Writers block is not something I ever have. It’s like Garrison Keillor once said, “You reach a certain age when you don’t have time to mess around with silly things like writer’s block.” I don’t think I’m of any certain age but the fact remains that I don’t have time to mess around with such things.
I have reached a boiling point of busyness and chaos in my life. At least I hope this is the boiling point and I think it is; unless I am suddenly offered a grant to travel to Africa and write articles for National Geographic, the river of my life has reached an apparent eddy. This is, it seems the place that I will plateau for at least some time. The two kids are here and there likely won’t be more. We are in the house we plan to stay until we are too old for things like gutter cleaning or Minnesota winters. And career wise we are both doing what we will likely do for some time. It can only get less chaotic from here, right?
So there is peace in knowing that this is it; this is the least amount of control I will have over my time and the least amount of sense I will have as to what is happening and what is going to happen. Things can only get more organized and predictable from here. And if I am able to write (in small doses and fragmented thoughts though it is) if I am able to write in this chaos and unpredictability, then surely my productivity can only increase with each passing day—right?
If only I could guarantee that it would. I fear that my productivity and ability to write on command may be more a of a survival instinct at this point. The writer inside me refuses to die so every time there is a short moment to write, my inner writer writes. What else can she do? If she doesn’t write when there is a moment to write then she will cease to exist. But what if, when both my girls are in school and free time stretches before me like a beast’s yawning mouth; my inner writer becomes a diva. What if after all this time of writing on command, she develops stage fright, and needs to be gently coaxed from her trailer in order to perform?
When I am honest with myself, my ability to write when necessary does not always come from a totally creative place. Sometimes my writing is cognitive which is an easier place to access on command. Though I make time for writing, I don’t always make time to be creative. Creativity is what gets cut out of my life for the sake of producing.
Most of the writing I’m doing right now is for my adoption book whose bones are in place and only needs editing and tweaking. I try to make equal time for my novel and short stories but without deadlines to prod me on, they get pushed to the wayside. My little windows into the creativity realm shrink amongst the piles of laundry, deadlines, and hundreds of emails to return.
I have forced myself to enter several short story contests lately so that I have an actual deadline to answer to. Forced creativity; if that’s not an oxymoron…
The Artist’s Way says that an “Artist’s Date” is foundational in every writers life. Taking a weekly time-out to do something purely indulgent and fun is as important as writing itself. SARK preaches living a creatively succulent life that is full of tactile and visual treats. I grew up with these truisms.
My father first introduced me to The Artist’s Way when I was a child and wrote my first book, “Murdered by the Breadknife.” He taught me about the morning pages and other artist’s practices. As a young girl, my cousin Vanessa, also a writer, introduced me to SARK. I remember sitting in her room in Los Angeles, looking at SARK quilts and posters about “Juicy Living” and feeling like my eyes were being opened to something important; that life is meant to be touched and felt and fully experienced and enjoyed. These concepts are so easy to embrace as children. There are no boundaries to the amount of enjoyment a child can take from the simplest of experiences.
My three year old could run her hands through the flour for hours if I didn’t force her to mix in the raw eggs and keep her fingers away for fear of salmonella. Even as I write, Twila is in the next room making painting after painting with my acrylic paints—only two shades of blue on thin paper and she could do it for hours. She has already presented ten pieces in her blue on blue series. She took a twenty minute break to fully coat her left hand in an aqua marine glove. And she couldn’t be happier.
Is it age alone that pulls us from the inherent joy of life’s simplest activities, like rolling in powder-fine dirt on a warm summer day or gooshing our fingers in the wet mud after a spring storm? Or is it something else? Over commitment of our time? Worrying about money? I have to shush my inner Scrooge who tells my daughter that she can’t have any more of my blue paint; my three dollar tube of blue paint. Why do I have to fight the need to tell her not to mix the colors? When does this Scroogie brain washing happen?
The most creative (and least Scroogie) I’ve felt in three years was the week I finally designed the cover for my book. I had made a number of stiff and obnoxious renderings of rivers (scolding and verbally pushing away my three year old the whole time) when I finally saw the absurdity of what I was doing: trying to make art with a spirit of irritation and control. I was telling my daughter to keep her brush away from my painting, as if it might be ruined by her contribution. When I saw the ridiculous in what I was doing, I laughed. I turned my frustration around and decided to have fun with my daughter—even if nothing productive came of it. *Gasp* nothing productive? Are we allowed to do things that don’t advance the to-do list ball?
Suddenly as we painted together, sploshing blue paint around and putting brush strokes on each other’s work, something amazing happened. I stopped making annoying paintings of rivers and together we started making art. We made eight paintings that afternoon, all of which I love and one of which became my book cover.
I guess the lesson that I haven’t quite learned from that experience but am trying hard to learn is that it is vital to my creative survival to slow down (as Twila always reminds me to do) and enjoy life rather than racing crabbily by it. The lesson is to stop or at least slow down long enough to roll in the mud, climb the tree, run our fingers through the flour, and coat our hands in thick blue paint.
