Of late, with more and more writing, I’ve become more and more intimate with my own creative process. I’m not what I’d refer to as a quick writer. Not when it comes to the poetic forms of work that are important to me.
Instead, the process of my words entering a state of becoming involves a period of creative marination. A series of thought infused satellites spinning round my head waiting to send the information down the creative slippery dip and into my brain.
These periods in between- these periods of apparent creative nothingness- used to scare me. I began to think maybe that was it. That I had used up my full allowance of all the words; that whatever creative heartbeat I’d previously known to pulse through the page had flatlined, unable to be revived despite my cajoling and my tantrums.
I imagined to myself, in my state of creative disillusion, that the work of other poets, of other writers, were most likely swift and fast. That their work somehow appeared, for no other reason than they were writers, and that’s what writer’s words do. They appear and they are shared, and they are read by hungry eyes such as mine who then sit back and wonder why their own words don’t appear in the same way.
Such is the delusion.
I now understand these in between zones to be a necessary creative space, an important, intangible piece of the process that not only acts in service of my capacity to write, but even more so: the writing exists because of them.
The decision to write what you’re reading now has come about as a part of this unfolding, of these hard-won understandings. It is an act of honoring process- my process- regardless of whether it’s the same or different or somewhere in between as everyone else’s.
Creating, I’m learning, is about dancing in the spaces between the things that already exist.
Creating, I’m learning, is allowing yourself to be a little bit lost.
To swim in the space between the idea and the thing looking to be created.
And beyond that, the creativity itself is neither the idea nor the thing; it’s the emptiness between them.
Our ability to consistently create- our willingness to be people who consistently create- is directly proportionate to our ability to hold space for the unknown. To let go of the control.
The beauty of that being that to create is to allow oneself to be constantly surprised.
To rest in the space between does not mean that something’s wrong or nothing’s coming. Quite the opposite in fact.
The nothingness, the feeling of stuckness, the I have no idea-ness is not a nothingness at all but a vortex of potential.
To be in between is to rest in the space of the creative transition. A moment of wordless suspense. Your willingness to float here- and to continue to do something even if what appears is far from what you intended to create- is what helps you develop creative faith.
So, when you inevitably, expectedly, meet this space again, you will delight in the possibility of the download while you do the gritty work of continuing to show up.
And when you do, my friend, know that the rest of us who seek to do creative work will at some point meet you there.
Three Things For You
As I type this, I myself am in the satellite space of creation. The time I often need to bring a creative piece to life makes it hard to write to a schedule, and to be honest, I don’t want to force one.
That said, I’m unhappy with the communication void this can create in the moments in between.
So three things for you…
1. What you’re reading now is a new weekly missive I’m calling Listen To Your Art. She will contain weekly musings, thoughts and sharings of things I’ve learned from the creative process and what it means to live a creative life, in a way that’s hopefully encouraging of you to do the same.
2. On Wednesday’s, we’ll be starting The Wonder Files. A weekly feature of a plant or animal and the details I’ve learned about them that have led to awe and wonder. Wonder, I believe, is the portal to care. To share wonder is a form of activism, a creation of a link in the curiosity chain that will, should my wish come to life, lead us to care more deeply and participate more actively to protect and nurture this amazing world that we’re a part of.
3. Everything I’ve outlined above is available to you as a free subscriber (in addition to the usual poems and writing). I’m so grateful for you being here, it’s quite hard to express. Becoming a paid member, should that be an option, not only supports me in creating this work, but also gives you access to our monthly creative call, behind the scenes notes from my work, and access to community threads and conversations. I’d love you to be a part of it if you are moved to.
It’s always amazing to hear from you, so I’d love you to share. What do you think you can practice to help you develop more creative faith?
Take care of your gentle selves,
Much love,
xx Jane