Oct. 11, 2001
The first few months of all of this were the most amazing. Creativity was at a high point, I felt free, I felt giddy, and there was such a sense of awe and excitement to everything I did – even if it just meant laying down by the lake having strange ideas fill my head.
I had a routine that wasn’t structured and harsh – Up early in the morning, did some yoga, sipped tea while sitting on the couch just thinking, went into the office and sat in front of the computer and typed if something was there. If not, I’d either go for a walk, paint, create, take care of other bits, play with the cat or nap.
At this time, I was the most productive. That is when the articles that were accepted by the two magazines were written. That’s when I wrote a lot in this site. That’s when I worked on my travel writing/portfolio. Despite the fact I gave myself lots of freedom and time to just spend dreaming or sipping latte’s at the local cafe with a pen and paper, I was extremely busy with both writing and creating.
Lately, I’ve been coming up dry.
I’ll become unblocked for a moment or two and then I try to cram every thought with some sort of writing frenzy. Only to realise what I’ve written is bad and not “true.” That will send me into a pattern of feeling like I’m not good enough or creative enough and the block will start all over again.
It’s been such a vicious cycle, and I wasn’t aware of how to make it stop.
I suppose I didn’t know how to make it stop because I wasn’t sure exactly where in that cycle the problem started.
I do now. I made the connection in of all places – the bathtub.
The bathtub had been empty for months. Once an almost nightly ritual, it has become a once a month indulgence. I would often find myself saying, “I don’t have time for the tub” or “I can’t be lazy right now” or “It’s just stupid.”
But tonight I felt I needed it for some reason. So I poured the last of my bubble bath, lit some candles, cranked up the heat of the water and then dipped myself in. I shut my eyes, blocked out noise and just laid there.
And then something began to happen. My brain started to daydream and my mind came alive.
I almost spoiled it by saying, “Why does this happen NOW? I hope this doesn’t lead to another cycle? I should write this all down and get out of the tub” But I didn’t. I just remained emersed in the tub and let my brain drift as it needed to.
Later I realised that the way I had been working the past few months was that of regiment and practicality – almost as if I was in the office.
I thought I had to work so many hours, I had to do so many pages, and I had to be inspiring or creative. If I did anything other than write I was being lazy or selfish or not practical. I had put so many conditions on my writing that I think I just became afraid to write. My creative brain felt too much pressure – the same kind of pressure I had in the Corporate World. And I remember how much writing I did then – none.
When I relax, when I let myself do as I need to do, when I am at peace with myself, that is when my brain takes off.
Creativity and ideas come on their own time. I can’t force them, and after the experience of the last couple of months, I don’t think I want to.
I suppose on some level I’ve been trying to measure my work, to make me feel like I’m doing something. But I felt before that I was doing something so I guess what I was really doing was trying to prove to others that I was doing something. But by doing that, I really ended up doing nothing at all. Which is kind of funny if you think about it.
I was reading about some creative people like Van Gogh, who didn’t create for money, fame or materialistic pleasure. They created because that’s what they loved and needed to do. But they didn’t spend every minute painting or writing and in fact, by some standards, quite a few of this artistic genuius would be seen as lazy. I understand now they were just giving time to their dream.
I also read how a lot of their best works were created because they just had the urge to create – not because they were trying to make a deadline or impress someone with the 9 hours they’d put in that day. And without that kind of pressure, with just the pure simple beauty of allowing themselves the freedom to create or just be, they could not fail.
Whereas I think the past few months I’ve been setting myself up for failure because I’ve been trying to be what I thought a writer should be.
Now I realise that with writing there are no rules or structure to creativity. There isn’t a right way or a wrong way. There isn’t a time card to punch at the end of the day or anything to prove. Creativity isn’t about that. Creativity is simply about creating and expressing something – not trying to prove something.
Oct. 10, 2001
I’ve been groggy all day. Sleepy, tired eyes, lazy hands and a foggy brain. Perhaps it’s the rain or the fact that I stayed up far too late last night working. Whatever it is, my schedule that I had been so proud of keeping is thrown off. I just don’t feel like doing anything. The only problem is, the thought portion of my brain doesn’t get that. It’s working still, trying to get me to work it out, and I won’t.
