Breaking Through Writer's Block - a guest post from Rose

Today I have a guest post for you from creative midwife, and my former neighbor, Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux. We're doing a blog post swap today, so you can read my post - about living seasonally - over at her blog, Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux. We hope these posts spark your creativity on these cold (Cold!) January days. Also, Rose is leading a retreat for writers and artists at the camp just around the corner on my lake on Feb. 1-3. So if you want to check out my neck of the woods in the middle of winter, consider attending!

You have stories to tell, but…sometimes you get stuck. Nothing comes out. You don’t know where or how to start.

First, let me say that everyone, everyone experiences this. It’s nothing to feel ashamed of or waste time worrying over. And it’s really simple to fix.

Here’s how you open up the clogged creative channel and get those stories flowing.

Low to Mid-Grade Writer’s Block

When you just need a nudge.

Think of writing like running.

When I haven’t run in a long time, the first few jogs feel… terrible! I feel ill. My lungs burn. My feet are slow and clunky. I ask myself over and over, in cadence with my breath, Why this was a good idea? How is this getting me anywhere?

Then I’m sore, and I don’t really want to do it again.

But when I do, and when I do it for a week… that sick feeling goes away. I may not be that fast. I often still pout and fuss a bit about starting, but the resistence diminishes.

And there are even days when the run is glorious. When I don’t put it off, when I look forward to it.

As I go out more and more, I start to build up evidence that This is going somewhere. I accumulate enough “good” runs that I stop being stopped by the Inner Critic who tells me It’s not worth it.

Julia Cameron (The Artist’s Way, The Right to Write) says we must put in the slow miles as writers just as runners do. Keep the hand moving. Keep the words clicking across the screen. Putting in time today, even just 10 minutes, will keep the momentum and make it easier tomorrow.

The solution for Low- to Mid-Grade Writer’s Block: START.

Easy, right? *wink, wink*

High to Red-Alert Writer’s Block:

When you need a life-line

But what if you can’t even get started? What if there is some serious sewage backed up and you have writer’s block so badly it feels like the dry heaves?

I felt that way this summer.

I had come back from a really hard year living in India, and had started a (really hard) job managing a hotel. Oh, and I was trying to keep on liking my husband and our 2-and-a-half-year-old. 

I had undergone so much change that I wanted to find a peice of myself that was familiar, creative, safe. I wanted to write, because a lifetime ago, I had written stories and poems. It had been easy, once.

But I just felt tired. I felt exhausted. And I felt overwhelmed by how to start. How do you write when you don’t feel inspired? Not even a little bit? How do you write to throw yourself a life line?

Julia says that we put too much stock in being inspired. She says, “Log the slow miles.”

I scowled at her (much annoted) book in my hands. “Yeah, but how?? I have nothing.”

Then I remembered Morning Pages. 

Morning Pages are three pages written longhand, without stopping, first thing in the morning. 

More on Morning Pages:

Julia’s VideoWhy I love them

There is no wrong way to write them. You can write: I don’t know what to write, I don’t know what to write, I don’t know what to write… for three pages. (You might write biting criticisms or dissect an interation with your spouse, or go on and on in run-on sentences).

The point is, there is no wrong way to do them. And that’s what saved me. What counts is quantity, not quality. It was three pages of anything.

Instead of listening to the Inner Critic and insisting on a masterpeice, I allowed myself my son’s entire nap to just fill paper. To write three pages. 

(And another three pages. And another… There was a lot of gunk to get out.) 

When I finished I looked up and felt… free. Lighter. 

Yes, my life was still in half-unpacked boxes and my son would wake from his nap in 15 minutes… But I felt clear. The clogged channel had opened up enough. I could feel the trickle of current. I could dip my toes in.

I took that remaining 15 minutes to write.

And it came out on the page in loose and flowing script. I had already exhausted the Inner Critic’s arsenal of Reasons Not to Write.

And after that, I was so happy. I was fed. I was at peace. I was a much nicer mom because I had had my playtime, too.

Situational Writer’s Block

When you need a jump start

Lately I have been writing regularly enough that the big blockages haven’t been possible. The current keeps moving. But sometimes, as I work on my young adult book, The Queen of Utopia, I feel that same frustration: Nothing is coming out and I just don’t know what to do next!

So I write. I give myself as much paper space as I need, despite the Inner Critic howling that I’m wasting my time and this isn’t “real” writing. I do three pages right in the middle of a stalling chapter if I have to.

