On Wednesdays, I share posts, fables, songs, poems, quotations, TEDx Talks, cartoons, and books that have inspired and motivated me on my writing journey. I hope these posts will give writers, artists, and other creatives a mid-week boost.
In a recent post on the Writer Unboxed blog, writer/photographer Kelsey Allagood shared the following insights:
We writers talk a lot about sustainability. About how to not burn out, how to protect the work, how to make space for our creative selves while also having to pay rent and answer emails. We talk less about how dynamic that process actually is. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that sustainability is a state I can achieve, or an end goal, like once I’ve figured out my morning routine or my word count goal or my relationship to social media, I can then stay there. I will have achieved it: the State of Balance™.
Unfortunately, the writing life (mine, at least) has never been still. We get jobs. We lose jobs. A family member moves in. A season shifts. Our relationship to the work shifts—sometimes we’re deep inside it and sometimes we’re circling it from the outside like maybe we’ve forgotten what it’s for. And maybe the balance we worked so hard to build a year ago might not even be the right balance for who we are now.
What I’ve had to learn, repeatedly, is that the adjustments themselves are the practice. Noticing that the work has gone quiet and turning toward it again without self-recrimination (personally, this is the hardest). Or noticing that I’ve been in production mode for so long that I’ve stopped reading, stopped dreaming, stopped absorbing anything, and choosing to open a window. Noticing that I’ve been waiting for inspiration and actually what I need to do is just sit down. These are micro-corrections. They’re so small that sometimes I don’t recognize them as acts of craft.
But they are. They’re the same intelligence that keeps us upright on one leg.
I don’t think we master balance in our writing lives any more than we can master tree pose. I certainly haven’t mastered either. What I’ve gotten better at—slowly, inconsistently, much like my yoga practice—is recognizing when I’m starting to tip. Making the adjustment a little faster. Stopping expecting the stillness to last and starting to trust that I can find it again, not because I’m stable, but because I’ve practiced returning.
I keep coming back to yoga the way I keep coming back to writing. Not because I’ve gotten good at it. Because every time I come back, I remember what it feels like to be in the body I actually have, in the life I’m actually living, making the small corrections that keep me here.
Allen Levi did not expect anyone beyond his family and close friends to read this novel. A lawyer, judge, and musician, he simply wanted to test his creative limits and discover whether he “had the muscle to write a piece of long fiction.” If he succeeded, he planned to tuck the manuscript away in a drawer and return to his regular life.
Joanne Guidoccio 