|
I watched a writer go through tremendous mental, physical
and emotional pressure this summer. Katie was launching a project at
work beyond the scope of anything done before. She slogged overtime, twisting
her mind into thought-pretzels, hammering at her keys, crunching numbers. It
wrung her creativity from her.
Katie is a novelist with a flair for fantasy and
sumptuous characters. Writing is her lifeblood—what keeps her going. She had
been poised to start the next chapter or book, but now her mind was barren as a sand dune.
Still, Katie attended every meeting of Wildfire Writing Master Class, and showed up for an extra workshop,
participating fully. She was often the first present, with or without an injured
back, a sore throat, a muzzy brain.
Five or six weeks into this grueling schedule she sat down
to her writing practice and a new story finally came. It gushed. “Easiest thing
I ever wrote,” she said with a grin.
Her commitment to her practice never wavered, despite the
lack of rewards, despite the struggle.
Watching Katie reminded me there is a space of deep trust to inhabit when
all hell is breaking loose. On some level, it teaches our inner creator,
our Dream Kid, that we are here for her. She doesn’t have to perform. We aren’t
going to abandon our creativity, even when it feels like a sunken ship. This is
what we do; the practice itself is enough.
Things happen, but not on our timetable. “Some part of my
brain was writing the whole time I was overwhelmed with other tasks,” Katie said, shrugging.
So many ways this resonates for my practice! When I’m not into it. When my
mind is all over the place and I might as well give up.
This practice is not for the days when everything is easy.
It’s not for, “Gee, I’m so good at this.”
It’s not for showing off, or performing what I already know.
It’s for staying when everything feels wonky,
hopeless, failing.
My writing is the practice of staying.
Let’s trust that practicing part, unseen, unthanked. Let’s
witness creativity we can never control—here for us, even when we can’t feel
it, measure it, or call it worthwhile.
That’s what it’s for.
| 
