As a musician, I found many years ago that the key to enjoying my own performances was taking my focus off of impressing people, and putting it onto the flow of inspiration available to me through mindful presence in the moment. Recently, when working on my book about music, I noticed that I wasn’t really enjoying the day-to-day act of writing. I set out to see if the approach I’d used for music-making could be adapted to my writing process, and was very happy with the results.
In this piece, I explore ten tools for how to move beyond struggle and anxiety in writing, and actually enjoy it. They are sanctification, asking for inspiration, following inspiration, taking breaks, micro-meditations, self-care, untangling, conscious breathing, practicing gratitude, and devoted mindfulness. Of course, they won’t work for everyone, or solve every writing problem. They’re based on my personal experience, which is that a) while I can’t control my own inspiration, I can have a relationship with it, and open myself to it by quieting my mind; b) enjoying life comes mainly from following my inspirations into a state of flow; and c) my enjoyment is deepened by gratitude for the inspirations, and for all that enables me to follow them.
The ten tools are all summarized at the end of this piece. However, lasting change doesn’t usually happen overnight—it requires practice. In order to fully understand the tools, and if they resonate with you, gain motivation to spend time integrating them into your writing process, I suggest reading the whole story of how I came to and grappled with them myself, until they began to become second nature, and to really work.
This piece focuses on writing, but the practices it describes can also apply to other pursuits.
Good morning.
I’m about to work on my book, but I’ve been feeling like I could enjoy the process more.
I have moments when I have written, and look back on it with enjoyment, excited to have this growing creation, feeling how cool it is to be in this creative process of writing a book.
Those moments make me wish that I appreciated it more while actually doing the writing. It seems a shame not to. An opportunity missed.
I think of it as a matter of mindfulness: if I were more present, more conscious of the process as it happens, I might enjoy it more. Maybe there are things bothering me about writing, or about my book, that I am sweeping under the carpet. If I became more mindful, I’d see what those things are, and could address them. Then maybe I’d take more pleasure in writing, and write better.
I know that from time to time, I bite my finger while writing. And there’s this fear about not getting it right, not doing a good job. Wouldn’t it be better to be in inspiration rather than fear?
Also, the setting. I’m writing here in Truro, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod, in the early mornings. It’s peaceful, there are nice views out the window. Shouldn’t I appreciate that more as I write? Pause occasionally to bask in the setting, my relatively able and healthy body, the quiet, the privilege and opportunity to write? The fact that I have this passion to do the project in the first place? I really do care about it.
So I guess the idea is to find a way to practice a bit more mindfulness, more check-ins with myself, to see how I’m doing on a deeper level, see what might be interfering with my enjoyment, see if I can do something about it, and bring in more of the meditative mind as I write.
How could I get myself to do such check-ins? Create a structure that will remind me? Maybe I’ll try that as an experiment. See if it actually improves anything. If not, try something else.
Overall, there’s nothing really wrong. I am doing good work, and it is making me happy, at least after the fact, and certainly not unhappy in any major way during the fact.
Still, I want to try this. So what structure could I put in place?
I have the timer on my stove, which I was recently using to get me up for stretch breaks. I could use that for check-ins. Start with one every 20 minutes. And it would be fun to write down, in this journal, what happens during the check-ins, the first few times. OK, I’ll go with that. I don’t have to know what the next step will be.
It would be nice if I could internalize a habit of doing check-ins, and not rely on a timer—more digital technology. But let’s not worry about that now.
I notice a bit of nervousness about writing here in this journal, when I’m supposed to be working on my book. I find myself thinking, “I don’t deserve this.” “It is self-indulgent.” “And so is checking in with myself every 20 minutes.” My finger itches where I’ve been biting it, and my other hand goes to scratch it. My back is sore, and I’m a little cold. “What if all I do is navel-gaze and I never get anything done?”
OK, some fears. Let’s pause to close my eyes, breathe a little more deeply, be self-compassionate, forgive myself.
Yes, closing my eyes and belly-breathing for a couple minutes, I saw, in addition to the fears I just mentioned, some of the bigger, older, and more constant ones that have been swimming around in the dark waters of my semi-conscious mind as I work on the book: “My book is no good. I won’t find a publisher. I won’t make money. I won’t find big readership, be a success. I won’t be a real man. I’ll always depend on my family.”
In the past, what have my answers to those fears been? “Don’t worry about that. Follow inspiration. My work is good. Many have expressed excitement to read the book. It embodies my deepest values. I tried other things and life pointed me back to it. It is what I’m meant to be doing, even if it doesn’t result in fame or fortune. I don’t feel called to resume work on finding a publisher right now, but to keep writing. So do that without fear or guilt. It’s great that I did put so much work into the business end already. Trust that I will be inspired to do that again when the time is right.”
OK, that’s helpful. And a cat has come over and stepped on my foot, which I like to think is a good luck sign. And I got up and stretched, put on warmer clothes, and turned the heat up.
Let’s close eyes and breathe again, and see if inspiration to work on the book comes.
Well, it didn’t, but I got more clarity about what I’m doing here.
The thing is, it’s not that I’ve been blocked. I could get back to my book right now, no problem, and keep writing for hours. That’s what I’ve been doing already, every morning, and being very productive. I have lots to say. It’s that I haven’t been enjoying it as much as I could. And I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been writing more from habit and compulsion than actual inspiration.
I am inspired, in general, about this book. But how inspired am I in the moment, as I actually write? Enough to get me doing it every weekday. But is it enough to really enjoy it? It’s felt like a basic, low-level inspiration. Not an excited one. My daily enjoyment seems to be blocked, at least somewhat, by something. Maybe if I solved that, my writing would be better, and I’d be happier.
Is more inspiration too much to ask for? I’m questioning that assumption. Maybe it’s not too much to ask for. That’s what this inquiry is all about.
Let’s close my eyes and breathe some more.
Well, in 5-10 more minutes of breathing, I noticed the desire to stretch again, which I just did. It’s so good to stretch! I also noticed more fears and concerns about my book, most of which I was able to let go with just a few words of self-encouragement.
By the way, the plan was to start working on my book and not check in here until the 20 minute bell. But I’ve felt the need to do some introspection and emotional processing already, and I haven’t even set the timer or gotten to the book yet. That’s ok. Let’s breathe some more. We’ll start writing when the time is right. When inspiration comes.
Well, breathing, I realized more things to take care of. Got warmer socks, a hat. Checked that Mom hadn’t left wet laundry in the washer. Etc. I feel good about all this. Taking care of myself, attending to things that are disturbing my peace. I also had an impulse to taste some of my foraged Queen Anne’s lace seeds—delicious. A reminder of springtime, and inspirations other than my book—like my foraging. It’s all connected, sometimes mysteriously.
Going to breathe again.
OK. I reached a point there where I’d gotten through the clamoring thoughts and feelings, and was actually enjoying just sitting and breathing. And from that came a natural desire to work on my book. So I set the timer for 20 minutes and started writing. Now I’m back here for a check-in.
The writing was a little more careful and slow than usual. I started by reviewing what I wrote yesterday. I took more time than usual to fix things that were bugging me. My
attitude feels gentler, more conscious.
But there was, and is, some anxiety that I’ll only be fixing things I wrote yesterday, and never get to any new writing today. I notice tension in my back. I’ll get up to stretch.
OK, did that and set the timer again. Going back to the book.
OK, I’m back here for another 20-minute check-in.
So, am I succeeding in enjoying the process more? Not exactly. It’s definitely more mindful. But is that not creating its own issues? Am I dealing effectively with the self-doubts that come up, or over-focusing on them? It’s a little hard to tell. I feel too close to the process to know.
And what about remembering to enjoy the act of writing and appreciate the setting I’m in? Well, I guess I’m finding the writing a bit frustrating. I’ve been focused on fixing something I think is disorganized in yesterday’s writing. And worrying that I won’t sort it out. I feel tired. I notice wishing it were all simpler, nicer.
On the other hand, I guess it’s good to notice that worrying, because maybe it’s the thing blocking my enjoyment. I could reaffirm faith: I will eventually solve the problem in yesterday’s writing, later if not now. And writing does contain some struggle sometimes. Could I appreciate that? Let’s pause to breathe again.
OK, I did that. I guess I can see that there are real reasons why enjoyment has been elusive. They probably do come down to fear.
