To burn off the weight of being inside for too long on a sunny day, I go for a walk, follow the wood violets into a park, into the smell of fresh wood chips and kids playing soccer. To avoid getting caught in conversation, I take to the perimeter, along a trail leading into the woods, past a painted turtle on a log in a shallow pond. Or at least his shell on a log in a shallow pond, no sign of his head, or feet. He, too, must have needed a break. I snap pictures on my phone–daisies, a kite, strange buds on a tree, and turn at the kitch-kitch sound of a ruby-crowned kinglet hopping through last year’s Fall and the bare branches of a shrub. I only know the name of that bird because I Google it right then and there–finch with red dot on head. I figure I’ll get a list of misdirected links but no, there it is, an image of the very same bird, red tuft of feathers right at its crown, with notes on its behavior, “forages almost frantically…seem nervous as they flit through the foliage.” Nervous, for sure, I can’t catch even one tiny photo of him. So I keep walking. On a bench at the top of the trail, I listen to the cars along the highway a short mile away and feel full ofcity with that noise in my ear and my cell at my hip, so I put the phone in my backpack, take out my pen and paper, write notes on my own behavior instead. Those notes stay in my journal, but here’s what I can reveal: the sun warm at my back, the way the wood violets push through, press forth along the forest floor, the vertical lines of tree trunks, limbs angled, branches fanned, hungry for the coming change.
Drip, pour over, french press. Bold, mild, “a little room for cream.” You order half decaf, “make it a medium,” and feel like the drunk who orders near-beer. Who are we kidding. You sit facing the window, and the clock (there is only so much time), pull out your journal, a new pen. You write the date and Wednesday and pause, words lodged in your throat. In the background, the espresso machine speaks in fits and starts, hot steam charging the milk. The barista asks, What can I get started for you? You have a list of plenty. The man sitting at the high table behind you says into his phone, “Surprise me.” He doesn’t sound convinced. The coffee has yet to kick in. Still, you jot something down on paper. Maybe just these morning observations. Every word counts. And in every detail, there is a story.
Early on in our preparations, Elin and I divvied up the days, brainstormed ideas surrounding permission and writing and what holds us back from our own creativity. I offered to present on granting ourselves permission to fail and to succeed.
For the last several months, I’ve dogeared pages in my books, researched articles, saved links to essays; I’ve gathered perspectives and explored the ideas of failure and success.
“The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”
~ Mary Oliver
In that time, I’ve also been taking a closer look at my own creative aspirations, figuring out what feeds my creativity or what flattens it. I’ve sent out submissions, filed away rejections, quietly celebrated a publication here and there. I have embarked, head-on, into new adventures and wondered (…worried) what it will look like if/when I fumble and fall.
Not surprising, all my prep work to teach at this retreat is giving me insight into my own experiences in failure and success and helping realign my perceptions on permission to embrace both. Every page in a book I mark with a tab is saved for the workshop and for myself; each video I discover to share during a writing activity becomes another message from the Universe to pay attention.
Moving toward the unknown–a new story, the first lines of a difficult essay, a creative pursuit of any kind–is never easy. The journey is filled with excitement and fear, sometimes (usually) a little pain. We make mistakes–we have to make mistakes. We have tiny successes. We experience days when every action seems moot. But all of it–every rise and fall–is necessary.
“Don’t be afraid of mistakes; they tell you what you are trying that you don’t have control over. They suggest that you are venturing into new territory where you’re not yet sure what you are doing. They’re a sign that you are stretching yourself.”
What stories do you long to pursue? What creative opportunities are you pushing aside because of time, fear of failure, or what your mother would say? What is the risk in letting it pass you by? What is the risk in diving in?
Grant yourself permission; you may be surprised where the journey will lead.
Looking for online writing opportunities?
Flash Nonfiction II: Write, critique. Rinse, repeat.April 7-May 18, 2019. We meet online for 6 weeks and engage with lessons on voice, memory vs. memoir, omissions on purpose, and more. We write, we critique, we don’t stop for the inner editor. While flash nonfiction may not be your main form of writing, working on your short game improves your long. Only a few seats remain & registration closes April 4th. Read student testimonials and sign up HERE.
Study Hall: #AmWriting.Next session: April 7th, 3:30-5pm CST. Once a month we gather online to talk craft, read essays, stories, or poems. And we write write write. By the end of one session, you’ll have tackled 5 different writing prompts–and had fun! Registration is required. For the April session, sign up HERE by Friday, April 5th.