I write that I am feeling confused, that I really want the plot to move along, that I don’t have any idea how that character from chapter 2 is going to reappear, that I have forgotten that great idea I had last week…

I write my concerns. And I listen for answers. Then I write the answers down. Inevitably, I find the current and I start writing again.

It sounds crazy to say, “If you have writer’s block, just write.” But that’s how it works. Just write. Just write anything. Write postcards. Write journal entries. Write Morning Pages. Write to the characters stuck in your head.

Trust me on this. As you write, as you get those terrible, stumbling miles on the page, you will limber up, the skies will clear, and best of all, you will begin to trust the process, and trust yourself.

Meet Your Muse - Be Prolific - Let Your Stories Out,

Rose Arrowsmith DeCoux

About Rose:

Rose is a Writer, Storyteller, & Creative Midwife. 

She spent a decade as a proffessional storyteller, character artist and stilt-walker. In 2011 her family left the woods of Northern Minnesota to live in India. After a transformative and deeply challenging year, they returned to Grand Marais, MN; briefly ran a hotel, and now are setting up a yurt in the woods.

Rose offers Artist Retreats, Virtual Writing Groups, Creative Coaching, and Guided Meditations. Find out more at www.arrowsmithdecoux.blogspot.com 

Read more ...

This Ridiculous Life

There are times when I wonder if my life is ridiculous. And then there are times when I know my life is ridiculous.

Take last Monday for example.

Just a typical workday out of the home office. I got a couple hours of work done on a contracted project, then headed out the door to head over to the neighboring youth camp to do an interview for an article.

The camp's about a five-minute drive away, but the camp's only two bays down on the lake and since I'm sans wheels at the moment, I was hoofing it. (Remember, anything with motors hates me. Yes, I think by now that might actually be a literal statement.) I pulled on my rubber boots, hopped onto the power line just a little ways down our road and made a beeline for the camp. If I went by road, it would take me close to 45 minutes to walk from the cabin to the camp, but by using the powerline shortcut, it's less than a twenty minute hike. I guess that thing about straight lines being the shortest distance between two points really is true. ;)

It had snowed the night before and as I walked along the powerline, I noticed all sorts of little deer tracks. A lot of the shrubs (aka, "browse" in the deer hunting world) had been chomped on by little deer mouths too. I internally rolled my eyes as I realized just how much time I'd spent deer scouting this year and how ingrained deer scouting observations had become in me. I'd left a monster deer hanging in our shop back in the cabin. Deer season was so decidedly over for our household and yet here I was, in the woods, by myself, and unable to not notice deer signs. *sigh*

I had a lovely interview with Will, the camp manager. We drank tea. We chatted about winter activities at the camp (as per my article assignment) and other things, like the awkward time that comes between college graduation and what actually feels like real adulthood, and deer hunting. Of course. Will was still hoping to get a deer and had been devoting most of his mornings to hunting, but with little luck.

After the interview wrapped up, we headed outside to get a photo for the article. We headed down the cabin path and out to the camp driveway so we could get a shot of the entrance sign.

And that's when we spotted just about the littlest buck you've ever seen.

"Are you kidding me?" Will said. "Did that thing have antlers?"

 I nodded.

"Do you mind if I go get my gun?"

"No."

He ran back to the cabin. While he was gone, the deer and I stared at each other for a good long while, then the deer walked back down the road and hopped onto the powerline I'd been walking on the hour before. Will returned, I snapped a couple quick pictures for the article and then we went off in search of the buck.

Then this happened.

I know what you're wondering: why is Will wearing a life jacket? The main part of the camp is actually located on two islands (we were on the mainland) and he needed to motor over to the islands after we wrapped up the interview. 

And yeah, and why yes, another deer was shot right in front of me, which I then assisted in tracking and which I then took the obligatory "hunter with dead animal" pictures of. Oh, and then I helped drag the deer out of the woods . . . all while wearing my pea coat and a fashionable (dare I say, jaunty) tartan scarf. Happily, this was a much (much) smaller deer than the one Andy'd shot the week before and we just had to drag the deer about 100 yards through the woods . . . all downhill!  (Oh heaven's be praised!) While I'm a little sad that this deer didn't have a chance to grow up to be a bit of a monster himself, I'm glad I helped someone else stock their winter larder.

