Mental and Emotional Health and Writers

Making a quilt of rough patches; and the role of ritual

a set of several bells given to me by a friend with whom I share one of my oldest friendships; the sound of chimes in the wind always stirs my imagination and soothes

I write this post in response to one subscriber’s particular question, pasted below. Other subscribers have asked similarly.

They say suffering fuels creativity, be it grief or depression or whatever form that suffering may take. I wonder if there's insight you might share on how to use that creativity in the difficult moments of life when it takes a lot to do much of anything, let alone produce something "good" or something at all.

It’s a layered question. What lies ahead is my mental meandering through the layers—written and unwritten—of this question.

“They say…” Yes, they do say this. Is it true?

My most recently published book is a memoir of caregiving through ALS, so I’d be hard-pressed to say this is untrue. I felt driven to write that book; I could hear Toni Morrison’s “If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” Except the word was need, not want. I could not find the book, so had to write.

But I know from other times in my life, that my “creativity” also feeds quite nicely—yes, it does—from times of calm and even the mundane. I’ve also published both memoir and fiction, and these processes, too, have impacted my thoughts on this.

Layers

I’ll admit that my first “layer” is resistance to the idea that writers/artists need suffering in order to produce. (That’s not explicitly in the questions above, but it is an idea ‘out there’ and I’m addressing that. Similar to the starving artist, the ubiquitous garret, and the bottle of whiskey. Though, each of these has some small grain of truth to it—it’s been somebody’s reality.)

Maybe, the point of discussion here is not how do we use the creativity that comes of challenging times (which can leave us floundering through the more benevolent moments) but how do we use all the different times in our life, and the varied emotional notes and tones to continue to fuel creativity through the long haul as artists always hoping to be in the act of creating—remembering even the seemingly “invisible” work, the gestational times. Writers are never not writing.

I find myself circling to thoughts of discipline, habit, and ritual. And what those look like, and their role/s. But I’ll get to that later.

A little history (and consider your own—it is useful to know how this begins and builds for YOU)

I fell in love with reading almost as soon as I went to primary school. By grade two I’d decided I wanted to be on the other end of that, and write. In my early teens I kept a daily journal, and really, it was a way of dealing with what I now recognize as some level of depression. I suspect the daily practice (habit) of writing saved my mental life, really. It provided a way to unpack my experiences, set goals and boundaries—again, not language I would have used at the time. (Jargon is not language to express experiences and emotions and growth.)

Just before eighteen, I left home, and discovered night school writing classes—a significant corner taken. I began to write fiction and poetry, and felt palpable relief at leaving behind “depress-oid diary stuff”—which was how I came to think of it at the time. (But it did have value, unrecognized then.)

Cost of living deeply

I understand the drive to write from a place of uneven and even painful emotional and mental health. It has its place. After all, a human living life deeply and broadly and searchingly (and not in fear of adverbs) stands a good chance of having some bad times. Life itself, well-lived, promotes growth. “Well-lived” to me, means to get out of myself, get out of my house, and go see some of the world, even if it’s a bus ride somewhere, or an obscure film in the local independent theatre. Something to bring about “new”—new image, new thoughts. But when you go out into the world, grief can have a way of finding you. (The alternative is those words—Woody Allen’s?—about “living in a cave, eating celery…” No choice there.)

(Of note, too many writers live with chronic financial challenges; this has to be taken into account. That may have to be a whole other post… )

For some writers, the way out, or the way to live with, mental health issues, depression, unhappiness, is to write. For others, these challenges throw up a wall, a block. Do you know which group you are in? Or it fluctuates?

I’ve come to know, over time, that I accomplish more when at a relatively (!) contented point. But challenging times, internally or externally provoked, do cause me to grow as an artist. More growth than the “contented times” in some ways. Such times provoke questions, and if nothing else, they expand my capacity for empathy—and writers need vats of empathy. To create and develop character, and richer plotting. Something that leaves readers with a sense of being fed substance.

But we need both challenge and contentment, and not too much of one or the other. We need balance. It’s when balance is off that it is not good.

Much of sadness is about thinking repeatedly about the same thing. So much of working around and through sadness—in all its forms—is to articulate the block or the trauma or the whatever-it-is in your way, and wrest back your own power from it. Writing can do that. It moves us as we craft. Leads to new ways of seeing and being. I suspect that for many of us, that is at least part of the reason we write.

And fiction? Fiction has at least as much truth, if not more: it is explored truth. Memoir can drop the truth on the trail (sorry! I know memoir can and should do more, but too often it gets away with less). Fiction, though, you have to work and struggle with. Take it to bits. Dig. Hard. Put back together, and make an offering.

We write to come to an understanding of what is on our mind.

When it gets rough

When it get a bit fuzzy or scary, I return to the study of craft. Craft can take us into discovering deeper layers.

And “discipline” is to writing life, what “craft” is to writing; it’s a portal. A portal to art and being artist. There are couplings in writing that are significant to creating: Form and Content (the post about this); Craft and Art; Discipline or Habit and Creating.

After awhile, discipline should take on a sub-conscious element—this is key.

