Just when I was feeling pleased that I am never at a loss for inspiration or words that tell of it, I found myself being just that. I’m not over it yet, despite writing this post. My brain’s language function is operant but it feels as if there is little worth saying to myself, much less others. I was about to seek out writing prompts–not a bad idea–but I resist it. It somehow feels like cheating though I know it isn’t. We can get creative juices flowing in many ways. My favorite is letting notions and their language unveil themselves; it happens this way for me. I am grateful. Until it doesn’t.
A writer doesn’t look kindly on a very long pause. I know it’s the same for a composer, longing for a few measures of decent notes. Or an artist with the blank paper or canvas or metal sit there, accusingly blank, so that she also blanks out, at a loss. It might be hours or days; perhaps weeks. Longer. Anyone who loves to create–it may be a basket, a piece of jewelry or woodworking project, a new flower garden or a dance–knows what I mean. We are wellsprings of energy and ideas, then suddenly, we are not.
These days we might suggest it is the pandemic that has bled us dry of great possibilities. That seems reasonable to blame dry spells on, but I am loathe to agree. Lots of people are being productive–perhaps even more so now that millions are forced to be at home. At least I keep hearing of individuals starting afresh, setting themselves to all manner of marvelous endeavors: writing books, starting nonprofits, becoming supercharged political activists, redesigning their homes, discovering new talents. But for me life has bumped along in basic and familiar ways. I have managed to avoid the virus’ infection thus far. And I quit working in my chosen field a few years ago so open ended days and nights are not novel. (It is my spouse who now struggles with the impact of sudden downsizing.)
So what is my problem? How come I’m not getting more done, why do I feel it is not as comfortable to write? Maybe I am all written out. Tired of keeping fingers on the keyboard week after week. Weary of the life I do live, and of writing about it as if it is interesting.
It might start with basic ennui…lack of motivation related to feeling below optimum level of well being–the common malaise…that happened to me this week, as I battle with chronic health issues best as I can. Or, say, a friend or family incident might require that my energy move into a different direction, to another need. This happens, but less than when I saw family and friends routinely. Sure, I text, I call, we Zoom–we all know it isn’t the same.
However, this morning a daughter let me know that she had gotten “jalapeno hands”–look it up, it is real—last night after cutting up the peppers; her hands were extremely painful for hours, burning. And this morning their cat attacked her viciously enough that he might need to be sent elsewhere…for good. So I have had her on my mind, and wish I could run over to wrap my mother hug about her.
And I will note, as well, that Marc has applied for 100 positions since April and nothing has worked out–that gives me plenty to tune into other than what I want to write. I have studied how to manage things on a seriously restricted budget–like many others have done. I’ve even had a dream about adding up figures, trying to work it out. These are topics readers can relate to, so I could write of them more, I suppose. Note my lagging interest. Even though I do write memoir, I can’t so often write precisely what I live. It gets dull for me. And perhaps can be too tender a telling to share.
However, there are other times I feel my friendly Muse has lost interest and taken a leave of absence. I understand, if so. It can get redundant and claustrophobic in this head, the same themes rising to the top, like those songs on replay as I go about my business–and driving me nutty. Sometimes one has to stop all input, clear things out, take a break to rejuvenate.
I might also I struggle with a project a long while. Months or years. So many rewrites, countless excisions of bad adjectives, whole paragraphs, wimpy characters–until it can seem piecemeal, not a whole creation–and thus, becomes ruined. I feel used up then, and think the original idea was worthless. And sometimes it is. The manuscript goes into the documents files, taking up much space, and is ignored. I might get back to some of these–and maybe not. They may have served their purpose, been a housecleaning mentally, got me going in other directions. And I have only so much time. I am not 30, 40, 50…well, the years are not getting longer.
The truth is I can get story-shy for awhile, averse to writing. I despise those times and though few, they leave me sad and longing to write again. Even a title, a sentence, a phrase–so that is what I do. Write these on grocery list pads of paper or my “resource notebooks” stacked in a basket by my computer. Or junk mail envelopes, scraps of napkin, sticky notes left on my desk to gather dust, a book mark I pull out of a bedside novel middle of the night. And, too, I leave voice memos on my phone and check those now and then if I run too dry.
