Maria wonderfully captured the poetry workshop we attended recently through the Burlington Public Library: Lynda Monk’s welcoming and positive approach; prompts that inspired our writing; our collective “affirmative noises” throughout the session.
Like Maria, I had also hesitated attending, but not for the same reasons. I don’t have a “prejudice against poetry”. I dabble from time to time and submitted my Your House is Not My House poem as pages for a Restless Writers meeting not that long ago. I also don’t hate journalling. While I may not journal every day, I am an “out loud” thinker, and when no one wants to listen, my journal pages are always willing.
I hesitated to participate because my brain prefers the ordinary. On the evening in questions, she said, “You’ve worked a long day. You’re tired. Wouldn’t you rather settle in to a night of watching Derry Girls episodes? Plus, you’ll have to do the dishes if Maria is coming over.”
But Maria had texted and offered to bring wine. So, what was I going to do? Say no? That’s funny. And I’m glad she did – come over, I mean. Not just bring the wine. (That said, Riesling on a Tuesday evening is a nice treat.)
For me, the gift of Lynda’s workshop was allowing in quiet and connection. It was a needed opportunity to tell my work and home brains to take 60, go commiserate about me over their own glasses of wine, and let me enjoy mine.
Lynda talked about how visceral poetry is. That it cuts to the essence, reveals the unspoken and digs into the senses. She shared this quote by Allen Ginsberg, “Poetry slows me down and brings me back to myself.” For me, on that Tuesday, I didn’t realize how fast I’d been moving until I followed Lynda’s instruction to close my eyes, listen to her recite Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese poem and write down any words or lines that stood out to us. That’s when I felt my breath deepen, and my body settle into her voice as I became drawn in by the verse.
And in that open space, she invited us to paint our own pictures through the prompts she provided. “I dwell in the possibility of…” “Silence is like…” or to fill in the blanks, using Jane Kenyon’s Otherwise poem as a template. Some participants chose to share what had sprung up in their writing. Usually, I’m one of them, but on this night, I was with the others who chose to simply listen and absorb.
To me, poetry is about presence and play. Experiencing it and then toying with the words, the shapes, the sounds, the spaces. You can choose the structure of a haiku or dance freely with your own use of the page, colour, fonts.
Toward the end, Lynda summarized our experience in the “5 Things to Practice to Free Your Inner Poet”:
Breathing
Stillness
Listening
Receiving
Giving
These were the reminders I forgot I needed. Through this workshop, I expanded and found new creative energy. Maria opened up her imagination.
I encourage you to give yourself the gift of a writing workshop. Many are free or inexpensive and offered by local libraries or authors looking to inspire other writers. Maybe pick one that isn’t in your usual wheelhouse. You can certainly take one alone, or better yet, invite a fellow writer who never comes empty handed.
When it was done, Maria and I shared what had resonated with us from the workshop. We also shared some of our own verses inspired by the prompts. Maria, who is skilled at bringing levity to the heavy, wrote a a melancholy piece about a solitary meal, mixed with a little gratitude for her cat.
“The cat and I ate dinner,” she recited stone faced. “Not the same dinner. We both had tuna.”
I burst out laughing at her unexpected ending. Maybe you had to be there, but it was hilarious and one of the highlights of the evening! After finding a tissue to wipe my tears, and saying goodbye to Maria, I pondered what may be my next poem: I dwell in the possibility of wine with a friend.
Fellow Restless Writer Andrea and I had signed up to attend a virtual workshop hosted by our local library called “Prompts to Find Your Inner Poet.” I almost didn’t join in, for two reasons: one, I am still working to get over my prejudice against poetry; and two, the workshop was being led by Lynda Monk, a coach, speaker, facilitator, and author who is passionate about journalling – and I hate journalling. (Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt traumatized by Julia Cameron and her morning pages.)
Fortunately, I gave myself a rousing pep talk, convinced myself that it was only for an hour, grabbed a bottle of wine, and headed over to Andrea’s house, so we could attend online together.
The workshop, held last week, was well attended – about 35 people – and Lynda gave a gracious, welcoming, and warm introduction to the workshop. She told us there would be writing exercises (which I was eager to dig into) and that “we are all poets in some way.”
