Creative Fire: A kindling post

I'm working on the second installment of the "why/how to get an MFA in writing" series for the "In The Word Cellar" column, and it's slow going. I already have most of the information in my head, so writing that post should be fairly easy.

The problem is that I'm rusty. I've been busy with a lot of non-writing projects, and I haven't been making or finding the time to write much of anything. And so, inertia has set in. Putting words together comes relatively easily for me, but these days stringing together a few sentences feels like lifting heavy weights.

I've been talking to a few people about this phenomenon of the creative life. Why is starting so hard? I think it's all about inertia and energy.

You know about inertia, right? A body in motion wants to stay in motion. A body at rest wants to stay at rest. My creative muscles have been resting, and even though they feel restless and eager to move again, inertia gets in the way. Pushing through any kind of resistance is painful. Creative inertia is simply resistance, and it's what makes starting (or starting again) so unpleasant.

And now, for a fire analogy.

Last month James and I bought a new firepit for our patio. We got some wood and some fixin's for s'mores and mountain pies. Our first attempt to make a fire failed. We just couldn't get it going. We concluded that the wood must be bad, that it must have gotten wet. After all, we've built successful fires before.

(It should be noted that when I say "we" I really mean James. I'm a wee bit pyrophobic. I do not build fires. I don't even light those flimsy little matches that come in matchbooks. I don't need my fingertips quite that close to an open flame, thankyouverymuch. Give me a box of sturdy wooden matches, and I might be able to light a candle or two.)

A week later, and armed with new wood, "we" attempted another fire. This one finally got going, but it took a damn long time. (I was tempted to start eating the filling for the mountain pies straight out of the tin.) But once the blaze started, whoo-doggie, it was easy as pie (cherry) to keep it burning.

James concluded that what we were missing was the kindling. 

We had the tinder (the firestarter), and we had the fuel (the logs), but we didn't have the kindling, which are smaller pieces of wood that will catch fire from the tinder and make the fire hot enough to ignite the bigger logs.

It's all about the energy.

The kindling phase is often where I stall out creatively.

I'll have a burst of an idea. It burns fast and bright, like tinder.

Then it seems to flicker out. The idea is good, but I struggle with bulding the momentum or heat to truly get rolling. If I don't push through this phase, my start becomes a stop.

But if I can just keep going, kindling the flames of creativity, the larger pieces of the project will catch the flame and start burning.

Throw another log on the fire: That's the easy part. When the fire is already hot and crackly, you don't have to do much to keep it going.

I suppose this is a kindling post. I have lots of pieces of creative tinder lounging about in my head (and in draft blog posts). But the firepit is cold, and the logs may be a teensy bit damp. So I need to do something to warm up.

This is why I always say that writing begets more writing. Getting started is the hardest part for many of the artists and writers that I know. (It's not always the case, of course. Some people are great starters who struggle with other phases of the creative process, such as finishing. But that's another post.)

So today I journaled and wrote this little kindling post. Tonight I may edit an existing essay, and tomorrow I hope to start a new one that's been roaming around in my head for weeks. I'll also try to make time to read most days, because reading makes me want to write. And later this week, I'll finish that post about choosing an MFA program.

How do you fan the flames of creativity? What do you use as kindling? I hope you'll share in the comments.

** ** **

This is probably a good time to mention that I'm offering Alchemy Daily again this November. You get 30 days of writing prompts and bits of inspiration delivered to your inbox. There will also be a private online forum where you can to connect with other Alchemists. Plus, you'll receive an ebooklet of all the prompts so you can use them as tinder or kindling whenever you like.

I've written before about my somewhat ambivalent relationship with writing prompts, as well as my love-hate relationship with structure and deadlines. But the more seriously I take my writing life, the more I recognize that I need things like prompts and deadlines, especially during the times when I've let the creative fire go out. (Maybe prompts are the tinder and deadlines are the kindling? I don't want to take the metaphor too far.)

Messy amoeba seeks daily rhythms

My days are in disarray over here. No tragedy, nothing big. Just a bunch of little things that have clumped together and wreaked havoc on my schedule. But the problem is that I didn't have much of a schedule to begin with. My husband's work hours change every day, as do his days off each week. Since I work from home, I try to go with the flow of his schedule. This means that time swings hither and thither depending on the day. This isn't a bad thing, since it means we can coordinate time together much more easily than when I worked a standard 9-5, M-F job. I'm not complaining. I know how fortunate I am to be able to work from home and set my own schedule. I'm truly glad for it.

But as I mentioned here, I desperately need some daily and weekly rhythms. Without them, my life feels like a crazy pendulum swinging out of control one day and hanging motionless the next. It's disorienting, even for a free spirit like me. It gets worse when extra deadlines or extra play opportunities come along (sometimes at the same time; last week I started a big contract job and my husband had a week off of work). With no baseline rhythm to start from, the days become a jumble. I feel guilty when I'm not working because every hour seems like a potential hour for work. But I know I can't work or write or clean the house every waking minute.

