Huge numbers of people show at jobs every day that they’re less than thrilled to be working. Some of us may be in that camp. Some not. But most creative writers, regardless of other jobs they have or work they do, are lucky to engage in work they love. Writing is a passion. We may not always love what we do, but writing is something we have to do. The late Scott Dinsmore, creator of Live Your Legend, asked, “What’s the work you cannot not do?” What’s the work that even when you’re not doing it you think you should be? What’s the work that when you put it off it keeps nudging you? What’s the work that really matters to you? Most writers would respond to these questions with a single word: “writing!”
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1. The Thing Itself. As an artist and writer I strive to capture or communicate meaningful aspects of my life experience. Sometimes I do this well, and sometimes I fall short of my mark. But I try—and try again—knowing it’s a worthy endeavor. It helps when I remember that life is the thing itself. Since my writing attempts to pay homage to life, it makes sense to pay close attention to life. I do this by trying, as much as possible, to savor the moment, and to remind myself that life is more precious than writing. This may sound obvious, but it’s easy to get sucked into tormented writer drama. I do this when I worry I’m not doing enough or that what I’m doing isn’t good enough. Or that I’m not good enough. What a sorry, stale—and false!—tale this is. If you haven’t already done so, treat yourself to this gift: Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear. It’s full of wisdom and inspiration for writers and anyone living—or wanting to live—a creative life. The book champions creative living of all kinds, and is divided into six parts: Courage, Enchantment, Permission, Persistence, Trust, and Divinity. For the past seven years, I’ve been teaching private writing classes. Teaching is a great joy and pleasure for me—and as creative an act as writing is. I love meeting people wherever they happen to be with their writing (and their life) and helping them move forward. While I sometimes say and do routine things while traversing this path, teaching is a journey that feels very much alive and present-moment oriented. Like my writing, I carry with me into teaching the full scope and range of my life experiences. I never know what ideas will present themselves as I listen to my students, and I am often surprised and delighted. Let’s face it: the writing life can be difficult. We procrastinate, bargain with the universe, write hundreds of pages no one will read. We judge, discipline, chide, and berate ourselves, and others. We make unfair comparisons, inflate and deflate our work, our efforts. Our egos loom large like monsters, or cower in corners. We recoil from shadows, fight our own wisdom, attempt to flee our pain, but cannot escape ourselves, our lives—alas, our material. And this is the fun part! Earlier this summer I made my annual trip to Claremont, CA, to teach my Write Where You Are Workshop at Camp Scripps, a four-day summer camp run by and for alumnae of Scripps College. I handed out three pages of prompts, lines gleaned from Nancy Levin’s poetry collection, Writing For My Life. A volunteer read them aloud and people circled the prompts they felt a visceral response to. Some of the most popular were: In honor of Teacher’s Appreciation Week, which was May 4-8, here’s a list of qualities some of the best writing teachers share. They may not be the first thoughts that enter your mind when thinking about studying writing, but teachers with the personality traits listed below make excellent writing guides. Don’t settle for anything less. You deserve the best. According to the gnostic gospels, if you bring forth what’s inside you, it’ll save you; if you do not bring forth what’s inside you, it’ll destroy you. Many writers ache to bring forth what’s inside them, but are challenged by inner saboteurs that thwart their efforts. “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone,” says author Neal Donald Walsch in Conversations with God, Book 3. Easy to say. Hard to do—especially when fear kicks in, which it does as you near the edges of your comfort zone. Writers are particularly susceptible. What happens when the thought of speaking in front of an audience fills you with dread? Or what if you’re afraid to fly and you need to travel for a book tour? Or what if your own writing is taking you down some dark alley and you’re sure you’re going to get mugged—or worse? |
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