But I think these check-in breaks are helping. I guess what I’m doing on them is a combination of meditation and self-care. Closing my eyes to breathe consciously and look inward to see what’s going on with me is meditation. And then dealing proactively with whatever I find is self-care, including heeding my bodily needs, and answering the fears I notice floating around in me with positive self-talk and affirmations that have worked in the past.
It also helps to accept that like yoga, writing involves some stretching, some exertion, some uncomfortable positions, some encounters with weakness and fear. Breathing into all of that, I can experience it simply as intensity, welcome it, and even enjoy it. Attempting to sort out yesterday’s writing is a mental stretch, akin to a body one. Attempting to do that without getting too fearful is also a stretch. It’s not always neat and clean. Enjoy the stretch.
Back to the book now.
OK, 20 minutes later. Wow, I can see that I am actually grappling with something kind of major in the writing. A set of ideas that are tangled. And it is fascinating to disrupt the process every 20 minutes with a short meditation and check-in. Sometimes the bell rings when I’m in the middle of a sentence, and feel inspired, or at least driven, to keep going. But I’m stopping anyway, to explore what happens if I stick to these scheduled check-ins. I feel thrown by it, disrupted, confused. Maybe that’s okay. Part of the learning. This doesn’t have to be comfortable. If it leads to more enjoyment of writing in the long term, that’s worth it.
I’m writing about dancing, how bringing more of it into one’s life can help a person. I was just about to write about dancing’s mental benefits. So maybe I should dance the next time the bell rings. Let’s see what happens then! I’ll report back.
Well, it was nice to dance. Hard to know how it will affect my writing quality or enjoyment. It was its own mindfulness challenge. I kept feeling like I wasn’t dancing very consciously, so I danced to the same piece three times in a row. “Dreaming,” one of Schumann's Scenes From Childhood, Op. 15, played on piano by Vladimir Horowitz. By the third time, I got present enough to really express the music in my moves. I guess that is valuable, because I can say something about interpretive dancing in my book. It’s not directly relevant to what I was just writing about, but I can add it a few paragraphs later.
And actually, once I was really connected to the music and doing those moves, I was having some fun, being creative, in a proactive, playful mode, rather than just responding to problems and putting out fires, which is how I’ve felt in the writing so far this morning.
OK, I’m back after another 20. Feeling uncomfortable with this. Having to keep saying how I feel, wishing I felt better, wishing I had the answer to my writing process. I’ve definitely made progress today, both in the writing and the enjoyment of it. Yet I still feel on shaky ground. Maybe because I’m working on such a knot in the book. I’m tired! Should I dance again? Eat something? Would I rather play music? I’ll meditate more and see where that leads.
OK, did that. I’ll go back to the book.
Hi, 20 minutes later. I guess I am overall in a slightly better flow with the writing now, and it seems to be helped by taking these breaks. Although they also break the flow, so it’s hard to tell. Still, I’d say my overall state is peaceful, and every time I meditate, I encounter a genuine, spontaneous desire to go back to the book. And there’s been no finger-biting.
Hi, 20 minutes again. Well, I think I’m done for the day. Looking over today’s work, I see I got quite a lot done. I didn’t really move into new territory, but I think I improved what I’d started yesterday, and expanded it in a good way. I think these breaks are a good exercise, or at least a good experiment. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.
Love, Michael.
DAY 2
Hello, it’s the next day. Yesterday evening I was inspired to take a 5Rhythms dance class online. Was great! I’m still feeling more mindful and spiritual than usual because of it. We’ll see how that affects my writing process. Excited to write. And to write about dancing.
My back is a bit sore. I’d like to keep going with the kitchen timer, if only because getting up every twenty minutes to reset it is good for my back. But at some point I’d like to switch to more spontaneous check-in breaks.
Also this: A couple months ago, I started working on my book before doing anything else in the day. I’ve therefore been writing before my morning prayers. Today, I’d like to reverse that and try doing a prayer first, and make it about the writing, and see how that feels. It might help with some of the fears and doubts I was noticing yesterday. So here I go.
Great Spirit,
What matters to me is not how much I enjoy writing today. How thorough my writing is, how well organized, convincing, clear. How much I get done in today’s writing session. How inspired I am. What kind of flow I have. How clear I am about what I want to say. How I feel about yesterday’s work and how soon I’m ready to move on to new writing. How much of a difference my writing ultimately makes for other people. How much I get done before Mom and Dad wake up. Whether I do any more dancing during one of my breaks, and whether that helps the writing. How much I appreciate my setting, and the peace and quiet, as I write. How often I pause for check-ins. How well I meditate. Whether I figure out anything about how to enjoy writing more. How my back is. How confident I am in my book; how few questions and doubts and insecurities arise. How I deal with them. How knowledgeable I am about dancing, and how it is to write about it.
What matters to me is following the inspiration you send, in the moment, as I write. And so I pray for whatever inspiration you deem necessary for me to arrive at a product, and have a process, that are gifts to myself, my readers, and all your Creation. And I pledge to do my best to make your inspiration my prime directive as I work, to do my best to follow it as completely and exclusively as I can, and if I lose touch with it, to spend time listening to your Creation inside and around me until I feel your voice again.
And right here, right now, there’s no writing about dancing. There’s no getting up to give my back a break or dance. There’s only my breath, this morning light, the sound of the humidifier. There’s nothing else but This. This is it, my Cape Cod winter morning, today’s writing session, this beautiful, peaceful day. Amen.
If there’s anyone reading this, let me say that prayer for me is not to an old white man on a cloud, but something broader, like the whole universe, and more mysterious, like my own unconscious mind.
OK, off to do 20 minutes on the book.
Well! I really like what I wrote yesterday, and enjoyed reviewing it and making minor changes! I feel in the flow. I do realize that I’ve been biting my finger a bit. Let’s use noticing that, whenever I do, as another time to pause, breathe, and check in. But I’ll also keep the 20-minute bells going a few more times. Now back to the book.
OK, so since I last set the timer, I’ve stopped twice. First was because my back asked for a break, during which I got up and cleaned the kitchen for five minutes. Then I wrote some more, and noticed myself biting my pinky. So I stopped again and meditated for about two minutes. During that meditation, I saw I was clearly biting because of nervousness about a particular sentence. Worrying it would not tie together my themes as elegantly as possible, and not convince people who don’t like dancing to read this section of the book anyway. So what do I do? Let’s meditate a bit more.
OK, while meditating for 1–2 minutes, it occurred to me to return to the sentence and see if I can work on it while breathing consciously. I think this idea came because of yesterday’s insight that writing can be like yoga—it involves some stretching, some challenging exertion. And yoga makes those stretches healthier and more enjoyable by breathing through them. Also, last night’s dance teacher gave reminders about breathing consciously while dancing. So let’s give it a try and see what happens. No expectations that I will have a breakthrough on the sentence, enjoy working on it, avoid finger-biting, or manage to stay conscious of my breath. Just an exploration. OK, time to reset the timer. This is fun. Hey—I’m having fun!
Well, that went well! I straightened out the sentence, stayed pretty conscious of my breath, enjoyed the process, and had a minor breakthrough in which I wove together not only the themes I wanted, but also a new one that occurred to me! And the conscious breathing practice reminded me to read the sentence out loud as I worked on it, which is always a good technique. There was one frustrating moment when I was like, “Ok, two seconds ago I thought I’d finished this, but something’s still bugging me about it, and I don’t know what to do, so I need to close my eyes and meditate again.” Humbling. But that was also part of the process, part of what helped me finish the sentence.
Back wants a break again. That’s also humbling. But also part of the process! The breaks don’t seem to be disrupting my flow today. If anything, they’re helping it! I just hope this soreness settles down as the morning continues. We’ll see! Maybe I strained something dancing last night.
OK, I got up and did a few more minutes of puttering in the kitchen. There, it occurred to me that a problem in a sentence isn’t just something that needs to be worked out so that the sentence can do and say what I want it to. It can actually be a key to the sentence exceeding my ambitions for it. I realized that because the unexpected concept that entered my sentence was in a place that was problematic, a place that felt wrong, was bugging me. Through resolving the problem, something new came in. Crisis can mean hidden opportunity. It would be great to remember this the next time a sentence dogs me.
And wouldn’t you know it, the new concept was actually about mindfulness. Here’s what I wrote (which is now two sentences): “Please read this section even if you don’t like dancing or think you can’t dance. I hope to show that there are ways for every human body to participate in music by moving consciously to it.”
