Letting go of Try

We've heard this somewhere before, haven't we?  (Cue: Yoda.)

 

I recently got to know a new friend.  Towards the end of an interesting chat he said something that arrested my attention.

He said he'd noticed how often I used the word ‘try’.  And though the first time he said it, I didn’t quite register his meaning, as I reconsidered his statement later, the implications began to make sense, inviting a feeling of relief.  He simply said, in essence, give yourself more credit.  It’s not an especially new idea: give yourself more credit.  So why did it ring true this time?  Maybe it was the dawning awareness that the regular even habitual use of the word (or its variations) is to systematically—even insidiously—reject the worthy accomplishments of every day, and every step towards cherished ends.  

 

It’s not always easy to validate our own achievements, as we fully well know.  (For anyone who's cracked this problem, bear with me.  What I say might help you help another person.)  But for those of you who have or still feel like this, perhaps a little of what I say next will help you recognise the wonder of being who you are already.

 

I think it's difficult to give ourselves credit because of the fear of rejection.  The truth is, the habitual qualifying of my work with the prefix ‘trying’ ‘try’ ‘tried’, is one of the unseen faces of perfectionism—an apparently respectable humility or modesty which is really the fatalistic habit of self administered rejection, of protection against the imagined (or sometimes sadly real) experience of authoritative others saying 'Is that it?  Is that all you can do?  I wanted something more, you promised so much more.  I'm disappointed.  I'll move on.  You're not what I was looking for.' 

 

For me, it's been the fear of getting left behind, discarded.  It's the problem of 'yes-not-bad-but-I'm-still-not-quite-there-yet-so-I-can't-be-rejected-because-I'm-still-not-finished.  The fact is that we are either doing what we wish to do or we are not.  But, and as simplistic as this sounds, how often do we stop to celebrate the steps that have been taken? 

 

For example, in my desire to be creative, I have frequently had difficulty defining my dreams; yes, I have been consistent in my hopes to creative inspirational media: and so much of my life has been engaged in such a pursuit: I have created inspirational media.  But I have, perennially, dismissed the actualities of this experience by alluding to the constant effort, the flawed perception that I was only every trying to do these things, an ever present and subtly self-defeating act of rejection. 

 

What we are doing either resembles or directly relates to our desired outcome, or it does not, but we are still doing something: therefore rather than downplay my activity as something only trying to be something else, I may reconsider and fully acknowledge the thing for its own sake.  What I probably meant when I habitually explained my trying to produce inspirational media, was that I was not yet doing such things full-time and being paid (well) for my labours.  But having written and produced two feature films, broadcast hospital radio, performed in video, documentary, and stage productions, studied creative writing to postgraduate level at University, become a published novelist, as well as sold books, music and film, and taught adults, youth, and children, how can I possibly imagine that I have only been trying!    I have been doing after all—in small but real steps—producing inspirational media: not trying. 

 

So I came away from the conversation with a new desire: to revise my validations, to acknowledge and accept; and then to become more specific in accepting the pieces of achievement so far experienced and the achievements still desired.

So, here's ready to publish again, something to inspire you.  (And I'm not going to spend hours combing this post in search of imperfections, because today they don't matter as much as the ideas that already resonate...)  
 

I hope this helps you too.

 

The Shaping of Hope

I sat down this evening, excited to make a mention of my fascination for poetic structure in creative writing [it genuinely is a fascination] and promptly got side-tracked by a 'discovery' that may impact my time and capacity--it left me feeling deflated, demoralised, and just a bit angry.  And robbed of the enthusiasm for writing about something I really wanted to share. 

 

But then I realised this is Life.  So I have climbed back into my seat, allowed myself this little preamble as a way of acknowledging the turbulence [in the hopes that it will help to defuse it a little] and now recommit to sharing something about my experience of shaping of Hope. 

 

In 2005-2006 I attended Lancaster University (to study for an MA in Creative Writing) and there was taught about the Golden Mean and the Fibonacci Sequence (a strange mathematical counting pattern that conforms to the Golden Ratio: i.e. 0, ,1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21 etc.)  and the Hero's Journey.

