Often people don’t recognize the value of their creative expression until they share it.
That’s why I host literary salons featuring my students and their work.
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Last week in class, Amy, one of my writing students, said to a classmate, “Each day we have a choice: we can live with faith or we can live with fear. Though she didn’t know it, this was exactly what I needed to hear. I’d been having a rough couple of days, triggered by not having received recognition I felt I deserved. This set off an internal pity party hosted by my gremlins, who ransacked my guts and had me silently spewing self-doubt venom. I felt miserable, but wasn’t sure why. All I knew was that I was in “The Snarky Place” and couldn’t get out—until I heard Amy’s comment. Thank God for my classes—and my students, who teach me as much as I teach them.
In Martha Beck’s book, The Joy Diet, risk is listed as an essential ingredient for joy. According to Beck, the criterion by which we should decide which dangers and fears to face, and which to avoid, should not be measured by our chances of success, but by the depth of our desire. She says that any risk worth taking is worth taking whether it leads to success or failure, and if your objective is not something you really want, even a tiny risk is a stupid one.
Eight months ago I wasn’t interested in taking any more writing risks. After thirty years cultivating my craft I wanted to be paid to write a book. So I hired a coach, hunkered down, and wrote my proposal for The Raw Years: A Midlife Healing Memoir. Now that I’m agent shopping, which takes time, I’m returning to writing my chapters. My gremlins got pissed when they realized this. “That’s not the deal we made,” they hissed. “You were supposed to get an agent and a publisher so this manuscript wouldn’t end up in your file cabinet with all the others.” In other words, they said, “Show me the money!” But I had nothing to show. Not a publisher or agent (yet), and no guarantees. I knew I couldn’t predict the fate of this or any other manuscript. All I knew was writing this book made me happy. It’s my dream and I don’t want to let it go—no matter what happens. To help me get past my petulant writing gremlins, Brooke Warner, my writing coach, said, “Success in writing is reaching your readers—and there are many ways to do this. Everything is changing. The ground is rumbling underneath the publishing industry. Commit to your readers. You have the potential to reach people—with or without agents and publishers. The main thing is to reach your readers, and keep the faith.” My life coach, Tracey Brown, told me to think of outcomes as extras, and focus on actions I can take, such as writing one chapter at a time, and to consider the hearts, minds, and souls of the people I’d like to touch. Gremlins dwell in the land of ego. Engaging them is fruitless. Turning to Spirit, on the other hand, guarantees I’ll feast at life’s banquet. So with a prayer that my life’s work will one day reach as many readers as possible, and touch them deeply I’m moving forward with my memoir. It feels great to be writing it again. My gremlins have quieted down since learning that I plan to divide my project into milestones, and celebrate future accomplishments with treats. This is much more empowering than dangling a carrot I can’t control, such as getting an agent or a book deal. I will honor the completion of each chapter with an artist date and plan something special for myself, perhaps something I wouldn’t ordinarily do. I will go see a film; visit a museum; go to the beach, or a garden, or an art gallery; maybe a workshop or lunch out—something nourishing and fun. Completing a section of my book, there are three—Body, Mind, & Spirit—wins me a weekend retreat alone or with my husband, but the emphasis will be on celebrating my accomplishment. When I complete the book I’ll spend a week or more at a gourmet raw, vegan spa. I’ve got my eye on the Hippocrates Health Center in the Philippines. My daughter’s drama teacher grades his students on effort, participation, and assignment completion—and not on talent because talent is subjective. So is all creative work. It’s essential to do our creative work for ourselves, but also for the people who are waiting to receive it, and whose lives will be enriched by our efforts. This morning I completed a draft of chapter four (of 27) of my memoir. Writing this book is a risk near and dear to my heart, which tells me it’s a risk worth taking. In terms of assessing risk, Beck asks, “Is this a risk you’d regret not having taken? Would your regret be worse than potential failure or disappointment? Which would be worse, your disappointment over failing or knowing you never tried?” To me the answer is clear: trying is the most important thing. Trying is within my control. The rest is not. So if you’re wondering whether to take a risk, either personally or professionally, look not to your chances of success, but to the depth of your desire. What risk are you taking? Or thinking about taking? I’d love to hear about it. I cannot overestimate the importance of journal writing for writers. Many of my students and clients think they have to know what they want to say before they write. I rarely know. I have inklings, but often I have no clue what needs to come forward until I make my way to the page. I tell my students and clients to simply show up, give themselves fifteen minutes. Setting a timer helps. It takes the pressure off. Just say to yourself, “I’m going to write for fifteen minutes and it doesn’t matter what I say. When the bell rings I’m done.” Fifteen minutes isn’t a lot of time, yet you might be surprised how much you can accomplish.
