Individual as Creator

"In the West we view the individual as the creator. Works of art represent the mind of the artist, who takes credit or blame for them. Artists are put on a pedestal. It is little wonder that most of us don't see ourselves as gifted in this way and avoid expressing anything.  However, Eastern notions of art characterize this relationship between the artists and the work quite differently. The artist is considered the servant of the muses, not their master. The artist shows up , practices carefully the strokes or steps, and then humbly takes his place as channel, as shepherd for the images to be brought forth. Ideas, songs, poems, paintings come through the individual but are not though to be of him. On Bali, everyone is considered an artist. Art is simply what one does, not who one is."

     -  From Improv Wisdom by Patricia Ryan Madson

Found this passage last night in a book I'm reading and liked it enough to copy it here today. In working on my novel, I too often let fear get in the way of my writing anything. Fear what I write won't be good, or not good enough, or just not right for publication. The passage above soothes me. I like the image of my not creating the words, but rather just being a channel for them to flow through. This is a common theme in many books on creativity and writing. That the words are already out there--we don't have to struggle to create them. We just need to stand aside and allow them to flow down through us.  So writing becomes less a forced activity and more a meditative practice of "getting out of the way."

I've seen it work but it's still hard to do.  If I ever sit down to (ahem!) WRITE, I get very little work done.  It's too imposing, this job of creating. But if I tell myself, "Okay, just fiddle around with a scene and maybe you'll get a line or two of description from it," the words flow much freerer. Why? Because I'm "not really writing."  I'm just goofing around.  Or in other words, I'm not standing in my own way and the words come quickly. My goofing around time yields far more productive writing than any formal writing session ever will.

I use this process with magazine articles as well.  "You don't have to write the article," I tell myself.  "Just outline some paragraphs or phrases and I won't make you do the real work until much later."  So I get out of my way and find the article almost written by the time I leave the page.

The problem for me is that panic sets in. "I have a deadline--quit goofing around and write for God's sake!"  Ha--might as well stick me with a novicane dart. This writing is a funny business. You have to sneak up on it, and do the actual work when your real self isn't looking. And if your real self peeks in, you have to quickly look away, and pretend to be studying the birds or the sky--anything except writing. Because if your true self sees you writing, ego jumps in and says, "It better be good!"  And then there are no more words.

Heading Home

beach 007.jpgI'm sitting in a chair in front of the large sliding glass doors in our room at Wrightsville Beach. I smell saltwater and the surf is pounding the sand on the beach below me. There is a man throwing a stick into the ocean and what looks like a large and very happy Golden Retriever is bounding into the waves after it. An old man, back hunched over, is jogging slow and steadily toward the pier a mile away. And a boy of about 10 is flying an orange kite.

It's been a lovely weekend. I've written over 6,000 new words and I think have figured out some missing pieces to my opening chapters. I was telling my friend Bernie that what I've enjoyed about this weekend is that it's allowed me to be completely in my story. I'm not writing anything else so I'm not thinking or worrying about anything else. My characters are fresh in my mind and I'm hearing dialogue even when I'm not writing. Although I"m looking forward to being home and seeing Blair, I'm sad to leave the world of my book behind.

Because I don't focus on the story at home like I've done this weekend. And really, I have no excuse not to. We chose our priorities in life and if I wanted writing this novel to be a priority, I would make it one. But I haven't, which speaks to where my mind is. And I know part of not choosing that is fear.  It's easier to talk about wanting to finish your book than it is to finish it.  Because what if you finish it and it stinks? It's a common fear among writers and want to be writers. The difference is that the real writers suck it up, write the words, and deal with the chance of them "stinking." After all, that's why God created rewrites.

I'd love to say I'm going to go home and work on my novel 3 hours each day, but I don't feel that's true. But I am motivated to at least try to bring more structure to my time spent on it. Right now, I work on my novel on Wednesday mornings for about 2 1/2 hours. I would like to write a certain number of words each day until the book is complete, then spend a certain number of hours each day editing.

So let's try that. 1,000 new words a day. They don't have to be great words and they don't have to be the final words. Just words. I should be able to knock out 1,000 words in an hour or so each day.

I'll report in later to see how it goes.. Meanwhile, it's almost time to pack up and say goodbye to the beach. 

Sunrise At The Beach

What a glorious start to the day! I woke up at twenty of six (one of my roommates was snoring--names omitted to protect the innocent) and hurriedly dressed, grabbed my room key, banana, notebook and pen and slipped out.  I walked out to the beach and was the ONLY person out there.  I was both thrilled and saddened. I loved having the beach and the sunrise to myself, but felt sad that there was a whole town of people who had the beauty of the beach and sunrise at their disposal but chose not to be there.  Maybe every day is so beautiful they just get used to it.

Or it could be the cold.  It was just warm enough that you couldn't see your breath--just barely. But I stood on the beach and looked from one pier far down the beach on my left to the other pier far down the beach on my right, and I was the only person. The surf crashed and foamed and flocks of sea birds circled the water. Every now and then one of them would dive bomb the water and come up with a small fish.

There was a quarter moon high in the sky and then the sun appeared at the far edge of the ocean.

It was this beautiful neon-pink color. As it rose (which was rapid -- maybe a minute before it appeared as a full round circle above the ocean) it turned to a neon-pink/red, then a neon-pink-orange. The light reflected on the surface of the water, the birds called to each other, the water crept nearer where I stood.  Just a wonderful start to the day.

So far it's been a great weekend. We wrote for hours yesterday in our room, taking a 30-minute break at one point to watch a pod(?) of dolphins feeding and playing in the water.  They were close to shore and from our 5th floor room we had a perfect view of them. We could see their tail fins as they dove and one time 3 of them rode in toward us on a wave. They were stunning. And, as Maggie said, good luck. We all three had a strong writing day.

I'm a little nervous about keeping up today.  It's exhausting to write and write and write. Yesterday I free-wrote on my story.  Not trying to write scenes in order, but rather just writing scenes as they occurred to me. They may or may not make it in the final book, but it's a way of staying in touch with your characters and exploring their personalities and seeing what they do in various situations. Also, it keeps my pen moving.  It's more important to just keep writing then it is to write "good." Writing good is what the editing process is about.

Okay, it's 7:20 AM and I'm hungry. I'll go see if there's any sign of life from Bernie and Maggie and if not, eat breakfast on my own.