But seriously, you guys, I think I'm going pro next year as a professional deer slinger. For a totally reasonable fee, I will accompany aspiring deer hunters in the field. I will direct them as to which way the deer has gone, take the hunters' picture with the deer and then help them drag their deer out of the woods. Because, I kid you not, this is the third deer I helped move this year. I'm a lean, mean, venison moving machine.

Once Will and I had brought the deer down to the road, I headed back into the woods to head home via the powerline. After a bit of lunch, I returned to my home office to finish up my workday. Every so often that afternoon, I caught myself smiling whenever I thought of the latest "ridiculous" adventure I'd just added to my personal archives.

You know, life can be hard and frustrating, but at least there are plenty of surprisingly ridiculous moments in it to keep us smiling and in awe of all the unexpectedness life has in store for us.  


 

Read more ...

I will judge you

Source: someecards.com via Devon on Pinterest

I have a teensy, weensy little problem with being judgmental.

I mean, it's not a big deal.

For example, the other evening we were listening to the radio and the folk singer dedicated his next song to his daughter, Sienna.

"Sienna?!" I nearly shrieked. "What kind of person names their kid after a minivan? I mean, what's her brother named? Sorento?"

But everyone does that  . . . right?  (No offense to any Mamas or Papas of Siennas -- or Sorentos for that matter -- out there.)

The truth is, I've been judgmental as long as I can remember. When I first took the Myers-Briggs back in Sunday School, I didn't really understand the difference between having a judging or perceiving personality. But my parents laughed pretty hard when they heard that all but one of my answers indicated a judging personality.  (Now why we were taking Myers-Briggs personality tests in Sunday School, I can not tell you. All I know is that I was raised in the United Church of Christ which is filled with dirty hippies bleeding-liberals the belief that we are all God's children and that there is no wrong or right way to go about religious instruction.) To this day, my introversion and judging are the two factors of my personality that show up most decidedly on such tests.

And you know those quote board you kept in your dorm room or apartment during college? One of the quotes attributed to me was: "I don't know her and I don't want to know her. I just want to judge her."  I think the quote was somehow related to someone's Facebook profile page. (Back when Facebook was just for college kids. Remember those days?) Regardless of how that quote came about, I mean, good grief.

I swear I'm not an awful, heinous person. I'm perfectly capable of being friends (good friends) with people who don't share my political, religious, or ideological belief system. I'm tolerant of other cultures. I try to approach life with an open mind.  I've just always had an issue with expressing my snap judgements verbally. Apparently the axiom "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" just never stuck in my brain.

Lately, I've been thinking I should probably work on not saying the first thing that pops into my head. You know, at least not all the time. 

But it's hard, you know.

Like last night, when I was sitting on couch, knitting away on a sock and noticed an unfamiliar truck rumble by the cabin. Because the cabin's perched on the tip of a bay, we have a great view of the road that loops around the bay and as I watched the truck creep up the road it became obvious that these people had no idea where they were. The truck went all the way up the farthest driveway, then backed out and stopped at the far end of the road.

Four men popped out of the truck's cab, all dressed in grey tops and jeans. Three of them had fishing poles in their hands and they each proceeded to hop onto various docks. Not public docks, mind you, docks owned by summer residents of the bay. One of them even jumped onto a dock which is anchored slightly offshore. (The docks are all anchored "at sea" during the winter months so they can bob around when the ice goes out and not get ripped to shreds.) The fourth member of the party walked down the road, picking up rocks and hurling them into the lake.Then, after about 10 minutes of casting their lines and throwing rocks, just as suddenly as they'd come, they all popped into their truck and drove off, never to be seen again.

All the while, I sat on the couch, knitting away. All that was needed to make me a "real" old biddy was a shawl, some glasses on a beaded lanyard, and a rocking chair. I didn't say anything at all. (Full disclosure: I was home alone.) But I sure judged the snot out of them.

Please make me not feel like a horrible person and tell me I'm not alone in making awful, off the cuff, "I don't know the whole story" judgements. And please, if you know how to make it stop, let me know!  I promise I won't judge . . . too harshly. ;)

 

Read more ...

A Dog Story

"You didn't tell Jack's story," Andy said, looking up from reading through Thursday's post.

It's true, when I posted the picture of Jack, the little Shetland sheep dog I dogsat on and off this weekend, I just didn't have time to share Jack's dramatic little tale.

Get your hankies, folks. Here comes a dog story ala James Herriot and Greyfriars Bobby.

