This is a guest post by Brett Henley.
For every artist who struggles with transforming passion into actual and tangible, remember this:
There is no magic, no luck, no splash of momentary inspiration that will replace the call of the work in front of us.
We must be fully present in our practice.
How?
How have you struggled being present in your practice? What can you change to fully embrace the work at hand?
PRACTICE
Practice being fully present in your creative process. Set a timer for fifteen minutes and focus on one creative task. Shut everything else off —o email, no internet, no phone, no apps, no excuses.
Focus on your breathing while you create and listen for sounds that you may not usually notice: Pen noise against the paper, the sound of the keys as you type, birds chirping outside, quiet hum of the heater, etc.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're time is up, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, be sure to leave feedback on a few posts by other writers.
What a great post and a great reminder. Sometimes it is so easy to get caught up with everything except writing. Thanks for this 🙂
Oh you bet it’s easy. If I’ve learned nothing else on this journey, it’s that we can dream up some epic excuses for avoiding our work.
Good news is, we can be gentle with ourselves and still get to the work. Fear does some nutty things to our mindset – so we just need to stay encouraged and keep chipping away.
It’s 1:43 in the morning, I hear a car rushing past, I feel the pressure of the keys as I tap them, I feel the sweat trickling down my back, it’s 30ºC and I feel hot. I notice my foot tapping on the floor. Now it’s stopped. I hear the hum of the fan in the computer. I feel the plastic covering the keys and hear the thump, thump sound of the keys as I type. There is a slight musty smell in here. I think I need to vacuum the floor more often. Now my feet are again tapping the floor. I wonder if this isn’t just a little self indulgent. Who wants to read this? Stop thinking! The clicking of the mouse is quite loud. I feel the weight of my arms on the arm rests, they’re narrow and quite sharp. Above all I hear the hissing in my ears. My tinitis is quite bad at the moment. I see the second hand on my watch jerking ever so slightly towards the time to stop. I try to identify the taste in my mouth. It’s slightly bitter and I have no idea what it is. I don’t feel tired at all, I feel energised. I wonder what this is all about. Stop wondering. Focus. I think it’s time to end.
I like the sound of the keys in the early morning. It reminds me of a song I love called five 0` clock bells, by Lenny Breau.
I like this exercise. Try to take this and turn it into a “so what” moment. Meaning: What are you trying to get to the reader to feel with these things your are observing.
Amen to that. A great way to focus on the creative work and not get lost in the distance. Thanks Chase!
You’re right, while I’m sharing this, I don’t know what the reader will feel reading it. I’m writing for myself here, but have posted it for others. So I hope they feel the heat and experience the moments I share.
“Who wants to read this? ” A few sentences in and here comes the judge. Isn’t that always the way? Glad you tossed the judge.
Love the uninterrupted flow here – lots of really clear/compelling imagery going on. Thanks for sharing Steve.
Excellent post. I would like to expand on the “be present” part.
The reason it is important to be present is because that’s where creativity comes from. It’s the present moment, the NOW, blooming Moment by moment, free of worries, and fears, that are informed by the past and the future.
It’s what we think we know about the past and the future, that ruins the present moment.
If we are fully free from thoughts about the past and the future, then anything is truly possible in the present moment, and it’s that freedom that Brings forth such creativity.
Sorry if that’s rather elementary to everyone here. I’m just sharing what works for me. And I can tell you that Getting to the present moment where one can really focus, requires practice.
Agreed Marty! This is true in life as well as writing. When we worry about past things and future things, we forget that the only moment we have is now. It’s hard to release the past and future though.
Marty, loved your description of creativity coming from presence. You’re absolutely spot on IMO. It’s not elementary at all. Hell, in many ways we overcomplicate a process that needs a lot of simplification.
