The Art of Drifting: How to Refill the Well
So many writers talk about the self-discipline required to get anything done in this crazy-making world. How do you stay committed to your writing practice without it? Self-discipline is simply choosing to do the work versus not do the work, in my view. We make a date for our writing, we prioritize it above cleaning the bathroom, we negotiate with our family for time and privacy or we cram it into the moments between household life. We make sure our writing tools are sharp—computer works, printer works, we have wi-fi, whatever.
All of that is well and good. I am a firm believer in systems that allow a creative person to create. But what if there’s sometimes a need for something other than discipline? What if, in those moments when your brain hurts from forcing ideas, you do the opposite and drift?
When self-discipline stops working
You’re hearing this from someone who has always been good at discipline—good enough to write fifteen books in three genres and get them published. I love writing. I love painting. Creativity is my go-to for every woe. I was supported in my family, as a child, for being out-of-the-box creative, and it’s nurtured in me a belief that I can try anything.
So I never had a problem with self-discipline. I got up an hour early when my son was in school, so I could write before family demands began. I wrote at night, I wrote when I waited for an appointment. I set up accountability systems for myself that really worked (more about that next week). Turns out my brain and wiring did well with showing up.
I turned 70 a few years ago. My latest novel was published. And I promoted it as best I could. Then, I felt tired. I set goals for what was next: Another novel? A short-story collection? But a lot of the energy that went into the writing, publishing, and promoting was not being replenished.
One of my go-to accountability systems is to sign up for a class. I found one online and applied (it was an advanced class that required a submission). I got accepted and attended for five months. I did the work and learned a lot and really got my short-story collection in shape—a goal met through self-discipline and showing up!
Then the class ended. I revised with the feedback I’d gotten. I gave the manuscript to my four beta readers. By fall, I had excellent feedback. Ready to go . . .
But no. The whole train stopped. No amount of self-discipline got it going again.
Blocked—really?!!
It didn’t occur to me that I was blocked. That was something that happened to other writers. All I needed was a little break and I’d be back to my writing project.
As I journaled about this completely new experience of not writing, I realized a couple of things:
I was creatively exhausted. I’d poured everything into the last two books and done my very best, and I needed to refill the well.
I loved my short stories and knew the project was totally worth continuing—there was no doubt—but it felt wrong to push because I worried about ruining what I had.
The excellent feedback from my beta readers opened many doors. Some of it stumped me—I couldn’t figure out how to resolve the problem in a particular scene. No new ideas were coming.
I promised myself the winter to rest and try something else—and my painting became a balm. I worked on four new paintings, commissions for friends, but I only half-heartedly worked on new ideas for the stories.
I ran across Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, read a few pages, and saw myself in her descriptions of blocked artists. But, wait! I was creating. I was painting—didn’t that count?
It sure did. But it wasn’t getting me back to my main love, my writing.
Drifting = filling the well again
I remember the Artist’s Dates in Cameron’s book, which truthfully were always the hardest task for me. I read about them again and realized they were designed to refill the well. Going back to painting was part of the refill for me—working only with images created a kind of silence that felt ripe and full of possibility.
When I paint, I lose track of time and even where I am. I’ve taken to setting my phone alarm if I have an appointment to keep track of, but otherwise, I just drift. It’s intensely pleasurable. Of course there are stuck moments, when I get frustrated and have to walk away. But I have solutions for those—I browse my stack of art books and choose a painting (by someone else) to study. I learn my way out of my stuckness.
Sounds familiar, yes? Like writers who read a poem before they begin their writing session. Or read other writers’ work to get inspired and see new ways to describe something.
What do I mean by drifting? When I paint I roam in my mind. I am not afraid of messing stuff up. Even if I’m working on a commission, I tell myself I can always do it over—and once recently I drifted so far, I had to begin again. No worries. I was full of new ideas from my detour.
Writers can be afraid of taking detours, of asking, What if? In painting, I was completely comfortable with that. Choosing a color that seemed out of place. Messing up a section to redo in a way that felt less stilted. Drifting was a technique I used and loved in my painting. Why not in my writing?
Start small to lessen the fear
I lessened the fear by telling myself I had unlimited do-overs with a painting. I decided to do the same with the pending revision of my short-story collection in May.
My writer’s group gave me a deadline—deliver around 20 pages of revised material by May 12 when we next met. I read through the manuscript again, split screen with my favorite beta reader’s comments alongside. I found two stories of the fifteen that were very close. I would start small, work on the three main questions my beta reader asked. I approach the three questions by drifting.
I think fear is the biggest obstacle to generating new ideas, breakthroughs for your writing. Fear of making a mistake. I told myself it was like painting—I had unlimited do-overs. That, and starting small, calmed me and opened up that drifting state where my best ideas come.
In three sessions on the screened porch, sitting on a day bed, laptop on my lap, dogs sprawled alongside, I came up with a list of ideas to answer those questions. (Sometimes I do this with index cards—see this post for more details—which works when I have more energy.) A week before my writer’s group deadline, I’d tried and failed with several revisions of those two stories. I told myself to walk away, go out in the garden, drift more deliberately, if that is possible.
In other words, not force it.
When the group met in May, I was truly surprised to hear how much they liked my changes. I couldn’t say how I came up with the ideas—they just flowed out, thanks to the relaxed state of mind I’d cultivated.
Are you curious? Do you want to try drifting this week, instead of discipline? Doesn’t it sound like more fun?
Your weekly writing exercise
This week’s exercise is like a nice massage for the overworked creative soul. If you feel exhausted or burned out, give yourself one week to not force anything with your writing. No discipline, no deadlines. Allow yourself to drift and be an observer, a note-taker, listening for ideas to refill the well.
Try an Artist’s Date or two. Read about some very cool ones here. See if your well gets filled in a new way.
Report back—what did you learn? Or what ways do you manage your own creative burn out?
Photo by Townsend Walton on Unsplash