a salon?
Listening and feedback are the most magical parts of salon. They are what turn this experience from a random writing group into a place where your work and your self-concept as a writer are transformed. Therefore, there are very specific guidelines for how we listen to each other's work.
You are listening for power, beauty, freshness, strength. You are not listening to fix or question. You are listening for where and how the work shines.
It may help to take notes as you listen. Write down phrases, images, or lines that stick in your ear. Pay attention when your body reacts to the work; note where it did. Listen for when your attention snaps into focus. Listen for where you laugh, or where you feel emotion. It can help to listen for colors, shapes, movements, or when a piece is in the body of its narrator. Listen for where a piece moves quickly or where it slows down; it’s possible these qualities are tied into the meaning or plot or feeling of the piece.
During feedback, we follow these rules.
There is no “you.” Always address the writer in the third person. You can say the narrator, the writer, the author, this protagonist, etc. But it is essential that we create some distance between the work and the creator. Human beings are deeply complex and can’t be reduced to what they put on the page. And the work is deeply complex and can’t be reduced to the human condition.
There is no “me.” We don’t refer to ourselves when we give feedback. So refrain from saying things like, “I really thought you nailed what grief feels like, because when my grandmother died...” Nope! It may feel like you’re affirming the writer’s experience, but you’re actually taking the spotlight away from the work and placing it on yourself. Staying with the work is the right affirmation for the writer.
Shine a spotlight on what has power. We give feedback specifically on what is working, what has power, what has resonance. No fixing or poking at holes.
Be specific. Tell the writer WHY it worked, WHAT worked, HOW it made you feel, etc. The more specific you are, the more they have to hold onto when they go back to edit!
No questions or suggestions.
Don’t I need to know what’s wrong with my writing to get better?
You cannot generate your most potent, most original, most surprising work when you are anticipating criticism. Your writing gift needs a sturdy container of freedom and, honestly, love, in order to go beyond the conditioned mind (what you should do, how you should write, what “good” writing really is).
When we perseverate on “what’s wrong,” we build up greater attention and attunement for, well, what’s wrong in our work. We do not build up awareness or skill for what’s strong. We ignore it, and our ability weakens.
When we run as fast as we can toward what is strong, those skills grow. We become more sensitive to how powerful writing is created. We can see where we’re strong. We begin to hear our voice. We can move away from where we’re faltering. And we learn craft tools to do this work more consciously.
Editing and revision are vital to writing. They simply have their time and place, and they aren’t appropriate when generating new work. The cult of criticism — the belief that someone in authority must destroy your writing in order for it to improve — is not appropriate for any phase of the work.