When I can’t release what’s in my brain, instead of letting it swarm around driving me mad I try to get some kind of physical release. Dancing, singing, skipping, walking, whatever. Meditation doesn’t cut it for me because when I sit and try to still myself, my thoughts just get louder and I become too restless for downward facing dog.
So today I thought I’d go for a walk. Despite the fact that it was raining as only Seattle can rain, despite the fact it was far too cold and despite the fact that I hadn’t completely woken up yet even though it was eleven am, I had to do something. I walked. And I walked. And I walked some more.
Usually an hour into walking I start to form sound ideas and structure from my thoughts, but not today, my tricks just weren’t working. I went home with my body feeling refreshed but my mind still far too foggy to begin any real work. It was now nearing one o’clock and still no work. No creativity, no great accomplishment. I started to feel antsy and irritable and thought if I gave myself some tea and sat and read, maybe that would be the trick. So I drank, and I read. And I sipped and I read. And then I guzzled and read some more. Nothing. I wasn’t any further along than I had been previously except now I was feeling the jolt of caffeine and sugar in my body. All this energy, I thought, and nothing to do with it!
It’s now around three o’clock and I’m sitting here typing this. While it’s not productive I keep trying to lull myself into a feeling of some kind of accomplishment – at least I’m writing something. This day, however lost, has actually been a good learning experience for me. Even if no great articles were typed up and that 3000 word essay I have to write for a book before January hasn’t even started yet, I got some kind of understanding today that I didn’t really have before – writing isn’t linear.
I’ve said that before and perhaps I almost believed it, but I really understand it now. I can make schedules, I can do the walking and tea tricks, I can scare myself with deadlines. But the fact remains that creativity isn’t a pill you pop or a quote you read to inspire. Writing is pure from the heart creativity.
Some days it’s more than easy and some days, well, not so much. I’m now learning that rather than beat myself up for all that I don’t do, to at least feel some kind of satisfaction with all that I do do. The failure would be if I didn’t write when I can. And judging from all my scribbles, notes, articles, web bits, letters, essays etc., I haven’t failed that much. In fact, I’d say I’ve had even a little success.
I just have to remember that on days like today.
Oct. 09, 2001
It’s 10:43PM. I have an article due by midnight and of course, I’m pushing it to the last minute. My mind is fried and one finger is broken and bandaged up. My inspiration on rewriting an article I wrote over two months ago is so far gone that it’s not even funny. The pressure to get this done and get it done well suck out any excitement I had about writing. It’s now work. My mood is rather blah like and I’m irked by every noise because, I tell myself, that’s really the reason the paragraph has not changed. I contemplate submitting a half ass piece of work, but know that that just won’t do – for them or myself.
The only thing I could think that would make me more of a writer at this moment would be if I had a cup of cold black coffee sitting on my desk.
Oct. 08, 2001
I remember when I first told my family that I had given notice at my corporate job and that I was going to be a writer – it was the same weekend I had made the decision. I had met my mum and my sister at a restaurant as they were in town visiting. They both sat across from me and it took me about half an hour to get up the courage to tell them.
Once I did I was met with a very strange look from my half-sister who is 8 years older than I. “Writing?” she said, “Seriously?” “Yes,” I said, “writing.” “Huh, I didn’t know you did that. What kind of writing?”
I tried to explain what I did to her but she just didn’t get it at that point. She couldn’t comprehend it and that was OK, because I didn’t expect her to. However, over the next few months when I would talk to her, she would make certain comments that were supposed to be taken as sisterly teasing but they made me nervous. I felt like I had to prove something but I had nothing.
This made me very quiet around her and the rest of the family about all that I was doing. I was labled “sneaky” for this, but I was used to that title so it didn’t bother me. Sneaky was what a person was when they had to hide something personal so they wouldn’t be teased. And I didn’t want to be teased about this.
Yet last week my sister sent me an email (which is a rare, rare thing) and it said: “Congratulations on your article our fingers are crossed for your up and coming column “Ann Landers”!!! Seriously we are all very proud and happy for you!! Please send us a copy of your article when you receive it.”
