In counterbalance to my last post on writing a creative manifesto to vanquish the voices of doubt, shame, and disempowerment, this week’s post is on relinquishing control; loosening your hold. In a way, creating a strong manifesto makes this possible. Once we stand tall and actively claim our space from the yammering of our fears, then we have—well, space. What you do with that space depends on a lot of things: what stage of a project you’re in, how you like to work, what works for you (which will be different from what works for me or anyone else).
What I know about myself is that the analytical, results-oriented part of my mind is better developed than the receptive, waiting part. I tend to skip too soon to structure and goals, which means I try to make something happen before I necessarily have the something in the first place.
As I have mentioned in prior posts, I spent almost the last two years trying and trying to write a book that ultimately just didn’t work. It went on the shelf last month, all the dozens of versions, thousands upon thousands of words of drafts and notes, everything. As I reflect on where I went wrong, I think part of it was that I grabbed hold of an idea too early, before I had a chance to understand what it really was. Then I spent the next two years trying to force it into being.
My all-time favorite book on writing, bar none, is Stephen Koch’s Modern Library Writer’s Workshop. In his chapter Shaping the Story, he says:
The search for a story is matter of slowly, calmly, carefully, tentatively coaxing a hidden set of somethings into visibility.
And a few pages later:
You must learn to tolerate this admittedly uncomfortable but preliminary, inarticulate state of mind. … Once aroused, your imagination will be on a search. You need to believe that is has been aroused by something real, and that that something is bigger, maybe much bigger, than the perplexing fragment you can see now.
This slim book is worth its weight in gold. I highly recommend you read the whole thing.
What he’s getting at is akin to the poet John Keats’ concept of ‘negative capability,’ which is a kind of receptive ability or state of mind where the artist can access truth without employing facts or tools or pre-existing frameworks. Keats said a great thinker is “capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.”1
Let’s just say I have not been this kind of great thinker lately. There has been a lot of irritable reaching.
Those of us grown-ass adults with kids and/or jobs and/or other people to support and/or a never-ending to-do list get a lot of practice doing, controlling, planning, executing, in short getting shit done. Even if you feel like you don’t have your shit very together, you are probably still very good at deciding and doing. It’s every day, every hour, practically every minute type of work. In fact, our ability to plan, decide, and do are key to our very survival. We get very efficient at it, and it’s no wonder we would bring that type of energy into our creative work.
We get far less practice receiving, listening, or coaxing. It can be terribly uncomfortable. Being in the space of ‘negative capability’ can feel like doing nothing. It can look like doing nothing. You told your family you needed an hour to write, and now you are just sitting and staring out the window. Now is your chance! You’re wasting precious minutes doing nothing!
But this particular species of nothing is critically important to the creative process, especially in the beginning.
In the Tarot tradition there is a card entitled Strength. It is usually illustrated with a female figure handling or holding a subdued lion. The card represents a still, quiet, patient strength. A person who has tamed her own impulses and draws what she wants toward her patiently, quietly, coaxingly, until the wild thing is inexorably brought into her orbit and into her arms.
There is a lightness to this card. Strength is not expressed in force but in a kind of magnetism, a pull. And even when the lion lies down in her lap, she doesn’t grab it and tame it. She doesn’t need to. She need only lay hands on it and feel its warmth.
It’s this kind of strength that can draw the wisp of a story into being. And when the story is taking shape, creeping up to lie in your lap if you will, best to treat it with a light touch.
In January, we emerge slowly from the dark days of winter, post-solstice, post-festivities, post-‘new year.’ Whether or not resolutions or lists or manifesting or other such structured intentionality is your jam, I do think there is a general reflectiveness this time of year; a kind of regrouping and looking forward as the axis turns and we enter a new cycle. Last year there was a bit of a trend for picking a ‘word of the year’ for the year ahead. Being a word person, I like this little exercise.
So for 2024, my word will be Lightness. The light hold of a skilled rider’s hands on the reins. The light guidance of a great teacher who knows exactly where to apply the slight adjustment that will change everything. The lightness of confidence, of balance, of Strength.
I would love to hear how you get yourself into a receptive state of mind, how you exercise ‘negative capability.’ I am so bad at it. I can use all the suggestions I can get! And maybe what you share will make the difference to someone struggling.
NOTE:
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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/negative-capability
I also do a lot of staring out the window. Go for walks. People-watch at the coffee shop. Knit. Free-write. Traveling, even if it's just a short trip into the city for shopping and lunch. Longish drives, though I find that works better if I'm in the passenger seat.
I love the tarot reference. Have you ever tried to use the cards to help shape scenes? In the past I've done a 3-card spread for a character's intention, their obstacle and then their response. It's interesting.
Almost finished with JOHANNA PORTER and really enjoying it.