Get to the writing – everything else is irrelevant if you’re in the moment with your practice.
my painted fingers lift a scarlet orange cup, noticing its full weight for the first time, Im eager to sip its contents. Residual glowing heat warms my hands, throat, chest. The mug isn’t clean, something like pancake batter and a shade of blue overlap beneath the handle where I slip all but one finger. The pointer curves around the top,like my thumb on the other side. Over top the rim I see mugs have been populating at the table, like kissing with eyes open, each one is bone dry. A dainty piece of bone China with a half heart shape handle, two more scarlets larger and more insulated. A wine glass nestles against pot of basil that droops from over watering and has created a small river damned and widened by a bundle of watercolor pencils. A murky rainbow has been expanding at least all night. The tea, the multicolor river flowing north, the warmth remind me of time Ive spent alone and the freedom that all of this is perfect when there is no one else here to judge.
I really liked it.. the atmosphere that you described is one of my favourite..
“My painted fingers lift….” Now how is a person not going to read the remainder of the material? 🙂
Boom -> “Over top the rim I see mugs have been populating at the table, like kissing with eyes open, each one is bone dry. “
(Blushes) thanks.
Sometimes I wonder how I got here. I mean, I know I borrowed my roomie’s car, went to church first, then snuck under the radar of the Starbucks staff to steal their wifi, and here I am. The gal next to me has finished her iced coffee beverage and has her ear buds in. They are pink. I wonder if she is using them to shut out the world so she can focus or just so that she can not have to deal with people.
A trio of people are conversing in front of me. They all look comfortable… like
they are enjoying the day. She even just said, “I’ve been enjoying just sittin’.”
I think that is a powerful discipline that we don’t do much as a younger
generation. Her friend smiles as if she resonates with her sentiments. They are
dressed super classy. “Business power woman” comes to mind. The only man there rubs his tiny bearded chin and nods. He slouches too. I wonder if he feels
comfortable with them.
The constant moaning of the coffee grinder doesn’t even phase the black man in the corner. I don’t know why I decided to mention that he was black. He reads the paper like I do, hides behind it like I would if I didn’t want to talk to
anyone. Perhaps he isn’t married, as I am not married. And we like men hide
behind our newspapers to feel as if the world isn’t spinning too fast of us to
keep us. He’s reading the sports page. I guess everyone wins and loses, right?
The wallpaper always has vibrant warm reds, oranges, whites, and yellows. I wonder who painted them and if they are phased that, like most art, it goes mostly unappreciated. Art is a weird medicine that everyone partakes of, but mostly never acknowledges.
An Asian lady is very focus working on her hot pink laptop with a hot pink
keyboard. I wonder what she gets out of things being pink… she drinking from a
non-plastic Starbucks cup, looking as if she shares my addiction to coffee
enough to invest in the experience. I realize I totally could be reading far
too much into this.
And for all of this, I realize that I could have been looking far too much into all
of it. But really, I just see our connectivity: without cell phones, emails,
and other crazy media. We are connected in our humanity, feeling alone in sin
and yet, loved by the same God.
Everyone is on fire today! This a great piece.
Interesting. Our voice, your voice, brings sight. I saw what you saw. I was in the room with you. I think you care about and are interested in the people you saw. Even at a descriptive distance you are “with” them. “Church”, early in your material served as a type of foreshadowing of theological “sin” interpretation at the end. Neat writing.
Finally, silence. There is nothing to distract, no noise to attract attention. No internet invading your creativity with quick glances mail and Facebook page. Simply empty.
The curtains are drawn, the dawn is out of a red so cold that it is hard to believe that the sun is rising. It is clear that here the winter has not yet passed completely. On the morning of pale spring still bears the coat of cold that has characterized this winter. Even out in the countryside near the lagoon of Venice, nothing is making noises. The world is still asleep.
But not David. He is not came from England to sleep, but to look for inspiration. The leaves are ready blameless in his hand. The fingers feverishly hold a Mont Blanc, a good luck pen, but the ink did not dirty the pages. White and empty, much like the David’s mind. The inspiration does not come.
Snorts, launches the pen on the table, cursing under his breath, and prepare a coffee. An Italian coffee, the strong ones. The aroma spreads quick in the small spartan room, stronger than all the fine tradition of the country, so that should open the window. It is with this gesture so habitual he sees his muse.
A robin. Nothing more. A simple bird, the most common in that area. His old professors would laugh at anyone who drew inspiration from something so trivial, but not him. They forget the coffee, and does not care of the drink that comes from moca a mess around. How can
interest him a spot, while his brain is so focused?