If I had expected the event to be cringey, it wasn’t. Lynda opened by asking us to reflect on “what is poetry?” She described a type of literary expression that is resonant, captures beauty and emotion, helps us feel “aliveness” and connection, and speaks to the “unspoken”: the “spaces in between and around experiences, thoughts and feelings.” She outlined a plain language understanding of poetry that was immediately accessible.
Lynda shared one of her favourite poems – “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver – and asked us to reflect on what stood out for us in the poem. A word, a phrase, a feeling? She shared that the poem evoked a sense of quiet, and that everyone needs to be able to access that kind of quiet in order to write.
She returned to this concept later in the session when she talked about the white space on one of the presentation slides. “Our creative selves need white space, where we can recognize what we have within our hearts to say.”
Throughout the session, Andrea and I would make little affirmative noises in response to some piece of insight that Lynda shared about poetic language. I found Lynda’s approach to talking about poetry, and encouraging each of us to explore new poetic prompts, to be the opposite of cringey. She was engaging, positive, non-critical, practical, and inclusive.
One takeaway for me was what Lynda had to say about the transformative effects of poetry. To paraphrase, poetic writing can transform what we’re feeling into something else (e.g. writing about a negative experience can turn it into a positive one), and poetic writing can transform ourselves, by altering our perceptions about our own experiences and emotions.
The writing exercises were intriguing and fun – Andrea and I agreed we should share the prompts at a future Restless Writers’ meeting.
Take the first line of your favourite poem, and use it as a prompt for your own poem. Lynda used Emily Dickinson’s “I dwell in Possibility” as the line prompt.
Use the structure of an existing poem as a template for your poem. “Otherwise” by Jane Kenyon was the perfect prompt to have us imagining our own alternate lives.
Cut words out of a magazine or newspaper, and paste them into poems in different shapes. (Ahem, an idea for the next Restless Writers’ holiday craft night?)
Create a “book spine poem.” This was another exercise Lynda encouraged us to try on our own time – you take books from your shelves, and make a poem out of their titles. Mine is below.
Principles still missing. How did that happen? The novel cure underland, surrounded by idiots, sediment in streams. Do not disturb the big thing.
I’m thankful I talked myself into joining the workshop, and I’m thankful for Lynda’s generous and gentle approach. It opened up something in my imagination and in my writing that I might have been repressing. I’m looking forward to exploring more poetic writing this spring.
Maybe I’ll even give journalling another go. But no promises.
Your nose is always smack-dab in the middle of your field of vision, but your brain chooses to ignore it most of the time. (You can learn about the phenomenon here.) That’s because it’s expected sensory information. Your brain doesn’t need to register your nose (unless something’s going on with it, like maybe there’s a butterfly perched on it) so your brain filters it out in order to be more efficient.
After all, your brain can’t be expected to actively report on absolutely everything it comes across all the time. And you don’t want it to. You want your brain to clue you in to the important stuff, like the sign-post you’re about to walk into, the twenty-dollar bill lying on the sidewalk, or the fact that your duck a l’orange is burning to a crisp.
This ability – called unconscious selective attention – means your brain can safely ignore unnecessary inputs so it can handle the important stuff.
Unconscious selective attention can help you focus on your writing efforts. Most writers need quiet, calm spaces in which to work, and those spaces are increasingly hard to come by. But this is when your brain gives you a helping hand. You’ll be able to edit out unimportant background noises that might be preventing you from concentrating, like the chatter in your local coffee-shop or the lawnmower outside your window. It also means you aren’t distracted by the colour of the rug, or the hum of the HVAC system, or the fact that you’re wearing slippers.
But you might want to think differently about selective attention when it comes to your writing.
This is one place where you want to consciously select the information your reader should notice. It’s your job to point out that background information when it will enhance your writing.
When should you pay conscious selective attention?
When you want to make a description of your setting richer. What sounds percolate through the scene? Is there a unique quality to the light, or a scent to the air? Bring some of that sensory flavour to the foreground.
When you want to build suspense. A ticking clock. The lack of birdsong. A hum in the air. The sun slowly going down. Adding these barely noticeable layers to your scene will give your readers a sense that something is about to happen.
When you want to slow the pace down. Is your character taking a moment to reflect on a decision or remember the past? Take note of the small gestures and non-critical elements to give the scene a meditative quality.
Take a moment to notice the things that your brain is helping you ignore for efficiency’s sake. Your writing will be the better for it.
