11 Things Every Writer Needs to Remember

There comes a time when you tick off everything on your revision to-do list and call the project “done.” It’s a moment of stunned exhilaration–a rush of excitement at crossing a self-determined finish line paired with a kind of disbelief that you made it.

Though none of us ever ends up creating exactly what we set out to create, with enough persistence our initial aims eventually reach some kind of target. And that happened for me last week. I finished my revisions for my non-fiction book.

It feels… strange. In part because other lists have been breeding in the background, all the what-to-do-next tasks, and there are plenty! But this moment arrives one day, a moment of completion. It’s as whole, clear, and delightful as a breath-blown soap bubble, rainbow-tinted, light, and… temporary. It must be savored.

I did reach the end of my revision list, but (as those who’ve been there know) I could easily keep adding more to it, keep striving for improvement. So how do I know I’m done?

Something subtle inside has shifted, and with it an awareness that a significant phase of work is complete. Paul Valéry is credited for saying, “A work is never completed, but merely abandoned.” (Fuller translated quote below.) And I can’t deny I have that feeling of wanting to give up and turn away from the project now. But it has a different quality than procrastination or resistance.

How do we trust this inner sense that something’s done? It’s a little like trusting a new friend or lover. We can’t be totally sure we’re right, but we go with it anyway, aware of our vulnerabilities but willing to see where this next stage takes us.

Done never means perfect. In fact, for a writer to complete a project, s/he has to have made peace with imperfection. Completion can never lead to perfection, but it can lead to value. And that’s what we should be aiming for. I can say, without a doubt, that the book I’ve finished isn’t perfect, but I believe it has value.

For creators of any kind, a desire to make things is underpinned by a desire to contribute value to the world in some way. We work on projects that matter to us, and we hope, one day, they’ll matter to someone else too.

I’ll keep you posted on my next steps as I proceed. For the moment, I am breathing a sigh of relief to be done (for now ).

My work involves coaching other writers on their paths to completion. Sometimes I play a large role and sometimes a very small one. I reached out a few writers I know who have recently finished first drafts or revisions and I asked them how they feel when they finish something. Here’s what they said:

Once I write the final sentence it feels as if I have returned home from a long trip. Happy to be back again but I know there lies ahead of me a good deal of unpacking, and laundry, before I can settle in again.

~ Bromme C., working title: When Soft Voices Die

Even after working on the book for over two years, the realization that it was finished seemed to come out of nowhere. I think of whipping cream by hand, you keep whipping and whipping you’re about to lose hope, suddenly there is the cream with perfect peaks. So many endeavors require a leap of faith. I was elated when I realize the book was done. That feeling stayed with me and helped push aside doubts as I started a new novel. It’s a short novella but I do think of myself differently now that I have finished it, and I see the book differently as well, as something that exists separate from me.

~ Melanie D., working title: People Who Love You

The lady at Staples handed six copies to me, 350 pages each bound with a blue cardboard front and back cover. They were heavy, but my spirit was light as I waltzed to my car carrying the manuscripts, the first draft of my first novel after five years. Now it’s out there, being read by my beta readers. I feel a liberated sense of achievement. I know I still have more work to do on it, but I’m motivated to return reinvigorated with ideas to, in the words of Paul McCartney, “Make it better!”

~ Ariela S., working title, Survival

When I finished my novel and sent the requested draft to an agent, I felt an incredible sense of both momentum and lightness. Finishing energy feels wholly different from starting a project and requires laser concentration, patience and kindness to self. Letting go of your story into the world requires humility and courage.

~ Elena K., working title: Spotlights and Shadows

Thanks for sharing such wise, personal insights. And congratulations to you all!! Can’t wait to see these stories in print!

Your ARE a talented Writer!

