i

I’m sitting down with Julia Cameron at the end of an introspective day. Julia writes:

Creativity is a spiral path; we pass through the same issues over and over again at slightly differing altitudes. I have written twenty books, some more easily than others. My own perfectionism is not banished, just disguised. Now I call it “having standards.”

I recently threw away two hundred pages of work, judging it as simply “not good enough.” Perhaps with more patience, the work could have been improved. Perhaps with more self-forgiveness, the work could have been seen as promising. But perfectionism is not patient, not self-forgiving. 

…

Perfectionism doesn’t believe in practice shots. It doesn’t believe in improvement. Perfectionism has never heard that anything worth doing is worth doing badly – and that if we allow ourselves to do something badly we might in time begin quite good at it.

I feel I’m writing badly these days. Everything is pedestrian, flat, uninspired. I’m practicing – but am I practicing bad habits? I’m writing – but to what purpose? My mind feels fuzzy, my heart heavy, my body heavier. I am bone tired, broken. The words on the screen are dead, my career as a novelist is dead – why do I bother?

Then, suddenly – a hit of clarity. Sharp lines. Focus. A sentence. A sprint. A blessed moment of relief… Lost. Fuzzy again.

But I remember the clarity. I think I’ll find it again.

ii

I think. I don’t know. A decade ago, I probably could have written, “I know I’ll find it again.” Today, I doubt. As I read through Julia Cameron’s Finding Water, I feel Julia and I are working through the same dark valley. 

She’s telling me to trust. And also, to play more. Isn’t she?

iii

I’m back to work after an almost two-week break from all the jobs, two weeks of resting, reading, celebrating, parenting. Playing, too: I danced, I hosted, I laughed. I consciously and conscientiously did not work or write – beyond my morning pages – and I did not think about working (but I did think a fair bit about writing).

My work day is slow – no meetings, few interruptions, plenty of time to think and ground myself. It feels like an unproductive day. I have to remind myself that days like this are both a critical part of the process – and a gift from the heavens.

Take it. Think. Stare off into space and let the source material marinate. Creativity happens at the margins, at intersections. It needs quiet days.

iv

I’ve been sabotaging my quiet days for several years now. Today the temptation is strong. I resist. I know what I have to do. And it’s not write more, do more. It’s just this: Sit in this space for a little bit. Write a little, think a little. Rest. Read a few pages of my book. Write a few lines in the process journal.

I have a short story that I’m working on – well, thinking about working on, let’s be honest – so that I can make myself finish something that’s 10,000 words instead of 100,000 words. It’s unsellable but maybe an anthology will come around that it works for. Or I can throw it on Kindle Unlimited to compete with all the AI generated crap. The thoughts come: What’s the point? I don’t want to compete with robots if humans can’t tell the difference.

I push them away. I don’t have to publish. I don’t have to sell. I just need to finish.

Step one to finishing: Start.

v

I start. Well, I started a week or three ago. The plot exists on 15 sticky notes and I have one roughly drafted scene. The idea is good. My execution is awful. I have two options. Option 1: Plod through the awful execution and see if it gets any better. Option 2: Take a step back and see if the idea needs more marinating – more thinking – before I resume plodding and hope the plodding turns into flight.

When you don’t have a contract or a deadline, you can choose Option 2.

Unfortunately, choosing Option 2 looks and feels like inaction.

Even when it’s the right thing to do.

vi

I delay choice, which is another kind of inaction, and deal with the resulting ache by writing about not writing. The words are flat, uninspired. I put them on the page – but to what purpose?

“Because writers write,” Julia says (writes) and I hate her.

Then, suddenly – a hit of clarity. One strong line, so sharp (did you catch it?) – an anchor. I build around it. Relief.

“Not good enough, not what you should be doing,” whisper the demons.

Silence. I’m doing. It’s enough.

xoxo

“Jane”