Category: creativity

Freedom to Rise

                                               

About three years ago we moved to a community with a high percentage of retirees. And even those people who haven’t retired talk excitedly about the day they’ll finish working and punching a clock.

The upside of an artistic life is having the freedom to set our own schedules. We are our own bosses. But distractions abound, those we create and those created by others, and those distractions can make it hard to maintain a creative routine. It’s taken me a few years of living here (and getting sidetracked more than I care to admit) to finally recognize that I do best with some structure in my life. That realization led me to think more carefully about structure – the role it plays in life and art, why we need it, and how we ignore it at our peril.

Structure is, by definition, something arranged in a specific pattern of organization. Its role is to contain or hold something so it’s not all over the place. Structure can act as a framework, or it can be an arrangement of parts, acting as a support or even protection.

A structure can be a skyscraper or a shed, our bodies, or a sentence. A rose needs the structure of a cane for support. Bread dough rises higher when it’s contained by the structure of a bowl or basket. Novels depend on structure to tell a story. A visual artist depends on the structure of the canvas to hold her medium. And many psychologists tell us that humans, particularly children, need structure and routine. While acknowledging that holidays and regular breaks are important for our health, they say a significant lack of structure on an ongoing basis can lead us to feel uncertain and unbalanced, even out of control.

That’s certainly been true for me.

Before we moved, my weekdays were fairly structured. I wrote every day, with the occasional Friday afternoon off. In gardening season, I’d write three or four days a week so I could get the garden in. I’d book weekday errands or appointments for my lunch hour so I could get back to my desk afterwards. While I wasn’t the most prolific writer, I was consistent and productive.

Moving to a small town 45 minutes from a hub city changed everything. I now needed several hours, sometimes half a day, if I had to drive in for weekday appointments. And though I made a few new friends who were creative types themselves and understood my need to protect my time, not everyone was accepting. Organized activities where I could network and meet new people frequently took place on weekdays. So, because I wanted to make connections, I made allowances. I found myself accommodating others and making appointments during prime writing time. My calendar began to fill with commitments. My routine was torpedoed. I began to feel unsettled. Uneasy. And I was disappointed, mostly in myself. Why, I wondered, couldn’t I juggle as well as I once did? I’d fit my writing around the schedules, activities, and demands of the kid for years and I loved having that flexibility. Why wasn’t it working for me now?

Because, I realized, the kids had something of a schedule – the school year – and I followed it. Now I was surrounded by people who had no structure to their days at all and were loving it.  I was trying to follow suit because I wanted to connect and make new friends but my writing was suffering. I was suffering.

The truth is I crave and need structure. It’s how I’m wired. Just as a bowl provides the support for bread dough to develop and rise, having structure in my own life gives my creativity the support it needs to expand, grow, and flourish. Structure helps me stay focused. It gives my life balance and that, in turn, makes me calm and happy.

So, while the people around me might love the fact that they’re no longer punching a clock, I’m going back to punching one. But it will be a clock of my own making. One that blocks off three (four if I’m lucky) writing days a week, and leaves the other two days free for family, friends and fun. And the occasional run into the city for a pesky appointment.  

Wish me luck.

Lean Into Discomfort

      

I’ve been practicing yoga for decades. But despite my long-time practice, there’s one asana I love to avoid: phalakasana or plank pose. In the studio or in any kind of structured class, I almost always opt for a modified plank. In my solitary practice, I skip plank altogether. I just don’t like it. And I never thought to question why. Until my yoga class last Thursday night.

The instructor flowed into plank pose early in our 90-minute practice, and I flowed into the pose right along with her. The reason I followed along, quite honestly, is mildly embarrassing: my body was on my mat but my mind was elsewhere, and by the time my mind caught up with my body I was probably 30 seconds into my plank asana. My arms were quivering, my abs were trembling, and my brain was protesting. I was uncomfortable. That’s when I realized I wasn’t trying to avoid plank. I was trying to avoid discomfort. And that had been my primary goal around plank asana for years.

Humans are hardwired to avoid discomfort. And two US researchers say it does us no favours. Kaitlin Woolley (Cornell University) and Ayelet Fishbach (University of Chicago) conducted a study of 2100 people engaged in personal growth activities – anything from taking improv classes or music lessons to learning about COVID-19, gun violence or opposing political viewpoints.   

