Write Like a Tree

“One writes out of the leaf-mould of the mind.” This is J.R.R. Tolkien’s answer to how he wrote The Lord of the Rings. Here’s the full quote:

One writes such a story not out of the leaves of trees still to be observed, nor by means of botany and soil-science; but it grows like a seed in the dark out of the leaf-mould of the mind: out of all that has been seen or thought or read, that has long ago been forgotten, descending into the deeps. (J.R.R. Tolkien: A Biography, 131)

Writers can learn a great deal from this peculiar insight from the father of fantasy. And the insight extends far beyond wordsmiths. It applies to Christian craftsmen and artists, parents and preachers, teachers and students — in fact, to all faithful sub-creators, those seeking to make beautiful things in imitation of their Maker. Tolkien’s wisdom profoundly shapes how we should seek to build fruitful, Christ-exalting culture.

Before we get to those insights, however, what on earth is leaf-mould?

Leaf-Mould of the Mind

If you walk deep into a healthy forest in spring, your path will likely be lined with moist, decaying leaves. That rich, earthy carpet is leaf-mould (or “leaf mold” in American English). In autumn, all of those lovely gold, red, and orange leaves fall from their trees, cover the forest floor, and begin to decay. Over the next one to three years, a mixture of fungi (a living organism in the soil) and water breaks the leaves down until they form a rich humus, which serves as a perfect nursery for baby trees.

Now we can begin to understand Tolkien’s metaphor. The giant tree called The Lord of the Rings grew out of and was nourished by the leaf-mould of Tolkien’s mind, “all that [he had] seen or thought or read.” After decades of piling up these leaves (Tolkien was 62 when The Fellowship of the Ring was published), the humus of his heart and mind proved rich enough to produce the epic stories we know and love.

Long Fruitfulness in the Same Direction

None of us is Tolkien. And that’s fine — more than fine, in fact, because God did not design any of us to be the curmudgeonly professor. But he has called each of us to be fruitful like Tolkien. He has entrusted us with resources, talents, desires, and time. He has commissioned you to be a peculiar sub-creator for the glory of the King and his kingdom.

So, how might we plunder Tolkien’s leaf-mould metaphor as we seek to be faithful in our creative labors? How can we (especially writers) practice a long fruitfulness in the same direction?

1. Pile on the leaves.

To begin, pile on the leaves. This is Tolkien’s main point. As he studied languages (Greek, Latin, German, Old English), as he read stories (Beowulf, The Odyssey, the legends of King Arthur), as he heard sermons and studied the Bible, as he had conversations with his wife and children and men like C.S. Lewis, as he endured the horrors of World War I and health problems — all of these inputs floated down like leaves from the canopy to form the rich humus of a mind alive.

So, as you seek to be fruitful, throw as many leaves on the pile as you can. Books, sermons, conversations, experiences, art, nature. Don’t worry (much) about how useful each leaf will be. As Tolkien points out, leaf-mould forms “out of all that has been seen or thought or read, that has long ago been forgotten, descending into the deeps.” God can bring back to your memory what you need when you need it, and often it’s the unplanned mingling of ideas that proves most fruitful. From this deep place, the strange and the wonderful will grow.

Two kinds of leaves are especially rich. The first is books. Read a lot. Read for pleasure, read at whim, but read, read, read. Particularly for writers, reading shapes us in ways few other activities can. Stephen King observes, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Reading is the creative center of a writer’s life” (On Writing, 147). But this holds true for more than writers because the Bible should be the “creative center” for all Christians. Read and reread God’s book until the humus of your mind is richly bibline.

“Fruit grows slow, and you can’t skip the process.”

Second, don’t despise the day of suffering. Suffering is an especially potent addition to the leaf-mould of a life. Uncomfortable experiences add depth, strengthen sympathy, and fuel love. They enable us to be conduits of comfort (2 Corinthians 1:3–4). Christian poet Ben Palpant says it beautifully: “Suffering prepares us to sing exquisite songs, to spangle the darkness with bright stars” (Letters from the Mountain, 151).