For our first post of the new year, we thought we’d shake things up by welcoming a guest contributor. Everyone, meet Julie.
Now, in the twist you didn’t see coming, Julie and I don’t actually know each other that well. I couldn’t tell you the day of her birthday or how she takes her coffee – heck, I don’t even know if Julie drinks coffee – but what I do know is that we share a love for our mutual friend M.
M and I go back more than 30 years. Being her friend means there’s always something cozy to eat waiting for you when you walk in the front door of her home. It means being surprised with a little gift she picked up for you, just because. During COVID, she coined the “spirit shimmy” – a dance maneuver she would perform during our Zooms. At any point during the call, M would spontaneously advance on her camera and shake what her mama gave her, giving us a belly laugh and a glorious five-minute reprieve from our collective lockdown funk.
Another thing that’s special about M is that she’s a fervent cheerleader for her friends. This is especially true when it comes to my writing. No matter what I’ve written, whether it be an email, a eulogy or a social media post, she will proclaim, with great enthusiasm, that it is the funniest and most clever. And she doesn’t stop there. She tells people about it. Like a parent who can’t help but pull out their phone to show off pictures of their kids, she’ll say to all walks of people, “you gotta read this!”
And this is how I came to know Julie. She is also on the receiving end of the love and enthusiasm wielded by this petite, emphatic champion.
Over the years, M has said to me, ”you should meet my friend Julie, she’s a good writer like you.” While we have met in person, all too briefly, I never had the chance to read something Julie wrote until last December when M sent me something Julie penned for her family. In short, it was the funniest and most clever. I couldn’t read fast enough to see how it ended and also wished it could go on forever?
Huh. After all these years of thinking M’s take on my writing was clouded by her friendship with me, I had to admit, maybe she does know what she’s talking about.
I loved Julie’s piece so much that I asked her if she’d be willing to share it here and she said yes! I’m going to let Julie take it from here but not before one last shout out to our cheerleader.
M – thank you for connecting us and so fervently supporting the stuff we like to do, for no other reason than that you love us. I hope I have half the potential you see in me.
And now, over to Julie.
This is such a wonderful idea, to build community around writers and stories, and I can certainly agree with Sharon, that “M” is a gift of a human I am indeed lucky to know.
This story came about as we recently lost “Gran E” after 93 terrific years, 26 of which I got to enjoy as having her be my mother-in-law. It was our first Christmas without her and we missed having her as our epicenter very much. I wrote this to read aloud to hubby (the youngest kid of seven and the only boy – that is a whole other story) and our kid1 (22yo) and kid2 (19yo).
Every Christmas Eve we each pick a story from our box of Christmas books to read aloud. We’ve done it since the kids were little and it’s surprisingly poignant to see our adult kids with a little smile on their face, reading their favourite holiday story. I read this as a surprise and it was lovely to feel Gran E with us again, in a small way. Please enjoy, and thank you Sharon for wanting to share!
There are days…squirrel in the house
It started with a phone call, as many adventures can, from a lovely and charming grey haired lady.
“There’s a squirrel in my house,” she said.
I arrived twenty minutes later, flush with adrenaline and a noble desire to help, because the lady was my mother-in-law, and what better way to be cemented as preferred daughter-in-law*, than to rid her house of an unexpected, unwanted guest. *I was her only daughter-in-law…
I forensically assessed the scene. Tiny black pawprints on windowsills. Scuffling sounds coming from under the couch. Eyewitness account having seen something black and fast streak across the room. The thing is, my mother-in-law was no ninny. She was a nurse after the war. She raised seven children. She played a mean game of gin rummy. I didn’t doubt that she was right and a squirrel had fallen down her chimney, getting past the flue, and was now eviscerating the underside of her loveseat.
It was time to get to work. Phase one of the operation involved sizing up my opponent. Instinctively I knew I had the upper hand – I am bigger, smarter, and better equipped than the average squirrel, figuring as I did that my opposable thumbs and executive level reasoning were advantages. That being said, one is rarely prepared for the size of something you’ve only seen out of doors when it comes zooming at your face from under a piece of furniture.
The chase was on.