The participants were split into two groups. Some participants were told that their goal was to feel uncomfortable and (depending on the activity) awkward, nervous, anxious, or even upset. They were told to push on and accept that discomfort as a sign that the activity was working. Other participants weren’t told to embrace discomfort; instead, they simply focused on learning something or noticing if the exercise was working and how they were developing their skills.

Ultimately, the researchers found that the participants who aimed to be more uncomfortable were more engaged in their activities, felt more motivated to keep doing them, and believed they’d made more progress toward their goals compared to those who weren’t accepting their vulnerability.  

Discomfort, according to Harvard-trained psychologist Susan David, is our price of admission for a meaningful life. It’s almost always there whenever we try something new, whether that’s a new job, a new art form, or a new language. Whether it’s having a difficult conversation with a friend or challenging some of our long-held beliefs. Embracing discomfort requires emotional courage.

In the big picture of life, the fact that I went out of my way to avoid doing a plank is a small thing. But the fact that I avoided the plank to avoid discomfort isn’t so small. Discomfort is a wise teacher. Tolerating and embracing it helps us grow. And honestly, if I’d leaned into and accepted my discomfort long ago, I almost certainly would have grown through my discomfort and be doing a reasonable (and reasonably pain-free) phalakasana by now.

Then I could have turned my attention elsewhere. Discomfort, thy name is sirshasana.  

Myth Busting

Last Saturday, I attended a Zoom workshop given by author Becca Syme. Her topic: ‘Eleven Productivity Myths and Why You Should Stop Believing Them Right Now.’ Syme holds a master’s degree in transformational leadership and has coached over 6,000 individual authors and creatives during the last fifteen years. She’s also the author of a cozy mystery series and a series of books for writers.

Before discussing the myths, Syme walked us through a few quick exercises to demonstrate that we’re all wired differently and have different needs. She also spoke about the importance of questioning what we’ve absorbed as truth. Look for the assumptions under the following and decide whether they fit you.

Myth #1: If I can do it, anyone can. Not so. “Excellence is individualized, so the fact that someone else can or can’t do it has no relevance to us,” Syme says. Believing that myth could lead us to minimize our talents or hold ourselves responsible for outcomes that are out of reach. Syme illustrated the point with a story about two groups of people who were taught to speed read. Neither group had speed-reading training at the start. The first group started out reading 90 words a minute; by the end of the speed-reading course, they were reading 150 words a minute. The second group started out reading 350 words a minute; by the end of the course, they were reading 3,000 words a minute. Her point: innate potential combined with intentional development equals outcomes.

Myth #2: Having a daily routine will make me more productive. The underlying belief here, according to Syme, is that consistency is righteous (not so) or that systems are magic, which is also untrue. In my case, a daily routine does increase my productivity. For other creative types, the opposite is true.

Myth #3: In order to write faster, everyone should outline. This implies that every writer knows their plot in advance. Not true (for this writer, at least).

Myth #4: I can start my day with Facebook (insert your favourite social platform or online time waster here) and be quick about it. We tell ourselves we’re in charge of our decisions, but that’s less true than you might think, says Syme. Our decisions fall into three categories: non-habitual, like meeting a friend for lunch (free will); habitual like getting dressed or eating breakfast (less free will) and decisions like breathing/waking up tired/surfing the net when bored which Syme says is an automatic decision for many (virtually no free will). She also reminded us that Twitter/Pinterest/The Guardian always takes longer than we think. “As soon as we visit any of those platforms, someone is making money off our eyeballs,” Syme says. “We need to spend our eyeball money on our own stuff first.”

Myth #5: Planning makes me productive. This myth suggests that if we plan something, we will execute it. That’s not true for many of us, Syme says. A quick survey of the writers Zooming in on this session proved her right. The planners – and I was one – were in the definite minority. Syme says we also need to be mindful of overplanning (guilty!) because that can lead to frustration, disappointment, and a drop in productivity if we don’t achieve our plans.

