I am in the midst of a long period of not writing, one enforced by illness. I don’t know if I’ll write again. I don’t know if I’ll be well enough to write again, and if I should be so blessed as to be well enough, I don’t know that that’s what I’ll choose to spend my precious remaining functionality doing.
I try not to suffer too much about it. I try not to press myself so hard against my desires that I cut into my own flesh. And I’ve released those desires far more than I ever have before, to some extent accepting that I may never be well enough to carry out an extended project. But the word “accepting” does a lot of work here. What does it mean exactly? It doesn’t mean giving up those desires, because doing so completely feels like giving up me. It’s partly accepting the suffering that goes with desires I can’t fulfill. It’s partly easing up on that sharp edge, pressing hard enough for the pain that reminds me I’m alive but not so hard as to draw blood.
❤️. So beautifully put. There were two years when I was too sick to write much—or read. I started writing and reading aphorisms because that was all my brain could handle. I hope there is a way to find an edge less sharp—without letting go of all the desire.
I like the conversation between this and the previous post, the connections between suffering, patience, and imposing your will on a creative project. It also made me think about the parallels between the writing process and living in a sick/disabled body, how sometimes it still feels easier to push through (to meaning, to product, to the end of the block) than pause and listen. It can feel like defeat. I recently came across a quote attributed to the sculptor Rodin (though I can't find the source text): "Patience is its own kind of action." What a helpful reframing, and makes me imagine The Thinker, its every bronze muscle taut. Even if we only understand thinking as a prelude to action, my god it’s certainly effortful.
Thank you for your great thoughts about this. I wonder if, almost all the time, we are writing against a friction or internal guardian when we write, except for the magical moments. Some thinkers believe Freud’s great discovery was resistance. As we know, he asked analysands to lie down and close their eyes, and let associative thoughts and feelings flow (as we’d like our writing to.) The result: bubkes, nothing happened. But he didn’t think the experiment was a failure, instead he discovered there is a force that blocks us. Isn’t there almost always a monster or an angel at the gate, Cerberus or The Flaming Angel, barring the way back to our internal world, to the unconscious, and memory? Similarly with our writing: aren’t we always writing against the friction of ourselves, like forcefully riding the brake on a car? Sometimes if we push harder it brings things to a stop.
Here is what I think is a central question: if we are not getting where we want to go in our writing, what is the resistance for each of us about, and can we understand it, and tolerate what we are guarding against? If so the path forward, at best, may clear, or at least be clearer, or be more like a fluent stream unbound.
Of course we also need our frictions in our work, and in our syntax: the impeded stream is the one that sings.
Thank you for this lovely article. I write because I suffer and I suffer when I write because I write and because I don't. For me it's really hard to trust the process of writing. It's easy to write an essay, or easier, but fiction takes so much out of me. Not having the amount of time I might need for this writing practice, the energy, the presence troubles me greatly because I'm afraid the writing that I force, and force I must, won't be touched by enough grace, by enough melody.
Time pressures make it harder to be relaxed with the process, that is for sure. I find that is where intentionally playing around can help—reminding ourselves of the mess and fun of creating.
I love Glück’s work; I think she’s one of my favorite poets. Thank you for this syntactical study. As far as the relationship between suffering, life, and writing—I write if I’m suffering a certain amount. Beyond a mystical threshold in that suffering, I can’t function at all, let alone write. Writing has also caused me suffering (particularly the book I’m working on now, which is the hardest book I’ve tried to write thus far). I imagine we could have a nice, long talk about all of these things!
So resonant! I 'd come to a standstill writing memoir (do I have the right form? can I withstand the pain? will anyone care?), so I focused on my weekly blog posts, hoping I'd find a direction. Then I was flattened (literally) by a fractured spine and the death of my mother (and all sorts of attendant family nonsense). After almost eight weeks of writing barely a word, I was terrified. Ultimately, I realized I was putting too much pressure on myself and thought "what if I just sneak up on it?" Take walks and daydream, brainstorm, write notes, engage with the writing community? It seems to be working.
This is exactly where I am right now. I was grinding through, writing every day, suffering, trying to force the material. Then my life circumstances prevented me from writing for months. Now that I can get back to it, I am acutely aware that I still need to breathe and allow myself to answer some questions, unlock material, through gentle effort and attention. There will be a time to grind again, but not yet.
Thank you for this. I feel such shame and imposter syndrome for not writing every day, week, month. But several of the best pieces I have hidden away have come from some deeper well, rather than my daily work. I was reflecting last week on whether/how to bring those into the world. This was a good reminder that art can, and often does, come from an alchemy of muse, openness, and the grind.
I am in the midst of a long period of not writing, one enforced by illness. I don’t know if I’ll write again. I don’t know if I’ll be well enough to write again, and if I should be so blessed as to be well enough, I don’t know that that’s what I’ll choose to spend my precious remaining functionality doing.
