A Room of One's Own
I’ll start with a confession: until last week, I had never read Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. In my early years of teaching, many of you mentioned it to me in response to the “tell me about your writing practice” question, saying you did your morning pages. I, sweet idiot that I am, went along my way thinking, OK, three pages first thing in the morning—I get it.
Now I have discovered what many of you already know, which is that The Artist’s Way is much more. It is not only a guide for navigating creative blocks but a handbook and manifesto on how and why to inhabit one’s creativity. I now believe this book is essential reading for all humans. It’s for those who aspire to write novels and make films and for those who enjoy making up recipes, salsa dancing, growing flowers or vegetables, painting the bathroom a fun color, singing into a hairbrush, or crafting a clever tweet. Which is to say it is for all of us.
On the one hand, I’m a tiny bit ashamed that I waited this long to discover this book (which I expect I will review every year until I die). On the other hand, it came, as things tend to, at exactly the moment I needed it.
I spent last week in residence at Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities. Writing residencies (or retreats; I often use the words interchangeably) offer invaluable time and space to dive into a project, which means both actually writing words and also reflecting, pondering, staring out the window, walking in the woods, and letting things coalesce. It’s basically one long great shower idea.
I went off to Weymouth with a novel I’ve been writing around for years. I went off to Weymouth with—and this is true—120,000 words already written but little sense of the actual narrative arc of the story beyond the inciting incident. (For those of you wondering what the heck 120,000 words is, a novel is usually around 75,000 words.) I also went off to Weymouth with this thought: Is this maybe not a book? Is this just perhaps a set of imaginary friends who have been occupying my thoughts but don’t really come together to make a story?
Because many of you have been well-trained to anticipate where a story is going, you know the ending of this one: This is, in fact, a book. I discovered this by listening to Julia Cameron, by doing her exercises, and by allowing myself to let go of what I thought the novel would be and embracing what it actually is. Making art (and being human) is the continual dance of holding it loosely.
I didn’t figure this out alone. Before I left, I participated in an online retreat led by Ralph Walker of the #5amwritersclub and came out of that with some major insights that helped me start knocking down walls. Then I spent my evenings at Weymouth talking out the book with the other resident, whose memoir has some thematic overlap with my novel. I dove deep into Lisa Cron’s Story Genius, which gave me some useful ways to think about plot, and reread Sarah Lewis’s The Rise for courage and inspiration. And I did all my redrafting in a notebook with a pen, which makes my brain more creative and productive.
For those of you worried about those 120,000 words, I expect a few thousand of them will be useful, 15 if I’m lucky. For those who find that prospect demoralizing, let me say this: I needed to write all of those words. Every. Single. One. They told me, in a roundabout way, what the book is about. At Weymouth, I thanked them for their service and set them to the side so I could begin the work of building the story in a confident and coherent way.
Art doesn’t happen alone and it doesn’t happen by wishing. Go out there my friends and make something, anything. Draw a picture. Sing a song. Try a new recipe or throw a new ingredient in an old standby. Plant a flower. Stand on some moss. Rearrange the books on your shelves. Have a one-person dance party. Send me a postcard. Create something that wasn’t there before and then stand back and see how good you feel.
If you need a boost on your fiction writing, I’m teaching a class at the Durham Arts Council that starts October 19th. If it’s memoir that’s on your mind, join me for Write Your Life Story at the Carrboro ArtsCenter starting October 25th. And if you’re still really struggling with the world at large and need some room to process, Writing Through Crisis starts Thursday, September 30th (online). We’ll put our pens on the page and land our feet on the ground.
Here’s what I remembered at Weymouth: the possibilities are endless. Art isn’t easy, but it’s better than anything else I know.
J.
Are you tired of hanging in there? I am. That’s why I’m offering another round of Writing Through Crisis, a virtual class that will include many in-class writing exercises to help us name and process the challenges, traumas, and crises of our lives. We’ll discuss how to create a sustainable writing practice in times of uncertainty and use our writing to process concrete and ambiguous loss. You’ll make new connections with other writers and reconnect to your own values and intentions. Although I’ve offered this class before, the content will be refreshed for returning students. No writing experience is required, only the desire to explore on the page, express yourself creatively, and make sense of life’s challenges. This class will meet on Zoom on Thursdays, 7:30pm-8:30pm, September 30 through October 28 (5 sessions). Register now.
Other Voices, Other Rooms
I spend a lot of time thinking about voice; everybody has a unique voice, but some kinds of voices are much more heard in the world than others. I think about this when I select things to read and watch, looking for voices that sometimes get drowned out. I could tell you this is because I’m virtuous, because I believe in equality and equity, but the truth is that my life isn’t that interesting, and it’s certainly familiar, which is why I crave voices and experiences of those unlike myself. Here are some voices that have enriched me lately.
CODA is a movie about a hearing teenage girl whose parents and brother are deaf and the tension between her goals and her family’s needs. There are undoubtedly flaws in this film, but I found it fascinating and moving.
For some voices from the Muslim experience, check out Ramy, a TV series about a first generation Egyptian-American who lives in New Jersey trying to define his identity, and also We Are Ladyparts, a British series about a punk band comprised of Muslim women.
Last but not at all least, please read A Little Devil in America by Hanif Abdurraqib, about Black performances including Merry Clayton (who sang backup on Gimme Shelter), Josephine Baker, Whitney Houston, and Soul Train. I learned a lot and the writing is exquisite.
One last note about voices: I don’t take any of these stories to be emblematic of the group of people their creators might pertain to. Each is merely one voice from that group, which contains a wide range of individuals and their unique experiences. The more we expand our consumption, the less tempted we are to assume one person is speaking for the whole. I hope you’re ingesting art made by and about people who aren’t exactly like you—let me know what else I should put on my list.
The Slowdown is Back
Some of you may recall that I am obsessed with The Slowdown, a daily poetry podcast that consists of a little story and then a poem. Each episode is five minutes long and I cannot think of anything else so small and quick that delivers such a jolt of aliveness. This show used to be hosted by Tracy K. Smith and yesterday Ada Limón took over. If you’ve been playing along at home, you might remember that Ada Limón is a poet I adore, and the fact that she is now the host of the best thing in the world is, well, the best thing in the world. Anyway, I listen to these right before bed and they are lovely little lullabies. Even if you’re not that into poetry, I recommend giving this a shot—it’s a wonderful way to take a mindful timeout from the year of the Bonkers and feel better for a few minutes.
To Go Poem
A poet friend sent along this poem from the latest New Yorker and it made me hold my breath for a second and then let it out in a long, juicy exhale.
I Wonder if I Will Miss the Moss by Jane Mead