Tag: Writerly Inspiration

Sometimes the blank page feels like a bright black hole—strange, otherworldly, and indecipherably alien. And when that chasm stares back at you, you might fear that anything going in there will go nowhere. But if you’re a scientist, you don’t fear black holes as much as revere them.

Scientists keep looking into strange anomalies until they’re anomalies with form and shape—decipherable bodies that soon may lose anomaly status altogether. Even black holes exhibit patterns when examined close enough.

Black holes spin—sometimes fast, sometimes slow. They can even appear hairy, or bald as a billiard ball. Some emit powerful jets of gas that rip off nearby red giants’ outer layers and demote them to dwarf status.

In other words, black holes are amazing wonders of the universe. They’re powerful. So is the blank page.

Let it teach you its shape and form. Let its dark mysteries reveal themselves to you.

The next time you fear the blank page, or find that the chasm of an unruly draft feels bottomless, don’t shy away. Become an obsessed scientist. Let that strangeness be a beacon, luring you in.

Observe what you see. Even how you see.

What if the very thing you’re afraid of can become your salvation.

I remember learning of S.A.D. years back, and thinking, huh, seasonal affectiveness is a disorder? Not something we all feel and experience? Not everyone takes the encroaching darkness personally? Of course not.

But I’ve come to realize that while I’m one of the unlucky ones, so impacted by a change in light that my mood changes, accordingly—dictated by the sun’s lead (though I blame Daylight Savings time for the worst of it)—I kind of like it. Well, in the right proportions, at least.

Darkness makes me despondent on the worst days, but on the best days, I’ve found I can harness the darkness. Use it. Embrace that inward turn and even seek out the insight it brings. I can be in the dark, and stare. And look even closer. And see what’s there.

That’s often where my best writing comes from—when I not only face darkness, but identify its shape, and form. Name it. Feel its inky sink, its irksome weight. And listen to the stories that spin and pull me down into it. When I write through that experience, I can (usually!) find a light to guide me.

In fact, part of what I enjoy about the winter is searching for the light—internal and external light. Just like a good plot, the search is often as important as the find itself.

So I continue the search, a kind of treasure hunt each day and night. This year, since I can’t be bedazzled by literal treasures in Christmas shop displays and glitzy holiday sales (those usually help me, I admit—I’m a sucker for holiday decor) I’ve been countering the dark and cold by spending more time in it outside—and staying aware. Looking for a different kind of treasure. I’m a sucker for natural surprises, too.

On neighborhood walks in twilight, my husband and I seek out the soft hooting of two great horned owls that keep returning to our block, and thrill when, in slow swoop, their massive wingspans open then close over dim silhouettes of hickories and pines. The other day they disappeared into the thin copse behind our neighbor’s house and left me starting at the brushstrokes of bare branches, pondering the trees’ patient hunker as the darkness bore down. A darkness soon softened by the owl’s returning calls.

 As it gets colder, we in the Northern climes hunker down inside, where our heaters kick in as the temperature gets intolerably low. Heat sensors do all the hard work for us—we don’t even need to flip a switch. Automatic warmth floods our homes.

Before electric or gas heaters, folks relied on a lot of wool, fireplaces, and good will. As the days get darker and mornings chillier, I often think of the father in Robert Hayden’s poem “Those Winter Sundays” who got up early in the blueblack cold:

then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze.

Writers too can make banked fires blaze–on the page, despite cracked hands that ache from other labors.

Sometimes it’s easier than other times—and yes, some folks have it easier than you. Some harder. That may change next week. Next month. Next year.

No matter. The work is the same.

And the principle is the same. You know what it’s like to take off a mitten and wiggle those stiff fingers? They’re so cold they can barely move. But by moving, they come back to life again.

Remember that feeling.

Your writing practice can start feeling like that numb hand in a mitten if you don’t put in enough effort. Sometimes that happens even when you do!

So what are you doing to keep your writing practice warm enough to work right? Do you have a system so powerful that it keeps you going no matter what?

Think of the creative ways we stay warm in the winter: Hot water bottles. Soup mugs as hand-warmers. Door snakes. Then there’s the Löwchen—AKA “Little Lion Dog”—trimmed to be used as a foot warmer for elite ladies back in the 16^th century. Though a lazy hound snoozing at the other end of the couch will do, too.

Make a list if your “heat sources”: An online class, a collection of craft books and a reading schedule, a reading list you work through each month, a book group, a critique group, a mentorship program, a few lit journal subscriptions, writing newsletter subscriptions, writing forums. Online readings for the month by writers you love.

Then follow through to stave off the cold. What are you going to do to keep your writing practice cozy and blazing, so it never loses its vibrancy? Or if you can’t get that front burner to blaze, maybe just keep a back burner on the barest of blue. That might be enough to get you through.

Ah, who doesn’t love that thrill upon reaching an important level of attainment in an electronic game. That hokey sound effect and accompanying glitzy graphic gin up endorphins—and we want more.

When you level up in a game, it usually means you’ve accumulated enough points through a series of tasks—whether you’ve found the gold in a treasure hunt, picked off the bad guys with pizazz, or cared for the plants on the windowsill till they’ve flowered. Your achievement is unlocked, and you’re ready to “level up.”

When you level up as a writer, it means you’ve completed an important task as well—you may have reached a page goal or finished a draft. You may have found a way to unstick a stuck scene, filled a plot hole, or rounded out a flat character. Or you may “level up” upon mastering a technique like scene arcs, plot points, or omniscient point-of view. Heck, even dialogue can qualify as a level-up achievement when, finally, you get what your friend meant when she said dialogue isn’t about transcribing conversations, but approximating them—capturing their essence. You hit just the right balance in your scene, and voila: success. The scene’s stronger. Your story’s stronger. And the next time you write dialogue, your story will be the better for that earlier insight, too.

Wouldn’t it be a delight if, upon reaching a plateau, we also got to hear that sound effect emanate from our pages.

Seriously, don’t poo-poo it! You may want to save that link. Have fun with it. Play this sound for yourself (or find one you like more!) when you accomplish a goal—even if it’s a small one. You deserve to feel that thrill. In fact, I want you to seek it out. To relish those successes. Each moment you recognize achieving something you’ve been working towards in your writing helps you strive for more of the same.

Or how about a delicious piece of chocolate. A deep breath and smile to recognize a job well done are nice things, but a little extra effect can help those “job well done” endorphins—and make you want more of what got you therein the first place.

I give you permission to treat yourself. You’ll be all the more ready to take on to the challenges  on the next level.