Writing should be a problem right now. But it’s not. It should be a problem because winter weather is harassing my home town, a virus is circulating that seems never to go away, it seems like my country has descended into indiscriminate madness, and my supply of huckleberry jam has run out. Not to mention kids, work, favors asked, etc. It should be a problem, but it isn’t.
We all know these times - the kids are too noisy, there are extra shifts at work, the wash machine breaks down, the cat pukes on the rug, and the phone will not stop ringing. There are bills to pay and repairmen to deal with and relentless noise. How in the name of all that’s holy can we be expected to sit down and focus on the page, to immerse in the story, to get even a single acceptable word written?
Lots of us are having that feeling right now. We feel overwhelmed with daily news of contention and
protests and accusations and lies and deep, nation-wide division. Then, y’know, the wash machine, too.
So why am I writing so nearly effortlessly? Why are pages and pages of words just flowing from my pen right now? Why do I stop in the middle of the million or so other things going on to grab pencil and paper and write a scrap of scene, a section of dialogue, a perfect description? That is what is happening to me right now, and I have been a bit confused by it. Like so many, I am overwhelmed and saddened by the state of our country (and the world) right now. I have children and work and bills and broken drawer-stays and a leak in my storage shed. I have phone calls and emails and letters to answer, and more of the same to make. Nevertheless, daily, ten, twelve, thirteen, fourteen pages are flowing from my pen. (Yes, I am writing the first draft of my current manuscript entirely by hand - I often do that.)
The feeling of being overwhelmed is akin to the feeling of loss - a loss of stability, of the familiar, of everything you’ve counted on. It is like a barely-controlled internal panic, a deep anxiety that grips you when you don’t know what to do.
The story has been told, (possibly apocryphal), that Dickens, when he needed inspiration for his
writing, would begin walking around London, just taking random streets in random directions until he felt completely, irretrievably lost. And then he would walk some more. It is said that he told those who asked that, in that feeling of lost-ness, that lack of sense of direction or anything familiar, he found it easier to open to whatever presented itself to him - that he could then look at the people of London around him and see in them their stories.
This may or may not be true, but, like many writers, I know poets and novelists who have odd routines to bring about inspiration, to bring about that openness to the world that lets you see stories that need to be told. Nearly all of them I know of involve some sense of surrender to chaos. Some sense of embracing the madness, of surrendering any hold you have on the familiar and just, simply…...opening.
It is, I think, why my writing comes so easily right now. To borrow a line from a fictional character, we all have ways that we enter the world, and if writing is your way to do so, you need to surrender your perceptions of what is real, what is stable, what is dependable, and embrace the dark and the light around
you.
So, if your writing feels stymied by the state of the world right now, or by the state of your life, or both, sit down. Put a pad of paper in front of you and a pen. Then let all the things that harass you IN - don’t resist them or block them out - let them in, let go of how you thought life was, and take it in. Cry if you need to. Rage if you need to. But don’t resist it. Hold the pen in your hand as if it were your lifeline, because it is. And then feel the words as they rise up in you.
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NOTE: This free-flowing period of writing (coupled with many of the things above) is why I have not posted weekly as I am used to doing. Returning to more regular posts now!