I’m on a much-anticipated writing retreat, in search of story. This time has been booked since August last year. My husband is at home making sure the school/homework/sports/high school application wheels keep turning. Bless him and his sexy ass.
And here I am, reveling in swathes of time to myself in a peaceful setting. There are fourteen of us here at the Grail Centre in Kleinmond, watched over by green mountain giants and lulled to sleep by the song of the sea, all hoping our pens will lead us to our own Holy Grail.
I’ve been coming to this retreat twice a year for the past six or seven years. As I walk the familiar pathway to the writing room where we all gather in the mornings, I see my younger self walking ahead of me.
She is light on her feet, filled with hope, elated at finding this writing community, custodian of a story burning in her heart that she is determined to put out into the world somehow.
My present self watches her with a kind of envy. Although I am proud that my story found a published path into the world two years ago, and that I have become part of a generous and lively literary community, I feel somehow heavier now, a bit more burdened by the weightiness of life.
I worry that this is somehow wrong, dysfunctional. That it ‘shouldn’t’ be like this. That I have made some wrong choices further up the track.
Worst of all, there’s an expectation that this sense of heaviness, a kind of loss of innocence, should translate into better writing. Surely my words should have more heft, be more nuanced, my paragraphs richly layered proof of my hard-won maturity. Surely.
But rather than a romantic quest for mythical treasure, picking up my pen now feels like I’m pushing an old truck up a hill. Sweaty and stodgy.
I find myself bored with the words I usually use, impatient with the images and metaphors that spring to my mind. I pick up word after word in my repertoire, turn it over, consider it… then toss it back.
It’s like looking through the clothes in my cupboard, shoving one hanger after another aside, not feeling excited by any of the colours or styles I see.
I’m currently reading Braiding Sweetgrass, a poetic memoir/rumination on nature by Robin Wall Kimmerer, interspersed with an action-packed thriller by Harlan Coben.
And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to encapsulate heart-opening depth like Kimmerer does in a few well-chosen sentences. Or if I’ll ever write zinging, witty dialogue like Coben excels at.
This cha-cha with my demons is so bloody familiar. I know the steps. And (I suppose it’s one of the benefits of getting older) I know how to slip out of their grasp and dance my own steps.
I know that I need to tuck my self-doubt affectionately under my arm, and just walk down that familiar path to the writing room. I know I need to pull up a chair to the table, open up my book and put some words, any words, down.
And I know that I need to listen.
Two nights ago, in our shared cottage, I heard movement in a corner of my bedroom. There was a tiny frog, the size of the top part of my thumb, giving little leaps against the white wall, and landing wetly on the tiles.
First, I panicked and called for help. (Thank God my fellow writer is braver with amphibians than I am.)
But once the frog had been safely relocated outside (thanks Debs!) I tried to hear what it was saying, this baby frog. At a time when I’m on the search for a story to follow the heart story that came out in the form of my memoir, Boiling a Frog Slowly.
And the message I hear: take baby leaps forward. Keep jumping. You’ll eventually find the way.
And then, I received notification of a comment sent yesterday about my long defunct blog on WordPress, on an essay that was posted five years ago. ‘Love this, Cathy’, it read. So, I revisited this old blog of mine about the inner critic and how to slip out of its grasp.
And it was exactly what I needed to read:
Go Big or Go Small, But Do It
Once upon a time, there lived a little white daisy. Her slender stem had unfurled in the crevice between two rocks and there she spent her days. When it was windy, she bowed her head to the breeze. When it was sunny, she turned her face up to the sun. One morning, as the new day gathered its strength and touched a cloud here, a tree there, with its fingertips of light, the small white daisy looked over at where her tribe lay scattered in clusters along the grassy verge. She watched as each small white head lifted its face to the rays of the sun and unfurled silky petals to its warm caress.
Our little white daisy was overcome with hopelessness. What’s the use? she thought. Why should I bother? So many others are blooming. No one will notice if I just remain closed today. That daisy over there is much better at shining than I am. See how lovely and tall she stands. How silky and brilliant her petals are. What difference will it make if I choose not to bloom? No one will know or care.
For real
Now, although this little tale is silly – because thankfully, daisies don’t seem to suffer from self-doubt – this nasty inner voice is not silly. It’s all too real. I know it too well. We all do.
This inner critic makes snide remarks when we take a risk. It cuts us down when we aspire to greater things. It criticizes us when we try to be artists, scoffs when we give expression to our creative urges.
So much has been written about this critical inner voice. There are piles of books about how other creatives have grappled with this voice, reams of articles about overcoming it, tips to beat it, habits we can cultivate to quieten its noise.
Yet still, its sibilant whisper sounds in my ear.
From daisies to dragons
So, what would happen if we looked at it through the narrative of myth? What if we reframed ourselves as the heroine of our story, a story whose ultimate theme is the battle between good and evil. What if this nasty little voice was on the side of the dark, on the side of serpents and snakes? Constantly aiming to snuff out our light, to fill us with dark doubt?
Now imagine this… A writer shows up at the page and pushes her pen past this voice. An artist lets herself into her dusty studio and draws open the curtains to bring in the light so that she can paint. Someone stops and listens to their urge to create, to make something. We heed the creative call, nod and acquiesce. What if each of these small conquests is a victory in the eternal struggle of light against dark?
Imagine if each small, brave act of existence helps to tip the scales? What if we find ways in our daily lives to complete sentences like: I wish… I dream of…I’d like to try…Maybe I could…?
What if each completed manifestation of a creative urge – a poem, a sketch, a story, a painted rock, a chapter, a sewn cushion cover, a flower arrangement – creates a spark of light? What if each little chink of light does its bit to crowd out the darkness that waits, the darkness that gathers in the dusty corners where we store our unfinished manuscripts, our ripped-up paintings, our rolled-up sketches.
Because when we let this doubting voice gain strength; when we hide ourselves; when we turn away from an inner yearning and shake our heads, tell ourselves impatiently to grow up; then this critical, negative voice wins.
I’m not suggesting that we then err on the side of blind faith in our supreme talent and harbour visions of stepping onto the floodlit stage of ‘Idols’, to global acclaim. That’s not the point.
Our relationship with life
Doing battle with this snake voice isn’t about the world or how we are viewed by others. The point is it’s about our relationship with ourselves and with the life force that flows in our blood. The point is that these creative sparks, these shy urges, link us to ourselves, and to life.
Let’s look once again at the simple white daisy. She unfurls her petals in the growing heat of the morning and lifts her face to the sun, because she must. It’s a biological imperative that runs in the green sap rising along her stem. She blooms shamelessly and fearlessly every morning because that’s just what she does. It’s her reason for being.
So, if there’s a shitty little serpent voice in your head wearing you down and getting on your case – go big. Be a hero in the ultimate battle for the light. Conquer the dark dragons and let your creative flame burn bright.
Or go really small. Be a simple white daisy and turn your face up to the light. Bloom. Write. Sketch. Bake. Craft. Dream. Make something.
Just because.
Just because you must.
Amen sister! I think I comment that, or at least think it, after every single one of your posts. So glad the retreat is proving fruitful and so very glad that you pushed past the inner critic.
I’m just about to start Braiding Sweetgrass - have been saving it and now can’t wait to start. Thanks for a lovely resonant post, Cathy -