Without some basic routine to ground me, I float frantically through my days. I suspect that I have much more time than I think I do, and I would find it if only I could establish boundaries and rhythms that work for me. (You'll notice how I avoid the term "routine," since that word makes me feel stifled and boxed-in. But a rhythm or ritual or boundary feels okay. It's semantics in a way, but words do matter.)

A lot of my writing and editing clients remark on how detail-oriented, structured, thorough, and systematic I am. And it's true: I am that way in my work for other people. But when it comes to structuring my own life, I'm more like a messy amoeba.

Trying to change everything at once is too overwhelming, so I'm trying to stick to a few daily actions to keep me centered. I try to do 20 minutes of gentle, stretching yoga when I get up. In the early evening I want to go for a 20-minute walk. At night, I need to log-off of the computer at least an hour (preferably two) before I go to bed, and do some more stretching and meditation to calm my mind.

What works for you? How do you structure your days? What can a messy amoeba do to establish some rhythms? I'm really looking for suggestions and tips here, so please share in the comments.

An interview on Seek Your Course

a corner of my studio

I have an interview up today over at Seek Your Course. (It was fun to answer questions on topics as wide ranging as my morning drink of choice to how I connect with my Muse.)

Do you know Seek Your Course? Jess Greene started this website database and resource to connect people like you (those desiring to live creatively) with creative learning opportunities. Here's Jess's account of how the idea came to her:

One weekday in January 2011 I was home sick lying in bed finally catching up on some blogs when I discovered three new ecourses being taught by artists I love that I had not known about. Those of us with blog feeds or Google Reader know that staying current is really a part-time job. The announcement for these new courses had gotten buried and slipped through. Suddenly in my state of half-delirium I had an idea: we need one place to go to find out what creative workshops and courses are being taught. Bam! My nerves got all electrified and my eyes widened. That was it. I had to do it.

I'm happy to be a sponsor of SYC and to list my Alchemy writing courses there. Please go check it out to see all of the exciting creative learning opportunities listed.

(Speaking of which: The "early bird" registration discount for Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing ends tonight at midnight ET. Registration will stay open after that, but the discount will be gone. I'd love for you to join us! Class starts Sept. 5.)

Alchemy registrations open

magical back-to-school notebooks where I doodle about Alchemy

I'm emerging from my creative slump and feeling quite peppy today because I just opened registration for Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing and Alchemy Daily. It's like the back-to-school excitement without the early mornings, lunchboxes, or kneesocks (though you can totally rock the kneesocks if you want to).

Alchemy, The Art & Craft of Writing is the six-week course. It starts September 5, which is in just two weeks! A bunch of you have been asking me when I was going to run this course again. It's here! I hope you can join me.

The course is designed to work whether you're a beginning or more seasoned writer. I structured the content so you can choose what you need as you go. Each week is packed with writing tips and techniques, prompts, inspiration, and a featured guest. (Have you seen the guests? I love them. They include amazing people such as author/authenticity rockstar Brené Brown and the wisely effervescent poet/author/teacher Susan Wooldridge.) In addition to oodles of useful and inspiring content, there's a big community aspect to Alchemy. As a participant, you get a personal virutal notebook where you can share your writing and connect with your fellow Alchemists.

As I said, the six-week course starts on September 5 (which is also Labor Day here in the U.S.). It runs until October 16, but the content and community will stay open until November 30. So you'll have plenty of time to soak it all in.

And then, Alchemy Daily will run the whole month of November, which is the perfect time to give yourself the gift of a daily dose of inspiration and writing prompts. Writing at least a little bit every day helps to keep me grounded, and I'm looking forward to playing along with the daily prompts in my own journal. This session includes access to a private discussion forum where you can meet your fellow Alchemists, plus -- and this is all new! -- an ebooklet of all the prompts. This means you can easily stash them away for a rainy day when your creativity needs a little encouragement.

I'm pulling up my kneesocks and looking forward to seeing you in one (or both!) sessions.

{p.s. I'm dreaming and doodling in my magic notebooks about some new ideas for writing courses and community for next year. If you'd like to see me offer something in particular, drop me a note. What's your dream writing course, workshop, or gathering? It can be virtual or in-person. Dream with me!}

Why Get an MFA in Writing? (In The Word Cellar)

notes for my graduating lecture, "The Secret Life of Language"

Back in May I declared that I would revive the bi-monthly "In The Word Cellar" writing column with a mini-series on choosing an MFA program. But then for the rest of May and part of June I was frantically finishing up work for my degree. By mid-June I was scrambling to complete freelance projects and get ready to go to Vermont for my final on-campus residency and graduation, which took place at the beginning of July. And then I took a road trip with my husband to celebrate and -- phew! -- relax. I've been home for a month, but my creative spirit is just now starting to catch up with my body. I can't believe that nearly a whole season has passed since I promised you more "In The Word Cellar" posts, and I'm sorry for not fulfilling that offer. I'm not suggesting that you've been holding your collective breath, but I know that some of you have wanted me to address this topic for awhile. This blog is just about the only place that I miss "deadlines" (unless you count "laundry" and "dusting" as things with deadlines), but that needs to change. (Read more about my love-hate relationship with structure.) Thanks for sticking with me. I appreciate you being here.