I settled Gran E (as we affectionately called her) at her kitchen table and closed the french doors to her living and dining room. From her vantage point she could see the back half of the scene and I was thankful she couldn’t see her living room, for the state it soon took on. I donned gardening gloves and commenced phase two – operation exhaustion. I decided to tire the squirrel out, and assess where it was hiding each time I chased it out from somewhere, so I could systematically close off its escape routes. My plan was genius – reduce its options then trap it in a box and take it outside. I did not factor in the herculean endurance possessed by the average Canadian squirrel.
Twenty minutes later I was panting and red faced from exertion and mounting rage. The loveseat and armchairs were all flipped on their backs, to stop the squirrel from scooting underneath them. I had leaves from the dining room table blocking the bottoms of other pieces of furniture, and had taken up a table cloth, which I now wielded like a matador, convinced I could throw it over the squirrel on one of it’s supersonic passes, to slow it down then slam the box over it.
Another twenty minutes later I was breathless as I had repeatedly experienced the surreal sight of the squirrel launching from the flipped loveseat into the air above my matador sheet, sometimes using it for added leverage to soar off down the length of the dining room, like a jet boosted missile. Each time I would gallop after it, trying to chase it into a corner, and as I passed the french doors, Gran E would laugh her hooting chortle like she was watching the best variety show ever.
Another twenty minutes later the squirrel’s path was reduced to a predictable loop and I thought it might be starting to slow. It wasn’t jumping as high, and when we made eye contact, it seemed resigned. On one of it’s streaks past me, I grabbed at it – a move born of desperate reflex, as I was not at all sure what I would do if I found myself clutching a squirrel, but thankfully I only came up with a tuft of hair from the tip of its tail.
Ten minutes later I decided I was a failure and we’d have to burn the house down to get rid of the squirrel. I was sitting in the centre of the living room, all furniture flipped on its back or precariously stacked in a pile. The squirrel was revving his engines in the corner, preparing for lap 1,249 of the space, and in a gesture born of desperation, I threw the box at it.
Time froze.
The box landed perfectly over the squirrel. I could hear its thoughts, because they mirrored mine; “HOW IN THE SWEET NUTTER…”
We burst into action at the same time. The box began skittering across the floor as I leaped to my feet. I could see paws and a nose creeping out as I reached the box and slammed it tight against the floor. In a fluid motion utterly at odds with my natural coordination, I grabbed a magazine and sliced it underneath, flipping the squirrel containment unit with its makeshift lid until it was right-side up, and closed the flaps.
A stunned silence filled the room. All I could hear was what I thought was the clock ticking, but it could have been a burst blood vessel in my head. I eased to my feet, holding the box like a priceless artifact, one hand on the top and another cradling the bottom, and opened the french doors, promenading towards Gran E. She clapped her hands and was about to speak when I saw her eyes widen and she jumped from her seat. “GET OUT” she urged and spun me towards the door. She had seen what I could not, that the squirrel was pulling a Jaws and was about to chew through the side of the box.
I raced to her front door, and in two steps launched the box and its furry contents off her porch. The box hit the ground first, the squirrel once again soaring like a mythical winged creature, to land on her emerald front lawn. It stopped there and sat up, to look around and I swear I saw it contemplate taking another run at me before it turned and disappeared into a hedge.
It took a half hour to restore Gran E’s furniture, and to pose for a photo with her and the clump of hair I’d snagged from her guest’s tail (see below). We laughed about the ridiculous evening we’d shared, and I headed home to rehydrate and stretch. Gran E swore in the days and weeks that followed that a squirrel with a short-ish tail was casing her house and was often on her roof. I believe her, and we agreed if it ever made it inside again, that we’d leave its removal to the professionals.
Dig into your characters’ phobias to add depth, detail, and humanity
Content warning: This blog post touches on some common and not-so-common phobias. If you struggle with a phobia, feel free to skip this post. Also, I recognize that phobias are anxiety disorders and can impact a person’s life in profound ways. My writing here is meant to explore, in a light-hearted manner, the ways that writers can grant characters life and depth by giving them a phobia. In no way is this meant to downplay the very real impact that phobias and anxiety can have.
I have a phobia of bees.
Yes, all bees. Even bumblebees, those guileless panda bears of the apian world.
All stripey stinging insects set me off. In fact, if anything buzzes near or past me, whether it’s a fly, hummingbird, or a slight breeze, I’ll do my little frantic bee-flee dance until it’s gone.