 

I became fascinated by the artistic patterns, the symmetry, and the possibilities for combining all three.  I am intrigued that that these 'things' are something seen frequently, yet unconsciously enjoyed and infrequently perceived, in spite of manifesting in multiple and diverse ways and places (examples can be seen here for example.)  For me, they become fascinating because they seem to exist just beneath the surface, all the while shaping and moulding us into our most natural and beautiful form.          

 

For me, these principles became almost an obsession in the later stages of redrafting Hope.  Okay, strike the 'almost'.  But to be fair to myself, I believed I could see a chance to deepen the poetic structure of the story.  I wanted to experiment to see whether it could strengthen the reading experience in a way that wouldn't draw attention to itself in a bad way, but instead be something that if and when discovered might provide an enriching revisiting of the story later.

 

Now.  I am mindful that analysis can kill a good read, but if you are interested in exploring the book's poetic structure, here are a few clues to get you started:

 

• Act 1 = the first 5 chapters [which includes the Prologue]

 

• Act 2 = 13 chapters [subdivided in two blocks: the first made up of 8 and then second an additional 5; chapter 13 is important in terms of the Golden ratio in the story as a whole].

 

• Act 3 = 3 chapters. 

 

I'm sensing it's best to leave it at that. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Asking Questions, Maintaining Perspective

I've been chugging along at this creative adventure for quite a while now, chugging along through various experiences, including a couple of films (here) and a number of creative writing programmes.

In 2006, some two and a bit years after graduating with a BA in Independent Studies,  I just about scraped a Pass on my MA in Creative Writing: the pass mark was 50, I received a 53.

My confidence took a huge hit, I felt incredibly humiliated.  For a time, the desire to keep writing was eclipsed by anxiety that I was merely deluding myself.  Embarrassment about my 'failure' prevented me from really believing I could succeed.  In short, I was focused on the wrong catalysts.  Embarrassment, however human, showed immaturity: my focus was me, when it needed to become more deeply concerned with serving the reader.  And in more truly patient with the time that takes.  

My wife (who is a very talented fine artist) once said, in essence, all art is valuable because it reveals where the artist has come to at any given point; in other words, the question of "how good it is" is in many ways an irrelevance and an unhelpful distraction.  Which is not the same as saying all art is equal (i.e. ready for publicly sharing) but an invitation to be patient with myself in producing the work, patient with the process of making it ready for others.  

How long to write a book?  How long before I get published?  Will my work secure positive reviews?  Will the novel sell?  How well will it sell?

For me, these are big questions.  And questions I have asked.  But whenever they become urgent, they are clues that I am walking onto the ice, thin ice.    

The distracted question of how long it takes to become published (a question I have asked if different ways many times) is potentially a revelation of troubled subtexts.  The unspoken doubts are 'how long should it take, may it take, will it take'?

What I am really asking is: 'do I have what it takes to see a project through to the "end"?'  Whatever "end" means.  Maybe what it means is another subtext of self doubt: 'how will I know when I am done?'  Which is to say 'how will I know when I have done enough for someone else to like it?'  Ah... Will my work be popular, or will I get overlooked?  Will all my effort come to nothing? Will I be more liked, or less liked? 

There is the ice: these most dangerous of questions, dangerous because they take my eye off the proverbial ball. 

Stanislavski might have asked me: 'Do you love the art in yourself, or yourself in the art?'

As E.M. Forster said: 'Only connect.'



   

Writing with Purpose

I suppose this post's title is an invitation to disaster.

What can I possibly mean by 'writing with purpose'? And shouldn't my blog post be a more or less perfect example of finish and poise?

Perhaps. But also perhaps not.

Surely the attempt to write something meaningful, something true, something really true, is connected not so much to what we say, nor the way we choose to say it, but rather is linked to our innate, deep-seated capacity for truly listening.

I believe we all have this capacity, this potential. It's just a question of learning to unearth it.

