Art without Pressure

Today I want to speak up as others have done before me and proclaim that the image of the solitary genius in the garret, scribbling away at the Best Novel Ever while simultaneously hairpulling and starving and sacrificing relationships and personal wellbeing is a crock. Art does not equal suffering.

Discipline is necessary, yes. But discipline and punishment are not the same things. I'm not talking about conflict and drama and hard times that you've been through that become your source material for art. (Although hopefully you're also sometimes thinking about the good times too while you write.) I guarantee you that you'll suffer enough just by living to make a million tons of great art. But you don't have to suffer more because you're making art.

I want to share something I've been working on. It's inspired by a book I read while writing my PhD thesis, called Writing Your Dissertation in 15 Minutes a Day, by Joan Bolker (highly, highly recommended if you're in grad school and facing the task of writing your diss.).

On days that I've got a story to tell, which isn't every day, even if I don't feel like it, I write for twenty minutes.

Some days, I write for twenty minutes and I'm done for the day.

Other days, those twenty minutes get me into it enough that I want to keep going. So you know what I do?

I still get up from my desk at the end of the twenty minutes. I do something else for a little while. And then I go write for another twenty minutes.

Why?

Because you have to give space for inspiration to come through.
Because there's chili and cornbread to make.
Because the dog needs walking.
Because I still haven't folded my laundry.
Because most people can only concentrate for twenty minutes, max.
Because by giving space, there's room for the story to interpenetrate everything. So it will work through you while you do everything else, and improve itself.


Twenty minutes on, ten minutes off. This is how I do it.

Spider in the Snow

I didn't take this picture:

Wm Jas did, and it's licensed under a CC Attribution Share-Alike License.

But last Wednesday, I saw a spider like this crawling across the five-inch deep snow in the woods. The dog almost trampled her. But as we walked away, she continued her long, slow crawl across the snow.

This month I'm trying to work through some of the lessons I learned by doing NaNoWriMo. November taught me so much about how discipline and regular writing feels (answer: like coming home). How to proceed from here?

Last night I attended a guided meditation class in celebration of the solstice. The woman who runs this group is a powerful healer, well versed in all kinds of different modalities and symbols. She likes to talk about how animals and the natural world can communicate messages that are significant to your path. If you see an animal in an unusual context, or exhibiting behaviour that really makes you take notice (a bird peering in at you through the window; a deer haunting your campsite every evening), she recommends opening to the question of what it means, and paying attention to the first thought that flashes through your mind.

(The next thought, she says, will probably be your ego telling you off for being ridiculous. As usual, pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.)

I love writing, but the question burning in my mind is, do I just keep going in the direction I'm going? (With a certain puslating concern throbbing in the background: what about money? what about my debt? what about money?)

When I saw the spider, the message was this: "The spider weaves a web and waits."

Righto. Patience. And continued work without immediate gratification in exchange for a shot at longterm benefit.

At the meditation last night, I asked about seeing the spider. "Spiders are associated with writing," said our meditation leader.

During the guided meditation, one of the guides who greeted me was a tall and androgynous angel with a beautiful face. I asked hir for clarification on where my focus should be: money (i.e., gainful employment) or writing.

"Don't worry about money," the guide said. "Just keep writing."

I hear ya, and I'm trying to take this advice. I feel at a delicious sort of impass with this life stuff: I know I'll be unhappy unless I write, and any other occupation just won't do to satisfy me. This attitude alone has been a long time coming. But I can't keep going with the income level I'm at; I'm afraid I'll reach the end of February and be unable to find gainful employment, and I'll really be in a jackpot.

The guides can be so harsh sometimes. Why couldn't they give me a complete financial picture for the rest of my life? (Snark.)

Despite fears, I want this dark creative juice more fully and intensely than I've wanted anything.

"In the beginning, there was the dark purple light at the dawn of being. Spider Woman spun a line to form the east, west, north, and south. Breath entered man at the time of the yellow light. At the time of the red light, man proudly faced his creator. Spider Woman used the clay of the earth, red, yellow, white, and black, to create people. To each she attached a thread of her web which came from the doorway at the top of her head. This thread was the gift of creative wisdom. Three times she sent a great flood to destroy those who had forgotten the gift of her thread. Those who remembered floated to the new world and climbed to safety through the Sipapu Pole the womb of Mother Earth."

Stacy Kowtko, Nature and the Environment in Pre-Columbian American Life

Good to know

56%

NaNoWriMo Day Twenty-Nine

Word Count: 50139 / 50031 (according to the NaNoBots)

Authors who need a drink: 1

Well, that was satisfying. And an amazing release. I'm off to hug my pets and feed them treats and to try to put back together the shambles that I have traditionally called my home and love life.

NaNoWriMo Day Twenty-Eight

Word Count: 48320
Spectacular monster-slaying stage plays: 1
Displays of supernatural powers: 3
Hilarious lines: lots, I hope, but my favourite one is this, shouted by an old woman heckler after witnessing a particularly scourge-eriffic display of supernatural powers:

"Jesus Christ you ain't!"

Oh man, it's been a long month. I've experienced quite the learning curve. Everything they say is true: novel writing is like a long, solitary trip across the desert of yourself. Or maybe (if you're lucky) the dessert of yourself. The worst moments are right before you sit down for a writing session. If you can get your bum in your chair and a pen in your hand and even one word down on that page (after procrastinating further by numbering your page and carefully noting the date at the top) you'll probably be fine.

In the grand scheme of things, I'm just under halfway to a full draft of the novel. But I'm quite sure now that I can do it.

Cold Shoulder Haiku

Bring your anger here;
Leave it on the forest floor.
The trees will take it.

NaNoWriMo Day Twenty-Seven

Word Count: 45906
Zombicidal children: 12, give or take
Troupes of slightly nonthreatening monsters: 1

I didn't intend for the monsters to be friendly. HOW DID THE MONSTERS BECOME FRIENDLY?

Because they all have their own stories, that's how. Well, crap. There's a layer of complication that I hadn't banked on.

At the same time, I think my overarching metaphor - the one about power - just got a lot more complex and interesting.