The origins of my fear of bees lurk deep in my psyche, and I may never know why that part of my lizard-brain responds to a buzz. But I have a theory. My phobia may derive from a childhood visit to the local pick-your-own apple farm. I got lost in a “corn maze” and was swarmed by big angry wasps. My young and impressionable self was confused and trapped in a dark, creepy, fire-hazard labyrinth, and attacked by flying monsters. Even though I ended up with only a few stings, the experience stuck with me. No wonder my instinct is to run away.
My friends can get pretty impatient about this phobia, especially if we’re trying to enjoy a lovely summer evening outside on a patio. It’s okay, I get it. I’d be irritated by me too.
Pretty much everyone’s got a phobia – or phobias. Whether it’s bees (apiphobia) like me, or clowns (coulrophobia), dentists (dentophobia), teenagers (ephebiphobia), holes (trypophobia), or books (bibliophobia), a phobia is a uniquely human condition.
For some people, phobias can lead to intense symptoms – from chest tightness, racing heartbeat, and difficulty breathing, to anxiety, confusion, and dread. Phobias vary in terms of degree too. They can be a mild irritation or have a debilitating impact on a person’s day-to-day life, or anywhere in between.
As writers, we aim to create colourful, relatable, flawed, complex, and authentic characters. As you build out your characters, you might want to think about whether or not they have a phobia, and what that phobia means to their life and their story.
Here are 8 ways a phobia can add depth and layers to your characters and your story:
Internal conflict: Your whole story might focus on a character’s struggle to overcome their phobia, which may have been brought on by an unresolved trauma of the past. A detective who comes face-to-face with his fear of confined spaces. A parent who must combat their agoraphobia to keep her daughter safe. A child prodigy pushed into a musical career by over-ambitious parents must fight their fear of loud noises.
Relatability: Some phobias can help to make a character relatable or humanly flawed. An estimated 77% of people have a fear of public speaking (glossophobia), so giving your character a case of nerves before a big speech would make them pretty darn human.
Comedy: While it’s never nice to mock the afflicted, a character’s phobia can give you plenty of opportunities for humour – whether it’s slapstick, gross-out, physical, punny, or ironic. Some of those opportunities are driven by the kind of phobia at play. For instance, trichophoba (fear of hair), decidophobia (fear of making decisions), and chronomentrophobia (fear of clocks) all seem like they could lead to some laughs. Just try not to be mean about it, gosh.
Horror: The opposite is also true. So many horror elements derive from phobias. Spiders, snakes, sharks, clowns, garden gnomes, mirrors, demons, dolls, blood, the dark, fire, sleep – you name it, and there’s probably an absolutely terrifying horror story to write about it. And if the phobia doesn’t exist yet, just make it up. Guaranteed you’ll scare the pants off someone.
Motivation for action: Writers must regularly shove characters into shitty situations to drive the plot and reveal the character’s growth and transformation. Having a character encounter their phobia will lead them to take an action. That action could be retreat, charge ahead, cry, faint, scream, what have you. The action your character takes in response to a phobia can provide a transition into the next beat of the story and provide deeper insight into your character for the reader.
Signature quirk: A phobia can also be a kind of personal branding for your character. Indiana Jones Jr.: afraid of snakes. Indiana Jones Sr: afraid of rats. Ron Weasley: afraid of spiders. Wolverine: afraid to fly. Peter Pan: afraid of growing up. Maria: afraid of bees.
Revelation: Your character’s phobia can be a clue to be unravelled over the course of the story. It could be the key to a shocking childhood accident, a genetic link to another character who has the same phobia, or the real reason why a villain does what she does. Go deeper, and make it matter.
Novelty: If you ever feel stuck for an idea for a story, just google “list of phobias” for instant inspiration.
It’s easy for me to write about a character who’s afraid of bees (or sharks, deep water, or the shrill of my smoke alarm), because that’s what I struggle with. As I proceed with my WIP, I’ll be challenging myself to open my mind to other types of fears that my character could have, and all the ways that I can make my character more human.
Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia (fear of long words), anyone?
Think of something you regularly resist doing. Something you make excuses to avoid, that you always put off until the last minute, or that you dread until you actually get started.
What comes to mind? Paying your taxes? Leg day? Going to the dentist? Flipping your mattress? Writing thank you letters? Leg day? Is it leg day?
