I don’t think I can push out my hip any farther.

My hip is stretched to the limit, pointed at a diagonal toward the back corner of the studio. It’s Sunday, and our Master-level Bellydance class is practicing a series of drills designed to increase flexibility and improve technique in our maya and snake hip movements. Maya, the Egyptian word for water, is the name for the rippling move in which the hip is pulled out from the body, then down (beginning dancers are sometimes told to imagine stretching the hip over an invisible pole alongside the body). The “snake hip” is the reverse of the maya, a movement in which the hip is pushed out, then upward in a “scooping” fashion. We drill the maya, then repeat the same drill with the snake hips, executing smaller movements first—this is our usual, more comfortable range of motion. Then we repeat the same motion but make it bigger—pushing out the hip as far as possible. But because this isn’t tricky enough, of course, we take the drills on diagonals: side, front, side, back, repeat. And did I mention we only run through each sequence a couple of times slowly before the drills speed up?

By the time we break between the first drill sequence and the next, rush to the back of the studio and guzzle from water bottles, we are panting. A thin film of sweat coats my neck, shoulders and brow. As we catch our breath amidst the purses, shoes and dance bags lining the wall, Suspira, our instructor, sips from her water and resets the music. “We’ll feel this tomorrow, won’t we?” she says with a grin. “But drills are the best way to improve our technique.” And she reminds us that whenever we practice, we should execute the moves as fully as possible to build muscle and increase flexibility.

Easier said than done.

Summer at Orlando Bellydance means drills. Some of my classmates dislike this time of year between shows, when the classes focus on technique and combinations rather than choreography. Drills are seemingly endless in variety: some days we focus on hips, others on three-point-turns that leave us dizzy if we forget to spot. Other times we layer movements on top of another, gliding our grapevines across the room, drawing “diamonds” with the chest or pelvis. And while drills can prompt murmurs of “no pain, no gain,” eye rolls and other such reactions as we exit the studio, muscles throbbing and brains feeling like we’ve just undergone something akin to a mini-SAT, I like them.

Does this mean I’m a masochist? I don’t think so. Because I love nothing more than preparing for the shows our school puts on several times a year—the buzz over costumes, the rehearsals, the mounting excitement. But I also love the downtime between performances when the focus shifts to technique (there’s even a class offered, called “Technique Tune-Up”).

Drills pose a different type of challenge, essential to any art form. How do I stay at the top of my game? the artist must ask in regard to keeping one’s skill-set sharp. I remember how astonished I was midway through my MFA at learning that my teachers, published writers all, regularly relied on writing exercises to jump-start new works. I had made the mistake, as many novices do, of believing there existed a point where the “advanced” writer didn’t have to resort to such “gimmicks”—I certainly didn’t believe my teachers were giving themselves exercises similar to what they gave their students. I had failed to see the simplicity in the rigor of any artistic practice, that those who become masters are often those who retain the disciplined habits of students.          

We hear this all the time, don’t we? In some form or fashion, such sayings are tossed around literary circles—“you have to write every day,” “you have to set deadlines” or “word limits,” etc., so much so, there’s a danger in falling deaf over time to the wisdom instilled in such sayings. I don’t think it matters what habits, exercises, constraints or “tricks” work for you. Nor am I sure there exists an equivalent in creative writing to the “drills” we perform in dance class. But the one thing I know to be true in practicing both art forms is that repetition and the “pushing” of one’s muscles, literal or proverbial, to the limit are what stretches and strengthens our technique.

The second thing one can steal from dance drills and apply to writing is variety. In Bellydance, we conduct many similar drills, but rarely do we repeat the exact combinations, because the arrangements are so infinite, a master could drill for a lifetime and never grow bored or stagnant. And that is the point. The master artist knows how to keep his or her practice lively and surprising, always pushing in the direction of growth while never losing sight of the basics. Perhaps there is a writing exercise you find yourself returning to again and again, with tried-and-true results. I’ve got a few of those, one a favorite from my instructor at Vermont College, Douglas Glover, who said to write twenty story openers in order to unearth one that’s “hot” with conflict and interest. Aside from the commonly-given exercises in describing a character or setting, there are infinite others dealing with sentence-level writing, grammar and syntax—you can assign yourself the challenge of writing a page entirely in one-syllable words, for example. I guarantee you’ll be astonished by the results. Often the best material arises this way, when the consciousness is distracted by a constraint, allowing the subconscious to pour forth.

Writing regimens themselves can be another type of drill. I find myself changing these constantly. I write often but not always every day; this has been my habit since I was a child and because I’ve never strayed from writing for long, I’ve never been in fear of stopping the habit altogether—call me compulsive. But I do find myself stuck in ruts, needing new ways to jump start projects and challenge myself. For many years and throughout composing the first draft of my novel, I used page counts. Lately counting pages hasn’t appealed, so I’ve adopted the journalistic approach of word tallies instead; fifteen-hundred a day seems a decent amount. Lately, too, I’ve drifted toward nonfiction, a genre I’ve ignored aside from school assignments, delving into the forms of essay and blog writing with delight.

A good rule-of-thumb in practicing art is to give oneself assignments in other genres—cross-training if you will. Feeling fried by fiction? Has the life died in your sentences? Assign yourself a sonnet or a pantoum. Don’t feel ready yet to tackle that new novel idea? Write a short story or a flash fiction to keep your skills sharp. Take a journalistic approach and answer a thematic call-for-submissions.

Strong form is the key upon which everything is built in art. Which reminds me of another quote from Douglas Glover, excerpted here from his must-read essay, “Short Story Structure: Notes and an Exercise,” originally published in the Canadian journal, The New Quarterly:

 Form initially feels as if it shuts down creative freedom, but it actually does the opposite by creating a number of blank spaces or cells or chunks of aesthetic space…in which the writer is forced to create new conflict material… Form forces you to go deeper and be more creative, not the opposite” (166).

In other words, only by mastering form and technique will the brilliance of your imagination ever shine through.

In dance, good form means standing tall with legs shoulder width apart, pelvis tucked underneath, and knees slightly bent. Good form means straight arms, energy in the hands through the fingertips, pointed toes, and sharp, fully extended articulations. Good form is reinforced by drills, repetition, practice. Whether in the studio or on stage, you always want to execute good form; you can’t get anywhere without it. The same can be said if you’re sitting down to write your novel or an email. We’ve become a sloppy bunch in our day-to-day communication, and there’s no reason we should be, as writers—especially since in our laziness, we’re missing a terrific opportunity to play with the newest of forms. Whether composing a text, tweet, scene or summary, set it as a writing challenge to maintain good form, interest and audience-awareness. These are your words, after all. And the master is one who is always tuning up technique.