Send Me On My (Artist's) Way
Or: How I'm Learning To Step Out Of The Shadows
Last week, I did something I thought I would never do even if I lived to see the heat death of the Universe: I bought a self-help book.
In the past, I’ve always thought of self-help books the way I’ve thought of chiropractors, or organised religions: I’m sure they work for some people, but I have yet to find one that works for me. Until now, that is.
I bought it on the recommendation of my writer friend Harley, after I told her that I was struggling to get back into writing after taking an extended Christmas break. I wanted to want to, I explained to her, but every time I tried to sit down in front of my keyboard I felt like I was looking over a 1,000-foot drop. There was an overwhelming sense of vertigo, after which I would scramble away from the edge and back to the comfort of not writing.
“You should try the book I’m reading,” she said. “It’s called The Artist’s Way. I’ve been doing it for about eight weeks now, and it’s amazing.” So I bought it. On reflection it’s a good thing I’ve never really gotten into self-help books until now: it turns out, I’m very easily suggestible. Luckily, Harley’s never steered me wrong so far.
The Artist’s Way is by Julia Cameron, a fiction and non-fiction author who’s written plays, books, movies and TV shows (fun fact: she was also briefly married to Martin Scorsese back in the 70s). She’s also very spiritual. I’ll admit, as someone who doesn’t have a God-fearing bone in my body, the references to ‘The Great Creator’ did make me roll my eyes and leave me slightly worried that Harley was recruiting me for a cult. Turns out, my scepticism was missing the point: you could replace ‘The Great Creator’ with ‘Fate’, or ‘The Universe’ or even ‘space aliens’ if you wanted to: the point is to view the act of creation as something greater than ourselves. “As we are creative beings,” she says, “our lives become our work of art.”
Camerson’s a creative through and through, and my God does she understand how much of a struggle it can be. When I first read an early section about what she calls “shadow artists”, it rang so true to me that I thought I might weep:
Shadow artists are gravitating to their rightful tribe but cannot yet claim their birthright… hiding in the shadows, afraid to step out and expose the dream to the light, fearful that it will disintegrate to the touch. [They] often choose shadow careers — those close to the desired art, even parallel to it, but not the art itself... [They] judge themselves harshly, beating themselves for years over the fact that they have not acted on their dreams. This cruelty only reinforces their status as shadow artists.
I know that, like horoscopes, self-help books are built on Barnum statements — meaningless phrases that could apply to just about anyone. But, I mean… that’s just me, in a nutshell. Desperate to get the words down, but too afraid and insecure to get out of my own damn way. It’s a terrible and wonderful thing to see your problems written down so succinctly in black and white like that. Luckily, it seems like Ms Cameron has a few tools to help get me unstuck.
The first one is called the artist’s date, and it’s very simple — once a week, you take yourself away for an extended piece of time and do something to inspire your creativity. That could mean going for a walk in a forest, checking out an art exhibition, or even sitting quietly in a café and watching the world go by. Luckily, I’ve been doing this for a while now; anyone reading this will not be shocked to learn that I like to take my inner artist to the cinema. (I know, I know, I’m a very boring date.) The point is to fill your head with images you can turn into ideas. But before you can fill your head up, you need to clear out all the junk. That’s what the second tool is for: morning pages.
The morning pages are exactly what they sound like: three pages of longhand, every single morning. No themes or limits; just pure, unfiltered stream-of-consciousness — I could just write “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” over and over again if I wanted to. And my God, I wish I started doing this 10 years ago. Every morning I get up half an hour early, sit in my office and unload my thoughts and fears onto the page as the sun slowly rises outside my window. It’s like taking my mind for a morning jog, except it’s better because I get to stay sitting down for it. Even if you haven’t got a creative bone in your body, I’d highly recommend it. The process is surprisingly therapeutic; more than once already I’ve become aware that my thoughts are leading me to a startling revelation about my psyche, only to realise that I’ve reached the end of the third page. Session’s over, see you next time.
But the best part is that, even after just a week, I feel as if some of the strength is returning to my old writing muscles. My good friend Joe and I have been collaborating on an epistolary project — writing a story for each other in the form of letters — and I’ve owed him a reply for months. Two days ago, after finishing my morning pages, I dug a pad of paper out of the drawer and kept on writing. An hour later, I’d filled four sides of A4. The walk down to the post office to send it off felt like I was walking on clouds. (Joe, if you’re reading this — désolé pour le retard, mon ami.)
I know, even as I write this, that what I’m experiencing is the honeymoon period: the rush of giddy excitement that comes with trying something new and realising that I really rather enjoy it. The Artist’s Way is a 12-week course. I’m sure that in the days to come there will be weeks where my artist has to stay at home and wash its hair, or mornings where all I want to do is throw my notebook out the window and go back to sleep. Cameron says this pretty explicitly in her book. But right now, when I get up in the morning to fill the day’s pages, I can see something shining in the rising sun. Maybe it’s the Great Creator that Cameron mentions. Or maybe it’s just the reflection of my inner artist smiling back at me.
Either way, it makes me feel something I want to hold on to for as long as possible.
Yeah, I chose the title of this piece because of the Rusted Root song, which has been stuck in my head this week. And now it’s in yours, too. You’re welcome.
And now… a poem.
Last month I went to Colorado with my family, to visit my wife’s American grandmother. I wrote this poem in the shuttle heading home.
Eating Meringue in the Departure Lounge of Denver International Airport
The sight of stiff peaks
peeking out above the freeway
reminds me to think
l i g h t t h o u g h t s
as we’re strapped into
a 500-ton tube
and launched into the clouds.
I just hope the in-flight meal
isn’t too heavy…