A friend of mine has a finely tuned sense of intuition. It shapes the way she lives. Whether it’s the solution to a maths problem, the conclusion of an essay, a decision or a process to be implemented, my friend has a glimmer, an inspired glimpse of how things should be. She works out the steps needed to make that thing possible. Then she moves towards it, aware of potential twists and turns and necessary re-tracings, being sure at each point to test the rightness of the path she is taking.
I find this inspirational on so many levels: a model for life, for effective relationships, for work, play, and creativity.
My own intuitive followings, when they happen, occur most frequently in the mornings. It’s the time I feel closest to my unconscious self, on the threshold between sleep and wakefulness. It’s no coincidence, I think, that in The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron advocates the use of freeform journal writing in the morning, first thing, before the conscious mind has woken up. These ‘morning pages’ – or any regular journaling habit – establish discipline and routine. But more importantly, this process enables us to listen to ourselves. Containing, perhaps, exhilaration, pain, surprise, the creative engagement speaks our emotional journey. But the writing itself – the fact that we do it – can also provide us with a map, a way of testing our route, of assessing how far we’ve come from that vision of ourselves or our creative project. The writing helps us see, at each twist and turn, whether we’re following the power of the initial intention that set us off on the journey in the first place.
And, of course, the writing can foster awareness of what the journey needs to be.
When it comes to fiction, I try to listen for those followings by entering the dream world of the story. I’m sure I’m not alone in finding this process easier when in motion or on an actual journey: running, walking, musing on a train. Then I plan each scene quickly, measuring the framework against my first impulse, usually having a sense of where it should end. As I write, I return often to that intuitive following, but always remaining open to how things might need to be altered, changes in direction, a new design. In this sense I’m more architect than journeyman, more builder than traveller. For me, writing is a spirit level. The key is to be true to the bubble that floats in the small, clear window in the centre – the absolute rightness of the original idea.
What tools, for you, are most effective in life and creativity? I’d love to hear.
I first read this on the day you posted it, Rachel. I’ve been pushing it around in my mind since.
As you might expect, I completely ‘get’ the first part of your post. That’s the kind of approach to writing that clangs bells for me. Your description of the fiction writing process is therefore fascinating as it casts a light onto something outside my ken.
That’s the bit I’ve been churning round. And I think I will continue to do so. Which is a good thing!
In answer to the question you pose I’d say that my most creative thinking (whether in relation to life or other creativity) happens when I take my eye off the ball. It happens in my periphery vision.
Which I would do well to remember as I stare at a blank page and concentrate really hard, finally telling myself, ‘you can’t do this today; you’re blocked’!
Great food for thought, Rachel. Thank you.
I think there are so many similarities between the processes of writing fiction and other kinds of writing: journal, memoir, ‘creative non fiction.’ Whatever the label we use, I think it’s about making connections between those glimmers of thought or images, and opening up enough to follow them. The more open we are to those leadings, the easier the flow. And, in this sense, the being open and listening is the greatest tool we have, I think (and why I believe that ‘writing fiction’ – fiction with a capital F what we buy on the shelves – isn’t any more valid than any other kind of writing). For sure, it’s not always easy – there are times when we’re inevitably closed to ourselves and others for whatever reason. But there’s something in that struggle – whatever the genre or type of writing – that keeps us alive, keeps us connected with the spirit.
Thank you for commenting, Jan, and for sharing this. I love your image of peripheral vision. I know I tend to beat myself up if I don’t feel I’ve ‘achieved’ enough by getting enough words down on the page – so that’s a wonderful reminder!
(someone else I know says he’s most creative when bored). So – here’s to looking sideways! That might make another interesting post!