Myth #6: You can’t edit a blank page. This phrase, made famous by author Nora Roberts, is so widely touted that even people living with writers believe it! Mr. Petrol Head said it last week as I struggled with an article draft. The underlying belief is that thinking is a waste of time, but for writers and many creative types, thinking is working, and we need clear head space in which to do it. Besides that, Syme says, some people can edit in their heads.

Myth #7: If it works for INSERT NAME OF PERSON YOU’RE TRYING TO EMULATE HERE, then it will work for me. This suggests someone else knows better or that their system is magic. It also tells us, at a subliminal level, that if we don’t write/create like someone else, then we’re doing it wrong.

Myth #8: This should be easy. Here we absorb the idea that there’s something wrong with us or we’re not doing it correctly if it doesn’t come easily. Believing this undermines self-confidence and the ability to take creative risks, and that, in turn, can torpedo productivity. The truth is, some things are hard even when you’re doing them right. 

Myth #9: If I write (or create anything) to fit the market, then I will write faster, sell better and have greater success. This is based on the incorrect assumption that the only books that sell well are those that are written to market. For many writers (and other creative types too), working intentionally to meet market demands can ruin our storytelling capability and lower productivity.

Myth #10: Everyone should use voice dictation software to produce more quickly. The premise here is a societal one particularly prevalent in North America: speed is all-important. Not true. As well, there’s a steep learning curve for voice dictation software, and some writers find it slows them down more than speeds them up.

Myth #11: Writers write. She saved the best for last because virtually every writer I know takes this to heart. This suggests that if we’re not producing words constantly, then we’re not as much of a writer as someone who does. Syme says over half of all working writers don’t write every day. They write much more sporadically than we would think and for a host of reasons: second jobs, family demands, health issues or simply because of their own natural rhythms.

It was a great workshop and I’m still processing what I learned. One key takeaway? The ancient Greeks were right when they said ‘know thyself’ and ‘certainty brings ruin.’ In other words, know what works for you and question anyone who tries to tell you otherwise.

Perfectly Imperfect

                                               

I’m planning a trip to Japan. I’m not sure when I’ll go, but it’s on my longish short list of destinations to visit. “You must go in spring,” a friend told me the other day. “It’s a perfect time.”

Perfection seems to be the theme of the week. Maybe it’s the way the stars are aligning, or maybe February calls on our inner perfectionist, or maybe it’s simply coincidence. Whatever the reason, people seem to be tossing the idea of perfection around like happy celebrants tossing confetti at a wedding.

It’s starting to annoy me. Not the celebratory confetti thing; that sounds like fun. Although, having just googled confetti and the environment, I should probably find another simile. Or is it a metaphor? . . .

Now back from five minutes of checking the difference between simile and metaphor and thinking maybe I should scrap this idea entirely lest I make a mistake and write an imperfect blog.

There it is, the whole perfection/imperfection thing cropping up again.

Full disclosure: I have been known to have (cough, cough) perfectionistic tendencies, especially in a few areas of my life (those who know me well can stop laughing now). It’s a tendency I’m trying hard to overcome. That’s why my house is currently a mess (at least, that’s my excuse).

I didn’t start the week thinking about perfection. First, there was that conversation with a friend about Japan and the perfect time to go. Then there was an interview and tour I did for a feature on a new home build. The home is stunning. It could – and probably someday will – grace the cover of Architectural Digest Magazine. The word perfect was bandied about a lot during my tour, including a few apologies for areas that ‘weren’t quite perfect yet.’ Finally, there was a walk with friends where I learned that Bruce Springsteen has hair plugs (I’m not sure how I survived this long without knowing that, but amazingly I did). That morphed into a conversation about his plastic surgery which led someone to comment that they’d much rather watch him perform with a full head of hair and no wrinkles. He would be perfect that way.

We were walking in the woods when I learned about Springsteen. It had rained heavily overnight; the trail was muddy and littered with leaves. The trees around us were bent and twisted. Moss and Old Man’s Beard dangled haphazardly from the occasional branch, waiting for wind or a forager to carry it away.  Nothing about the view was perfect, yet it was perfect in its imperfection, as nature always is.