My favorite time to write in my journal is first thing in the morning, which I’ve done on and off for thirty years. Long before Julia Cameron published The Artist’s Way, I wrote morning pages, tapping early morning consciousness—and dreams. Recently I’ve fallen into the bad habit of checking emails when I awaken. This is not a self-honoring way to start the day. It makes no sense putting others’ needs before one’s own, or looking for connections with the outside world before making inner ones. My day is always better when I check in with myself first. Writing in my journal allows me to converse with the one person that’s been with me my whole life and will stay with me until the end—me! Journal writing provides precious time to nurture my relationship with myself. And since I believe divinity resides in us all, it’s also a way to connect with Spirit, Source, God—what you call it doesn’t matter; knowing it’s there and accessing its wisdom does. This, of course, is healing and empowering for non-writers too! I am the only person I disappoint when I don’t write in my journal. It may seem easier to be accountable to others. Some days everything and everyone seem more important. But they are not. And things are rarely as they seem. Nothing visible happens when I don’t show up for my morning writing ritual. Nobody else cares. But not showing up for myself and for my writing gnaws me. It’s not writing that’s hard, but not writing. Though I love readers, I write first and foremost for myself. The process helps me navigate, understand, and celebrate life. No matter what project I’m working on, journal writing is home base, the safe haven I return to for sustenance, rest, and whatever else I need. It keeps me honest, centered, grounded, and informed. It presents me with my own internal state of the union address. I see what’s really going on when I write. I listen and receive—not only creative projects, like my book proposal, but my life, which is the ultimate creative project. A lot gets born in my journal: book chapters, stories, poems, proposals, blog posts—but the important thing is that I approach my journal expecting nothing. I enter that sacred space to experience the sheer pleasure and relief writing brings. The old saying is true: writing is its own reward. This post started as a seed in my journal that needed to sprout, a message I needed to hear. I thought others might like to hear it too. If this is the case, if the post resonates with you, or if you have questions, please leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you! When I’m writing, I’m like a dog with a bone, except I don’t drag it around--it drags me—straight to my office chair where I sit for hours. And days. Sometimes weeks. I find it difficult to switch gears and move my body. I want to stretch or dance or practice yoga, but I don’t want to take time away from my desk. Getting to my Rising Lotus Yoga or Body Freedom movement class seems impossible. I don’t want to change my clothes, drive anywhere, or talk to anybody. I just want to write.
The other day, after not having stretched my body over the course of a long, busy week, I noticed my dog, Katie, sprawled on the back deck. I walked outside, stood beside her, closed my eyes, raised my arms and faced the sun. Slowly, I started moving, “listening” to the sun on my skin, allowing its warmth to direct my movement. I rolled my head. My neck hurt. I hadn’t noticed before. I think of my neck as a bridge between my body and head, and since there hadn’t been any two-way traffic lately, the road had shut down. I worked with the stiffness in my neck, allowed myself to receive whatever movement came. For a while I stood circling my head slowly, tilting into the pain. Can you bring some love to this kink? I asked myself. This thought loosened it and the pain subsided. What else needs attention? I scanned my body. Bending forward at the waist relieved my lower back. Hunched forward like an ape, I swung my arms and torso while taking large, lumbering steps. Katie watched. She was used to such sights, but I wonder how many humans she’s seen move this way. I let out a few deep “Ha” sounds, vigorously shook my head and hands, and then slowly rolled up my spine stacking one vertebrate upon another, imagining space between the bones. I felt taller, relaxed, energized. If you’re an all-or-nothing-type-person like me, you can relate to how easy it can be to ignore your body—especially when life gets busy. Is there something small you can do for your body today? Something that’ll take five or ten minutes? Does your lower back ache? How about lying on the floor with your feet propped against a wall? Try stretching your arms over your head, then folding your knees against your chest. Or for those who practice yoga, how about hunkering down into child’s pose for five minutes and gently wagging your butt from side-to-side? I like hugging a pillow or bolster in this position, placing one ear down for a few minutes and then turning my head to the other side, which is a great neck stretch. Your five-minute body break might include jumping, running up and down stairs, or shaking your torso and limbs to get energy moving. Or you can simply allow ordinary movements to grow into larger ones. Sometimes, while scrubbing a pot in the sink, I’ll let the movement expand in my body and before I know it, I’m shimmying my hips like a belly dancer—another great low back