Everyone else is asleep in bed. I’ve been awake since 5:30.
I’ve been capturing the quiet like a dusty moth beneath the glass of a spent pickle jar.
There was an effort, a chase, the painted paper of wings against glass and then suddenly, I found the quiet in my hands, turned it over and over again, inspected and embraced it. In a short while, I’ll set the quiet free again.
Out in my studio, the world is blue. I’ve left the lights off, for the time being, I’ve been writing my morning papers with the help of cold fingers and the dampness of springtime morning drifting in the big window that faces West. The view from my chair is vast and I think again, to myself, the only reason I live here is because of all the windows that face West into sage and space. Were there houses across the street from me, I couldn’t do it.
I toss my mane. I snort a little and shuffle my hooves.
I feel my mustang heart beat inside the interlocking grip of my ribcage.
I’m working my way through a project book, The Artist’s Way. This morning, I’ve come back to a paragraph that really rings with some truth, for me:
“In retrospect, I am astounded I could let go of the drama of being a suffering artist. nothing dies harder than a bad idea. And few ideas are worse that the ones we have about art. We can charge so many things off to our sufferings-artist-identity: drunkenness, promiscuity, fiscal problems, a certain ruthlessness or self-destructiveness in matters of the heart. We all know how broke-crazy-promiscuous-unreliable artists are. And if they don’t have to be, then what’s [our] excuse?“
[Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way]
The thing I really connect with in this paragraph is the notion that artists don’t have to be tortured or self-destructive. Julia goes on to talk, throughout this book, about how a creative life can be steady, even tranquil. That we, that I, can work with an even pace, escape the roller coaster of high and low times of creative output (oh my, the creative highs are so high…the creative lows are so low). I don’t have to work myself to the bone when I feel fresh ideas are most accessible, I can work with steadiness. I can work with calm. She has this idea that I can have my creative wells filled on a daily basis, that I can recharge myself, every day, through my approach to work and life. I can work hard and long and gently and short without burning out and I can do it all without the persona of tortured-artist. Eureka! How novel!
I don’t know who it was who told me so, but this whole idea of the tortured artist truly is a bunch of bunk. I’m living my life and I’m doing creative work. It’s not rocket science. Why the turmoil? Why the torture?
I’ve grown up a lot over the past year and I can feel a heap of new, personal growth coming on strong. I’ve surplussed many wretched ideas about creativity, grown some new perspectives and I like who I am, right this instant, so much more than the me of a year ago! But there’s still so much to learn about myself and about my creative process and habit if I want to continue to sustain myself (and my family) with this work.
At any rate, before the blue light of morning runs out, I wanted to talk to you about the concept of morning pages, a term used by Julia Cameron. Every morning, this past week, I have sat down in the early hours and written three pages in my journal before beginning my day. I’ve always journaled but never every morning, first thing. Also, dedicating three whole pages, every day, is a lot of writing. I use a very large sketchbook journal and three pages, depending on my writing flow, takes some time.
I don’t always have something beautiful to say, and a lot of what I have written this week has been replete of thoughts that are rooted in insecurity and general negativity. But to pour all of that crap-filled emotion out onto paper really purifies my mind and heart before I begin my day. I’m often surprised when I glance over the writing from previous days — the content surprises me because the emotions were ugly but so fleeting! I’ve forgotten all about the things I felt, usually as soon as I write them down on paper. Sometimes, I can see that my emotions confused me or made me believe something untrue. Other times I write something beautiful and full of meaning. Either way, I’m always aware that I am writing for myself, I am my only audience, and I’m letting everything fly out of my pen tip onto paper and it might be better for me than a hot bath in my claw foot tub.
How many times, in one day, do we let ugliness take root in our hearts. When that ugliness builds up, how can we function? How can we see straight. To pour it out on paper is to free ourselves of it. I don’t feel like I need to talk to someone about my misguided emotions — especially if those emotions I share might mean that the individual receiving my words will pick the shrapnel of my talk out of their heart and soul for weeks and months. The human heart can be vulgar. The human tongue can cut deep and wound like bullets.
To free myself of my insecurities and crazy emotions before the day even begins does myself and others a kind service.
It’s not my intent to make you think I don’t have anything positive to say when I journal, on the contrary, my writing flow sometimes begins grumpy and it sometimes begins lighthearted, but no matter what, by the end of a journal entry, I often find my writing to be light and filled with beautiful concepts, even small sketches. Some days, I haven’t anything negative to say at all. The point is to write. To free yourself. To eliminate anything that might get in the way of creative flow. And it works. Try it.
It’s officially day here now and there’s much to do.
I’m wishing you such a wonderful Thursday.
Be well.
xx
The Plume