Writers tend to be a quirky bunch. You may have heard the quote attributed to Dorothy Parker that many writers relate to: “I hate writing. But I love having written.”
I’ve been in a creative slump for a while. I’ve paused work on the memoir that I’ve been wrestling with for years. I’m puttering around on another project that, while easier, I feel less driven about. And I’m querying the project about which I recently wrote about crafting a book proposal. I wouldn’t quite call it writer’s block—it’s more like writer’s blah.
A few weeks ago, I met with a new friend for coffee. She’s a writer, too, as is considering getting an MFA. As we talked about everything from the publishing industry to our favorite memoirs, I heard these words come out of my mouth:
“I miss the feeling of just sitting down and not knowing what’s going to come out on the page. That feeling of curiosity. Play.”
I’m struggling to remember the last time I experienced that. It was probably several months ago, when on a whim, I delved into a piece of fiction. I approached it with an unfamiliar gentleness. The stakes were low; it was an experiment.
That spirit of inquisitiveness, of play? It’s the best. When I stop ruminating about agents and publishing routes and social media, and I just become a channel, a divining rod, an adventurer.
The best part of writing are the moments when I don’t feel like I’m in charge.
When my son was a toddler, one afternoon I brought a bucket of ice cubes outside for him to play with. The warmth of his hands and the summer air alchemized the ice. The cubes shrank, transforming into drips of water. My son’s eyes went wide and bright, amazed at the wizardry that was occurring. He wasn’t worried about whether he could turn the water back into ice or if anyone besides me would witness the magic he’d just created. He was an explorer, a chemist, a student.
It’s similar to the way I feel when I read something that takes my breath away. An unexpected metaphor or a passage that’s so transcendent that I can’t quite put my finger on why I love it—it simply lights something up in me in a place beyond words. It’s similar to moments when we catch a glimpse of how small our human lives are when measured against the vast history of the universe, or the unexpected delight we might conjure during a casual exchange with someone in the grocery store. The pleasure of making a new friend.
I guess I’m talking about awe. Tapping into the mystery. So many of us feel starved for wonder these days; modern life offers a billion ways to distract us, our to-do lists are never-ending and bad news bombards us around the clock.
Next time I sit down to write, I’m going to think about my son, captivated by those ice cubes. What might happen when my fingers hit the keyboard, if I show up with an open mind and a curious heart?
Photo by Tomáš Lištiak via Unsplash
— BACCA guest writer Lynn Shattuck grew up in a Southeast Alaskan rainforest and is now a Maine-based writer. She’s a columnist at Elephant Journal, where she writes about grief, parenting and wellness. Her essays have been featured in Human Parts, Al Jazeera, P.S. I Love You,The Fix, Vice, Fabric and Mind Body Green.
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