I would bet that someone, at some point in the past, maybe when you were quite young, once pronounced you “talented.” This was probably after you’d created something spontaneously in a spirit of enthusiasm, inspiration, or joy.This declaration of talent likely felt good at the time but also would have introduced a feeling of self-consciousness—plus an awareness that such declarations were bestowed by others rather than oneself.A declaration of talent can be the initial encouragement that gets us to commit to a creative path, but it can also keep us hungry for outer acknowledgement. Some writers spend much of their time chasing opportunities to experience that other-bestowed good feeling again and again, seeming to need reassurance that they are still talented.I've been wondering if the idea of "talent" is problematic. When the word is interpreted as natural aptitude or skill, it can be relatively neutral. But when it’s used to separate creators into categories of high and low status, it can create unnecessary trouble.Interestingly, the word originally referred to an ancient unit of weight and currency, so it’s long been associated with “value.” A talente or talentan was a physical thing, and it has retained its meaning as something one “possesses.” The word eventually became commonly associated with natural endowments connected to athletics, creativity, and intelligence. This added notion of naturalness implied something new: not only was talent something to have and to be, it also pointed to an inherent or innate value that could be developed.Whoever suggested you had some talent for writing, and whenever that happened, you were the one who made the choice to develop it. This is all any of us can do.“Am I talented? or “Do I have talent?” are the wrong questions to ask. If you’re reading this newsletter, you have it, because you already have a natural inclination to create. If you need to hear from others that you’re talented, that could be more about needing approval and permission. The only question you need to ask is: How do I develop what I do have?Belief in your own talent is sometimes a good thing, because it’s hard to stick to writing unless you believe in yourself and your work. But believing in the work is much more important than believing in yourself. (I'm embarrassed to admit how many rabbit holes I ran down in search of ways to “believe in myself”—whole industries are devoted to this!)The more you believe in the work itself, and the more you show up and actually do it, the more you will develop into the person who can deliver the work, and this is the best way to reach the state of believing in yourself. And it’s the only way you can express your talent.Talent emerges as you write, as you practice, and as you make things, and then more things.Many of us start out writing with joy and enthusiasm when we’re young, perhaps encouraged by someone who recognizes some innate talent. Most of us take long detours through adolescence and beyond. Then later, as adults— and after we’ve picked up the underlying social message that “anyone can write”— we might find our way back to writing and be surprised by how hard it really is (to finish things, revise, publish, etc.).So we start questioning ourselves and our talent. We go in search of other people and other experiences to reassure ourselves that our natural impulses aren’t in vain (and there are whole industries set up for this, too). This searching journey isn’t all in vain—we meet kindred spirits, set up networks, and hone the craft. In the process we develop a writer’s life, and in the midst of that life, we think less about having talent or being talented, because we are focused developing it and expressing it.Your talent is innate, and it’s rooted in your own joy, inspiration, and enthusiasm. Outside influences may trigger these states, but ultimately only you can sustain them.To be talented and to have talent is dependent on the choice to develop talent.Go forth and develop your talent!

I would bet that someone, at some point in the past, maybe when you were quite young, once pronounced you “talented.” This was probably after you’d created something spontaneously in a spirit of enthusiasm, inspiration, or joy.

This declaration of talent likely felt good at the time but also would have introduced a feeling of self-consciousness—plus an awareness that such declarations were bestowed by others rather than oneself.

A declaration of talent can be the initial encouragement that gets us to commit to a creative path, but it can also keep us hungry for outer acknowledgement. Some writers spend much of their time chasing opportunities to experience that other-bestowed good feeling again and again, seeming to need reassurance that they are still talented.

I’ve been wondering if the idea of “talent” is problematic. When the word is interpreted as natural aptitude or skill, it can be relatively neutral. But when it’s used to separate creators into categories of high and low status, it can create unnecessary trouble.

Interestingly, the word originally referred to an ancient unit of weight and currency, so it’s long been associated with “value.” A talente or talentan was a physical thing, and it has retained its meaning as something one “possesses.” The word eventually became commonly associated with natural endowments connected to athletics, creativity, and intelligence. This added notion of naturalness implied something new: not only was talent something to have and to be, it also pointed to an inherent or innate value that could be developed.

Whoever suggested you had some talent for writing, and whenever that happened, you were the one who made the choice to develop it. This is all any of us can do.