Hi, it’s a little later. I’m on another break that was dictated not by the timer but by my back. Wow, today I actually feel grateful for my back pain. I think it’s helping this process. Gives me breaks from the writing just when I seem to need them. They keep me calm, in a better state for writing and being creative, less anxious to get results. And the kitchen is looking great! (-:
OK, it’s later again. That was a really good writing day! I didn’t do a lot of new parts, but I did some, and I’m satisfied. Mainly I’m happy with the flow I was in, how much I enjoyed it, and how connected it felt to the rest of my life—the dancing I did yesterday, my body, the breaks, the kitchen cleaning, everything. I feel connected to the beauty outside my windows, and grateful. It’s Friday, and I left the book in a place that I’m really looking forward to returning to next week. Also, the last several periods between breaks were marked by pretty conscious, steady breathing. Wow! And I only bit my finger once today.
It’s early to tell, just two days of this mindful writing experiment, but it is very promising. We’ll see how it goes as I continue practicing next week. Hopefully I can start to integrate mindfulness without relying on the kitchen timer. Maybe my increased consciousness will be enough, so that every episode of back soreness, finger biting, worry, stubbornness, or feeling like I’m in a writing knot will trigger pausing to breathe, meditate, get up for a break, dance, read out loud, or something else.
And I’ve learned that it’s okay to have knots in the writing—those are opportunities for conscious “stretching,” like yoga, with breath, for experiencing the intensity of life’s challenges as I write. And maybe even for new, cool, unexpected things to emerge. And maybe I don’t have to have knots in my mind and body as I approach those knots in the book. Maybe I can tease them apart with more gentleness, patience, mindful exertion, faith, self-compassion, and playfulness. We’ll see!
DAY 3
Hello, it’s Monday now. I’m looking forward to working on my book, and feeling pretty inspired. Still, I wanted to check in here because although it seems I had a breakthrough last week about how to enjoy writing, it’s still early to tell. Change usually happens more gradually than that. And needs to be integrated through practice over long periods, or else the old patterns reassert themselves. And very often, exciting new approaches turn out to only really work once.
Also, I woke up today with a lot of clamoring thoughts that were creating a bitter mood. So I was already challenged. It didn’t feel right to just jump into the writing, assuming I could use the tools I learned last week if problems came up, because problems were already up. So I meditated a bit, until the inner voices were quieter, and I did a brief prayer for inspiration.
And now I’m wondering: am I going to set the timer? I’d like to not always rely on that external reminder to pause for check-ins. How about this: I’ll set it for 40 minutes, with the intention of also remembering on my own to check in here at least once before it rings. If that doesn’t work, I’ll keep using it until I start regularly checking in on my own volition.
Thanks, Great Spirit, for your guidance and inspiration!
OK, I heard the internal call to come back here for a check in, before the timer went off. Interestingly, it didn’t come while I was struggling with something. The trigger wasn’t a snag in the writing, back soreness, finger biting, or emotional stress. It was simply a spontaneous impulse, a quiet realization that, “Oh, it’s time for a break!” A genuine inspiration.
It seems to be going well so far today. I’ve been enjoying writing, feeling calm, in a flow, not biting my fingers. When I came to the first bump in the road, I breathed consciously, stayed with it, and got past it.
Something new also happened. I had a moment when I was looking for a good way to say something, and a few words were coming to me, but they didn’t seem right, so I rejected them, and was sitting there thinking about it. Then I had the intuition to type those words anyway, that is, to just kind of write sloppily, or in a more free-association kind of way, as if I were speaking or thinking out loud, without worrying so much about getting it right. So I wrote those words, and as I did that, the solution for how to fix what seemed wrong about them occurred to me! By the time I’d finished the sentence, I was happy with it.
This might seem simple and obvious, but for me it is kind of new. It’s more than just letting myself be sloppy during a first draft, or the first go at a sentence, which is pretty accepted wisdom about how to write well. It’s about noticing the words that are actually coming, and letting them make their way to the page, even if they seem problematic. Trusting that either I can fix them later, or as I just saw, they will even sort themselves out through the very act of writing.
In other words, I already knew that in first drafts, it’s best to be more intuitive and spontaneous, letting flow happen as much as possible, because that’s how you’ll access the most organic and inspired content and structure, and you can then go back to hone it later. What’s new is realizing that an aspect of that flow is specific words that bubble up of their own accord. And therefore, an important part of achieving and continuing flow is saying yes to those words, even if they seem wrong at first. Really embracing the process of free association.
It’s also very similar to my philosophy of music, which is all about trusting and playing what I hear in my imagination. Following extemporaneous inspiration instead of the mind’s attempts to work things out rationally. I’m very good at that with music; I just didn’t get that it can transfer to writing, until I saw it unfold today. The flow of inspiration where I actually hear things in my imagination is there for me in writing as much as it is in music. I just needed to attune myself to it, and decide to trust it, as I have with music.
Yes, of course, words are constantly feeding themselves to me as I write. They have been all along. I guess I was mostly just writing them as they came, so I didn’t really notice the process. But when I was at a bump in the road, had stopped typing, and was instead thinking and worrying, that’s when I noticed the words kind of building up, knocking at my door, almost like when you step on a hose and there’s a little pressure. That’s when I could actually hear them speaking out loud in my head. I noticed their independence of me, for the first time, and also noticed myself second-guessing them. Wow! This is potentially huge. Having tuned in to that frequency, hopefully I’ll remember to listen for it the next time I get stopped, and will be able to hear it.
It’s also about solving writing problems by writing—rather than thinking about the problems. I’m not saying that thinking has no place in writing. More than in performing music, it probably does. But as in the rest of life, I think that the time to think is when there are good reasons to apply specific mental processes like logic or analysis to a problem, and we choose to spend some time doing that. In music, the analogy would be times during composition when I pause and use music theory to work out what a good chord or scale would be. In other words, thinking is good when it is a conscious choice, and it actually feels right to do it, not when it is just an automatic habit, and we’re there doing it without even realizing it.
So in writing, I might come to a place where I’m, like, “OK, I need to think about this for a bit to figure out what I really want to say here. I might need to do some research, or speak with someone else about this issue, or make a little chart that breaks it down, until I get the point I actually want to make.” That’s mindful, deliberate thinking. It’s different from the unintentional thought that just starts up reflexively when I get worried about something and my mind is like, “Uh-oh! Something’s wrong! I better THINK my way through this, and figure it out!” That’s fear-based thinking, and I don’t think it’s usually helpful. It would be better in those moments to notice the fear, pause, take a breath, calm down a bit, and then make a conscious choice to either spend some time in rational, critical thought, or to just keep writing and let the problem work itself out intuitively, trusting my unconscious mind to do the thinking that might be necessary, and to hand me the results through its stream of in-the-moment inspiration.
OK, now I feel called to take my morning walk. So I’ll do that, and then get back to writing without the timer, and just an intention to keep returning here from time to time.
Hi, here I am later for a check-in. Glad I remembered. It’s been going well, yet I can see that I was about to bite my fingers.
I think what happened was I was feeling grateful that I have “something to say”—a purpose, a message, in my book. I was excited about it, and thinking it will be a gift to people. Yet that led to feeling more responsible to get it right, and therefore nervous. And once I was thinking about my readers, I automatically started feeling anxious to impress them, and thinking about receiving (recognition and money), rather than just giving (what I have to say).
So let’s just go back to the gratitude for having a message, and back to the writing itself. It’s okay, I don’t have to make my message better than it already is, and I don’t have to achieve fame or fortune. Let’s just breathe, write, and trust what comes of it.
Another piece is that I was also feeling grateful for the nice sunlight and beautiful views outside my window. This is something I’d wanted—to be enjoying my setting while I write. To feel cradled by, and at one with, my world. It’s happening! Yet that sense of appreciation also triggered some fear—what if I lose it? Why is it happening and what should I be doing to keep it from slipping away?
I think that as with the gratitude for having something to say, the answer is just to recognize the fears that were triggered, and re-focus on the gratitude, without really trying to hold on to it. And maybe it would be good to also express the gratitude! Thank you, life, for the inspiration, for something to say, and for the beautiful setting in which to write it. Thank you.
OK, I’m back for another check-in. It’s been going well. Fears still pop up, but mostly I handle them. The urge to bite my finger comes, but I’m aware of it, get in touch with the feelings behind it, and practice self-care instead. I’ve been noticing and trusting the flow of inspiration more, and interrupting it less. And feeling and expressing the gratitude. I’m near a stopping place, and getting hungry, but I also realize that I want to write a little more, until I actually get to that stopping place. So I will!
