On impulse, I signed up for a watercolor class at my local community center one day. I spotted it on a flyer, and what jumped into my head was—art supplies! I love to buy art supplies (even though I’m not an artist). I decided to take the beginner’s watercolor class mainly because I liked the supply list: two #6 round brushes; a palette with at least ten wells; the following Cotman watercolors—French Ultramarine Blue, Cobalt Blue, New Gamboge, Burnt Umber, Leaf Green, Olive Green, Scarlet Lake, and Permanent Rose.

Looking back, I think I was just looking for something less challenging than my writing workshop. When I signed up for the writing workshop, I was confident at first. Having spent many hours teaching students how to write academic papers when I was a college professor, I believed that I would be able to whip out pithy, profound essays just by putting my fingers on the computer keyboard. As it turns out, though, my writing is often stiff, stilted, and lifeless. So when I try to write a compelling essay like the ones I see in The New Yorker, feelings of anxiety and self-criticism pop up.  

By transferring the principles I learned in my watercolor class to my writing life, I started to see improvements in my writing. Here are some of the lessons I took away from my watercolor class.

1.) Beginner’s Mind

In my art class I was very much a beginner, and I had no expectations about what I would do when I picked up a paintbrush. I felt no attachment to the outcome. I had what Buddhists call a “beginner’s mind.” 

“In the beginner’s mind, there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind, there are few,” says Shunryu Suzuki, a Buddhist monk. Beginner’s mind means having an attitude of openness, eagerness, and lack of preconceptions when studying a subject, even when learning at an advanced level. I started to apply the idea of “beginner’s mind” to my writing practice and found that I began to write more freely and with less anxiety about the outcome.

2.) No Ego 

My watercolor class met on Fridays from 9:00 to noon. When I walked into the art room on the first day, I saw three tables with four stools at each table. Each space had a still life—grapes in a bowl, pears with cheese, etc. I was a little late, so I sat down at the one open space—celery with tomatoes.

I had no idea where to begin, but I was happy to put my paint into the wells and follow my teacher’s instructions. When I finished celery-with-tomatoes, I was thrilled. Without pride or ego, I could say that I loved how I painted that leaf. And even though I could see that the highlights on my three tomatoes had the light coming from three different directions, that didn’t make me feel embarrassed or inferior; I thought it was kind of precious in its amateurish way. I learned to put my ego aside when I shared my writing with the group in my workshop, and I started to feel less self-conscious and more appreciative of the feedback I received.

3.) The More I Learn, the More I Can See  

In my watercolor class I found that as I was trying so many new things, I could not see everything my teacher was trying to teach me. Several classes later, however, what she was trying to tell me would all of a sudden be clear. I realized that I could only take in a couple of new ideas at a time. I was not bothered when I fixed something, and then my teacher showed me something else that I could improve. 

I began to expect that one draft was never enough in my writing. As I revised each draft and got constructive feedback, I saw that I could then see more of what I could improve in the next draft.

4.) It Always Takes Longer Than I Expect

For my second watercolor, a landscape of Tanaya Lake, I spent about nine three-hour classes working slowly on one thing at a time. That’s twenty-seven working hours for one simple painting. I did not mind spending that much time because I had no preconceived notion of how long it should take to paint a landscape. The process takes however long it takes.

I became more patient about how long it takes me to write anything. I started to allow more time to complete a writing project and felt less discouragement about the time spent.

5.) Use the Right Side of the Brain

I’d hardly been in my watercolor class for two weeks when a friend told me about Betty Edwards’s book Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain: A Course in Enhancing Creativity and Artistic Confidence. Edwards’s book aims to disrupt the critic (the left side of the brain) by approaching drawing in ways that are entirely unfamiliar to the left side. For example, take an image, turn it upside down, and then draw what you see. 

Dr. Bruce Miller, a professor of neurology, shows that people who lose language abilities due to left-brain dementia damage spontaneously develop unusual artistic, musical, and rhyming abilities, including drawing abilities—skills attributed to the right hemisphere. Miller argues that “the left hemisphere normally acts like a bully, inhibiting and suppressing the right. As the left hemisphere falters, the right’s uninhibited potential can emerge.” When painting, I learned to keep the critic at bay when I was in the process of creating.

I also began to understand that I could use the right brain to explore ideas and write early drafts, and then bring in the left brain to edit, revise, and polish my writing.

6.) Don’t Stay Inside the Lines

In my watercolor class I could see how my perfectionism and the compulsion to do things “right” resulted in my doing it “wrong.” My watercolor teacher, Shirley Lim, is a beautiful, tiny woman born and raised in Hong Kong. I’ve learned from her about “mistakes.” She likes to say that “Watercolor makes beautiful mistakes.” When students make what they perceive to be a mistake, she says, “Forgive yourself and move on.”

When I was painting three side-by-side pine trees in my Tanaya Lake watercolor, I painted the three tree trunks first and then painted the branches and the green pine needles. I couldn’t see that my tendency to “stay inside the lines” was causing me to end my tree branches at the literal line of the next tree trunk. My patient teacher said, “Let things take the form they want to take.” Even when my teacher told me this, I couldn’t see what she was talking about until later in the next class. I laughed at myself; oh, how that little “good girl” afraid of doing things wrong has embedded herself in my way of being in the world. When I stopped trying to do it “right” and let the branches take the form they wanted, I was delighted with how beautiful they turned out. 

When I loosened my notions about what my writing should sound like or look like, I was surprised that sometimes what I thought would be an essay became a letter to the editor, or a short story worked better as a listicle. I started being more open to letting my ideas take the form they wanted.

7.) Work in Small Bursts of Concentration

I could detach a bit in my watercolor class and just observe myself as a learner. I noticed that I had to build up the courage to start on a bit of my painting—that leaf or that rock. I sat looking at it, I felt afraid of ruining the whole painting, and then I would get brave and start.

Once I started painting, I could get into that “zone” where I was utterly absorbed and unaware of time, noise, or anything around me. I could stay in that zone for about twenty minutes, and then I’d have to put the brush down, stand back, and recover. I needed to release the nervous energy that had built up.  

When I write I now build in time to give my mind small breaks. I might set a timer for twenty minutes and write, then take five minutes to get some fresh air, move a little bit, maybe even dance to some music before I sit down to write again.  

8.) It Looks Better When it Dries

As I painted I’d often be unhappy with how the color was running, how I used too much water, how it wasn’t producing the effect that I wanted, etc., etc. Shirly would tell me, “Don’t throw it away; fix it.” When the piece dried and I stepped away from it, I was often pleased with how it turned out. I began to trust the process. 

When I write I have a nonstop commentary about how bad the piece is: “It’s going nowhere, it’s trite, it’s too revealing, it’s too sterile,” on and on. I haven’t gotten rid of the critic that keeps talking to me when I write, but I’ve learned to keep going and trust my process. 

My watercolor class taught me to loosen up and be more curious and playful. I learned to take risks and to appreciate small steps of progress. I was reminded of how helpful working with a teacher or mentor can be. And over and over again, I learned to trust the process.

THE END