Our culture promotes the idea of perfection. We’re told everything can be improved: our bodies, homes, and relationships, to name only three. In the middle of writing this, I received an email from a local garden retailer extolling the virtues of the perfect patio plants now available to order. A few weeks ago, I learned that women in their thirties are getting Botox or ‘soft’ facelifts as a preventive measure to avoid ‘future imperfections.’

In Japan, they have something called wabi-sabi. An integral part of their culture, it’s the practice of celebrating and embracing imperfections. In fact, the Japanese have dedicated a 400-year-old art form – kintsugi – to putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold. Kintsugi is designed to highlight the ‘scars’ and to create something more unique, more beautiful and even more resilient in spite of its apparent inadequacy. Many of the antique bowls used in the Japanese tea ceremony have cracks, uneven glazes and imperfect shapes. And they are highly prized for their supposed deficiencies.

When I write novels, I’m always careful to develop characters with flaws. Most writers I know are careful to do that too. We recognize at a deep level that flawed characters are more believable, more relatable, and more likeable. Yet it can be a real challenge to accept and let our own imperfections show.

That, I decided, was the lesson of this week. In a culture that favours the flawless, the perfect, the hair plugs or preventative Botox injections, I need to honour the beauty of imperfection. I need to let the housework go for a little longer still. Let the dirt collect a bit more in the corners. And I also need to book that trip to Japan. Even if I can’t figure out the perfect time to go.

The Likeability Factor

I got together with two friends for a visit last weekend. We hadn’t seen each other in quite a while; we have a wide range of interests and busy lives, so we had lots to catch up on. Eventually, the conversation turned to books and movies . . . what we were reading, what we were watching. And since the Academy Award nominations had been announced earlier that week, we began discussing which of the movies we planned to see, if any.

This year, there’s one movie I’m not sure I’ll watch: The Banshees of Inisherin.  Written and directed by Martin McDonagh and starring Colin Firth and Brendan Gleeson, the movie is set on a remote Irish island and tells the story of two lifelong friends who drifted apart after the end of the 1923 Irish Civil War. It is not, by all accounts, a feel-good film. It is described, at best, as bleak. It’s also a movie that seems to evoke particularly strong emotions. Those who love it rave about it. Those who hate it do so with a passion.  

“I wonder how the screenwriter feels?” I wondered aloud to my friends. “To have produced something so many people dislike?”

“There’s no guarantee something you create will be well-received,” one friend responded.

“And it’s been nominated for an Academy Award,” my second friend added. “So not everyone disliked it.”

They were both right. However, too many negative reviews of a movie, a book, an art installation or any other creative venture can mean the difference between success and failure. And by success, I don’t mean public accolades and praise, but the kind of success that allows an artist to make a living, even a modest one, and carry on with their craft. For a writer, a book that draws significant negative reviews won’t sell well, which could mean no contract on their next book. These two women aren’t writers, but they’ve been my friends long enough to understand some of how publishing works. They were sympathetic.

After a minute, one of them said, “Maybe society needs to reframe the idea that disliking something is bad.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know what they say – if everyone likes you, you’re not living an authentic life.” She paused just long enough for us to reflect on that. And then she said, “Maybe it’s the same for art. If everybody likes what you produce, how authentic can it be?”

I know, intellectually, that tastes vary. Not everyone will love the same book or movie or song. The same food, the same colour, the same breed of dog. And yet, as a creator, I want people to love what I produce. So, if I’m truly honest with myself, anything less than that feels like a failure.

But my friend helped me see a simple yet profound truth: Something that is truly authentic is never a failure. It may not appeal to the masses; it may not be a critical or commercial success. But it can still be meaningful, it can still touch people, it can still convey feelings and reveal big truths. In the same way that authenticity in relationships is where we find our true joy, authenticity in creativity is where we find our true success.  

I still don’t know whether I’ll watch The Banshees of Inisherin. Apparently, people leave the theatre crying, and I don’t need sadness in my life right now. But I do need authenticity. So maybe I’ll pack up my Kleenex and go.

Wintering

                                        

“Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through.

Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximizing scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight, but that’s where the transformation occurs.

Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.”