I try not to suffer too much about it. I try not to press myself so hard against my desires that I cut into my own flesh. And I’ve released those desires far more than I ever have before, to some extent accepting that I may never be well enough to carry out an extended project. But the word “accepting” does a lot of work here. What does it mean exactly? It doesn’t mean giving up those desires, because doing so completely feels like giving up me. It’s partly accepting the suffering that goes with desires I can’t fulfill. It’s partly easing up on that sharp edge, pressing hard enough for the pain that reminds me I’m alive but not so hard as to draw blood.
❤️. So beautifully put. There were two years when I was too sick to write much—or read. I started writing and reading aphorisms because that was all my brain could handle. I hope there is a way to find an edge less sharp—without letting go of all the desire.
I like the conversation between this and the previous post, the connections between suffering, patience, and imposing your will on a creative project. It also made me think about the parallels between the writing process and living in a sick/disabled body, how sometimes it still feels easier to push through (to meaning, to product, to the end of the block) than pause and listen. It can feel like defeat. I recently came across a quote attributed to the sculptor Rodin (though I can't find the source text): "Patience is its own kind of action." What a helpful reframing, and makes me imagine The Thinker, its every bronze muscle taut. Even if we only understand thinking as a prelude to action, my god it’s certainly effortful.
Thank you! I love that quote.
Thank you for your great thoughts about this. I wonder if, almost all the time, we are writing against a friction or internal guardian when we write, except for the magical moments. Some thinkers believe Freud’s great discovery was resistance. As we know, he asked analysands to lie down and close their eyes, and let associative thoughts and feelings flow (as we’d like our writing to.) The result: bubkes, nothing happened. But he didn’t think the experiment was a failure, instead he discovered there is a force that blocks us. Isn’t there almost always a monster or an angel at the gate, Cerberus or The Flaming Angel, barring the way back to our internal world, to the unconscious, and memory? Similarly with our writing: aren’t we always writing against the friction of ourselves, like forcefully riding the brake on a car? Sometimes if we push harder it brings things to a stop.
Here is what I think is a central question: if we are not getting where we want to go in our writing, what is the resistance for each of us about, and can we understand it, and tolerate what we are guarding against? If so the path forward, at best, may clear, or at least be clearer, or be more like a fluent stream unbound.
Of course we also need our frictions in our work, and in our syntax: the impeded stream is the one that sings.
Great questions here! A lot to think about.
Thank you for this lovely article. I write because I suffer and I suffer when I write because I write and because I don't. For me it's really hard to trust the process of writing. It's easy to write an essay, or easier, but fiction takes so much out of me. Not having the amount of time I might need for this writing practice, the energy, the presence troubles me greatly because I'm afraid the writing that I force, and force I must, won't be touched by enough grace, by enough melody.
Time pressures make it harder to be relaxed with the process, that is for sure. I find that is where intentionally playing around can help—reminding ourselves of the mess and fun of creating.
You are so right. And I know that but for some reason I constantly need to be reminded of it.
I love Glück’s work; I think she’s one of my favorite poets. Thank you for this syntactical study. As far as the relationship between suffering, life, and writing—I write if I’m suffering a certain amount. Beyond a mystical threshold in that suffering, I can’t function at all, let alone write. Writing has also caused me suffering (particularly the book I’m working on now, which is the hardest book I’ve tried to write thus far). I imagine we could have a nice, long talk about all of these things!
Yes we could! Hard books are difficult but rewarding. 🥰
So resonant! I 'd come to a standstill writing memoir (do I have the right form? can I withstand the pain? will anyone care?), so I focused on my weekly blog posts, hoping I'd find a direction. Then I was flattened (literally) by a fractured spine and the death of my mother (and all sorts of attendant family nonsense). After almost eight weeks of writing barely a word, I was terrified. Ultimately, I realized I was putting too much pressure on myself and thought "what if I just sneak up on it?" Take walks and daydream, brainstorm, write notes, engage with the writing community? It seems to be working.
That is a lot to endure. I love your insight about “sneaking up on it.”❤️
This is exactly where I am right now. I was grinding through, writing every day, suffering, trying to force the material. Then my life circumstances prevented me from writing for months. Now that I can get back to it, I am acutely aware that I still need to breathe and allow myself to answer some questions, unlock material, through gentle effort and attention. There will be a time to grind again, but not yet.
This is so beautifully put.
Here’s what struck me about Gluck’s syntax; Dante does precisely the same thing in the opening lines of the Commedia:
“When half way through the journey of my life
I found that I was in a gloomy wood,
because the path which led aright was lost”
Ah, great connection; I have to imagine, knowing how serious a reader of poetry she was, that had that echo in her consciously or unconsciously.
I love your craft note. “There was a door
At the end of my suffering.” A completely different poem! And a less striking one.
Thank you for this. I feel such shame and imposter syndrome for not writing every day, week, month. But several of the best pieces I have hidden away have come from some deeper well, rather than my daily work. I was reflecting last week on whether/how to bring those into the world. This was a good reminder that art can, and often does, come from an alchemy of muse, openness, and the grind.