One way to guarantee a loss of writing impetus, and loss of confidence, is to think hard on something I learned a few years ago: a writer is not an author until his or her book is published. That means no matter how much work appears in anthologies or articles are printed in a newspaper or pieces are included in literary journals, the writer is still not, apparently, an Author. One can even be nominated for a prestigious literary prize (it happened) and still, “author” is not attached to one’s name or work. Being a blog writer also does not “count”, no matter how many people read the blog. Those who are authors state this in no uncertain terms.
Why bother writing? People who don’t write ask me this often. I have published this and that since I was a youth and yet, no book. I’ve not been bitten with a lust to publish a book, not yet. I think the “what if” came and went at least 15 years ago. It seemed like so much work for so little gain. I know how it is to send out a manuscript and have it returned, again and again and again–I mailed them for decades, that’s how long I’ve been writing–and also have done the online submissions route. I try not to think about how tremendous a number of writers are doing the same. Sometimes it has worked out alright, and that’s good. But no book. Not enough in print.
Without earthly gains, it is clear the reason I write is simple. And a cliche: I love it. I write because it is endemic to who I am so this act of creativity will not cease until finally I have no more wherewithal: no lucidity or strength to put a single sentence down and set it free, right along with my own self.
So I continue, yet can question if my writer’s warrior will has gone missing. Or the stories have gone hiding, lying in wait for another receiver, another scribe. And, for sure, I might have gotten emptied for a bit. It is a parched state of being. I realize intervention requires more of that clear, cool water of psyche and soul. It has to bubble up from subterranean places where words are offered life– so they percolate and permutate, slowly rise to the opening mind, and come to glorious (or acceptable; one cannot always expect marvelous results) fruition.
I feel sure my brain’s language function knows I am a receptacle for story, no matter how small and no matter if unread. The left hemisphere and right hemisphere are in cahoots with each other and thus, me. Never have I believed stories and poems (or anything artistic) were mine alone, if mine at all. I cannot gather and develop them without the mysterious sources of inspiration that reveal, clarify, transform and liberate them. Maybe only to a deep silence or beyond the ether–but that is not such a disappointing bit of alchemy. Go with the flow, it all works out.
Maybe the writing magic is akin to what happens in a farmer’s field. The farmer plants and tends, brings forth from the soil a cornucopia of necessary, beautiful, delicious vegetables and other wonders. But there are also fallow times for a field, when it is left idle to recover nutrients. And its fertility returns in greater force. Every creature, every part of nature requires time out, whether for night’s sleep or period of hibernation. Work still is being done–in an episode of restful repair, a quiet regeneration of life-giving substances and forces. The result is more visible productivity when it comes time to take more action. To once more plant the seeds, to tend, to nourish–until the wholeness of growth is ripe and ready for further use.
To let rest: this isn’t rocket science, as the saying goes, but it can prove an elusive concept to me regardless. I have to stop and remember important things, how forces and ideas work at deeper levels, how many have examined and embraced different ways of being, growing, creating. This has gone on for centuries; what my predecessors have found useful wisdom can well supplement my own. And alter it in significant ways. So I do use fallow times to read others’ work more, to contemplate spiritual matters, to be among the trees. To remain open. The simplest things can mean the most and replenish me more thoroughly. And when something new or just fun is experienced, that wellspring can erupt once more.
I know I will write more prolifically again. Perhaps better, perhaps not, though I am always reaching for a finer moment of creation, make progress as I continue. I can discover possibilities every hour if I am patient and attentive to life, let my heart, soul, mind and senses take it all in. The words will come and even if they resist my need of them, the stories are right here, at my nose and fingertips, waiting. The well will not, in fact, run entirely dry. It is only an illusion that my ego notes and fears.
Above my desk is a photo of a woman, eyes closed and leaning at her open window; her elbows rest on the sill, chin in one hand. She smiles as early sunlight gilds her skin. Below the picture is a quote from poet Mary Oliver’s work, “Where Does the Temple End, Where Does it Begin?”. I look at it daily, savor those words– how much more there is to hold close, I think, and am humbled and glad. The poet says:
“I look; morning to night I am never done looking. Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around as though with your arms open.”
Such sage words. And I wonder what else that woman hears and smells and loves and knows. See, this unknown woman is one of the necessary and golden stories, gifts I am fortunate to find.