Morning pages feel so artificial every time I am about to start. Ack . but I know better. I know that committing to the fear isn’t the way to go right now. There is nothing wrong with the fear but I want to breathe through it rather than acting on it. it is amazing how much my breath will get shallower as I am about to sit down to write. Something to notice. And so I breathe deeper. I am not supposed to stop here. I keep stalling. Stalling is not a bad thing in itself. Stalling is just that. Stalling. Nothing more.
It is so hard and sit and do the artist way exercise. Especially answering questions like “what would feel nurturing to your artist self.” Promise yourself something nice. And not knowing what to promise. Not knowing what would feel nice. I went through a whole array of things this morning in terms of emotions before sitting down to write. Anger. Sadness. Physical itchiness. All of it. without specific reasons that I can see. And yet welcoming all of it is the way to go. Welcome anger. Welcome sadness. Welcome itchiness. You will all pass. You are all temporary. I will honor you and I will not allow you to stop me in what I have set out to do. For you are only the remnants of an old life where I did not deem myself worthy. Of myself. Of others. Of creative endeavors. And so I will notice, I will acknowledge you, I will allow you to be, and I cannot allow you to be the ruler of how things are going to be on a day to day basis. It isn’t about comfort. It is about healing. And I know that sometimes there will be comfort. I know that comfort or rather love and nurturing feelings will come of it. you just have to trust me on that. I just have to trust me on that. I am the creator of my own life. I am the creator of my own life. I am the creator of my own life. I can do no wrong.
And what is this wrong doing that I am afraid of ? what is it ? this fear of disappointing everyone in my life. Especially my father. Consistently I will sit down to write and the voice of “you really should call your father instead of doing this” always comes up. Of course I can alleviate that voice by calling but I believe that there is something larger there. That voice that is bargaining between calling my father and allowing myself to write. That just doesn’t seem like something to give into. And perhaps these are all things that I am controlling closely. The writing. The calling. Perhaps they just echo of each other. And again this warmth in my chest cavity and my upper arms. It has been coming to me as I write . as I am into a few pages. It is the strangest thing. And it does begin to feel good. This warmth. It says that I am entering into it. into the writing. Into the flow. Of these meaningless words. On this meaningless page. For me. No one else. To write for me. My truth. That is the goal. That is where the freedom lies. All of it. now. And forever. It isn’t about them. It isn’t about you . it isn’t about dad. It’s about me. What must come out. And it is not for me to judge. If, later, I deem it necessary to share with others , then I will do that. But for now that is not the goal. The goal is to breakthrough. To just get words on the page. Just for the sake of it. I can do this tired. I can do this angry. I can do this sad. And yes, the to do list calls. Yes, my inner ear is trying to shut down and not listen to the words that desperately want to come out but I will keep listening. Through the itchiness, through the headache. Through it all.
People who don’t believe in writer’s block have never had a real block. I used to not believe in it. and it seems to me that writer’s block will often come from trauma but people don’t notice it. because for the artist self, a trauma can be something very insignificant. Very small. Something that an adult would immediately disregard and laugh at. This is something that I would like to research. That I would like to work on. Not a writing workshop. And not what Julia Cameron does. I don’t think she has training in psychology, though surely she knows a great deal about it instinctively. But something else. It seems like when I am on the other side of this (and I will be), I will be more valuable to the projects I am a part of. And when someone tells you they are blocked, believe them. Because no one would say that out of laziness. I would much prefer to say that I am lazy, that truly I am not interested in writing. It would be so much easier. It would be a lot freer. Because then, not writing would be a choice. But when you are blocked, it isn’t a choice. It is something you keep working through , whether you are at the desk writing or not. Whether you are doing the morning pages or not. It eats at you. It asks you continuous questions : “so… when are you going to write that play ?”. “ So , what about that other one ? you gonna finish it ?” you know could be writing instead of doing this… blah di blah di blah. It goes on and on and on. It isn’t a choice. And it isn’t procrastination. And if you think that, you’ve never experienced it.
Believe these who are brave enough to say they are blocked. They are asking for help. For questions. For loving kindness. They are asking for gentle nudges. For the ultimate acceptance that they are having a difficult time giving themselves. The word blocked scares people because invariably, it will bring up whatever areas , they , themselves feel stuck in . it will bring up the things they aren’t willing to admit are in need of transformation in their lives. And it is a blessing in disguise. Because the first step is to notice. To ask for the transformation. To set goals. To attempt them. To succeed. Or fail. acknowledge that . and begin again. To not give up on the transformation. And most of all, to get rid of the shame of being blocked. For some it can be sexual. For others it can be their physical body, love, friendship… anything. We all have certain levels of blocks and we all have certain levels of tolerance or lack thereof for them. Having this block and speaking about it, I’ve felt somewhat plagued. By a mysterious illness that people have heard of and have various degrees of belief about it. very few people have actually listened to me closely in order to hear what this block is for me. It is easier to listen through the filter of what they know about blocks, what they’ve heard about it. “ah , yes, the artist way…” … “that artist procrastination tool thing.”( it’s easy to hear people’s thoughts when you listen closely…) “ Yeah, I tried it once.” “ Yeah, my friend did that.” “ Oh and that no reading thing. Gosh, I could never do that.”
There is a sympathetic nodding. Uncomfortable silences. A bit like how people deal with loss when you lose a loved one and they never have. It is easier to go to what the culture or your friends or books have told you about it, then to inquire deeply within yourself or to actively listen and ask the questions that might seem ridiculous to ask or absurd. It takes incredible courage in this word to stop committing to being right and looking good. And not by any means, am I pretending that I am not one of these people I just described. Not by any means am I pretending to be the righteous one. I know that I , being human and all, fall into these traps as well.
However , I am grateful for the growth that I am getting from it all and from the insights I have acquired from examining the block for what it is and for being willing to look at myself, inside the struggle, rather than resorting to denial, anger, excuses and distractions.
And look ! I even forgot that morning pages stop at three pages. Here I am at the bottom of page 4 !!!
