1
I hit Friday fried. By my last two meetings on Thursday, I can’t language. You know? I open my mouth and my tongue struggles to form the syllables that need to become the words that will give voice to the thoughts I want to express. I’m crossing into the zone where I’m about to start making stupid mistakes because I have no bandwidth left for thought.
The cure, for me, is pretty simple. I need, first, some down time and then some thinking time.
I start the downtime with some manual labour. I sweep and vacuum. I gather up the leaves. I do a load of laundry, start to finish. Get the body a little tired, get the mind focused on the body. Then I take a very long bath, with neither book nor show to distract me from the water, the bubbles, the dark.
I do nothing, I am nothing.
Then, I turn to the page. As writers, I think we’re so lucky that we can rest while writing. Not on the current WIP — now is not the time to torture the novel, speech or article. It’s time to play. Write a bad poem. Play with the cadence of a pretty, useless sentence. Journal — but not about the things that cause you pain. Find an interesting, warm memory. Take that weird overheard phrase — “But what would I do with a gallon of Cool Whip?” — and give it silly, imagined context.
Create that space within yourself.
Play.
Play is rest.
2
Successfully, sustainably creative people know how to play and rest. And, with practice, we learn how to do it before we burn out. We recognize the signs and course-correct before we crash.
Unsustainably creative people burn out. Frequently.
When I’m living my life right — and yes, there is a right way, of course there is 🙂 — I don’t get to the fried stage. I take that pause when I start to feel fatigue. That’s how I (used to) write a full first draft of a novel in three to six weeks: Stop when you still have juice. Recharge before that battery dies.
Work, deadlines and contracts sometimes make this difficult, sure. But it’s possible, attainable, practicable.
Do it.
Do it yourself, for yourself.
Nobody else will — or can — do it for you.
They’ll just tsk tsk when you crash and burn.
3
Rejuvenating rest and play look differently for each of us. Sometimes, I can reset in the arms of someone I love. Most of the time, I need silence and solitude. My notebook. The self-permission to play with the things I work with. Sheesha. A trashy novel. A pile of cookbooks full of recipes I’ll never attempt because seriously, four hours of active kitchen to time to put something on the table?
I’d rather write, sleep or, you know. Reset in your arms.
But looking at the pretty photographs makes me feel good.
4
After I write-play, I stretch out of my purple sofa and think-not-think. I look at my animals, the lazy cat, the dog who really wants another walk but knows she’s not getting one for a while. My bare toes.
I think-not-think about the WIPs now. The “not” is the most important part of this: I’m not actively rolling anything over. I’m not reflecting. I’m actually not thinking about work at all. Except that it exists and it’s inside me. And when I not-think about it, I think about it in that magical way that will let me think about it happily a few hours, days later.
Breathe in, breathe out. Watch the smoke. Listen to the breath. Look at the cat.
Don’t think, but let the thoughts come.
5
We call ourselves knowledge workers or creatives now and they claim to value us… but neither they nor we give ourselves sufficient time, the permission even to do the thing that makes us sustainably creative:
Think-not-think.
Play and rest.
6
My homework for myself on that Thursday night is to play and rest, think-not-think.
My homework for what would be an unproductive, frustrating, burnt-out Friday: think-not-think. Lay on the floor. Stare at the ceiling. Feel the space inside. Delay responding to that non-urgent email. Reschedule the important, requires thought meeting.
It sets the stage for a fantastic Monday, fulfilling Tuesday. I’ll have words, thoughts.
But first, this: rest and play. Think-not-think.
xoxo
“Jane”
Nothing By The Book 