Surrender to Your Writing

We are not machines

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There are so many reasons why the empty canvas inevitably becomes overwhelming. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of criticism, fear of being seen. Frustration from not being able to craft the sentence just right. Procrastination. Unmotivated by the solitary nature of our hobby, we often write with no one, and sometimes, to no one. Some of us are tired, and worn out. Inspiration easily devolves into a memory, a distant echo in the wake of every day survival if you’re not careful. We have blockage upon blockage, some large and some small, all uniquely personal and all that pile up on top of one another like a game of Tetris, until finally, we can’t write. It happens quietly.

I often wonder about writer’s motives. Does a vision spill out of them in a state of creative mania? Did something bother them that they want to bring awareness to? Did they want to prove a point or do they simply want to share something for the dopamine of notifications? Are they trying to feed the ego, or are they trying to give an outlet to the soul?

The goal here, as long as you’re a reader of Metanoia, is to give an outlet to the soul.

I think about all of this and how it relates to the “flow state” that everyone talks about, the wavelength that inspiration rides and that which ideas come from.

I have a secret about writing that can help you get to this state, to ward off blockages, and to improve the quality your writing over time. You already know what it is, and you’re not going to like it: The second you stop trying, it comes to you.

I can already hear the gurus coming after me.

“You must show up to your writing.” (I know)

“The water doesn’t flow until the faucet is turned on.” (okay)

Fight me.

Art by Amber Fossey

Everyone has their own motive for writing. and in this post, I’m not talking to those of you who are in it for crafting the perfect sentence and obsessing over the formalities of it all. I’m talking to those of you who at your very essence, at the core of who you are, you are a creative. You are connected, are possessed by ideas and observations, and consequently, you can’t not make something. Writing just happens to be the modality you’ve chosen.

For writers that write only to adhere to syntax and obsess over the delivery, none of this will make sense to you, because for the rest of us, we are not machines. Writing is not a mechanism to us. We simply can’t draw, or paint, or sing, etc., and we have found ourselves here, trying to translate our own soul with the limitations of linguistics, money and time. We are trying to do the impossible, and we get hung up on it a lot for so many different reasons. If this resonates with you and if you find it hard to give substance to your idea, to make real of what compels you, walk away from it.

By all means, have the pen and paper ready to go, the blinking cursor available, but then pay it no mind. Make space for it, and then leave.

The key here is that you must first make space for it, and this is done in a number of different ways. The first step is obvious, which is simply prioritizing and optimizing your week so that you create more free time to stretch out in. That’s the easy work.

The hard work is creating a space that your heart and mind can thrive in. Sometimes that means taking the time to go inward to reflect on the potential fears and frustrations one may have that I mentioned in the beginning. Other times it means we have to remember that writing is playing.

At some point in our lives we were taught that play was a waste of time. For many it was at a critical developmental stage where we actually learn more from play than anything else. I suspect that this is why so many of us get hung up on our creative projects. We have constant budding curiosities, are driven by what inspires us, this is a part of being human. Yet the road that connects the realm of ideas to our executive function is either only partially constructed, riddled with potholes, or at times not even there at all. We were told that playing wasn’t productive, and if we aren’t productive, we aren’t worthy. We were told by our corporate-bought education that art is a waste of time because it doesn’t make money. WRONG. It doesn’t make them money, and there are practical applications to a creative mind. This can be fixed by being idyl, and then doing what you truly want to do, not what you have to do. We must make space for our inner child, whether you write or not.

As adults, a lot of us have to construct that road from scratch, something that we should have accomplished when we were children. If this resonates, rather than writing this weekend, make a batch of cookies and work on a page in your coloring book while watching your favorite show. Do a puzzle instead of laundry. This is also a form of surrender. Opening our heart to play opens up internal pathways to much, much more.

If after that your writing still isn’t materializing, you still might be trying too hard. Walk away from it farther. Sleep for three days. Take one of those mental health walks. By all means, fuck off. In all my experiences, doing this has helped me move through the hardest parts of my writing. Yes, it does take a long time to complete it this way. However, this averts sacrificing the quality of my writing for the sole purpose of production for production’s sake. In my eyes, the time was optimized. I don’t see the point of expending energy on having a completed project for my ego to feel good about if it turned out lack luster, or far away from what I wanted in the end. When I’m intentional with my process, I make something sincere, and if I’m lucky, compelling.

What is meant for you will find you, after a lot of hard work and setting the stage, of course. It just takes time, patience, and being open to what could be.

The reason this practice works for both writer’s block and for wanting to simply improve your writing is because both eventually call for getting out of your own way. A refinement happens over time naturally, but not if we’re trying to control it constantly, and not if we’re trying to feed the ego rather than the soul. If you don’t give in to the process, how will your muse be able to communicate with you? How will you be able to relay the stream of consciousness while you’re trying to bend it to your will? This is about the art of letting go, something that so many struggle with. But more often than not, what you want also wants you, and it’s waiting patiently for you to let it come as it does naturally.

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Thank you to those of you who have taken the time to answer this short, three-question survey. The feedback is instrumental to my work here, and there are still many of you whom I haven’t heard from yet.