This really touched me. This was a big moment for us; it was an acceptance of my writing. It didn’t come in April when I frist told her, but it came nonetheless when she was ready.
I wrote her a reply back that said: Thanks a lot for saying this – it really meant a lot. Sometimes I feel like the crazy black sheep of the family because I’ve been all over the place and I guess when I decided to do my writing I was really afraid that it’d be seen as “just another crazy phase” kind of thing.
But this is the most serious, most important thing I’ve ever done in my life, and it was really really scary to just declare myself a writer and have a job that is kind of unorthodox. Also, I was afraid that with writing, people wouldn’t see me as working hard or being successful because it’s harder to measure when your job is to write. With an office job, you can measure the success with promotions and raises, but with writing, there’s nothing to measure against – especially in the beginning.
And that’s why I was quiet about all of this at first because I was just really scared of people’s reactions once they’d heard I’d decided to write for a living. I didn’t want them to think I was escaping from “the real world” or that I was crazy or lazy or not ambitious or that I just didn’t want to work hard.
I was really sensitive at first to people’s reactions because a lot of people teased me or made comments – comments that should have just washed off my back but because I was insecure in the beginning, they made me just hide instead. But I’ve become more comfortable over the past few months with who I am and with what I do, and I know now that I’m a writer regardless if some people don’t understand or agree with it. I have to write, there’s just no other way about it. When I write I feel complete, I feel happy, useful, passion, excited and most importantly, proud.
Over the years I’ve always wanted to find a job I loved and for the first time, I’ve found it. And not only that, I’m good at it too. I know this because I have received so much positive feedback from people from 13 to 72. And my first article that came out really hit home with people and made them remember their own dream and their own passion and that was the most amazing feeling I’ve ever had.
Typing an 800 word article felt more powerful to me than any fancy title I ever had at the office. Some days I get frustrated, especially when my brain just won’t cooperate and I have a deadline to make. Or I get frustrated with the fact that I’m not actually making a living at this yet. But I just have to remind myself that I’ve only been doing this since April, and I’ve only really been listening to myself since then too. All this is still so new and there is still so much I have to learn that it’s OK if I’m not perfect at it yet, and that’s nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of.
I will try to share more and be more brave with talking about it, and hearing that you support me in a real way will help me do that. Because for the first time in my life, I feel so proud of who I am and what I’m doing. I feel for the first time a sense of accomplishment – probably because not only is this the most personal thing I’ve ever done, but because it was on of the hardest too.”
Oct. 06, 2001
It came today.
After months of waiting, my first published article in a magazine arrived at my doorstop in a big manila envelope.
I had butterflies in my stomach and my toes were twitching. All I wanted to do was open it and look and it and feel proud but I was too scared, so I just held the package for a few moments first.
While I held it I started to criticise it. “What if it’s stupid?” “What if they picked an ugly picture of me?” “What if it’s changed completely?” “What if the magazine is lame?” “What if what if what if?” The more negative feelings I started to have, the more afraid I became of opening it.
Then I realised I didn’t write it to become afraid of it, so I tore that envelope open.
I turned to the first page and under “Columns” was me. Under “Writers” was me. And on the second page, the first column, was me. There was me on one whole page.
And underneath my (nice) picture, it said, “Writer Alex” It didn’t say, “wanna be writer.” It didn’t say, “part time writer.” It didn’t say “not very good writer,” but it said, “Writer.” Plain and simple.
Looking at my words and my picture in this magazine was one of the strangest, yet most exciting experiences I’ve ever had. The words that I had thought of and the message that I was trying to say, got out there. Not only that, it had really affected people as well.
Long before I got the magazine, other subscribers had. And they wrote me to tell me how much they appreciated what I said. My words meant something to them. My words got a few people off their arse. My words did more than just sit on the page – they came alive.
This experience, the first publishing experience, has been so completely amazing.
It didn’t make me rich, it didn’t give me the Nobel Prize, and it didn’t make me famous. All it did was make me feel proud. And you know, that’s really all that matters.
Elsewhere