Jack belongs to an elderly couple who live on the other side of our lake. In the last couple years, both of Jack's owners have been dealing with some major, serious illnesses. Then, after the Mrs. had been moved into an assisted living facility, the Mr. drove into town with Jack when they were in a single vehicle accident. The vehicle rolled multiple times while Jack bounced around like a ping-pong ball inside. Eventually the vehicle wrapped itself around a rock. 

Amazingly, both Jack and his owner survived. There were lots of broken bones and bruises on both counts. Although Jack popped right out of the damaged vehicle and was walking on the side of the road when the emergency vehicles arrived, he was rushed to emergency surgery where his spleen was removed.   

That accident changed a lot of things for Jack. Once he and his owner had recovered, his owners moved to a nearby city where it's easier for them to receive care and assistance for the time being. Unfortunately, Jack couldn't come with. Jack's owners hope to return to their home in the woods some day, but until they do, one of our neighbors up here is taking care of Jack. Jack visits his owners from time to time and according to all accounts, it's those reunions when he's happiest. 

I shared my dog sitting duties this weekend with another neighbor who lives not far from Jack's owners' place. While Dogsitter 2 was at work, yet another neighbor came over to let Jack out. (Jack's kind of a community dog by this point.) Dogsitter 2 always keeps Jack on a leash when he's let out, but the neighbor just let Jack out, assuming he'd do his business and head back inside. (This is a fair assumption as Jack usually does do this.) Instead, Jack took off down the road. The neighbor called and called, but Jack would not come back.

By the time Dogsitter 2 returned, the neighbor was panicked.

"Don't worry," said Dogsitter 2. "I think I knew where he is."

Dogsitter 2 walked over to Jack's owners' house. There were little pawprints leading up the steps to the front door of the dark house where Jack had pawed at the door, hoping to be let in. The pawprints then went back down the steps and wound underneath the porch. When Dogsitter 2 peer beneath the porch, he found Jack sitting underneath the porch where his pen used to be, his tail wagging like mad, waiting.

It's been months since the accident, but puppy dogs never give up hope on their beloved owners returning.

I told you that you'd need hankies.



P.S. Remember how I felt Jack was less than thrilled with how we spent Thursday? (And for the record: slow cooker yogurt was a bust.)

Don't worry. I totally won him over on Sunday.

Read more ...

Stealth Rhubarb

When we moved into the cabin last spring, I discovered the only rhubarb plant on the property looked like it came from Alice in Wonderland's miniature world. The stalks were approximately the size of my pinky.

Having grown up on my great-grandparents' homestead, which at one time hosted seven massive rhubarb plants, I didn't know if spring could really be spring without rhubarb pie, rhubarb cobbler, rhubarb muffins, warm rhubarb sauce over vanilla ice cream, rhubarb marmalade, so much rhubarb it oozed out your ears. And the neighbors, the ones on the other side of the bay who were only up a week or two at the most each summer had a garden choked with rhubarb, chives, and raspberries. It was a bramble of neglect and invasive edibles. Surely they wouldn't notice . . .

"Just take it," Andy's aunt, the longest permanent resident of the bay said.

Just take it?

So under the cover of dusk Andy, his cousin, and I stole over to the neighbor's cabin, shovel in hand. From the far corner of the garden, we took just a shovelful of rhubarb stalks and roots, hardly making a dent in the sprawling plant. Back at our cabin, we planted rhubarb in a raised bed and as we watered them, we giggle softly at our stealthy feat.

Thinking back on things, I'm not sure why I was so adamant about needing better producing rhubarb plants. The two stolen plants needed time to adjust to their new home and we didn't harvest any stalks last summer. Despite that fact, we ended up being gifted with so much rhubarb from other acquaintances that we had enough rhubarb to make a pie, muffins, sauce, and a batch of marmalade.

Barbara Kingsolver writes about zucchini season being the only time of year when people in small towns lock their houses and car doors to avoid gifts of unwanted zucchini. In northern Minnesota, rhubarb is the spring equivalent of zucchini. Even if you don't grow it, you'll manage to end up with an overabundance. It's like organic plant bombing.

Still, maybe I want to do some organic plant bombing of my own. Maybe I won't really feel like I've come of age until I can thrust Ziploc bags stuffed with fat rhubarb stalks into people's hands amid protesting.

I worried a little that karma might affect my stolen rhubarb plants. But every day the stalks grow a little bigger and we get one day closer to rhubarb pie. I have a feeling stealth rhubarb will taste just a little sweeter than any rhubarb I've ever had before.

Read more ...