For me, it’s timed writing exercises. (And leg day.)
There’s something unsettling about being given a tightly constrained topic, coming up with an idea, writing under the clock, trying to write well, and—gasp—sharing whatever writing you’re able to churn out. In our writing group, I’m usually the one who greets a new writing exercise with a groan and lost-my-pen-sorry-can’t-write excuses.
I don’t really know where this resistance comes from. My inner asshole will say it’s because I’m lazy. My inner therapist will say it’s because I have a fear of failure and a fear of success. Let’s say they’re both right. Writing, and writing well, is hard work, and sometimes it’s easier to do just about anything else.
I got to face this resistance head-on in a Restless Writers meeting back in April. We had just wrapped up our pre-meeting ritual of Sun Chips, sparkling wine, and catching up. Beckie’s idea for a “pen-to-paper power 10” activity was the first thing on the agenda, and she asked if we were all still up for it.
I felt the resistance burble up immediately. I knew that this activity was meant to spark some creativity, activate our writing muscles, and give us some quick writing wins. Still, I piped up with, “I’d be okay with skipping it.” I assumed my mind would be blank, I wouldn’t know what to write about, and whatever I did end up writing would probably be garbage. Yikes. But the others were gung-ho, so Beckie pulled out a stack of prompts.
The prompts were simple but intriguing:
Write about an item you have that isn’t expensive but means a lot to you.
What colour do you feel like today and why?
Write a recipe for something abstract like a feeling or an event.
Write a magic spell for something you need right now in your life.
My interest was piqued. I ignored the remnants of resistance hovering at the edges of my brain and told myself that at least this would be over in 10 minutes.
We all picked out the prompt that worked for us. I chose the magic spell one. Beckie set the timer, and we settled into silence.
The first minute was bleak. I told myself I could literally write whatever I wanted, even if it was a magic spell to win the lottery. Because if there’s anything I need in my life right now, it’s cash-ola. This got me thinking that winning the lottery isn’t the only way to get money—I could get a windfall some other way, or snag a promotion, or one of my business ideas could hit pay-dirt.
The second minute was when the prompt clicked. I came up with a pagan-inspired spell to put me on the path to good fortune. (I’m still on that path, obviously, otherwise I’d be on a beach in Cabo right now.) I wrote as quickly as possible in my signature chicken-scratch, and even had some time to edit before time was up.
When the timer dinged, I had written something I thought was funny and clever, with a tongue-in-cheek style and a smidge of satire.
In fact, everyone had written something. We read our writings out loud, which led to new conversations and tangents and ideas. I had a frisson of excitement in my tummy, like I just accomplished something a little bit brave. I get that same feeling when I single-handedly exterminate a centipede or put an Ikea bookshelf together.
It felt…good.
On YouTube, I follow Kara and Nate, an adorable couple from Nashville who have a travel channel. (You should follow them; they’re a blast.) Kara has this saying that goes something like, “Future Kara loves past pain.” That saying helped her power through extreme challenges and achieve impressive things. She might not have wanted to do the thing—like go skydiving or hike up the equivalent of Mt. Everest—but her future self was really glad she did.
Participating in a short timed writing exercise may not be apples-to-apples with skydiving, but it was still the thing I didn’t want to do. Getting myself to get started and do the work was the hard part. While I was writing, the words came easily. When I was done, I felt energized and exhilarated—and ready to do more.
We tried out the same writing activity at our next meeting. And guess who was a convert? Yours truly. I may now be our group’s writing-exercise evangelist. Those 10-minute sprints are fun, unpredictable, challenging, surprising, and real. They remind me that if I want to accomplish my writing goals, I have to put in the work.
If you’re resisting getting started on your writing project, give a timed writing exercise a try. Or book a writing session in your calendar, or have your SO/best friend/accountability partner harangue you into writing.
Lean into the discomfort. Future you will thank you.
Maria
PS: Have you tried a timed writing exercise before? How did it go? Do you have a favourite prompt to share? Leave it in the comments.
I get frustrated when I want something but can’t see the way toward it. I want to write and have something to share with my Restless Writers at each meeting, but lately I’ve been on repeat saying, “I don’t know what I’m writing. I don’t even know what I feel compelled to write.”
They listen and are more patient with me than I am because that’s not one of my best-known qualities.