Katherine May

Last weekend, I went on a yoga retreat, one focused on honouring Winter Solstice. The women running the event decided to hold the retreat in January even though Winter Solstice is the third week in December. Their reasoning? December is an extremely busy month, and early January felt more appropriate somehow. My busyness lasted well into January, so retreating at the end of that first week was the perfect fit for me.

The day was about letting go, slowing down and getting still, something that doesn’t always come easily to many of us. Katherine May talks about this in her book, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. While I’ve only just started reading it, the book encourages us to find joy in the quiet of winter and accept life as cyclical, not linear. She writes: In winter, I want concepts to chew over in a pool of lamplight – slow, spiritual reading, a reinforcement of the soul. Winter is a time for libraries, for the muffled quiet of book stacks, and for the scent of old pages and dust.

I’m not so sure about old pages and dust, but the idea of slow, spiritual reading and libraries definitely resonates. As I write this, the wind is howling and the rain is lashing at the skylight; it’s a day to curl up inside. Writers – probably most artists when I think about it – are comfortable with solitude. I certainly am; I need it to do my work. For the last six months or so, though, I’ve been out in the world far more than usual, and it upended my natural rhythm and definitely negatively impacted my writing. So, for me, ‘wintering,’ pulling the metaphorical shades and getting back in touch with the cyclical nature of life and of my creative muse, feels appropriate.

Not everyone likes winter; I realize that. For those of you who find this season difficult, I leave you with this quote from John Geddes:

The Sound of Music

                                        

On November 16, 1959, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The Sound of Music debuted on Broadway. As many people know, it was based on a true story – the 1949 memoir of Maria von Trapp which told the story of the von Trapp family singers from Austria. But like most adaptations of true stories, liberties were taken in the stage (and later the movie) production.

For instance, did you know:

There were 10 von Trapp children, not seven, and Marie came as a tutor for one of the children rather than as a governess for all of them. As well, Maria and Captain von Trapp were married 11 years before the family left Austria. But perhaps the most significant historical inaccuracy was the film’s climactic ending, where the family escapes to Switzerland over the Alps as the Nazis invade Austria. In reality, the family pretended they were going on vacation to Italy by train the day before the Austrian borders were closed. And once they arrived in Italy, they made plans to travel to the US.

When it comes to fictionalizing memoirs or moments in time, it’s been said that emotional truths are more important than factual ones, and that seems to be the case for the von Trapps. Family members accepted virtually all of the liberties taken in telling the fictionalized version of their stepmother’s story, except for one. They didn’t like how their father was portrayed. In the first half of the movie and stage production, the patriarch is shown as a detached and often harsh taskmaster, when in fact, he was a gentle, warmhearted parent who enjoyed the musical activities with his children.

That small quibble wasn’t enough to prevent the real Maria von Trapp from making a brief cameo appearance in the film version of The Sound of Music. If you look carefully, you can see her walking past an archway while Julie Andrews sings “I Have Confidence.”

The Element of Surprise

                                             

A few weeks ago, four of us went out for dinner. We went to Mahle House in Cedar (which I highly recommend!) to enjoy something called Chef’s Adventurous Wednesdays. Billed as a five-course adventure menu, each diner receives a different item for each course, and you don’t know what you’re getting until the plate is put in front of you. Though the restaurant can accommodate gluten-free, pescetarian and vegetarian diets, realistically, the evening wouldn’t work for picky eaters or people who don’t like surprises.

We knew we would be fed, and we knew, based on the restaurant’s reputation, that we were in good hands, but we didn’t know what we’d be eating. So, we’d discussed ahead of time the option of trading plates if someone was served something they truly disliked (for me, that would be oysters or lamb). Luckily, we were all extremely happy with what we were given, though I gave away my dessert crème Brule, but only because I’m not a fan of sweets at the best of times and rarely order them.

We had a fantastic evening out. The element of surprise elevated the night from enjoyable to memorable.  

In storytelling, the element of surprise is an important one. It allows the writer to heighten dramatic tension, add suspense, and introduce humour. It keeps the reader engaged. Surprises also tend to stick in readers’ minds, helping them to remember the story. I recently read Jodi Picoult’s Wish You Were Here, and there was a surprising twist I didn’t see coming that spun the story in a completely different direction. It’s not something I’m likely to forget. The surprise was also credible – which is essential – and in keeping with Picoult’s particular style or brand of storytelling.   