Resumes Mont Blanc. Did not even read the words he is writing, he is delighting with the noise of the pen on the paper untouched. He does not care either of his calligraphy, so then he will rewrite with the pc. What matters is that after months his hand moving again. His inspiration peeping through the window, like a curious child and a bit ‘naughty that is spying on you as you work. He smiles at this image, while his poetry takes shape.
This is great, the second, third and fourth p. had a lovely flow. It read almost like a poem or song lyrics to me.
This is a wonderful piece David! I felt like I was in the room with you.
Thank you Giulia! is important for me
🙂
I always look for the phrases. These seem to make our words unique. I love they way they just seem to show up like a little kid with his hands in his pocket. I enjoyed yours!
“…pale spring still bears the coat of cold…”
“…leaves are ready blameless in his hand.”
“…fingers feverishly hold….”
” A robin.”
Clearly, you and I like birds.
Proud of it! I’m happy to share with you the passion for the phrases!
Davide, this is fantastic. Love the rich description.
Thanks!!
That was so cool. I mean, it still is just as cool. I wonder what he wrote?
Thanks Karl;) David is writing a poetry, but neither I know what this poetry is about!
Even though for me writing is just a hobby (at the moment,) I try to treat it like a job as well as a creative outlet and devote a daily duration to just writing. No distractions. Except maybe some instrumental music to get me in the mood.
Karoline, you nailed it. Art is work, not always moments of inspiration.
I actually wrote a blog post called: “Is Inspiration Over-Rated?” in regards to this topic. at: asateenwriter.blogspot.com
That is great – and to jump ahead of the question, yes, it’s overrated. The more we wait, the less we create. (boom)
Pen noise against the paper.?
I love the phrase but not the assignment. Noise surrounds, inundates, cramps and crowds. A bird chirping is an invitation. The Chipping Sparrow outside my window sounds like hope. She spares me the grating sound of finger nails on a chalk board that has become the sound of media voices, religious voices, twitter voices and the talking heads that would persuade me to embezzle my own life for their purposes.
Pen noise against the paper?
I rebel at noise. That dissonance that contributes to the rasping wear on my soul. Instead, I listen beyond the noise. I listen between the cracks of the voice that would mislead me, seduce me, lead me into walking the paths of increased pain and decreased joy.
Pen noise against the paper?
I listen for the small voice. The whisper outside the noise. The hint of a presence that knows the way to the light. The silence that is louder than the cacophony of complaint that in shrill rage threatens to chock out the promise of Spring and the wellspring of hope.
Pen noise against the paper?
Instead I see in the blank white face of a Text Editor, an offering of a world beyond the noise. Instead I hear the call of my own spirit that affirms the brightest and best. A spirit that turns strong to meet the day.
The Chipping Sparrow outside my window offers me hope. I choose to listen to her. She brings a message. I will hear her.
Man, the last paragraph alone really pulled me in. Good stuff Curtis.
Brett, thank you. There are writers on this page Everyone here has a writers “voice.” You guys are onto something with the idea of a Cartel. The spirit of this site is obvious. Folks here took risks with themselves. That risk drove the power of the pieces. If this spirit continues, it will become a place to be. Thank you for writing your piece today. Great phrase. ” Pen noise to the paper”
Thanks Curtis, being a writer myself, I really appreciate the collective voice that Joe and the community have built here.
Though this post was focused on the creative process, it’s especially relevant to the writer. Good luck!
I love the repitition. I love the imagery ‘rasping wear in my soul’. But I also find it quite disturbing because of the personifcation – it sounds abstract and unsettling.
Thank you. “Disturbing…abstract and unsettling” That’s what can happen when we ” pin noise to the paper.”
This “story”, if you will, sounds exactly like an investigative journalist piece. Great strong writing!
Thank you. I’ve always been fascinated by the variety of responses to my material. I’m glad you found it strong. I try to write to leave room for the reader to see what they see of themselves in the material. I am going to guess you are a strong person. You certainly have a confident voice. At least that is what I “heard” in the piece you wrote. Again, Thank you.