DAY 4
Hello, it’s another day. Early morning. I’m in a calm state, having just meditated. The words are coming already, these I’m typing now.
Closing eyes, breathing, tuning in to my environment, the sound of the humidifier, early morning light coming in through my eyelids. What next? I’m remembering what I was writing about yesterday in the book. I guess I want to get back there. OK, let’s go.
Hi. Was writing for about 40 minutes there, in a nice, peaceful flow. I wouldn’t say it was exactly conscious. I was more just in it. That’s okay, not a bad place to be. Still, I’m curious to see if I could have a bit more mindfulness, a few more moments of, “Hey—here I am—I’m writing, and it’s nice. Grateful to be writing, and for the inspiration. For the nice setting I’m in. Let’s keep going!”
I think I’m ready to let go of setting the timer. The original point of that was to remind me to take breaks in which I would check in with myself, make sure I’m maintaining a good attitude, and not getting too bogged down in fears or attachments, and if I am, do a brief meditation, or some positive self-talk, until I’m feeling right again. But after all the introspection I’ve been doing, I’m now tuned in to myself enough to notice a lot of internal indications that it’s a good time for a check-in—whenever I start getting stressed about the writing, have an urge to bite my finger, or my body wants to get up and do something, which dependably happens after sitting for a while. I’ve also been noticing occasional impulses to take breaks even when things are going smoothly. All in all, these breaks have been occurring about once every 20–60 minutes. I’ve developed an internal kitchen timer!
After I wrote that, my back wanted another break. So I did a bit more tidying in the kitchen, trying to stay mindful of my movement and surroundings, instead of getting lost in thought. When I sat back down, I remembered that I hadn’t done a morning prayer yet, and that prayer can be a good time to express gratitude. Some say that giving thanks (if one’s actually feeling grateful) is the best form of prayer. So I’ll do some of that now.
Great Spirit, thanks for all the inspiration you send me. Thanks for the project of this book, the sense of mission I have in it, and all the things I have to say. And thanks for the nice, peaceful setting in which to write—the grey morning light, the quiet, the cool air, the nature outside my windows. Thanks for yesterday’s writing inspiration. I ask for more today, if it be your will. Inspire me to write things that are gifts to this world, that have an uplifting effect in the long run, for all Creation. And inspire me to find a writing process that is also uplifting and healthy. I thank you in advance for that inspiration, and I pledge [speaking out loud as I type], to myself and to you, to do my best to follow it! Love, Michael.
Now back to writing.
Later. Writing has continued to be mostly fluid and enjoyable today, with some worry-making bumps in the road that I handled well. I haven’t succeeded in having in-the-moment appreciations for the process of writing yet, though. We’ll see if I do tomorrow.
DAY 5
Well, well, well. It’s tomorrow now. I was just meditating. I kind of have nothing to say in this journal because of it. It got me to that place where I realize the inherent inadequacy of words. The way that can be spoken is not a universal way. There’s certainly no approach to writing that’s universal. So let’s not spin too many thoughts here. Just get to writing.
Oh, the prayer. OK.
Good morning, Great Spirit. Thanks for the inspiration you sent me yesterday. Today, I know it’s not about whether I even write anything at all. And not about what I write, if I do write. Not about how much I enjoy it, how many times I remember to check in to see if I am enjoying it. Not about how much flow I achieve. Not about how much I have to say here in this journal. Not about whether I discover any useful writing tips for me or anyone else, or articulate them well. Not about how much of a gift my book ends up being for people. Not about what mood I’m in today, whether I rise above this sadness I’m feeling.
No. What matters this morning is simply following whatever inspiration, if any, you send me, even if it is to do something other than write. And so, Great Spirit, I ask for whatever inspiration you deem appropriate to bless me with. Inspiration that would lead me to forms of being and doing that are gifts to me, and to this world. It’s not up to me to know what that might be in advance. And I pledge to you, and to myself, to do my best to follow it as it comes, in the moment. And in this moment, in this place, there’s no book writing. No readers. No dancers. No other writers. There’s just this cat to my left, the tree outside my window, the sound of the humidifier. The morning light. There’s nothing else but This. Amen.
OK, to the book now.
Hi, I’m back for a break. There’s a dark cloud hanging over me today, probably because of something that happened yesterday. Still, writing so far has been smooth. Fun? Not really. Let me meditate a moment.
OK. Meditating, I saw that what happened yesterday is actually related to the whole project of enjoying writing. I left two climate activism organizations I’ve been working with, because I feel more called to focus on music and writing. Quitting those groups left me feeling sad. Part of the sadness is that I won’t be making a difference in the world in that way. I think my ego became attached to the climate activism. It became about self-worth. A way to reassure myself against deep thoughts that I’m not good enough, valid, valuable. I’m only good if I do more for the world, for nature, for other people, and thereby become more loved and admired by others. Quitting activism means I have to let go of the fantasy of being admired that way, being able to feel good about myself in that way. So it leaves my ego sad. And that sad ego starts looking for another way to win admiration.
When I started this journal, the point was just to see if I could figure out how to better enjoy my own writing process. Pretty soon, however, I started thinking, “Wow, I’m getting insights that could help others, too. I’ll share it as a blog post when it’s done!” And then, of course, “Maybe people will love it and praise me! Maybe it will go viral! And that would help my career as a writer!” So again, there’s this anxiousness to help others, in a unique way, as a brilliant and standout individual, and then be adored and rewarded in return.
That all puts pressure on me to get results in learning how to enjoy writing—results I can share. And that pressure makes it harder to enjoy writing! So I need, I think, to let go of the attachment to coming up with something that wins me adoration. And to do that, I need to accept myself more as the relatively unknown person that I am. It’s the same thing I’m trying to do while working on the book—to notice and let go of the recurring worry about not impressing people, and instead, to focus on just writing and saying what I am inspired to say.
Ironically, what I’m writing about in the book is how to better enjoy dancing by letting go of caring about what others think. But in order to write well about enjoying dancing, and to enjoy writing about enjoying dancing, I need to let go of caring what others think about what I write about enjoying dancing, and also, to let go of caring what they think about the tools I use to help myself enjoy writing about enjoying dancing!
Another thing that comes up for me today is about solitary achievements versus community belonging. Compared to doing climate activism in groups, writing my book is a very solitary activity.
I suppose I’m telling myself that’s bad. “I should do something more communal, not try to reform our music culture through a book written by one person, but instead join groups that are already practicing the kinds of things I advocate in my book.”
But that’s probably going too far. Just because I’m currently working alone doesn’t mean everything I write is coming from a vacuum, and will therefore have no value. Most of the book actually arises from experiences I’ve had with other people, ways we can use music (and in the current chapter, dancing) to come together and build community.
And individual self-expression has a place alongside community belonging. If the book can inspire people to find either of them through music, that’s great, even if it is written by one person.
I’ve had to deal with some of these issues before as a musician. Just because my desire to perform—and to perform solo—might sometimes come from craving admiration, out of a lack of self-acceptance, doesn’t mean I should stop performing. It means I should remind myself that I am a good person as I am, even if I don’t win admiration. Then I can focus back on following inspiration as I perform, instead of worrying about impressing people.
In order to be a writer or performer, or even a person in a crowd on a dance floor, we need to welcome and channel inspiration, even when it has us do something that might seem frivolous or small—something we think wouldn’t help others, or garner the praise we dream of. And by the same token, while sometimes inspiration leads us into group activity, we need to also follow it when it has us do something solo, that might draw attention and look like showing off. We should do it anyway, not out of a need for acceptance, but simply because we are inspired to do it. Inspiration solves and transcends the ego issue because sometimes it leads us to shine, and other times it leads us to blend in and serve a common cause, or even retreat and be alone.
Noticing the inner voice that says, “I shouldn’t try to shine as an individual, by doing something solo, unique, and great,” is as important as noticing the one that says, “I must do something great, or else I’m an unworthy failure.” They’re two sides of the same coin. Notice it all, let it go, and just focus back on following the inspiration, whatever it suggests. For me, that’s the purpose of writing, and probably also the pleasure of it.
OK, back to the book. I’m feeling clearer, and less sad now.
Later. Well, it’s been an emotional day. Sadness has continued to come up, and tears. I think I’ve moved past the ego-sadness, to genuine mourning for my activist phase. Yet working on the book has been pretty fluid and focused. And I did have one moment of looking up, gazing out the window, and just appreciating the act of writing.
DAY 6
I just meditated a long time in bed before getting up. I decided, as I sometimes do, to meditate until a natural impulse to move emerged on its own. Each time I had a thought to get up, I looked closely at it to see if it was a genuine impulse. I waited until my body got up of its own accord, which is different from making it happen by deliberate choice, or force of will.
The conundrum with that kind of open-ended meditation is that a fear often comes up saying, “I’ll never stop. I’ll reach some kind of altered consciousness and maybe even leave this plane of existence and never come back.”
Eventually the true body-impulse to get up did come. Then I continued with that kind of spontaneous, genuine action as I dressed, fed the cats, etc. Watching it all unfold, trying not to control it, or decide what to do. Just letting it happen as it wants to. I’m still in a somewhat meditative state now. Breathing consciously and slowly, moving slowly, pretty aware of everything I do. Rather than, you know, getting sidetracked by thought.
That’s my idea of pure mindfulness—letting inspiration run my life, and watching it unfold very consciously, without
deliberately steering it. And I guess that’s what I’m trying to do in writing.
But again, this fear comes up: “I’ll never really get started with my day. I’ll just stay in slow mindfulness. And I’m bored. I want to stop just breathing and noticing my experience. I want to do something!”
Is it a mistake to practice meditation and mindful action in such extreme ways? I can see my mind wanting to grapple with that question. I won’t go there. What just happens naturally?
I breathe for a moment, stretch, and open up
my book.
Or no—I type my prayers!
Great Spirit, good morning! Good morning sunshine outside my window. It’s not about how mindful I manage to stay, although being mindful is part of the process of hearing Your voice whisper its inspirations to me. At least I think it is. Ha—I don’t even really know what I’m doing!
Anyway, it is about following the inspirations that come. So, I pray for inspirations that, if followed, will take me down roads that are in the long run uplifting for me, my parents, all the creatures living outside my doors and windows, and all Creation. Amen. And I pledge to do my best to follow it. Thanks in advance!
OK, now to the book? We’ll see!
Hi. I did eventually start writing, and now I’m back for a break.
In my experience, the kind of mindful living I described earlier is an ideal, something I never really achieve perfectly. In fact, trying to be perfect at it can really get in the way. It’s important to be self-forgiving, and recognize that mindfulness is something I may continue practicing, on and off, for the rest of my life, hopefully with gradual improvement, but probably never getting to a point where it just takes over and continues perfectly from then on.
Yet once in a while, trying to do mindfulness really well, even perfectly, can be rewarding. Because once I started, writing today has been fluid, natural, meditative, and quite pleasant, with some slow, steady breathing. I wasn’t aware of myself throughout, or saying, “Here I am writing! I’m grateful for it, and for the world around me!” But it was nice as it was. That’s good non-perfectionism. OK, back to writing now.
Hi again, I’m back after more nice writing.
A cool thing about practice is how it leads to integration. While we’re diligently practicing something, it may feel hard and unrewarding, because we’re focused on how it compares to perfection. Yet later, when we’re in the flow of life, the skills we practiced will naturally emerge and become a part of what we’re doing. That’s true with music. Deliberately practicing scales or other exercises is one thing. Playing music is another. When actually playing, one shouldn’t think too much about the skills one is using, and getting them right. You just do it, and let the practicing you’ve done at another time pay off, as much or little as it will.
I’m saying this because I think what I’m seeing today is some of that payoff in my writing process. Although it’s not perfectly mindful, my writing is naturally becoming more mindful than it was a week ago, because of how intensely I’ve been practicing a mindful approach to it and to life in general. That’s cool to witness.
The paradox about practicing mindfulness is this: it can feel very unspontaneous and perfectionistic while I’m doing it. Yet it ultimately helps me to become a more relaxed and spontaneous person.
Well, I’ll write some more, and this time really try to have a few breaks for just noticing and appreciating the moment.
Well, wouldn’t you know it: I didn’t end up really needing to try. It just kind of happened. I noticed that as I wrote, there were many moments when I actually felt like looking up from my screen. I think they’d been coming all along, I was just pushing them away, semi-consciously telling myself that I must stay with the task at hand, literally keep my head down. But today I started giving myself permission to look up whenever I felt like it, whenever I had the impulse. And as I did that, those impulses started to seem more like callings—to pause, gaze out the window, appreciate what I was doing, and give thanks for my writing inspiration.
Why hadn’t I attuned to these callings before? Maybe I needed the level of calm, mindfulness, and conscious breathing that I have gradually achieved over the last week. Or maybe I just needed to have the focused intention of finding a way to feel more grateful for the writing process as it happens. I needed to be looking for moments to pause in appreciation, in order for them to come naturally, or in order to find that they were already there. Once I had that strong intention, it came easily.
Often, the calls to pause and look up seemed to come from the light that was streaming in through the window. And when I looked there, the light reminded me of the inspiration that was guiding my writing. A beautiful, quiet force coming toward me from a mysterious, natural source. I saw the wilds out there, the trees swaying in the breeze, and it was as if nature and the light and God and the inner bubbling up of words and ideas were all one and the same, all there for me, inspiring me. My gratitude was genuine, and I said thanks out loud several times.
Here it is again as I retell it, a desire to look up at the light coming in through the window. Acting on it, I feel gratitude and peace.
Those natural moments to pause, breathe, and appreciate also often led to little breaks for stretching or puttering in the kitchen. So my spirit’s need to feel and express gratitude, my body’s need to change positions, and my mind’s need to have a break from working on the book, were all coming into play here. It felt like a kind of coming-together, an organic integration of all the things I’ve been seeking and practicing over the week. I’m really grateful! I feel as if I’ve actually achieved something here. I’m sure it will need continued practice before it’s fully integrated and becomes habitual. But it’s very promising.
Another thing—my writing style been a little lighter, more playful, and more natural today. I think that’s also a result of the peaceful state all my practicing has brought me to.
And I’m just finishing up a long section in the book. Seems like things are naturally drawing to completion. Yay. OK, back to writing!
Later. Wow, looking over all I wrote today in the book, I was struck by how different writing sessions can be. Some days I labor over just two paragraphs, others I write more than a page. Today’s productivity of course seems connected to the great, mindful flow I’ve been in. Still, I feel encouraged to accept that fluctuations in copiousness and inspiration are part of the process. Maybe those hard days are necessary for their own reasons. Some parts of a project simply require more thought, untangling, and revision than others. And maybe the time spent solving problems on certain days will make subsequent days go more smoothly. Next time I write just a little, let’s remember to have faith that over time, the short and long writings will all add up to progress.
I also remember the moment early this morning when, working quite hard to practice mindful action, I was sitting here with my finger poised for a long time over the power button on my laptop. My eyes were closed, and I was breathing consciously. I felt stubbornly attached to turning on the computer and getting started writing, but as with getting out of bed, I was waiting for the moment when it just happened naturally, when the impulse came from true inspiration, not stubborn attachment. It was almost excruciating, as that kind of mindfulness practice can often be.
Yet once the impulse came, I quickly got from that tense moment with the power button to a very free, flowing, relaxed, and enjoyable day of writing. I also remember the fears I was having this morning about getting stuck in meditation and never becoming “productive.” Yet it seems that the difficult practice helped to establish the great flow that came once I finally started writing. And I feel like it’s totally worth it.
MORE REFLECTIONS
It’s about four months later. I came to a point where I felt content with the tools I’d discovered for mindful, enjoyable writing. Of course, it will always be a work in progress, as I refine the methods and find new ones. But I feel I have the main ones I need, and a pretty good habit of using them. I feel I’ve solved the problem of how to enjoy my own writing, and I’m really grateful for that.
Over the last four months, I came back to this journal a few more times to jot down some additional thoughts. Here they are.
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We don’t choose which of our ideas are going to be hard to develop and express and which are going to be easy. So we can’t predict which days the writing will be easy or hard. It makes a huge difference for me to acknowledge that, so when the hard stuff comes, I can accept it as part of the process, and approach it patiently, rather than beating myself up about it and struggling to get through it as quickly as possible.
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Calm, steady, semi-conscious belly-breathing is now occurring on its own, in my best writing sessions, without my having to remind myself to do it. That’s a milestone to celebrate! Other times, I do remind myself, and that gets it going. It’s true that I’ve practiced this sort of breathing a great deal in my life, for decades now, and I’m sure that made it easier to integrate it into my writing sessions. Still, I believe that someone newer to it could also form the habit.
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I see how writing’s structure and content are intimately related. When ideas (content, that is) are problematic or unclear, organizing them into a structure will be difficult, and not come together well. Working to improve those troublesome ideas can then solve the difficulty of joining them into a good sequence. And conversely, when a clear structure doesn’t gel, working to sort it out can illuminate the problematic content within it, help to eliminate bad ideas, and let better ones emerge. And knowing all this, being mindful that we often need to solve content in order to solve structure, and vice versa, can make the work feel like less of a struggle.
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The first step in dealing mindfully with a difficult spot in the writing is to recognize that I’ve indeed hit a snag. For that recognition to happen, it helps to get used to the feeling of writing in a peaceful flow. Then a bump in the road will stand out more for what it is.
Snag recognition also requires humility—admitting that I’m a bit stumped, that I’ve tried several times to resolve something, have thus far failed, and am now just going around in circles. And it requires courage and faith, because when I encounter a problem, my first impulse, arising from fear, is to double down on it, so I can get past the discomfort of it as soon as possible. Willingness to look up from the grindstone even just long enough to say, “Wait a minute; this is a snag, and therefore requires some mindfulness tools; I don’t have to keep flogging it; there’s a calmer way,” means potentially prolonging the process, and therefore, the discomfort. Yet as soon as I make that acknowledgement, I have actually liberated myself from a kind of inner prison, and may get instant relief.
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Another part of calm, mindful writing—both a cause and a natural effect of it—is sitting with good posture while I write.
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I’ve been in quite a good flow for many days, even weeks now. I can see that when really in flow, I don’t need to consciously practice all these writing tools. I can just come back once in a while to remind myself of them when problems come up. The best practices lead to flow, where you can just be and live and not have to focus on discipline.
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Wow, having an impulse to look up from my writing and gaze out the window, seeing the trees swaying gently in breeze and sunlight, breathing that in, and remembering how such pauses help me to appreciate the act of writing, I suddenly had a moment in which I saw myself as a conduit between the nature outside—the trees, sky, and sunlight—and the writing, the words that are coming into being on my laptop, as it shines with its different form of light, at my knees. Whether my inspiration is in some way actually coming from nature, or nature is just standing in as a symbol for something inside me that is the source of my inspiration, this sense of light and beauty coming in through the window, entering me, and then being translated through my body into words typed on the computer, feels like a bird’s eye view of the process I’m engaged in here.
And feeling myself as that conduit between my lovely setting and the creation that’s unfolding on the screen is a beautiful and very palpable appreciation for the act of writing. Yay! Let’s breathe in that outdoor beauty some more before we get started again! Thank you, flow of inspiration.
❦
It occurs to me that in order to let go of craving praise for my writing, it’s important, first, to compassionately forgive myself for wanting it. Although being anxious for approval is unhelpful, it’s quite natural to merely desire approval, and to enjoy it when it comes.
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Writing today, I realized I wasn’t really enjoying myself, and that a restless energy was stirring in me. So I started meditating. I was able to bring my focus to the present moment—my body, the sounds around me—yet an impulse to get back to writing was not forthcoming. This was frustrating, but I stuck with the meditation anyway.
Eventually, I became aware of the thoughts and feelings that had been swirling around on a semi-conscious level and causing my restlessness. Mainly, they were fears and beat-ups about things going on in other areas of my life and in the world.
One by one, I acknowledged them and met them with a bit of compassionate self-talk, basically saying, “I understand why I feel that way, and it’s okay not to worry about it now.” Like looking at each of my current problems, gently folding it up, and putting it away in a box to be attended to later. Then, meditation started coming more easily, and the restlessness left me.
The pest control guy just showed up and is now spraying essential oils outside to deter carpenter ants. A lovely wintergreen smell enters the house and fills the air. The branches are swaying on the lush trees, and all is quiet. I finally feel peaceful, and ready to write.
It occurs to me that like writing, the process of meditation and self-care has “harder” and “easier” days. I often start it with the goal of getting through agitation so I can write in a peaceful flow. But then I’m anxious to have a “productive” meditation. And such worrying only slows it down. I need to let that goal go and actually focus on the meditation, in order for it to work, for any feelings that need attention to emerge and be calmed. And some days that occurs quickly, while other days it takes a long time. I think remembering that will help me relax and accept the process.
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Another part of mindful writing is intuiting when to stop for the day. It’s amazing how once a good mindful flow is established, it leads naturally to its own completion, and when that arrives, I feel no attachment to continuing past that point.
SUMMARY: TEN PRACTICES FOR WRITING WITH INSPIRATION, FLOW AND GRATITUDE
If you’d like to try out the practices I came to for how to improve and better enjoy my writing process, here they are, summarized as a set of instructions. Feel free to focus on just the ones that resonate with you, and adapt them to your own circumstances.
1. Sanctification
2. Asking for inspiration
3. Following inspiration
4. Taking breaks
5. Micro-meditations
6. Self-care
7. Untangling
8. Conscious breathing
9. Practicing gratitude
10. Devoted indfulness
1. SANCTIFICATION. Find a nice, peaceful place and time in which to write on a regular basis. Declare them sacred, and protect them from encroachments.
Inspiration needs space in which to flourish. So find a setting without distractions, set aside regular time to be there, and don’t let other things interfere with your writing schedule. Try turning off your phone during sessions.
If little tasks crop up when you’re about to write, resist them. Start your session and do the tasks on your breaks instead.
2. ASKING FOR INSPIRATION. Before each writing session, have a short inner conversation in which you ask for inspiration and devote yourself to following it.
What I mean by inspiration is any image, idea, or impulse that comes to you spontaneously, as if from nowhere, not something you deliberately think up or rationally figure out. It could be anything from suddenly seeing a picture of yourself getting up for a drink of water, to a calling that occupies the next ten years of your life. It’s not a craving you’d follow in order to escape a bad feeling, but something you’d do for its own sake, or as a step towards a larger goal. And although it might be uncomfortable to follow it, or even seem wrong from a rational standpoint, it somehow feels right.
I believe inspiration comes from a deep part of ourselves that’s wiser and more connected than our conscious mind. It’s the essential ingredient that gives our writing purpose and makes it inspiring to others. Flashes of it can tell us how to solve all kinds of problems within a project. Yet it’s not just a rare gift, but also something that can flow at a low, steady level throughout a writing session.
We all have ambitions for our writing, such as that it should come out good, win love and admiration for us, help people, educate them, change them, change the world, forward our career, earn money, etc. It’s fine to hope for such things. Yet when actually doing the writing (especially first drafts), the best way to achieve them, and to enjoy the process, is to let them go and focus instead on following inspiration.
Inspiration is the best overall guide for our writing, and indeed, for our whole lives. If we start out thinking a writing project is going to be about a certain topic, but inspiration leads us somewhere else, we should trust that. If it leads us to something contrary to our ambitions, such as content that seems unmarketable, we should also trust that. Ideally, inspiration is the reason we write in the first place, so even if it leads us to something other than writing (such as another kind of work or creative pursuit), we should trust that, too.
I believe we are here to follow our inspiration. That is how we do our best, and also how we find quality of life.
We do have a moral imperative—to do whatever will be best for ourselves and each other in the long run. To a degree, rational thought can help us figure out what that is, and our pre-held values can help us stay on course with it. But once again, I believe our best ultimate guide is inspiration.
If you resonate with these views, then it would make sense to decide that following inspiration, rather than any other agenda, will be your prime focus during writing. It takes a lot of pressure off to impress, achieve, and help others.
It also makes sense to ask: if inspirations pop into awareness unexpectedly and seemingly out of nowhere, then where do they come from? A spiritual view is that the source is divine; a scientific view is that it’s simply your own unconscious mind. In either case, you can’t control it. But you can have a relationship with it.
Here’s a five-part practice by which to initiate a positive relationship with the source of your inspiration. It’s an adaptation of the routine I do before every musical performance. If your outlook is spiritual, you can call it a ritual or prayer. If it’s scientific, call it a set of tools by which to interact with your unconscious mind. Try it at the start of a writing project, and also before each individual writing session, ideally out loud:
Renunciation: begin by naming your attachments—the various things you’re anxious to achieve—such as getting through a certain problem section today, or writing something that impresses a certain person. Say that they’re not what’s ultimately most important, nor the best things to focus on as you actually write.
Affirmation: remind yourself that what really matters is to follow inspiration wherever it goes.
Supplication: address the source of your inspiration and ask it to send you guidance for today’s writing. Rather than making it your responsibility to rationally figure out what writing will best serve the common good, ask the source of your inspiration to do that for you.
Dedication: make a pledge to yourself, and to the source of your inspiration, that you’ll devote yourself to following whatever inspiration comes to you today.
Meditation: we can’t force inspiration, but we can open ourselves to it, by becoming present in the here and now, and connected to the flow of life. So spend a little time focusing on what’s actually happening inside and around you, until you have a genuine urge to begin writing.
3. FOLLOWING INSPIRATION. If you become aware of inspirations, follow them even if they don’t seem right.
We can’t control inspiration’s timing, content, or frequency. But we can choose to obey it when it comes. I’ve found that doing so, even if it’s suggesting something very small, is what leads me into flow, including smooth, pleasurable writing sessions. And resisting inspirations tends to break my flow. Furthermore, the more we listen for and carry out our inspirations, the more easily we’ll hear them. Heeding one inspiration tends to make way for the next. And smaller inspirations often lead to bigger ones.
Therefore, once you’ve asked for inspiration and declared your intention to let it guide you, do your best to follow through on that. Pursue, or at least try out, whatever genuine impulses come to you as you write, even if they seem unimportant, self-indulgent, grandiose, hard to achieve, or wrong, and even if they would take your project in a new direction. And if you have an inspiration to do something other than writing, consider heeding that as well, right now if not later. I believe it will ultimately bring you to exactly what your writing project, if not your life, needs next. A writing block usually come from ignoring something else that’s calling for our attention.
Following inspiration also includes intuiting when to stop for the day, and letting go of continuing past that point.
4. TAKING BREAKS. If you think there may be things blocking your inspiration, flow, and gratitude as you write, take regular breaks to examine what those barriers might be.
Following inspiration doesn’t necessarily mean doing what we think is right, but what feels right. If something doesn’t feel right, and we notice that we’re off our equilibrium, even in just a small way, we should pay attention to that, because it could indicate that we’re actually way off the mark in our approach to the task at hand.
Therefore, when you’re first starting this exploration, stop writing at every bump in the road, every sign of an agitated body or mind. This will seem lazy, an outrageous waste of time, the very opposite of the discipline you need to be productive. You may not even want to admit that you’ve hit these disturbances, because on some level, they are frightening or humiliating. And looking under the hood to see what’s causing them may also be frightening, as introspection often is.
Yet if something is chronically blocking your writing pleasure, it’s likely an ingrained, partially hidden pattern. The only way to gain insight into it is to disrupt it, which means forcibly quitting at times when you’re anxious to keep going. Furthermore, each disturbance may have a beautiful gift waiting within it—a key not only to greater enjoyment, but to better writing. So admit it whenever you encounter a break in the flow, resist the attachment to muscling through it, and have the courage to stop instead:
If you notice physical discomfort that might be remedied by changing your position, stretching, walking, eating, drinking, going to the bathroom, etc., do that and then take a break.
If you notice strong emotions coming up, like anger, sadness, fear, wonder, joy, or gratitude, take a break. Even if they aren’t cramping your writing, pause at least long enough to acknowledge them, and if they’re positive, to bask in them for a moment.
If you engage in any kind of compulsive, self-destructive behavior while writing, like biting your finger, substance abuse, or eating when you’re not hungry, then as soon as you notice the impulse to do it, take a break instead. If it helps, tell yourself that you can do the behavior after you’ve finished your break. If you fail to resist the impulse, or are too addicted to disrupt it, forgive yourself for that, and take your break right after you’ve engaged.
Break whenever you hit a difficult spot in the writing itself, and you find yourself struggling, going around in circles, and not making progress. This will be hard at first because your fear of not getting past the snag will make you want to keep working at it.
Break whenever you find yourself rushing, or feel stubbornly attached to writing. For example, if someone asks you to do something else that you really should do, and your reaction is, “No! I must keep going!”—take a break.
Break whenever you have an inspiration to do so. Again, that means a spontaneous impulse that feels right, not avoidant procrastination.
At the start of this process, if the above triggers don’t result in at least one break every twenty minutes, use a timer, and stop each time it rings, even if you’re in the middle of a good flow.
Mindfulness—noticing life as it goes by—improves with practice. As you become more aware of the things blocking your enjoyment, and start taking breaks to check in with yourself each time they come up, you’ll reach a point where you no longer need the timer to remind you. Then, as you repeatedly handle those issues enough to regain your enjoyment, some of them will begin to subside, and you won’t need such frequent breaks.
5. MICRO-MEDITATIONS. On your breaks, close your eyes and breathe consciously for a few minutes to clear your mind, gain insight into what’s going on, and reconnect to inspiration.
Each time you break, check in with yourself to see what’s happening on some or all of these levels: physical (your body), emotional (your feelings), social (your relationships), mental (your thinking and faculties of mind), spiritual (your sense of oneness with all existence). See if you can accept or otherwise deal with what you find (or don’t find) in each of those areas before you go back to writing.
Meditation is a great tool for tuning in to yourself, discovering problems that are brewing below the surface, and gaining insight about how to move past them. And in my experience, when I’ve lost the flow of inspiration, I can usually regain it pretty quickly by meditating until an urge or image suggesting what to do next spontaneously pops up.
However, to achieve such goals, you have to let go of thinking about them and focus on the meditation instead.
If you already practice some form of meditation, do that until you’ve reached a basic level of calm and connectedness to the here and now. If meditation is new to you, don’t be intimidated. It’s really quite simple, and gets easier with practice. Here’s how I do it.
Sitting or lying in a relaxed position, I close my eyes and let my breathing happen naturally without trying to control it in any way. With each breath, I relax my body a little more, and say the word “This” silently in my mind, trying to bring my attention to something, or everything, that is currently happening inside or around me. I may pay attention to my breath, my heartbeat, other sensations in my body, the field of dots I see in my closed eyes, anything I sense in the outside world, or the whole of my perceptions at once. “This” is my word for what is present in the here and now, and saying the word helps me pay attention to it.
As I attempt to focus on “This,” I usually notice thoughts coming up, on any topic, including what I was doing right before the meditation, how the meditation is going, or the “This” stuff I’ve been paying attention to. But thinking about This is different from experiencing it. When I become aware of any thoughts, I congratulate myself for noticing them, and try to bring my attention back to reality—what’s actually going on inside and around me in the present moment.
If the thoughts are about things that worry me—big or small problems in my day or life—I tell myself that it’s okay to let go of trying to solve them now, because I can attend to them later. That usually feels very empowering and brings a lot of relief. Then, I usually find that connecting to the quiet content of the here and now is a real pleasure. Occasionally, the mundane, pedestrian simplicity of This becomes a vast universe of spiritual richness.
I count the breaths on my fingers so that I can say “This” on each one instead of a number. I can’t eliminate thoughts completely, but if I see that they are dominating one of my breaths and preventing me from noticing what’s going on during it, I go back to breath number one, and start again.
If my mind is agitated, thoughts will keep coming up, so I’ll keep starting over until they calm down. I’m done when I’ve had seven breaths in a row that are uncrowded by thinking, and instead spent mainly in the mode of experiencing what is.
I often don’t know how agitated my mind is until I start meditation, and therefore can’t predict how long it will take. I usually need five to ten minutes to get through all seven mindful breaths, but sometimes I get them on the first try, in about a minute, while other times I need more than ten minutes.
When done, I usually continue focusing on the here and now, without counting breaths, until I feel a genuine urge to do something, such as getting up for a stretch, or returning, refreshed, to whatever had been occupying me before the meditation—in this case, writing.
If you’re meditating for the first time, and find it hard, forgive yourself and adapt the procedure to make it easier.
6. SELF-CARE. If you become aware of factors blocking your writing enjoyment, take the time to deal with them.
As you bring more mindfulness into your writing sessions, break to check in with yourself more often, and meditate, you’re likely to get in touch with physical needs, feelings, thought patterns, or life issues that have been bothering you. Attending to each of these might seem like procrastination. But if certain factors routinely impede your enjoyment of writing, they’re also probably preventing you from being fully present and open, and therefore from receiving and following inspiration. A primary purpose of taking breaks and meditating is to see these patterns, so you can do what you need to clear them.
Bodily needs should be cared for, which you can usually do quite easily. Many thoughts and feelings can also be handled quickly, by simply declaring them unimportant, or deciding to deal with them later. Other things—issues that have been brewing under the surface, sometimes for years—may require more processing. For example, there may be fundamental doubts about your writing project, persistent inner voices saying you’re not good enough for it, a burdensome sense of responsibility to get it right, guilt that it is too solitary or self-indulgent, an overblown need to impress people, or other areas of your life that need real attention.
