PROCESS
People sometimes ask me about process. As in, how do I go about creating stories? There’s no definitive answer. I’ll go out on a limb and say it’s not easy. There’s much down time, false starts, and spinning wheels. There’s time spent staring at the blank page or empty computer screen. Pretty much on a daily basis I’ll stop and ask myself—what the fuck am I doing?
To be clear: when I speak to process, I’m not referring to creativity in itself. That burden/gift/desire is separate and distinct from what follows. Think about this essay like a guide to help you achieve your artistic goals.
Over time I’ve found a system that more or less works for me. I’m a morning guy, mostly—though those hours around dusk, just me, my random jottings, and a glass of wine, have brought surprising depth and clarity to whatever I was sweating over earlier in the day. Music can help move the muse. I’ve played songs over and over if the music or lyrics (or the song’s mood) lend emotional currency or flood my mind with images. I wouldn’t rely too heavily on caffeine, alcohol or stimulants when indulging the imagination. Better to be rested, eat right, and drinks lots of water. A balanced peaceful presence usually grants more consistent, thoughtful work.
On my best days I’m plugged into the dream. Time stands still. Nothing and everything’s computing in the loveliest, most effortless way. The story just tells itself. Unfortunately, those days are few and far between.
There’s a book I go to for inspiration called Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey. In a nutshell, Currey writes lively, vivid vignettes about famous choreographers, painters, thinkers, composers, and writers of the past few hundred years. You learn that Freud had his beard trimmed first thing every morning by a local barber, that Ann Rice wrote at night and slept during the day (somehow that makes perfect sense), and workaholic George Gershwin wrote the first composition of the day in his pajamas. Early in her career, Toni Morrison didn’t have the luxury to write fulltime. She carved out space predawn or on weekends. It wasn’t until the 1990s when Morrison was afforded a more lenient schedule. She rose at 5am, brewed coffee, and watched the sunrise. “Writers all devise ways to approach that place where they expect to make the contact, where they become the conduit, or where they engage in this mysterious process,” she said. “For me, light is the signal in the transaction…it enables me, in some sense.”
But the big takeaway from Currey’s book is hinted at in the title. Nearly every artist he writes about abides to ritual with a zealousness that borders on obsession.
What can we take from Daily Rituals: How Artists Work beyond the obvious?
Be conscious of what works (and what doesn’t) in your creative process.
As you hone your process, begin making it a habit—that means working daily, no excuses. Apparently, Stephen King writes on major holidays and his birthday.
Be flexible. Just because you set aside 6-8am to write, sculpt, draw or what have you, doesn’t mean the material produced each morning will be on par with Shakespeare or Picasso.
Similarly, take it easy. The harder we try to make something significant the more those attempts feel or sound forced or unreal. The creative process is about letting go, trusting one’s instinct, taking chances, and making mistakes.
Think like an athlete. Rome wasn’t built in a day. To be merely competent at something takes hours of repetitive work, as well as huge chunks of time. You’re in this for the long haul. Think big picture. Have realistic, achievable goals. Margaret Atwood popularity may be your dream, but start with wowing a writing group first.
Understand that most of what you create will be complete shit. And that’s okay. The flip side of making all that shit? The better you recognize material worth exploring.
Find joy in mini-revelations. I’m learning to cross-country skate ski this winter. It’s arduous. There’s a level of skill involved where all the body mechanics work in tandem. Half the time I feel like a complete hack. But every so often I have a minor breakthrough. Find motivation in those little wins.
Put the phone away. Bury it in the backyard or leave it in a pail of water. Trust me, the machine is pure evil.
Use exercise the way the Hemingway’s and Fitzgerald’s of the past self-medicated. Walk the dog, do pull-ups or dead lifts, climb the stairs. Be active to clear the head or think big ideas.
Step away from the work. Let that shit breathe. It might be a day, a week, or a few months. In the interim, start something new.
Lastly, enjoy the process. Creating should be challenging, but also soul-satisfyingly fun.