I have reached a boiling point of busyness and chaos in my life. At least I hope this is the boiling point and I think it is; unless I am suddenly offered a grant to travel to Africa and write articles for National Geographic, the river of my life has reached an apparent eddy. This is, it seems the place that I will plateau for at least some time. The two kids are here and there likely won’t be more. We are in the house we plan to stay until we are too old for things like gutter cleaning or Minnesota winters. And career wise we are both doing what we will likely do for some time. It can only get less chaotic from here, right?
So there is peace in knowing that this is it; this is the least amount of control I will have over my time and the least amount of sense I will have as to what is happening and what is going to happen. Things can only get more organized and predictable from here. And if I am able to write (in small doses and fragmented thoughts though it is) if I am able to write in this chaos and unpredictability, then surely my productivity can only increase with each passing day—right?
If only I could guarantee that it would. I fear that my productivity and ability to write on command may be more a of a survival instinct at this point. The writer inside me refuses to die so every time there is a short moment to write, my inner writer writes. What else can she do? If she doesn’t write when there is a moment to write then she will cease to exist. But what if, when both my girls are in school and free time stretches before me like a beast’s yawning mouth; my inner writer becomes a diva. What if after all this time of writing on command, she develops stage fright, and needs to be gently coaxed from her trailer in order to perform?
When I am honest with myself, my ability to write when necessary does not always come from a totally creative place. Sometimes my writing is cognitive which is an easier place to access on command. Though I make time for writing, I don’t always make time to be creative. Creativity is what gets cut out of my life for the sake of producing.
Most of the writing I’m doing right now is for my adoption book whose bones are in place and only needs editing and tweaking. I try to make equal time for my novel and short stories but without deadlines to prod me on, they get pushed to the wayside. My little windows into the creativity realm shrink amongst the piles of laundry, deadlines, and hundreds of emails to return.
I have forced myself to enter several short story contests lately so that I have an actual deadline to answer to. Forced creativity; if that’s not an oxymoron…
The Artist’s Way says that an “Artist’s Date” is foundational in every writers life. Taking a weekly time-out to do something purely indulgent and fun is as important as writing itself. SARK preaches living a creatively succulent life that is full of tactile and visual treats. I grew up with these truisms.
My father first introduced me to The Artist’s Way when I was a child and wrote my first book, “Murdered by the Breadknife.” He taught me about the morning pages and other artist’s practices. As a young girl, my cousin Vanessa, also a writer, introduced me to SARK. I remember sitting in her room in Los Angeles, looking at SARK quilts and posters about “Juicy Living” and feeling like my eyes were being opened to something important; that life is meant to be touched and felt and fully experienced and enjoyed. These concepts are so easy to embrace as children. There are no boundaries to the amount of enjoyment a child can take from the simplest of experiences.
My three year old could run her hands through the flour for hours if I didn’t force her to mix in the raw eggs and keep her fingers away for fear of salmonella. Even as I write, Twila is in the next room making painting after painting with my acrylic paints—only two shades of blue on thin paper and she could do it for hours. She has already presented ten pieces in her blue on blue series. She took a twenty minute break to fully coat her left hand in an aqua marine glove. And she couldn’t be happier.
Is it age alone that pulls us from the inherent joy of life’s simplest activities, like rolling in powder-fine dirt on a warm summer day or gooshing our fingers in the wet mud after a spring storm? Or is it something else? Over commitment of our time? Worrying about money? I have to shush my inner Scrooge who tells my daughter that she can’t have any more of my blue paint; my three dollar tube of blue paint. Why do I have to fight the need to tell her not to mix the colors? When does this Scroogie brain washing happen?
The most creative (and least Scroogie) I’ve felt in three years was the week I finally designed the cover for my book. I had made a number of stiff and obnoxious renderings of rivers (scolding and verbally pushing away my three year old the whole time) when I finally saw the absurdity of what I was doing: trying to make art with a spirit of irritation and control. I was telling my daughter to keep her brush away from my painting, as if it might be ruined by her contribution. When I saw the ridiculous in what I was doing, I laughed. I turned my frustration around and decided to have fun with my daughter—even if nothing productive came of it. *Gasp* nothing productive? Are we allowed to do things that don’t advance the to-do list ball?
Suddenly as we painted together, sploshing blue paint around and putting brush strokes on each other’s work, something amazing happened. I stopped making annoying paintings of rivers and together we started making art. We made eight paintings that afternoon, all of which I love and one of which became my book cover.
I guess the lesson that I haven’t quite learned from that experience but am trying hard to learn is that it is vital to my creative survival to slow down (as Twila always reminds me to do) and enjoy life rather than racing crabbily by it. The lesson is to stop or at least slow down long enough to roll in the mud, climb the tree, run our fingers through the flour, and coat our hands in thick blue paint.
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment