Words come painfully slow. After an hour there is a paragraph that goes nowhere. Whatever it is I am trying to say has no future. It’s not so much a lack of words as a lack of vision. The mind does not accept the goodness of a sentence. Some kind of logic is missing. Or there’s too much logic. After a while I stop. The day’s “failure” makes it that much harder to start the next day. I cannot write because I am depressed. Or, am I depressed because I cannot write? All I can tell you is what I tell myself. Sometimes you need to sit and struggle. Other times you need to wait, with faith if you can muster it. You play it by ear each day. Some days you squeeze whatever you can out of yourself. A paragraph or two. A page is excellent. On other days it is better to surrender gently. Try not to despair. Avoid calling yourself names. You are precious even if you never write another word. Close your eyes and pretend you are a child at play. You are alone in your room on a rainy afternoon. No one is watching. The objective of the game is to have fun. It’s a good way to spend an hour or two. Do you remember when you started writing and you didn’t care about being brilliant or admired? There were no thoughts of publication or perfection. Do you remember when you wrote because you had to? The writing life with its ups and downs, with its green fields and deserts, can teach us many things. It has taught me what it means to be poor in spirit. I have seen the advantages of a pure heart. I have learned to mourn for as long as it is necessary and have doled out gentle mercy to myself. Even when writing is hard or when it doesn’t come there can be gain. In your waiting, depth can grow and courage. And when you write again it will be with humility and boldness. You will gratefully give what you can. The rest is not up to you.
August 14, 2011
April 1, 2011
Compassion
“Be kind to yourself.” Cheryl Klein, my editor, said to me recently as we discussed my revisions to a manuscript. Her words made me think about what it means to be kind to oneself in the process of writing and re-writing a book. To be kind to myself meant that in evaluating the work, I needed to take into account the circumstances during which it was created. I struggled with depression as I wrote and re-wrote the work. This meant that there was no way I could have an objective view of the work’s quality. I worked through most of it as if wrapped in cellophane – unable to “feel” whether the work was any good. Then, when I was done, I was overcome with a sense that I had not gotten it right, that I had missed the mark. I submitted the work to Cheryl anyway and it was like any other writing. Parts of it were perfect and parts of it needed more work. How I “felt” about the work was not important. I needed to be kind to myself. St. Theresa of Avila said about prayer: “When the wind blows we put up our sail and when it doesn’t we row.” Here was a work where it felt as if I had rowed most of the way. And there were so many days when it felt as if the boat could not move or even went in the wrong direction. To be kind to myself meant that I needed to accept those days and even to be grateful for the little rowing that I did. It was good just to stay afloat. Now that the work is almost done, the process almost complete, now more than ever I need to be kind to myself. I am grateful for others who can help me determine whether a work is ready for publication. I am grateful for the energy, the words, the insights and images that came, no matter how slowly. For the daily faith that kept me going. To be grateful for our offering, no matter how small, is to be kind to oneself.
February 27, 2011
Prayer
Of all the things that are hard to write about, this is one of them. It is so intimate, so private. I bring it up because there is a connection between it and writing. I’m going to say that prayer is the movement of the heart towards Mystery. Mystery can encompass a personal, loving Someone, but it need not. I define prayer broadly so as to include as much as possible. Prayer flings you out in hope and roots you down in presence. In some form or another, conscious or unconscious, it is part of writing. I don’t know what else to call this reaching out to the unknown. I don’t know why anyone would do it except as some form of prayer. This filling in and emptying out, what else can it be? We think of the word “consecrate” as a religious term and so it is, but it is religious in a human sense, a universal sense. We consecrate, we make sacred, what we carve out of our daily hours for another’s sake. The sacred is hollowed out by intention and attention. Who do you write for? And in your heart of hearts you know that what you do is always a response. Why this sense that someone calls? Where does it come from? Then there is this: the writing itself is a search for some unknown that you never reach. There are discoveries along the way, but still, you never get there. You walk in darkness, one word at a time. Somehow you trust in a meaning you do not yet see. You have faith that it is all worthwhile. Because what else can you do? The work is your prayer.
