On (Not) Writing

This might be the warm-up after the warm-up

I bought two new journals this week. I don’t technically need two, but I couldn’t decide which I liked more, so….

It’s been three years since I journaled seriously. The reasons for this are myriad and worth unpacking—but for today, the only one I want to address directly, is fear.

I’ve been feeling the pangs of longing to write again for awhile. At the beginning of 2023, I started the practice of morning pages, with some friends inside the Refinery. I was hoping that the accountability would help keep the fire under my seat lit, and for a hot minute, it did. But in recent weeks, the resistance in me has reared its head once again. After feeling blocked for years, it shouldn’t be assumed that a couple weeks of consistent writing would untangle all the knots. That’s not all that different than quitting carbs for 2 weeks and expecting to lose 10 years of weight gain in 14 days. Possible, maybe?—but highly unlikely. These things take time and attention.

Not writing has become a strange and uncomfortable part of my current routine. Not writing has been disorienting in some painful and surprising ways. I know the value of getting the words out. I know that, for those of us who process through writing, this value cannot be understated. It is to our detriment to ignore the need. Or to stifle the urge. Or to still the pen. For those of us that don’t know what we think until we write it, not writing can contribute to an imbalance in our mental health. Not writing perpetuates the blockage. Not writing feeds the resistence.

Is the problem also the solution? Is it like when we say that those who have been hurt in community will find healing in community? Is the recovery always linked (in some small way at least) to the point of suffering? Maybe not always—but sometimes. As far as writing (and not writing) goes, this is the only way. I’m not offering prescription for anybody else. I’m just saying that as a writer who isn’t writing, I have felt a little lost, and see that in my lost-ness, the only way to get back to it, is of course, to get back to it.

Hence the two journals. Hence, Morning Pages.

In her book, The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron quotes Joseph Chilton Pearce,

To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.¹

This sentence from Pearce could easily end after the word, “fear”, as in— To live a creative life, we must lose our fear.

We know that healthy fear can be a great motivator, but there is another kind of fear that works in the realm of degeneration. There is a fear that suffocates and works only to tear down, to silence, to humiliate, to shame—to discourage. This fear needs no breathing room. This fear is disproportinately nourished by our small decisions not to create.

Writing is its own courageous act. Courage in the face of fear is metaphorical weight-lifting. Every time we do the hard thing with fear in the room, we get a little stronger.

Like Cameron, I too believe that creativity is a spiritual issue.² I believe that for writers, not writing can also be considered a spiritual issue. And so as Benedict said, “always we begin again.” We buy new journals, we pray for courage, for clarity, and we return to the practice. We let ourselves be held accountable. We acknowledge our fear, but refuse to feed it. We sit down to our work.

And when we struggle and need help, we raise a hand in our communities and say so.

Of the two journals I bought, the journal I’m leaning towards has this bright yellow cover and the words “Brilliant Ideas” embossed in gold. I don’t know how brilliant my ideas will be, brilliance isn’t the goal. Showing up is. I was drawn to the hopeful yellow of the cover, and the shimmer of gold, and that was enough to convince me that the $10 trade for this hopeful book is the gentle invitation I need to begin again. Again.

And maybe, the brilliance will be in tiny fractals of light reflected in words that come from the hard-scrabble fight of faith. Maybe the brilliance will be in climbing the mountain of fear and getting ‘round to the other side. Maybe, instead of striving for brilliant ideas, the goal is to simply carry light.

On the benefit of the practice, Cameron writes that,

“Morning pages do get us to the other side: the other side of our fear, of our negativity, of our moods. Above all they get us beyond our Censor.”

Fear doesn’t get to run the show. We can write our way out of the dark.

I posed the question on social media the other day:

What has fear kept you from doing/experiencing?

Your answers were familiar and profound.

• Fear has kept some of you from being a beginner—from letting yourself risk failure in order to try something new.

• Fear has kept you from putting your work out into the world because you imagine that no one cares about what you have to say.

• Fear has told you that someone else has said it already so don’t bother.

• Fear has held some of you hostage to things that no longer serve you. It has told you that you can’t afford to let those burdens go.

Does any of this resonate? Do you see yourself in these responses?

I have at one time or another felt each of these responses to be true for myself. But I am tired of living that way. I am ready to return to my work. I don’t feel strong yet, but I am ready. This is the warm up after the warm up.

So here is my brilliant idea—show up. And then do it again the next day. And the next.

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Odds and Ends

I recently returned from Refine {the retreat} and will share more about that experience soon, but in the meantime, registration for our 10-year anniversary retreat is happening now.

Have you listened to this yet?

My friend Leslie Bustard died last weekend. The tributes in her memory have been stunning. Besides being a poet and author, Leslie was a fellow beloved member of the Cultivating Project writing team. Cultivating is featuring a whole collection of tender tributes here. Even if you did not know Leslie, these tributes are worth reading, and worth reflecting on how we can honor each other in life, and in death.

May the Lord meet you kindly this spring season, friends. May you return to the work you are called to, and may you do it courageously even in the face of the opposition. We need what you’ve got to give.

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