Henry Shukman's Advice on Writing: Zen, Poetry, and the Practice of Attention

Henry Shukman is a poet, novelist, and appointed Zen teacher. He wrote One Blade of Grass, a memoir about Zen practice, along with several poetry collections and novels. He leads retreats and teaches meditation internationally. His work sits at the intersection of two disciplines that rarely speak to each other: contemplative practice and literary craft.

His writing advice comes from his appearance on David Perell's How I Write podcast, his Guru Viking conversation on poetry and the sacred, and a Pasatiempo profile on mindfulness and writing.

You Cannot Force a Poem

Shukman's first poem came at age thirteen. He had been spending time with a wanderer named Speedy in the countryside outside Oxford. One evening he looked at the street below his window as night fell, and "a line formed in my mind. A phrase just came." He grabbed a notebook and wrote without stopping. At the end he was trembling. He had said something about the world he did not know he wanted to say.

Decades later the principle still holds. "If I sit down thinking, 'it'd be good to write a poem about X,' it won't work. It never works." The poems that matter come from a part of him he does not control. Not channeled from some external force. From a deeper layer of himself that only speaks when he stops trying to direct it.

This is not a license for laziness. It is a description of how creative energy works. You prepare through reading, through practice, through attention. Then you get out of the way.

The Fear Barrier

Before his best writing, Shukman notices a small fear. "Am I ready to let go? Am I ready to submit to what wants to come?" The deeper voice can only speak when the controlling mind steps aside. Going through that barrier, even briefly, unlocks writing that surprises the writer.

This matches what Lamott describes as the shitty first draft. The fear is not a warning. It is a doorway. The writing that emerges from the other side has an energy that planned writing cannot match.

Emotion Recollected in Tranquility

Shukman cannot write about an experience in the moment of first impact. Grief, wonder, awe - they need distance. He wrote his poem "Frozen Lake" about a devastating time in his life, but not during it. "It was a little after."

He credits Wordsworth's principle: "Emotion recollected in tranquility." The raw experience goes deep. The writing comes later, after the system has recalibrated. The writer is not overwhelmed by the emotion. They can inhabit it and shape it.

Hemingway wrote best about America from Paris. D.H. Lawrence wrote about New Mexico from Sicily. The distance is not avoidance. It is the condition for clarity.

Poetry as Distilled Prose

In poetry, every word must earn its place. Shukman's poetry background shapes how he writes prose. He treats every sentence as a line of poetry. Does this word need to be here? Could this paragraph be a sentence? Could this sentence be a single image?

He describes his own poem "First Snow" and how the word "crackles" - describing a fireplace - was physically embodied when he read it aloud. "The real poet lives in the body, not the mind. The body uses the mind." Good writing is felt before it is understood.

A Scottish poet Norman MacCaig said a poem is finished when "it feels like it took as long to write as it takes to read." Natural and effortless on the surface. Thirty-eight drafts underneath.

Writing as Intimacy With the World

For Shukman, writing from the earliest times was about "greater intimacy with the world." Not just the natural world. The beauty of a city street. A snowfall that changed the sound of a place. A lamp casting a shoe-shaped light on a wall.

This reframes what writing is for. Not self-expression. Not communication. Contact. The writer who practices attention - through meditation, through observation, through simply being present - produces writing that brings the reader into closer contact with reality.

Place Is the Third Character

In fiction, Shukman says, "the third most important character in every work of fiction is the place." Jane Austen, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Homer - the place is exuding the human story. The narrative that emerges among humans emerges from that place.

You cannot set the Odyssey in Yorkshire. You cannot have Harry Potter without Hogwarts. The land, the architecture, the light - they are not backdrop. They generate the story. Writers who neglect place produce fiction that is missing something vital.

Don't Cut Live Flesh

Shukman's editor Robin Robertson warned: "You don't want to cut live flesh." In editing, you must feel which parts of the draft are alive. Do not amputate what the piece needs just because a rule says to cut.

This is the counterweight to "kill your darlings." Some darlings are alive. The skill is knowing the difference. And Shukman says the editing process often takes longer than the initial writing. He rereads without asking why something works. If it flows straight through, it stays.

The Dirty Water Principle

For writers who are stuck, Shukman recommends the Balzac method: automatic writing. Cover pages with anything. It does not matter what. Just get the engine turning over. Ed Sheeran describes it as a tap - "at first it's dirty water, but then the clean water comes out later."

This works across a single session and across a lifetime. Ezra Pound said of Thomas Hardy's poetry, written after the novelist had produced millions of words of prose: "There is the clarity of a man who first written three million words." The water eventually runs clear. But you have to let it flow.

Key Takeaways

• You cannot force the best writing. Prepare through reading and attention, then get out of the way.
• The fear before writing is a doorway, not a warning. Go through it.
• Write about intense experiences after distance, not during the first impact.
• Treat prose like poetry. Every word must earn its place.
• Writing is intimacy with the world. Not self-expression. Contact.
• Place is not backdrop. It is the third character in every story.
• In editing, feel what is alive. Do not cut live flesh.
• Start with dirty water. The clean water comes later.

Shukman's Zen perspective reframes what AI can and cannot do for writers. AI can suggest edits. It cannot see clearly. It cannot sit with uncertainty. It cannot practice attention. These are skills that AI cannot teach and cannot replace. The writer who cultivates them produces work that no model can generate.

This post draws from Shukman's appearance on How I Write, his Guru Viking conversation on poetry and the sacred, and a Pasatiempo profile. Athens is an AI writing editor for writers who bring their own attention, observation, and voice.