Why get an MFA in writing?

First, a caveat: I don't believe that graduate school is a requisite for becoming a better writer. There are plenty of ways to do that, and an MFA program is just one way. It was the right choice for me, so I'll speak from my personal experience. Please know that I'm not trying to sell anyone on that option.

So the question really is: Why did I get an MFA in writing?

The short story

I was looking for the following three things:

• formal training and feedback to help me continue growing as a writer;
• community with other writers; and
• connection to the wider world of writers, writing, and publications.

The longer story

In November 2008 I spent five grim days in a beach house on the Jersey shore. A friend had invited me to join her and two other women for a writing retreat. The days were grim not for the company, but for the weather and fact that I had terrible writer's block. Inside, I stared mournfully at my laptop and checked my email obsessively. Outside, the sky hung flat and grey, the rain, drizzle, and fog erasing the sun all day every day. After a few days of this washout (weather-wise and creatively), my mood matched the sky: dreary.

Down in the house kitchen things were cheerier. Each night the four of us met to make dinner and to discuss writing. The other three had more formal training and creative writing experience than I did. One had even published a novel and was emailing her agent or editor about her second book while we were at the retreat. (Interesting side note: The published author had an MBA while the other two had MFA degrees.) Each evening, I was pleased to note that I could keep up with the conversation despite my relatively junior status. But I also realized that I was often trotting, perhaps even skipping, to keep up. These were my peers, yes; but they were several steps ahead of me. I let this bruise my ego until I realized that it was an opportunity to learn.

I wrote almost nothing during those five days, but several thoughts that had been bubbling under my mind's surface began to coalesce. For many months I'd felt like my writing has reached a plateau, and I didn't know how to move forward.

From "I suck" to "How do I improve?"

In my teens and twenties, it was easy to wrap myself in the insecurity blanket embroidered with the mantra, "I suck." But as I eased into my thirties, I'd learned to embrace my identity and skill as a writer. I finally believed that I was a good writer, but I knew that I could be so much better. This new stance was both empowering and bewildering. I knew I could improve, but I didn't know how.

For too long I'd been writing in a relative vacuum with limited feedback. I'd let the solitary nature of a writer's life edge out communion with other writers. I'd immersed myself in the practical side of freelance writing at the expense of living a "life of letters." I knew that literary journals existed, but I knew nothing about them. I didn't know what contemporary authors were publishing what. At the retreat I realized I didn't even know a lot of basic creative writing terms.

A decade earlier, as a senior in college, I'd considered graduate school. I looked at Master of Arts (MA) programs for literature studies, but they didn't feel quite right. I had no intention of pursuing a writing degree; just the thought terrified me. Back then, I didn't believe I could be a writer.

During the intervening ten years, I thought about grad school every so often, but no area of study appealed to me enough. I knew that if I went back to school I'd be getting the degree for the sake of having a masters degree; it would be an ego-driven decision, which wouldn't be worth the investment of time or money.

The obvious epiphany

Then one night, as I sat in that New Jersey beach house staring at my laptop, listening to the rain, and despairing, a little nugget of a hopeful and obliquely obvious idea crept up on me. What if I went to grad school for writing?

It seemed impossible, but the thought energized me. I had no idea where to go to school or even how to research programs. But the Internet is a magical place, and a few web searches later I would have a long list of possibilities.

Next time I'll tell you more about how I created and narrowed down that list of possibilities.

But right now, I want to jump back up to that list of reasons at the top of this post. I was looking for these three things:

• formal training and feedback to help me continue growing as a writer;
• community with other writers; and
• connection to the wider world of writers, writing, and publications.

I knew I could get all of those pieces outside of a graduate program. I could find online resources and travel to in-person workshops and seminars. I could reach out to my very small circle of writer friends (so small it was more like a semi-circle) for community as well as for recommendations on what to read and how to plug-in to the writing world.

In fact, I knew I could probably achieve all three of these things without dropping tens of thousands of dollars on a formal degree program. As I said in the last "In The Word Cellar" post, one good writer friend tried to talk me out of going back to school and touted the alternatives. She made some good points, but my gut was telling me that grad school was the right path for me.

I haven't always had an easy time listening to my intuition or making decisions, but the more I put the puzzle pieces together, the more I felt that an MFA was the best way for me to find everything I wanted. I liked that it would all come as a package deal. I liked that I wouldn't have to cobble together craft and community and connection by myself.

By the time I climbed into my car to drive the long diagonal line from the northern New Jersey Shore to my house in the southwestern corner of Pennsylvania, the sky was bright blue. And I knew that if I went back to school it wouldn't be just for my ego.

Next time: How I researched and chose an MFA program.

**Questions? Leave them in the comments and I'll reply there or address them in an upcoming column.**

In The Word Cellar normally runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.