Maybe that’s why I have this Rainer Maria Rilke quote on my bedroom wall:
Easy for you to say, Rainer.
But, at the last RW meeting, I committed to have a writing date with myself. To create purposeful time to check in and see what might happen. That was yesterday. I found a few hours. Stopped. Meditated. Brainstormed. Scribbled down some letters from the alphabet. Hoping beyond hope my muse would appear and transform the letters into prose.
She didn’t. They didn’t. All I got were random, disconnected words, as if I was playing Scrabble. It sucked.
I abandoned the effort. I went to play the piano and sing a little. Even that didn’t satisfy, so I started watching David Letterman’s My Next Guest Needs No Introduction. The interview with Tiffany Haddish. I didn’t even know who she was, and I didn’t finish the episode.
Later, I went to bed with no progress.
Today, however, I awoke to a rare April 20-degree morning of warming sunshine. With a cup of tea in hand, I cozied up under the trees and with the sparrows in my backyard paradise. With no thought to writing, I randomly opened an old blog I kept about nine years ago and pulled up a post called “Being in Love with Not Knowing. Here’s a snippet:
“..the journey is to decide how we’ll walk our path – in terror of the unknowing, allowing it to paralyze us to stay in one spot, or to become in love with it and embrace the unknowing for all its possibility. The beauty of reaching “no idea” – having absolutely no idea – means you are now open to any idea…Sometimes you need to go through the “I have no idea” stage because the answer cannot yet be given. You have to take one more step and then another one. Let go and trust the path will soon become clear again. Be committed to taking one more step, and with that, become free and open to new possibility.”
Looks like I was channeling my inner Rilke. I read a few more old posts, which led me to read a few others’ posts about writing.
And then it happened.
I wrote!
A new poem released from within. My heart sang as my fingers typed for the first time in months. Look at that. I have something to share with the Restless Writers at our next meeting.
And I’ve published a new blog post!
I had let go and lived my questions. I guess Rilke and my former self were right. Beautiful things can happen when you sit with your not knowing. Maybe not right away, but they do. Release. Presence. Observation. Possibility.
Yes Andrea. Patience 🙄
What do you do when you have no idea what to write? Do share.
Guys! The cutest new coffee shop opened in my neighbourhood. It’s bright, friendly, independently owned and just a 15-minute walk from home. While this might not seem like a big deal, trust me when I say it is. Having a local gathering spot in this suburban hood where ne’er the words “double-double” or “grande” are spoken brings me such happiness.
In addition to great drinks and a fun vibe, one of my favourite things about the new spot is the lids. More specifically, the plastic coffee cup lids – each one of which is adorned with a handwritten note of daily inspiration.
Truth be told, when I first laid eyes on this lid set up, my pandemic-induced germ aversion left me a little unsure. Thoughts of random hands touching every lid, using a black Sharpie to add ink right next to the place where my mouth would be? Was this really necessary? But I quickly became a fan.
Never underestimate the power of words
It’s a small thing but the ritual of finding my lid is something I’ve come to love. Standing at the counter, waiting for my drink, my eyes go directly to the selection of lids laid out on their gold rack. Looking at all the choices is my chance to do a quick self check in – how am I feeling today?
Need a little boost? “The world is a better place with you in it,” is the lid for me.
Ready to take on the world? “You glow girl!”
Beating yourself up? How about a gentle reminder that “every fall is a chance to rise.”
The real magic comes on the days where you don’t know what you feel and then suddenly a brightly coloured plastic dome is speaking to you and telling you something even you didn’t realize you needed to hear.
On the days I can’t get to the coffee shop and my husband offers to bring a tea home for me, I get the chance to see myself reflected in the lid he chooses for me. “Life is beautiful and so are you.” Of course there was that one time he brought me a lid that encouraged “don’t just live, exist.” Mmmmm, pretty sure it was a typo but even the mixed-up messages leave me smiling.
The words are small and simple but they’ve got my back. Like a little plastic hype man that leaves me feeling energized, engaged and ready to take on the day.
How many times have you been on the receiving end of a question like this?
“How’s that novel coming along?” “Have you finished your book yet?” “When can I read that short story?”
No matter who asks me this kind of question—my writing group colleagues, my sister, or a random well-intentioned stranger who hears that I am a writer—I have an emotional, visceral response. An internal shudder. A surge of irritation. An immediate need to run away or hide.