You won’t be able to solve every one of these problems on one short break from writing. But a bit of self-care can ease them enough for you to regain inspiration, flow, and enjoyment. This can include analyzing a thought pattern or emotion to see what’s behind it. Listing the self-doubts or beat-ups that are plaguing you, and answering each with reassurance and forgiveness. Or giving yourself a compassionate pep talk, full of encouragements that have helped you in the past.
Grappling with a major inner conflict or insecurity is a repetitive, ongoing process. But each time you do it just enough to regain your writing flow, you’ll make some progress. And you may eventually have a real breakthrough about the issue, or simply find that it no longer holds much power over you.
7. UNTANGLING. When you hit a snag in your writing, if meditation and self-care don’t reveal what’s needed to untangle it, then use affirmations and conscious breathing to help you engage patiently and mindfully with it.
The inspirations that come during meditation, and the easing of inner conflicts that comes from self-care, may be all you need to get through a tough spot in what your writing. For example, once you succeed in taking your mind off a complex concept that you’ve been struggling to express, a perfect wording for it may suddenly pop into your awareness. Or, realizing that you’ve been too focused on winning admiration, and having declared that you’re a good person even without it, you may see that a problematic section is something you’ve included only to impress people, and you’ll now feel fine about simply “killing that darling.”
If meditation and self-care don’t do the trick, then go back to the tough spot, but instead of struggling, bring a patient, open mind to it. As soon as you lose your calm, take another break, and then come back.
Use affirmations to ease your anxiety about the section. Remind yourself that you will eventually sort it out, later if not now. Some sections will naturally require more attention than others. Failing to write a lot of words in a given session doesn’t mean you haven’t been productive. Over time, your short and long writings will add up to progress. And dark clouds sometimes have silver linings. Every writing problem is there for a reason, and solving it can bring unexpected benefits. (This often happens because of how content and structure are connected. For example, if you’re having trouble making an idea fit, and you take the time to try moving it to another section, that could trigger a reorganization that produces whole new ideas.)
If you came to a challenging pose in a yoga session, instead of avoiding or rushing through it, you’d slow down, “breathe into the stretch,” and experience it for what it is. Approach a writing snag the same way. As you stretch your capacities to engage with it, practice sustaining deeper and more conscious breath than normal, and see what happens.
You may be inspired to employ your rational mind in a specific way to sort out a problem section, such as by applying logic to it, talking it over with someone, or doing some research. Let this use of thought be something you choose consciously.
If, on the other hand, you notice yourself compulsively trying to think your way through a tough spot, without really getting anywhere, make yourself stop and try a more intuitive or physical approach, such as:
Listen to your imagination, and if you hear any words in your inner ear, see what happens if you start writing them down, even if they seem wrong.
Read the problem section out loud.
Work on it with pen and paper for a while, instead of your computer.
Map it out with a visual diagram.
Reconnect to your subject matter through something concrete that takes your mind off the current struggle. For example: if you’re writing about birds, go outside and watch some.
Break to do something with your hands or body.
8. CONSCIOUS BREATHING. Practice calm, steady belly-breathing as you write, even when you’re not working on a difficult section.
Deeper breathing will help you stay relaxed, and support all the other practices described here. Do it consciously for a little while before you start a session, and then whenever you remember. See if you can eventually turn it into a semi-conscious habit that continues on its own as you write.
9. PRACTICING GRATITUDE. Ask yourself what you’re grateful for about writing. See if you can find moments to regularly experience and express that appreciation.
Attuning to and expressing gratitude is a key element in enjoying life and having a good relationship with one’s sources of inspiration.
What are you grateful for about the role of writing in your life? The time, place, or opportunity that you have to write? Your readers? The message you have to share with them? Your love for your subject? The inspirations that come to you from within? External sources of inspiration, guidance, and encouragement, such as particular people or things?
Without forcing it, set the goal of experiencing regular appreciation for some of these things as you write, and then see what happens.
Here are some visual exercises that may help. Give yourself permission to look up from your writing whenever you have the impulse. Where does your gaze want to go? Mine often wanders to sources—or things that seem to symbolize the source—of my inspiration. These days, they are the setting where I write, the light coming through the window, the trees swaying in the distance. See if you can find something that could symbolize the reasons why you write, and evokes gratitude when you look at it—a book that matters to you, a memento from a favorite teacher, an old typewriter, a picture of your family.
You may even arrange some objects to create a physical reminder of your inspiration and gratitude. While I was working on a multi-year music-writing project, I made a little display near my desk out of three vinyl albums—one for each of my favorite composers (Bach, Ravel, and Scriabin). Having it nearby as I worked helped me to feel appreciation for those sources of inspiration, and for the creative process I was engaged in.
Continue looking up from your writing whenever you have the urge, and if your eyes wander to one of your sources or symbols of inspiration, deepen your breath. Try imagining a stream of inspiration coming to you from it as you breathe in. Then send thanks back to it as you breathe out. And imagine yourself as a conduit between your source of inspiration, and the creation that’s unfolding as you write.
Another good time to give thanks is when actively addressing the source of your inspiration at the beginning of a writing session, as outlined in step two, above.
10. DEVOTED MINDFULNESS. Without being perfectionistic, use these tools diligently until they’re integrated into your writing process.
Over decades of practicing mindfulness, I’ve realized that perfectionism can really be its enemy. Don’t become obsessed with banishing every single thought as you meditate, understanding every feeling about your project that you become aware of, or experiencing perfect calm and presence as you write. Any degree to which you make your process more mindful should yield benefits relatively soon.
And the practices should gradually become second nature. An awareness of when you need to take care of your body, when you’re struggling too hard with sentences, and when emotional issues are blocking your flow, should grow in you. An “internal kitchen timer” should emerge, so that you have natural impulses to take breaks, as well as to look up and connect to gratitude. And pausing to breathe and tune in to the life around and within you should begin to feel not like an interruption from writing, but the very wellspring of it.
The whole point of this program is to achieve enjoyment. Eventually, your writing sessions should flow with a level of inspiration and gratitude that’s not perfect, but is pleasurable enough so that you no longer need to use the tools actively and consciously.
Yet at first, some diligent persistence with them will be necessary, even when they don’t make sense or seem to work. The paradox of mindfulness is practicing it can feel un-spontaneous and difficult, yet it eventually leads to spontaneity and ease.
This can play out during a single meditation. On some days, you’ll need much time and effort to get past excessive thinking and have two feet more or less planted in the here and now. That’s true even for an experienced meditator. Yet once you’ve made that switch of worlds, you may find such serenity or clarity there that you’ll be really glad you persisted.
As you’re applying mindfulness tools to writing, it makes sense to also practice them, at least somewhat, in other areas of your life. Try deepening your breath when you eat, checking in with your body and emotions when you socialize, noticing and following inspirations when you work, tuning in to gratitude when you take a walk, etc.
And from time to time, explore what happens when you indeed try to reach a perfect mindfulness, in which you’re not thinking at all, but are completely present with whatever you’re doing. Occasionally, practice an extreme form of meditation in which you don’t make a move to do something else until you have achieved a very tranquil state, a genuine inspiration to act suddenly comes to you, and your body initiates that act on its own accord—even if it takes a long time to get there. Bringing mindful presence to such extremes can show you some of the possibilities available through it, and motivate you to continue practicing regularly at more reasonable levels.
Finally, even once you’ve achieved some real mastery with these methods and no longer feel the need to apply them consciously, you’ll probably have some periods when you realize that inspiration, flow, and gratitude have left your writing sessions again, because old habits are returning, or you’re going through a rough time in your life. That’s when to come back and refresh yourself on the tools, even to the point of using a timer again to take a check-in break once every twenty minutes.
THANKS FOR READING!
If you try out the suggestions in this piece, please let me know whether or not they’re helpful, and any additional ideas you may have. This is a work in progress, and I’d love for it to improve with people’s input. Leave a comment below or contact me here: pianotroubadour@gmail.com.
—Michael
Michael Holt is a musician, cultural activist, and twenty-five-year student of mindfulness meditation. He’scurrently (2021) writing a book called Eating Music: Ten Ways to Reverse the Commodification of Music and Restoreits Sacred Place in Our Lives. He lives in Truro, Massachusetts, where he is the caretaker for his eighty-sevenyear-old mom and 103-year-old dad.
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