Andy Couturier offers writing workshops. The following is an excerpt from Writing Open the Mind, a new book by Andy published by Ulysses Press, Spring 2005.

Could you be open to the proposition that the murky and quirky part of your mind is wiser than the thrust-and-parry datebook mind? Here we have discovery by means of imagination. No need to grip the steering wheel so tight. Enjoyment is what it's all about. Let go. The mind likes that. It responds well to indulgence.

Writing discovers your own life. Don't box it. Don't expect it or force it to be this or that. The way most of us approach writing we're stuck in the detention room. "Is this incoherent?" we ask the poor beleaguered mind. "Is it choppy, is it vague?" "Will Mrs. Mergatroid attack it with a red pen?" We boss it around: "Give it a beginning, middle and end!" "Be objective!." "Don't use the passive voice." "Consult the manual of style."

And the poor helpless mind yelps, "Help! I can't move!"

When we give ourselves permission to play, the subconscious is liberated, it makes patterns outside of the analyzing mind, outside of the Self-Other mind. And those patterns are far more complex and rich (as is the logic of dreams) than the strict Euclidean geometrical mind patterns which have been cleansed of all the burrs, rough edges, tangled mats of hair and seaweed clumps. That complexity and richness can be felt and sensed.

How? Through freewriting. Free. Writing. What would it be to write totally free? To let loose of all the niggling habits, the tendency to adopt a certain stance, the preference for the word "mitigating" over the word "Shazam!"? What might your mind do and say if it wasn't in the office drafting memos? A Cajun beer-stomp, hickey-infested semaphore brainstorm.

Be kind to the self. Be generous, do not evaluate. Relaaaax! Gateways to the subconscious work when you remain open and watching and delighted. A mind full of play.

A richness you can play with again and again.

And what are the toxins of writing? One: Competition. Who wants all that bogus me-versus-you? Discover what your squirmy self wants to write, or your dreamy self, or your puckish self, turn off the calibrator. Two: Shackling ourselves to the proper and correct thing to write about. You can write about anything you want. Could be mundane, could be scary, could be nonsense. Lewd or illegal. Writing is a free place. Always seek your own pleasure and enjoyment. Three: Doing it the right way. There is no right way. Forget about correctness . . . and even about sentences. Your mind can only discover freedom when you let it be its own juju, kabalistic, honky-tonk, jitterbug, Romper Room self. Try being curious what will happen when we remove all the bits and halters and reins and stirrups.

Which way did she go?

Ever find yourself using a turn of phrase only your mother uses? It stuck in your craw. The voices we've heard in this life have written us. "Have you never been mellow?" "We will rock you." "And that's the way it is, I'm Walter Cronkite." "Can't we all just get along?"

Each individual was bathed in language for years before they started producing it. "Cookie!" yells the three year old. An ocean of language.

Child: "The bunny eated it!"

Mother: "Yes, the bunny ate the whole thing!"

We humans are walking, breathing, ambling storehouses: archives, databanks of the kajillion books and magazines and speeches and chit chats that have passed through our ears and eyes. They jostle around as we saunter, and then, at some unexpected moment, you find yourself saying, "You GO girl!" Or talking just like Ebenezer Scrooge.

This cast of inner characters inside of each person has different agendas and needs. A judge and a cynic, a sweetheart and a child. Some of them barge around like bullies, repeating themselves desperate to be heard. Others are below sea level, yet still sway our thinking. And others still are little billowy or skittery voices, in residence deep at the back of the rare book room, waiting to be invited, or coaxed to the fore. These voices are joined then in turn by a society that chatters, roars in our ears. The self is a plural, a context, a scene.

Schools of writing, and our culture in general tend to praise some voices, and deny others. This prevents us from saying what we need to say in ways that feel true. It's surprising what comes out of the end of your pen when certain parts of consciousness are called forth to sing.