You turn some exquisite phrases. Agree with Jessica, strong writing!
She’s been writing all morning. Despite the fact that her house is a mess and she meant to clean it today. Despite the fact that two cups of coffee don’t count as breakfast. Despite the fact that she slept in a little later than normal, but that it turned out to be a lot later than normal because of daylight savings time. Half her day was gone when she first opened her eyes from sleep. It’s past two now, and she’s supposed to be at her mother’s for four to help with Sunday dinner, but there’s no place she wants to be other than where’s she’s been: in the yellow room, writing. She thinks about getting up to feed the birds, to close the blinds for to block out the afternoon sun, but a part of her mind wants to deny that it is afternoon. It still feels like morning. It always feels like morning when her muse has decided to grace her with inspiration. The story she was doubting a few days ago, the one she thought had huge inconsistencies she could never correct is practically writing itself now. She has no doubt, even as the next scene unfolds itself in her mind, that those same doubts will arise again before the last words of the story? novel? piece are written. But for the present moment, none of that matters. She just writes, occasionally glaring at the clock on her computer screen in defiance of the passage of time. Yes, there are things to do, but nothing so important as this moment where her characters are alive and her story is begging to be told. Today, she thinks, is a day to write.
Guilia, love that you weave in the act of being present and getting to the work, despitr obvious challenges. That, is practice. Thanks!
Glad you enjoyed it! I can always clean later 😉
Good practice!
Love the rhythm of this short story, it can help to understand the write needs of this woman.
Thanks David! Good to know I can trust my muse.
I feel your pain. Sometimes our schedule is tight and we simply can’t write AND do everything else we should do. It’s tough to choose between writing and, well, anything.
also, good luck with that story or novel! I’m happy for you that it finally came
Thank you Karl, I’m really happy about it too.
Great piece Giulia, it describes the writing imperative so well. When the muse comes, nothing else matters.
I’m glad you enjoyed the piece 🙂
I always find that everything to do with writing stories requires a very deliberate form of focus. It’s like a meditation every day to really embody these characters who think and act differently to me. Then, to attend to each different part of the process of story, requires intense drilling down and presence of mind. Exercise for the brain! Love the illustrations by the way 🙂
Deliberate/intentional/purpose – a few of my favorite ways to describe the writing process. And I love that you parallel meditation here, couldn’t agree more.
Thanks!
The hardest part of staying focused is my health, including eyes (Macular Degeneration), teeth (replaced and filled), COPD and other ailments that keep me down much of the time. I want to practice writing, music – piano and organ to prepare for the Sunday Service. I have many disruptions when practicing both. It’s hard enough to keep a straight thought to prepare a short story – outlining the scenes, paragraphs, etc. I also need to learn more music for the services. I play for a wonderful church – where I heard the pipe organ the first time. I made an agreement with my mother that if she would start me on piano lessons, I’d be the organist there some day. Another problem is getting sleepy while I’m typing. When this happens, I have half a page of “k’s” where my fingers rested. Then my pekingese wants something – usually just attention, but she also has to go out and she loves walks. I’m all hers, she thinks. We’ve been together 13 years and understand each other fairly will. She still wants to be the Alpha. Occasionally she’ll go on hunger strikes until she gets her favorite chicken. Now she is under my desk “telling” me she isn’t getting enough attention. There goes the bell.
All that work and only 210 words. I’ll try again later.
210 words is 210 more than you started with. Never underestimate the power of forward progress, no matter how small 🙂
Here I sit, listening. It is night and quiet. With everything off, no television, no music or radio I can hear the buried sounds that have been masqued until now. The continuous, but gentle whir of the fan on the laptop, a distant dog barking once or twice, the tick of the clock – that timeless sound that could easily be in a Victorian parlour as in my front room. The indescribable sound of your own fingers running
through your hair: a scratching echo that must only happen internally, resonating in the cavities in your skull.
Then the unwelcome, vulgar sound of the door opening, a voice asking a question.
It seems intrusive and alien in the peace that has cocooned you for what has only been minutes but felt undefinable as if centuries could have passed in a moment. Because peace brings its own timelessness.