2. Cultivate character.

Leaf-mould will never become humus without the presence of a vital force to break it down. If there is no healthy fungal network, the crisp autumn leaves will merely get soggy in spring. In the same way, the inputs mentioned above will never become a generative source of fruit if the inner man is not healthy.

The Bible doesn’t use the leaf-mould image, but it gives two others that illumine the same reality. In Psalm 1, the righteous man is like a tree, fruitful and unwithered, because he has cultivated character. He shuns the wicked and, more importantly, sends his roots of delight deep into the word of God. He is fruitful because he is righteous.

Or Proverbs warns, “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life” (Proverbs 4:23). Same idea, different image. God warns wise people to tend to the inner man: Protect, guard ruthlessly, patrol what goes into your heart. Out of that deep place, seeds in the dark grow.

Writers need to heed here because writing inevitably reveals the inner man. After all, the pen is the tongue of the soul. To the rhythm of the heart, the keyboard taps. Style is the signature of the inner life. So, woe to the scribbler who has a full whit and half a heart; his pen will be like a wildfire. But the man who cultivates character, who aims at godliness, he will have the deep roots, the springs of life, the vital force to be fruitful. Make the man worthy of being heard, and his writing may hit that mark.

3. Embrace seasonal slowness.

Implicit in the leaf-mould lifestyle is patience. As I mentioned, leaf-mould takes at least a year, and often more, to become soil fit for growth. And that’s just the start. How long does the tree take to grow? How long does it take to reach the maturity necessary for fruit? How long does that fruit take to ripen? You’re looking at years, probably a decade, maybe even three or four of them. Fruit grows slow, and you can’t skip the process.

So, embrace the pace of fruitfulness. Psalm 1 hints at this: The righteous man is like a tree “that yields its fruit in its season” (verse 3). That implies that there are seasons when, like a tree, he is storing up energy, growing new leaves, slowly preparing for the appropriate time to bear particular fruit.

This should be wildly encouraging, especially if you are in a season where you cannot bear the fruit you desire to. Perhaps you are a wife longing for children or a father with children longing to throw yourself into creative labors. Or perhaps you are a young man aspiring to fill a pulpit or a student itching to get on to “real life.” Whatever seemingly unfruitful season you are in, embrace the slowness.

Little ruins fruitfulness — especially in writing — like hurry. Unrest kills creativity. The busy heart, always moving on to the next thing, is like rot in leaf-mould. Palpant warns, “A frenetic pace and a frantic mindset rob the heart’s soil of its nutrients and leave nothing but exhaustion” (Letters from the Mountain, 59).

So, slow down. Of course, don’t be lazy; the muses never visit the sluggard. But let the leaf-mould mature. Be still and know God. Trust his rhythms of fruitfulness.

4. Trust God for fruit.

Speaking of trust, without it, this whole process is pointless. Faith is the lifeblood of sub-creation. It is like the moisture in the leaf-mould; without it, the fungi die and the leaves shrivel and scatter in the wind. We can pile on leaves, cultivate character, embrace the rhythms of fruitfulness, we can plant and water and wait, but only God can bring fruit from our efforts (1 Corinthians 3:6–7).

The Bible makes this crystal clear for wordsmiths: “The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord” (Proverbs 16:1). We can plan and outline and plot and preach and hope — in fact, we must — but God gives the final result. Our plans flit away like frost in the sun, but his are sure as stone. Therefore, we scribble coram Deo.

Christian makers of all kinds trust that the God who began a good work in them will bring about fruit. After all, “The entire generative life is an act of faith in God who equipped us to write [or whatever he calls us to] and will see to it that he uses us according to his desires” (Letters from the Mountain, 17). He prepared us for good works and will ensure they come to harvest. Fecundity always rests in God’s hands.

As we press into the leaf-mould lifestyle, may he make us disproportionately fruitful, Tolkien-esque fruitful, for the joy of generations and the glory of the King.