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Surrender the Pen, A repost of an old post and a “Note to Self”

I love stats. This coming from the person who can’t figure a out a tip for the waitress without a long pause, a heavy sigh, and some frantic figuring.

imageWhat I mean to say is, I love stats when someone else is compiling them.

WordPress runs figures on my website and puts them in pretty little bar graphs and impressive all-time numbers that make me feel like, Hey…job well done for the most part. In taking a peek at them this week, I realized that I’ve been writing posts for this blog for almost six years, inviting over 30,000 visits and marking over 1000 comments.

Numbers, yada yada, numbers.

What’s more fun is seeing the posts that people visit most, from “You Talk Too Much” (I will try not to take that personally) to “This is gonna hurt a little” (ahh…writing). So, in the vein of “It’s almost my blog-iversary” (maybe I’ll do something bigger come July), here’s a post from four years ago. It only hit the halfway mark in most viewed, but it reminds me of a treasured time and place and a lesson that never grows old.

Surrender the Pen

Right after you bring that crazy busy week to a close, just as you head out of town with family, as soon as you think to yourself, No chance for writing, I’m sure, there you are, surrounded by inspiration, ideas, and gifted with little pockets of time. That was me, last weekend: deep in the north woods, working hard not to worry about the book I wanted to finish reading and the interview questions I had to write and the blog post I needed to draft; thinking, if I won’t have time to write, I might as well forget it. I might as well enjoy every minute of this last vacation of the season. It was then that creativity started popping up everywhere. Time expanded, so I could scribble more words into my notebook than I expected.

The creative process is a process of surrender, not control.
~ Julia Cameron

Birchbark Kingdom

Three days in the woods is ample time for kids to create a whole world under a canopy of birch and pine. The path leading up to Birchbark Kingdom (as they called it) was lined with twigs and moss and gave way underfoot ever so slightly, hinting at the years it took to form and the relief in (finally) being discovered. There were birch bark crowns for everyone (taken from a fallen soldier), designated guards, and a store that ran on a strange stick-bartering system. I took mental notes. I drew from their free-spirited imagination.

Campfire Revelations

We burned only one camp fire over the weekend, and I’m glad I didn’t skip the opportunity to sit in the circle. Besides the chocolate, graham crackers, and monster-sized marshmallows, camp fires are where stories are told, where people and real-life events spark a writer’s mind with scenes for “that novel” or idiosyncrasies for characters barely developed. I made s’mores, listened intently, then ran inside and wrote down those ideas, because bits and pieces of different conversations often come together to form whole, made-up stories.

Endings

Like the last few pages in a good book, the sunset on the final evening brought the rush of fun to a quiet, satisfying close. I had just walked the path of Birchbark Kingdom when I turned and saw shades of pink riding along the water, sifting through the clouds, the boat turned over, hunkered down for the winter.

And, in that moment, I realized time is never wasted. The whole weekend had been one long and unplanned artist date.

Artist Dates fire up the imagination. They spark whimsy. They encourage play. …[Art feeds] our creative work by replenishing our inner well of images and inspiration.
~Julia Cameron, on juliacameronlive.com

Sometimes, letting go of the work is as important as doing the work.

What surprised you this week and sent you running to your notebook?

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Permission to Write

IMG_0184It’s been proven time and again that I write best while sitting in a coffee shop.

unnamedGive me an hour–at a table in front of a window, the sounds of traffic nearby as cars cruise along the main drag, a porcelain cup full of a dark roast blend sitting in my periphery–and I get lost in the story. So lost, that I will forget to turn on the music even though I put in my ear buds the minute I sat down.

Add an oversized chocolate chip cookie or that heavily-iced brownie to the mix, and I can work double time.

I bet it’s the same for you. Maybe not with a decadent brownie in hand or at a table within view of passers-by, but somewhere inviting, ready, and waiting.

So, why do we hesitate? Why do we postpone?

Practicing our art is more comfortable than not practicing our art. Practicing our art is more fun than not practicing our art. Something more comfortable and more fun does not take “discipline.” It takes permission, self-permission. ~Julia Cameron

Go on. Take your hour (or two). Write.

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A Writer’s Mind Never Rests

There’s a scene in the movie, Becoming Jane, when Lady Gresham and Mr. Wisely pay a call to Jane Austen’s family. After Lady Gresham suggests Jane and Mr. Wisely take a walk together in the “pretty little wilderness” nearby, we see Jane’s face change expression: her brow furrows, there’s recognition in her eyes of something important. She turns, then, sits down on a bench and feverishly scratches words into a notebook. Readers of Jane Austen know those words later find their way into her novel, Pride and Prejudice.

Even if you haven’t seen the movie, you know that feeling if you’re a writer, that insistent pull to grab a notebook and pen and leave all conversation in order to put the magic onto paper before it slips away. And you’d probably laugh like I did when, after Mr. Wisely tells Lady Gresham that Jane is simply writing, Lady Gresham (the quintessential non-writer) asks, “Can anything be done about it?”

As writers, we are defined by such moments. Nothing can be done about our obsession with words and dialogue and tiny notebooks in pockets. It simply can’t be helped.

Guilty.

I’ve pulled out my pen and notebook in the middle of church, when I should be singing or listening to the sermon, because something struck me that needed to be written down, stat. Sure, I felt a little guilty, wondered if it was somehow sacrilegious. So, I wrote pensively, as if I was simply taking notes on the hymn number (which, sometimes, was exactly what I was doing…verses in hymns have been known to inspire). But then, if I believe what Julia Cameron teaches us, I don’t need to feel bad: that burst of creativity was very likely sent from somewhere above; I was simply honoring the process.

I’ve learned to accept the fact that writing will always be on my mind. I will turn to story, the novel, even a blog post at unexpected times. I will over pack when I leave town, mixing writing paraphernalia with clothing, just as I did this weekend when my husband and I took off for a mini-vacation and a wedding. Along with too-heavy sweaters and an extra set of heels, I packed the iPad, the laptop, the notebook (or two). Though, I never sat down and put anything on paper (or on screen), my works in progress still made their way into my days.

We went snowshoeing on Saturday, and in the middle of the woods, I stopped. I listened to the quiet snowfall. I studied the height of the trees. I took a photo. Partly for the beauty, yes, but mostly for the inspiration.

Those trees begged for a place in my novel, in a scene centered around the protagonist’s walk through northern pines, majestic in their own way and protective of whatever lies beyond.

Which, after two hours trudging along the winding and rolling and thick-with-powder path in snow shoes for the first time, this protagonist hoped was a warming house with hot cocoa and a masseuse.

Funny, how our minds wander.

What did you capture this weekend?