Kelly, Love it. Especially the “unwelcome and vulgar sound” of door opening. So true, so true. Probably the most vulgar of interruptions, yet so simple.
Good point you made: how WOULD one describe the sound of fingers running through hair?
I took this practice to describe a moment in time–to be completely IN the moment. I closed my eyes and this is what I heard. (This story unfolded around me this afternoon; fyi, I am the mother to the little boy.)
The repetitive thud of the ball bouncing in the concrete basement reverberated throughout the house, waking the cat. She meowed and stretched, an annoyed stretch that raised her neck hair. The rustle of pages suddenly drowned out the ball’s noise and drew the curious cat down the hallway. Grammy flipped another page, seeming to search for a missing paragraph. The couch mentioned its stress with a creak when Grammy shifted with her book, apparently finding what she was looking for.
The basement door opened and slammed shut, encouraged by the howling wind. Leaves danced along the outside walls of the house, begging to be let in. The cat’s owner was home, trudging up the steps, her purse clanging and banging against the rail. The cat meowed several times, and then turned her speech into a purr when her owner coaxed her back into the bedroom with a sweet, “Hey Kitty-kitty!”
The little boy abandoned his ball and thundered upstairs behind his aunt, suddenly remembering the cookies that had been cooling on the counter. His pure tenor voice begged for some sweets, and his mother quietly instructed him that two was his limit. He scraped the kitchen chair away from the table and made quick work of the chocolate chip cookies. The fridge hummed as water splashed into a plastic cup. The loud gulp-gulp signaled that snack time was almost over.
I like your phrase “the couch mentioned its stress with a creak.” That just tickled me for some reason.
I like the cat’s perspective in this, and how the the ball drew our attention back to the boy. It felt like a seamless change of perspective. Well done.
Karl watched the text moving across the screen while he typed his writing practice for the evening. The music in his ears–techno music, as was the norm–beat steadily while the ceiling fan behind him buzzed just beyond the sound of music. The fan’s breeze washed a cool air over his freshly showered skin. He stopped talking about skin and showers though because he felt it may open a window to descriptive images that some may not want to read about. Instead, he focused on writing a scene about some fictional character playing baseball. This is what he ended up with:
Roberto stood just outside the batter’s box steadying his heart rate and breathing so he could focus on the speeding ball of thread that would come roaring at him almost immediately after he stepped into the box. Breathing in one, two three and holing it, he exhaled with his lips pursed and counted one, two, three. Again. Heat from the summer sun washed over the field and he wiped a strep of sweat beads from his hairline and looked out to the outfield.
Regina stood on the pitcher’s mound and though he couldn’t see her eyes well, he knew she watched him and waited. Peg, Lindsay, Tom – they all stood in the outfield and he knew they watched him, too. Somebody yelled, “Come on!” So he swung his arms out then in, flapping them like wings to stretch his shoulders. He kicked his heels back to his read end a few times, and stepped into the batting position.
Regina took pitching stance. Her legs took shape of the number four, she extended her right arm back and Roberto saw the little white baseball screaming through the air toward him. As it grew closer he swung the bat first away from the ball, planning to swing it forward and knock the little sucker straight out to left center where Tom, who couldn’t catch a fever if he had the flu, stood guard. Before he could swing the ball struck him in the face.
He hadn’t time to duck and he hardly had time to look away. While the ball drew nearer to his eyes he’d loosened his grip on the bat and leaned backward but the ball had him. His breath whooshed from his lungs in the form of a scream and both palms raced to his forehead. He fell backward.
“Rob!” Regina raced toward him. “Rob I’m so sorry! Are you ok?”
He responded with more shrieks of agony.
His teammates from the dugout raced toward him as well, but he didn’t see them. His hands covered his head and he squeezed his eyes shut, perhaps trying to hold in the tears or perhaps they were swollen shut.
Karl’s timer sounded. Satisfied that he’d practiced writing for another day, he smiled and proceeded to comment on the other practitioner’s – er – practices.
NIce practice Karl! I especially like how you describe the heat and the screaming ball.