“Am I talented? or “Do I have talent?” are the wrong questions to ask. If you’re reading this newsletter, you have it, because you already have a natural inclination to create. If you need to hear from others that you’re talented, that could be more about needing approval and permission. The only question you need to ask is: How do I develop what I do have?

Belief in your own talent is sometimes a good thing, because it’s hard to stick to writing unless you believe in yourself and your work. But believing in the work is much more important than believing in yourself. (I’m embarrassed to admit how many rabbit holes I ran down in search of ways to “believe in myself”—whole industries are devoted to this!)

The more you believe in the work itself, and the more you show up and actually do it, the more you will develop into the person who can deliver the work, and this is the best way to reach the state of believing in yourself. And it’s the only way you can express your talent.

Talent emerges as you write, as you practice, and as you make things, and then more things.

Many of us start out writing with joy and enthusiasm when we’re young, perhaps encouraged by someone who recognizes some innate talent. Most of us take long detours through adolescence and beyond. Then later, as adults— and after we’ve picked up the underlying social message that “anyone can write”— we might find our way back to writing and be surprised by how hard it really is (to finish things, revise, publish, etc.).

So we start questioning ourselves and our talent. We go in search of other people and other experiences to reassure ourselves that our natural impulses aren’t in vain (and there are whole industries set up for this, too). This searching journey isn’t all in vain—we meet kindred spirits, set up networks, and hone the craft. In the process we develop a writer’s life, and in the midst of that life, we think less about having talent or being talented, because we are focused developing it and expressing it.

Your talent is innate, and it’s rooted in your own joy, inspiration, and enthusiasm. Outside influences may trigger these states, but ultimately only you can sustain them.

To be talented and to have talent is dependent on the choice to develop talent.

Go forth and develop your talent!

Story and the Pursuit of Transcendence

Why do we write? Why do we read? I ask these two questions often—in my courses, retreats, and even the book I’m working on right now.

With reading, answers come down to understanding ourselves and the world, as well as knowing more and feeling more, including feeling less alone. With writing, we seek to communicate, connect, and make meaning out of the seemingly random events that make up life experience.

This leads me to wonder if, through reading and writing, we are in some way attempting to transcend the problems of life and the angst of existence. If so, why? Maybe the better question is why not? It seems that to not try would be to curtail our own growth, as individuals and as a collective.

The pursuit of transcendence does not mean it’s ever achieved, mind you. In fact, every effort reveals it’s quite impossible, at least in a sustained way while we’re living and breathing. But reading and writing stories seem to be part of this pursuit.

Story recognizes the problems that living in the world brings and it deals with the human desire to transcend our inner and outer conflicts. But it knows, because the psyche knows, that such transcendence is only possible through immersion–through deep absorption of all that is, and a reconciliation with and acceptance of that “all.” This is what we use story for, to greater and lesser degrees, and it’s how story uses us.

The psyche is story. Life is story. The world is story. It’s the way we perceive, understand, and integrate the meaning that allows us to change. To evolve. When we engage with story, we are subconsciously opening ourselves up to this evolutionary possibility, again to greater or lesser degrees. And art, all great art, reveals a glimpse of this potential. We are more–and the world is more–than we perceive in any given moment. Story helps us expand our perception. Stories of ourselves and each other, and of the world around us—through an immersive experience—render us more expanded. It is psychic evolution and it impacts the world in powerful ways.

Did you realize, when you took up writing, that you had joined a revolution of psychic evolution? I’m pretty sure you sensed it, even if you wouldn’t necessarily put it into these words. Because at some level you believed that writing, as a process, vocation, or career, would improve your own life and your Self in some way. Regardless of upheavals, set backs, and complications, your urge to write is like a flower turning toward the sun. It rests on a belief that you are moving toward a greater life force rather than away from it. That’s what humans do. With the life we’re given we reach for that which is life-giving.

Unless something has gone awry—and plenty has, does, and will. But stories can help us find our way back to the original urge to live in the name of life. Not one story but zillions. Because there are as many ways to live as there are people living. Of course, stories themselves can become corrupt and dangerous too. They reflect who we are and how we’re evolving. But most stories, and most writers, turn their words toward the light. And that sustains us.