I find it’s easy to respond with a little white lie: “Still chugging away!” Or a deflection: “It’s fine. But tell me about your new job!” Or a half-hearted attempt at a joke: “You’ll have to wait a bit longer—I’m holding out for a 6-figure advance and a Netflix adaptation.”
If I’m feeling especially fragile, I want to lash out with sarcasm or venom. Or just cry.
It’s no fun being reminded that your work in progress is just that—a work in progress. As in, not done yet. Especially if you feel stuck, if you’re comparing yourself to another writer, or if you had planned on reaching whatever word-count by now. Maybe you haven’t written anything in weeks, and the shame and self-loathing is gnawing at your insides. Maybe you gave up on your novel and turned your focus to renovating your laundry room, or gardening, or moping. (Been there.)
Whatever plot problem, personal vulnerability, or other form of writer’s block has caused your project to stall, it’s not the fault of that friend or family member who innocently stumbled into your creative dark night of the soul.
Instead of blasting that hapless individual or succumbing to those negative feelings, try this instead:
Pause: Take a deep breath. Sip your drink. Tie your shoelaces. Do something to give yourself a moment before you respond.
Smile: The action of using your face muscles to smile can have an effect on whatever negative emotion you’re actually feeling. Basically, fake it ‘til you make it.
Say thank you: This person is taking an interest in you and your writing. They don’t know about your internal struggles. They probably care about you and genuinely want to know how it’s going.
Clock your response: Notice the emotion you feel in response to their inquiry and reflect on why it set you off. Think about why you had the emotional response you did.
Be honest with them: You’re not obligated to tell this person why your writing has stalled. That’s between you and your muse—or you and your therapist. But if it feels right in the moment, share that the writing isn’t going as smoothly as you like. They might have some words of wisdom, or at least a sympathetic ear.
Be honest with yourself: If something isn’t going the way you want with your writing, you’re the only one who can change things. Ultimately, you’re responsible for moving forward with your creative project. Whatever has you stalled—lack of time, lack of motivation, boredom, frustration, a problem with craft, a problem with structure—it’s up to you to dig into that challenge and find a way through it.
As unwelcome or uncomfortable as those questions are, they can be the kick in the pants you need to get back to writing. Taking a closer look at why questions like this set you off can help you understand what’s keeping you from moving forward.
And that can ultimately help you turn discomfort into action.
I’ve been getting outside more to walk. The days are still cold, sometimes unkind, but they’re redeemed by the sun making a more regular appearance. The warmth feels good on my face, and it’s got me dreaming of the new seeds I’m going to plant and the healing tea garden that will soon come to life in my backyard.
Whether I’m walking in my neighbourhood or on the Bruce Trail, there is a recognizable silence that comforts me. I hear only my own footsteps, the birds chirruping, and the sound of squirrels rustling up dinner prep. Few people are out yet doing yard chores in the cold, with the exception of our 80-year-old neighbour who can always find a way to make me feel like the laziest human.
Most days, I spend my time on a device, on a project, on a mission, always go-go-go. It can be an internal skirmish, as I’m a person who craves calm. So, at the end of the day, I attempt to lace up my hikers, and get myself outside. The silence of the outdoors helps me function, it unlocks my mind to new ideas, new recipes, dreams—you name it.
Scientists who study brain scans already know that moments of creativity take place when the mind is at rest. When I’m outside or simply relaxing, I can feel my brain begin to free itself. So naturally, I find myself craving slower living. One activity that has been cultivating calm for me is seeking inspiration in other artists—artists who embody relaxation and share this special ability with the world. Here are a handful of my favourites, in case you too can benefit from their stories.
Maria and the Forest – An artist, educator, and filmmaker sharing her interest in plants, foraging, and rural life in the countryside of Norway.
I hope you can find calm in these stories, and be brave enough to give your brain leisure. It is this that will help you carry your ideas, your writing projects, perhaps even your career, to the next level. As the weather starts to warm, my aim is to get outside daily. You might even see me carrying a basket, as my YouTube friends have all inspired me to forage in the nearby woods.
Thank you, Maria, Paola, Martijn, Julia, and Anastasia. Keep posting, you are an inspiration!
Andrea
bjas
Sharon
Maria
Restless Writers 