Habit

Developing a habit of writing leads to self-imposed (the good kind of) discipline. It takes awhile for habit to become entrenched (think of those ancient wagon ruts from traveling over and over and over… ) but once it is, that habit can carry you through tough stuff. It’s something to build in the times of ease, or the times when you have strength to build, and it is critical to maintain through those times—cherish your habit! Feed it!—and like the wagon ruts, you can set aside the reins for awhile, and just release, and let go when you need.

Form can “carry” content, similarly. Craft can carry art. Habit can carry creating, and with it, the type of “health” necessary for survival. It becomes more about sitting to the work with an opennnes of spirit, not just to the act of creating, but to the act of non-creating, too—when no words come. But you yourself are still open. Sometimes, the non-creating, and the “sitting” might look more like the savasana pose in yoga— lying on your back, legs and arms extended, feeling the ground under you, holding you. Learning that the ground is still there.

Then, of course, the Thing is not to castigate your self for not “producing.” So much of what writers “produce” is not visible. Our work is the proverbial glacier—and seeing the 10% rising out of the water. Without the greater part hidden away, it does not exist. We are always building that hidden part. Healing ourselves, growing our creator/creative self, keeping that healthy, is all part of the whole of the work.

Timing

So often the element of timing is critical. The act of pushing, and knowing when to draw back is part of this.

I’m a huge fan of writing through—be it a block or a bad time, or simply when a piece is not quite ready. And by writing through, I mean being open to writing badly… just getting words out, if for no other reason than to know what is in my head. And knowing the times to allow myself to walk away or stare at the screen/page.

THIS very piece, for example, I wanted to post first thing on the 15th, as I want to post all my “mid-month free” pieces. But it wasn’t until late in the process, that the word “ritual” came to me, and suddenly the whole process went deeper, required more thought. Made me realize—all over again—why I loathe outlining and thinking I know what I want to say. Because, truly, until I begin to set words to page, I don’t know what I want to say. I cannot mentally explore without words. Language is what makes us different from other species.

So I re-set my goals. My timing.

And that brings me to…

Ritual

Ritual brings a deeper dimension to discipline and habit. If not openly religious, or considering ourselves to be faith-filled, we might steer wide of the word “sacred.” But “sacred” has many definitions: not common or profane; set apart for, and dedicated to, some person, place, purpose, sentiment, etc. I’m going to add: to honour those acts that allow us to survive and thrive. Which for those of us who write, is writing.

In the winter, I light my woodstove, and that is most ritualistic. I find myself pondering what I am about to write as I assemble the kindling, and light and watch the flames. In any season, I have a particular thermos—beyond a mug—for coffee. I have various working places for different types of projects. Different windows and lighting. I have an order about how I prepare to write (although I am also someone who likes to “change it up”—but I have an approach to that even, that works for me). Sometimes I even utter a bit of something prayer-like, although it wasn’t until recently that I recognized it as such.

Adding “ritual” and sacred to what we do takes it beyond the mundane. It speaks to something deeper. Emotional and spiritual health. We need to, to go on, at times. Especially if struggling with publication (or lack of) or external validation, the financial quagmire, and yes, mental health.

To feel about our work that this is something you must do for you, that it is sacred to your existence—this is good. That the different spaces that your mind and soul can go—the seeemingly positive, the seemingly negative—can work together, mutualistically, when you sit to work.

What do you do when you write?

It doesn’t have to be elaborate. Tea in a certain mug. A sip of whiskey. A walk. That process-journal entry to warm-up. A series of stretches. A candle. Jug of water.

(Share what you do in the comments, please.)

This placing of writing into my being as something apart from Work, from how I make my living, from all the contemporary voices about writing—you know the words: media, platform (ugh!), following… and so on…

This creating ritual, and ritual creating, brings to writing the sacred.

And the sacred in turn, feeds the writer’s spirit. And God knows, and gods know—wherever you are at with that—you know—that we need our souls and spirits fed. Daily. Through good times and rough. Through taking the collected patches of our times, and sewing and making “quilt” to wrap around our shoulders, to stay warm, to nourish Self.

Last, a word about the need to produce “something good”

Although that is most certainly the goal, the trick is (and Dorothea Brande and Anne Lamott would agree) not to think about that while writing. And if having a day of dubious mental health, especially, get rid of the notion. Really, the goal is to get a first draft onto virtual or real paper. And then to play.

Even for final drafts, and having to polish on a rough day. If it is a rough day, the likelihood of recognizing the merits of something just might not be. But remember that there is much to be said for writing while tired: the censors go down, and that can be a positive.

Tomorrow it might look amazing! Or it can feel to be so far from the mark you’ve set, and yet your agent or mentor or editor might be thrilled with it; there is a point at which you can no longer judge your own work. The world takes it and judges it as they will, and you have little to do with that. How it is.

That means it is time to move on to the next project. That is the bane of writing: we are always starting over. That is the joy of writing: we are always starting afresh.

Please post thoughts and questions!

And a note about subscriptions

A heartfelt Thank you, to those of you who have subscribed—it makes all the difference and is allowing me to continue to do this.

Also a thank you to those who are sharing their questions with me… such as the one that provoked this piece.

Happy writing. Or unhappy writing. But writing, writing, writing…

Further reading: https://www.librarypoint.org/blogs/post/burning-with-creativity/