When Inspiration Stalls

A client wrote to me not long ago to stay that her inspiration had stalled. It was both a statement and a lament. Writers tend to be preoccupied with the notion of inspiration–its presence or absence, its ease or struggle.

Inspiration is a lot like the weather—a blessing when it’s good and an inconvenience or disappointment when it’s not. It’s unpredictable, sometimes seasonal, or can catch us unawares, either positively or negatively.

Our minds trick us into thinking inspiration is, at least potentially, an achievable permanent state. Deep down we know it’s not. It can be as fleeting as a rainbow, or as glorious and transient as a sunset. We want such beauty and grace to be permanent and we struggle to accept that it can’t be. Yet still our work must get done. We must write in all kinds of internal and external weather.

When clouds roll in and sunshine is absent it’s good to remember that somewhere, high above the clouds, if you just rose high enough, you’d encounter blues skies and sunshine again. Even when it’s night where you are somewhere on the planet it is day. It can be comforting to know that what we want is always there, even if we can’t be in its presence at a particular moment.

When inspiration finds us at our desks, what joy! An unexpected and very welcome guest. But when it’s off shining on others elsewhere, we must trust ourselves to remain devoted to our craft, to be willing to show up rain or shine.

To inspire is to breathe, to take in breath. So to be inspired is to be breathed into, presumably by some other force. This is a gift when it comes. But we do come with apparatus to breathe on our own, without thinking, and while sleeping, so we can show up to do our work anyway. One breath at a time.

When inspiration stalls, remind yourself it will rev up again. Part of it’s magic lies in not knowing when or where it will find us.

Don’t wait on inspiration. If you work regularly and with devotion, inspiration will find you. Like happiness, inspiration is a by product of meaningful action. Keep working. Keep showing up. And when inspiration strikes, let it wash over you like a summer’s day or the awe that accompanies the sight of a rainbow or sunset. Inspiration’s power and joy arises from its fleeting and intermittent nature. In the meantime, breathe thoroughly and deeply on your own. The more you do, the more likely you’ll be breathed into now and again.

Time, the Moon, and Mary Oliver

As I watch the first month of the new year end, I am considering my relationship to time. Most days, it isn’t a good one. To my mind, each day begins so full of potential and then, by day’s end, that potential seems to have frittered away. So this morning, I meditated on time, the moon, and Mary Oliver.

When I lead writing workshops I always begin with an exercise called Here and Now, a present moment-focused, grounding warm up that lasts for 10 minutes and functions like a writing meditation. I turn to this practice personally as well, and this is part of what I wrote this morning:

The rising grey light of morning. Earlier, while it was still mostly dark, a sliver of moon in an indigo sky. That clear, pure, white light, symbolic of cycles, of time, but more accurately of nature. Our relationship to time rises out of nature, but on the way gets separated from it. Poetry can bring the connection back. Poets like Mary Oliver capture these moments of nature caught in time and reflect them back to us. (“This grasshopper, I mean–the one who has flung herself out of the grass…” ~ Mary Oliver). We lost this precious poet this year, but we will continue to be nourished by the words she took the TIME to create and write down. (“I’m going to die one day. I know it’s coming for me, too. I’ll be a mountain, I’ll be a stone on the beach. I’ll be nourishment.” ~ Mary Oliver)

We are all in relationship to time everyday. It is a precious resource—only 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week, 52 weeks in a year. These human-made measurements of time, and how we interpret them, can sometimes wreak havoc in the mind.

Yet nature gives us cycles and rhythms, bound by repetition and movement. Unless you’re at the equator, each day the sun rises and sets a little bit differently throughout the year. Time is never exactly the same on any given day, and neither is our experience of it.

Many writers struggle with finding time to write, or making the best use of their writing time, or they chase deadlines, or craft ideal yet difficult-to-stick-to schedules. Yet I think many of us are drawn to writing because of the timeless nature of it, because of the way we can lose ourselves in the process and forget about time. Writers are also arbiters of time—we compress and expand it through words designed to create experiences in the minds of readers. We help others transcend and travel through time, at least in the imagination.