loosener! What type of five-minute body breaks work for you? I’d love to hear about them! Last week, a fellow writer, new to my work, asked: “How did you get up the courage to write such things, reveal yourself so, well, nakedly?” I write what I need to write; trusting that what comes forward is what needs to be said. At times, while writing some of the poems in my book, I wanted to crawl underneath my desk and hide. I resisted that urge by assuring myself I didn’t have to share what I was writing with anybody–I just had to get it on the page. I’ve always resonated with that line from the Gnostic Gospels: if you bring forth what’s inside you, it’ll save you–if you don’t, it’ll destroy you. Writing helps not only save, but transform me. Publishing what I wrote was another story. Throughout the years, I worried not only about what people would think of me, but I also worried my husband might leave me, my friends would hate me, and my parents would disown me. I worried I’d be destitute, homeless, locked up–all sorts of crazy things. I asked the What-will-they-think-of-me question for many years. And then one day, I asked a different question: What do I think of me? So much of what I feared others thought of me reflected deep, inner demons. So I brought light to those gremlins, exposed them, gave myself as much love and compassion as I could. This helped me understand that no part of my experience was shameful, and that I wasn’t a bad person for doing the things I’d done, nor was I an exhibitionist for writing about them. Yes, I wrote about sex, but never with the intention to arouse—I simply wanted to make sense of that important part of my life, and writing about it was the best way for me to do that. When one person bears witness to his or her truth honestly, with integrity and courage, healing takes place not only for the writer, but also for the reader. Most of the feedback I’ve received about my book confirms this. My work isn’t for everyone, but many readers have told me it’s a balm because it gives them permission to accept themselves the way they are, and embrace parts of themselves they never thought they could. I recently read a wonderful blog post by Jill Jepson (Writing As A Sacred Path) that talks about the freedom one finds in pinpointing one’s natural genre as a writer. Jill said she felt relieved when she realized she wasn’t a poet, and spoke of a poet who relaxed the day she understood she wasn’t a novelist. Of course many writers cross genres, myself included. In an interview with Lori A. May, Lori, noting I write poetry, fiction, and non-fiction, asked, “How do you balance all your writing interests.” My response was, “I don’t balance them–they balance me! I find it helpful working on several projects simultaneously. If I’m stuck on one I go to another. The important thing is to keep writing. Sometimes I need time and space away from a project in order to gain perspective and clarity. My poems are narrative, so fiction and creative nonfiction don’t seem like much of a stretch–it just depends on how much territory I want to cover. A poem can be about something miniscule–an image or a moment. It can even tell a story, but its scope tends to be small. When I have something larger (or longer) to express, it usually takes the form of fiction or creative nonfiction. When I was growing up as a dancer, my teacher encouraged her students to study various techniques: ballet, modern, jazz, flamenco. She used to say, “a dancer is a dancer is a dancer,” which meant that properly trained dancers should be able to perform many techniques, because each one is a tool that enables greater artistic expression. Those were the days when Mikhail Baryshnikov blew everybody away dancing Twyla’s Tharp’s ‘Push Comes To Shove.’ It’s the same with writing; each genre offers the writer a different tool and expands possibilities for creative expression.” What do you enjoy writing? If you’re not sure, don’t sweat it, just write. Whatever needs to come out will. Let your stories reveal themselves to you. Try and let go of the outcome and needing to be seen one way or another. It helps if you discard ambition and what you think you’re supposed to be writing. Trust what comes forward. Navigate from the inside out. Quit trying to prove anything to anybody. There is nothing to prove. You are enough. Create what must be created. Just show up. Surrender. If you’re a control freak like me, I know how challenging this can be, but control is an illusion. Give up the illusion of control. Listen to and trust voices that come. Do not judge them. You cannot do everything at once, but doing one thing at a time with love and attention is enough. It doesn’t matter what you write. Nurture and cultivate your practice. Sit down and listen. Allow yourself to be led. The Dobermans of my mind
must be called off and I am the only one who can do it-- quit walking into wind and craggy maws, surrender inane, toxic chatter, the arsenic of doubt. I must heed Rumi’s advice: sell my tongue and buy a thousand ears when Spirit steps near and begins to speak to the deep ear in my chest. Only my heart can receive this gift. Only my heart can save this day. I hope it remains open, lends me its muscle, and nestles me in its chambers, where cropped ears and barking do not exist, and my mind is a well-tended garden sprouting jasmine, birds of paradise and plums. |
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