Listening is something we usually think of in relation to conversations with others, but in a writing and creative sense, listening is more about reaching into a deeper space, through the interference of our own superficial thoughts and quietly on, and then out, into the great ocean-like unseen, where the universe is not really perceived by sight at all, but by an inner sense (isn't there something amazing--it might even be called synchrony--that 'inner sense' echoes the word innocence? And innocence is a kind of tuning out the superficiality associated with emotional defensiveness. It seems to encourage openness, the readiness to receive.)

This kind of inner sense (or innocent) listening can, and in my experience has and will, bring us into gentle contact with what feels akin to a great reservoir of Being, sheer energy or creative force. And will on condition that we learn to trustingly surrender to its omniscience. I would suggest this experience can be one of the ways we learn a little more about God.

I think I should acknowledge the influence of two great Creatives as their work has helped me to more successfully apprehend this awareness. I think if you'll read their work, you'll see what I mean.

The writers (and their superb books) are:

Dorothea Brande (author of Becoming a Writer)

Julia Cameron (author of The Artist's Way)

So... writing with purpose? It's all about learning to listen.

 

Creative Conduct...

In attempting the creative I acknowledge the spiritual.

I desire the company of good will and kindness to my fellow Creatives.  I desire a feeling of kindness towards them no matter where they may be in their journey.

In acknowledging the principles of effort and experience, I reject the impulse towards unkind and unhelpful contentiousness.  It will threaten my work.

I am able, in the silence of my heart, to observe the current state of things and gain wisdom and ability from this.

I reject the temptation to criticise for the sake of superiority.  The spirit of superiority is counter to the spirit of creativity.

I accept others and benefit from their efforts.  I applaud the efforts of others and assume integrity and childlike desire on the part of those engaged: I assume their desire to be like mine--to produce a lasting legacy of meaningful and worthwhile Art.

My desire is to produce beauty and emotionally strengthening material, to find and share my  viewpoint; my greater challenge is to reject the temptation to envy and to jealousy, and to other unhelpful distractions--all of these choke my creativity and diminish my Art.

I pray for the strength to give what I can give, and avoid the things that scar me.

I believe that the blessing of confidence is a great asset and worthy of pursuit.

I will take each day as my moment to think, create, and otherwise contribute.  Each day is an opportunity, each hour a chance to invigorate.

I will seek to contemplate, to concentrate, and to consecrate my compassion to the edifying and encouraging of all those around me.

I will let go of the things that discourage me, I will move on from the days that I don't quite make the aspirations outline above.

I am able to become the kind of man I hope to be, and to make the contribution I hope to make.   

Creativity equals vulnerability and energy...

After commiting to share musings on the creative process, I decided it might really help if I took a bit of time to organise myself first, or at least brainstorm a few things I felt able to get my teeth into.  I came up with a fairly eclectic list that ranges from discussing elements of narrative craft, such as plot and character, to contemplations on the Golden Mean, to confidence, synchronicity, and purpose in the face of death... Not sure at this stage how this grand plan will pan out.  But each of these ideas seemed important.  So I'll do my best to offer my two pennies on them.

Also, I don't really want this to become a Writers Only column; I really believe that principles of creativity are transferable.  And, again, this isn't limiting us to 'conventional' artistry: being human is to be creative. Every time we're kind to someone, we build something a little more beautiful.

Hopefully, you'll be able to substitute 'writing' for anything that happens to be more within your circle of interesting.

I want to begin with a pretty basic question:

What is writing?

This makes me think of an early line in one of my favourite films, Dead Poets Society, in which a stuffy handbook reduces poetry to potential passionless exercises in analysis.

Don't get me wrong.  There's a place for such approaches, and without a healthy interest in analysis so much understanding can be missed.  But writing, like living, demands our passion--our personal commitment--the courage to own an opinion, an energised view.

Creativity can be analysed and debated, but to really to enrich others, I have to live with my heart wide open.  Which of course is fraught with emotional danger.  But that's the deal if our creations are to really live.

And the price of life is vulnerability.  As Robert Frost is attributed with saying: 'No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.'

Writing--like any act of creation--means understanding that we are engaged in capturing and sharing energy. Our energy.  And that we are doing so for the sake of others.  Little wonder it both hurts and exhilarates...