What is your relationship to time? When do you feel you have too much of it? Not enough? When do you forget about time? When are you preoccupied with it?

My mind tells me there is never enough of it, and this same mind encourages me to cram too much into it. We all have access to the same 24 hours in a day, but how often are we attending to the quality of that experience, to the nature of that relationship? It is up to us whether we relate to time as friend or foe.

Creators tend to focus on the fleeting nature of time, because we understand, conceptually and physically, that creation occurs within a crucible of time, and life is only so long. So time anxiety is understandable, perhaps even warranted, but we cannot let it cripple us. We must become friendly with the limitations time imposes on us.

We can choose instead to relate with joy and wonder at this opportunity to live and create with time, to cultivate a healthy relationship with it, to be inspired by the many insightful words that poets of the present and the past have left for us, including the one-of-a-kind Mary Oliver, who said:

“I decided very early that I wanted to write. But I didn’t think of it as a career. I didn’t even think of it as a profession… It was the most exciting thing, the most powerful thing, the most wonderful thing to do with my life.”

Is it time to make writing the most wonderful thing in your life?

Staying the Course

Earlier this month I had the good fortune to be a guest on a friend’s sailboat for ten days. Up until then I’d only ever spent a day or half day on a sailboat and hadn’t needed to do much but sit back and enjoy the ride. For this trip, I was one of three hands on deck, and I really had to pull my weight. I learned so much about sailing, and yet it was just the tip of the iceberg (hmmm, maybe I shouldn’t mention icebergs and boats in the same sentence…).

I’m still pretty green when it comes to sailing, but I did take the helm on many occasions, and when we were fully under sail, traveling between seven and eight knots, I learned what it really means to “stay the course.”

Usually when sailing, the captain plots a course according to the nautical charts. This results in a waypoint, the destination you’re aiming for (in our case, nearly deserted bays of small islands or along the Peloponnese coast. Unless you’re motoring only, the wind has to be taken into account, and you might have to tack and jibe–basically moving in a zigzag to catch the wind–in order to get where you want to go. It occurred to me that writing often feels like this too; we generally make our your way toward  writing goals following very indirect lines.

On good sailing (writing) days, when the sails (your mind and hands) fill with wind (inspiration) and you’ve harnessed great power to propel you forward, there can be a wildness to the ride. The boat heels to one side and you need to maintain your balance on a slanted deck. You need a light and strong hand at the helm to maintain a good angle to the wind. But a strong wind pulls the nose of the boat into it and the helm can stiffen and draw you off to one side, so minor course corrections are always being made if you are to make progress toward your waypoint.

Before, when I used to think of staying the course in terms of writing, I imagined maintaining a steady rhythm and routine, keeping my eyes on the goal, and basically plodding along. But after having experienced it literally, I see it as a dynamic, energized process of monitoring and responding to a variety of ever-changing conditions, many of which can steer you astray or tip you into the drink.

The wind, like life, is rarely consistent. We consistently need to make minor (or major) adjustments in our writing process in order to keep moving toward the waypoints we’ve chosen. Struggling with this is normal. Sometimes the wind wins. It’s rarely smooth sailing for very long. Your skills, your passion, and your stamina will see you through the rough seas of process so that you can occasionally experience tranquil bays of progress and accomplishment. But reading the wind, adjusting the sails, and riding unexpected waves will always be required.

Every sailor respects the wind, stands humbly before it, and each writer comes to respect the unpredictable nature of inspiration, word flow, and maintaining life conditions that support the creative journey. But no matter how choppy the waters, how wild or absent the wind, when we take the helm in our writing, all we can do is try our best to maintain an even keel and stay the course as we sail in the direction of our dreams.

By the way, we use so many nautical metaphors and phrases in our everyday language. I found this site that explains some of the origins of terms such as: by and large, batten down the hatches, broad in the beam, hard and fast, get underway, give a wide berth, high and dry, hand over fist, know the ropes, loose cannon, shipshape, shake a leg, taken aback, the bitter end, slush fund, three sheets to the wind, and many more.