A well-crafted surprise in fiction can take you on an unforgettable journey of discovery. A well-thought-out surprise at the dinner table can take you on an unforgettable journey of discovery too. And both are well worthwhile!

September is the New January

In case you haven’t seen a calendar lately, heads up: tomorrow is September 1st. And while the asters are blooming in my garden and the days are still warm, there’s a hint of cool in the early morning air; fall is definitely coming.

September always feels like a fresh start to me, a new beginning. Like every new beginning (writing that first chapter or painting that first stroke, leaving on a journey, witnessing a birth), there’s anticipatory joy and excitement. Out with the old and in with the new. New seems to be a running theme around here. In the last three weeks, I’ve needed to replace my cell phone and my laptop, and I’ve put four badly-needed new tires on the car too. I’m considering them my new year expenses.

I’m not alone in thinking of September as the start of a new year. Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, which is one of Judaism’s holiest days, begins this year on September 25th.  The literal translation is ‘head of the year’ or ‘first of the year.’  

The ancient Egyptians considered September 11th the start of the new year. In fact, this September will mark the year 6264 in the Egyptian calendar.

Fresh starts are good for us. They can lead to greater productivity and more willingness to embrace change, and that, in turn, can be empowering.

Plato said beginnings are the most important part of the work. They frame everything that comes after.

So, here’s to September. May this new month bring us all renewed energy, enthusiasm and opportunities!  

And Here We Go . . .

Author Dean Wesley Smith calls it The Time of Great Forgetting – that stretch between now and the end of August when writing routines get torpedoed because of outside influences. That could be anything from the lure of family reunions or friends visiting from out of town, the pull of the garden and all things outdoors, or even travel, depending on your Covid comfort level. Writing conferences and workshops, in spite of being a part of our professional life, can be a distraction too, especially if travel is involved. And if you have kids at home, it goes without saying that a regular writing routine is much harder to maintain during summer holidays.

Distractions aren’t limited to the spring and summer; they can happen anytime. On the upside, the writing life is flexible, making it easy to respond. But there can be a downside to that flexibility too. Lines can get blurred. For instance, someone who started working at home during the pandemic commented that his work and his other life bled together ‘like a tie-dye sweatshirt.’ Depending on the type of distraction you’re facing, and how you respond, creative routines can slide or even become completely eroded.

You might be fine with letting them go for a few months. But if not, here are a few things that help me maintain focus when life dishes the distractions.

Creating a schedule and (mostly) sticking to it. That used to be Monday to Friday, nine to three (a hold-over from when my kids were in school). I still aim for that, with a couple of exceptions: an early morning walk with a group of neighbourhood women once a week; and the occasional (once or twice a month) Friday afternoon lunch or coffee date with a friend.

Writing in the morning and leaving the business side of writing (research, social media, blogging) for the afternoon. It takes discipline and a little planning, but it’s doable.

Scheduling ahead when and where possible. I try to write, upload and schedule my blog a week ahead (or longer if I’m going away). Tweets can be scheduled in advance too, a bonus for getting a jump on promotion or simply trying to maintain a social media presence. But the latter can also be something of a gamble. If the tone of your scheduled tweets is upbeat and light, and they appear around the time something horrible hits the news (and you forget or can’t take them down), it could reflect poorly on you.

Grouping tasks and appointments. Some things like vet or doctor appointments inevitably crop up during working hours. When I can’t schedule them for the end of the day, I try for afternoon appointments, and I try to fit in another task (picking up a hold at the library or visiting the post office) at the same time.

Being satisfied with small steps. I may not have a full or half-day, but with thirty minutes, I can read over the last scene I wrote and make a few notes in the margin.  A few minutes a day on peripheral work can keep the story in my mind and make it easier to return to later.

Learning to say no. It’s not always easy, especially when you’ll disappoint someone. But there are times to be available to others and times when we need to be available to ourselves. We sometimes forget that.  

And finally, remember that everything is temporary. This, too, shall pass. Repeat as needed.