Baguettes and Books

Paris has long been a mecca for literary and visual artists. Expat writers such Hemingway and Henry Miller, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein flocked to Paris in the 20’s and inspired future generations to follow in their footsteps. And then there are the famous French names: Victor Hugo, Balzac, Proust, Georges Sand, Colette, Anais Nin, Sarte and de Beauvoir, to name a few. I can’t get started on the painters or the list would never end (but Renoir, Monet, and Matisse are a few of my favorites).

It seems to me that Paris just might be the creativity capital of the world, and this may be why I’m so frequently drawn back to this illustrious city. If you’re ever in need of a shot of inspiration, Paris is always a good idea, as the saying goes.

Paris has been so culturally rich for so many centuries that you can’t help tripping over history while wandering cobbled streets or wide Haussmann-designed boulevards. True to stereotype, people actually are walking around with baguettes under their arms, in tote bags, or in the baskets of their bicycles. They are sipping wine and coffee in cafés, looking unrushed, and enjoying the scene of passersby or engaging in lively conversation with friends. And, in spite of technology, you see books everywhere. Parisians really enjoy their paper and ink books. They read on the metro and buses, at cafés and in parks. Forget high fashion. A book is the essential Parisian accessory. Baguettes and books–in Paris, they are the true sustenance of life.

Inviting Inspiration

As creators, we pay a lot of lip service to inspiration, but what does it really mean to be inspired? And how do we go about getting into that state? Lately, I’ve been thinking about the nature of creativity and inspiration and the connection between the two.

Creativity arises out a relationship you have with yourself—a willingness to listen to what moves you and respond to that with expressive action. What moves you, and those responses, changes daily, and inspiration is the bridge between the two.

How does inspiration appear to us in daily lives? Sometimes in very simple ways.

At the onset of Spring, with new blooms scenting the air, you may rush out to buy bedding plants to fill a planter box. Sharing a particularly delicious meal with friends may drive you to open that cookbook you got last Christmas and try a new recipe. Finishing a satisfying short story may prompt you to pick up your pen and try writing your own.

Inspiration is the bridge between a moment that moves you and a moment of taking expressive action. And because of that, inspiration can be invited in at any time.

It’s helpful if we cultivate qualities of presence, attention, and appreciation, because they are what open us to being moved on a daily basis. (When we’re not cultivating these qualities, it may take a bigger event, like a shock or a surprise, to wake us up to the moment.) These qualities improve conditions for inspiration’s arrival.

The next thing we must take responsibility for is choice. How we choose to react or respond to a moment determines whether inspiration is invited in or not. We can close up to the shock or surprise, or we can let it honestly affect us. We can simply pass by the rose in bloom calling us to its fleeting scent, or we can open to it and breathe it in. The word itself is your guide: inspiration, to breathe in and be filled.

You can stop there if you like. You can be filled up as if by a wonderful meal and walk around satiated until the energy dissipates. Or, on the metaphoric out-breath, you can create something. It could be as simple as a feeling of gratitude, or it might be a cake, or it might be the beginning of a poem that will speak to the ages.

The qualities necessary at this stage are: trust, action, and repeated process. These elements are essential to creation. But this is also the most challenging stage. It’s the hardest to follow through on, because inspiration doesn’t come with any guarantees. A moment that moves us arises from a higher, deeper, or larger place than we commonly inhabit. It calls us forward, fuels us with an urge to act, but so often the results of those actions fall short of our inspired vision. We come face to face with the smallness of our own creature selves and this is uncomfortable to say the least. I think it’s one of the reasons so many of us cut off from being moved at all.

If we get this far and don’t want to shut down, we need to claim three more qualities: resilience with a dash of tenacity, acceptance blended with forgiveness, and the resolve to start all over again. We need to keep the door of choice open, that gateway between each moment of being moved and each opportunity to respond.

Moving through the cycles regularly will bring a greater sense of rawness to those moving moments, but your odds of creation will also improve. Inspiration is the bridge, but it is we who choose to make the crossing.