InnerBliss: Fighting Off Creative Resistance

At a local garden center where we
purchased pumpkins.

Listening to: Something very new from England; I love the drums at the beginning -- a bit punk-y, a bit pop-y.

Bliss: All of a sudden, I have a huge pile of really wonderful books awaiting my attention. It's the fall list, of course -- publishers put out their best stuff during this quarter in preparation for the holidays. Yum.

I think I've mentioned that I'm reading Kathleen Norris' newest book, Acedia and Me. I am having a hard time getting very far in this book, because it keeps stopping me in my tracks. Every other paragraph contains some glittering gem that I must then hold in my hands, turn round and round, bedazzled, blinded, and bewildered by the seemingly bottomless pit of this one woman's wisdom.

This reading, which lasted all of five minutes on the front stoop in the warm Autumn sun before I had to get up and write something down, contained this particular jewel:

...I have come to believe that acedia can strike anyone whose work requires self-motivation and solitude, anyone who remains married "for better for worse," anyone who is determined to stay true to a commitment that is sorely tested in everyday life. When I complained to a Benedictine friend that for me, acedia was no longer a noontime demon but seemed like a twenty four hour proposition, he replied, "Well, we are speaking of cosmic time. And it is always noon somewhere."

Yes, it is always noon somewhere and that is no more true than in my writing room. Or so it can seem. There are times when it seems to be always true in my yoga space, too, which -- coincidentally or not -- is the same physical space as my writing room.

What is it that stops us from being utterly and forever committed to the very things that we know are not only good for us but are the things we love best when we are fully engaged in them?

This is a question that pops up for me every couple of months -- or every single day, depending.

Let me explain.

I am never, ever at a loss for ideas when it comes to writing (or any other creative endeavor, really). I have little slips of paper all over this house; I have little slips of paper all over the inside of my brain. Each little slip represents, at minimum, a full idea -- for an essay, a novel, a memoir, a new series of paintings for my partner, and on and on.

The idea of writer's "block" has never meant anything to me. The muse is kind and gracious and spoils me relentlessly with this first of one million steps in the creative process.

I have also proven to myself that I am capable of completing the other steps on that million step path. I have completed a couple books worth of poems (had a couple published); I have written more long papers than I could count; I write here almost every day and not just in little snippets; and I have completed a third draft of my quite long novel.

I can do this. I have done this. Why do I not do it more?

Why do I fight myself every single day to get writing? Why does it feel like utter agony to get to the typewriter (my favorite tool)? Why do I put it off when I know perfectly well, from years of experience, that while I am doing it, while I am writing, I am completely happy, completely myself in a way that I am not at any other time?

When I am writing, especially fiction I must say, I feel like I am being myself. I feel like everything I am, everything I have experienced makes sense, fits into the puzzle that is my existence.

Pretty heady stuff, that. And yet...

I get an impulse, and I resist it. I get an idea, and I resist it. I am inspired, and I resist it.

Is it true, what Kathleen Norris says? That acedia of this sort afflicts those who do work that is self-motivated and carried out in solitude? (It feels like a chicken and egg sort of question to me...)

Now, this happened to me just a couple of days ago.

I have a deadline (a self-imposed one) to get a draft done of certain sections of a non-fiction book that I am working on. I have put off and put off this work and now the deadline looms (just like I like deadlines) and so I have to push myself.

On Friday, I decided that that would be the day that I would finally conquer this starting. All morning, I put it off by doing various tiny and inconsequential tasks. I ran out of inconsequential and moved onto made-up-on-the-spot-to-avoid-real-work tasks. All the while, my anxiety was growing at alarming rates.

And my internal dialogue was getting worse. I was telling myself that the work I was to do wasn't even worth it anyway, so why bother? I was questioning the very path I had chosen -- perhaps I would be better off doing something completely different.

Now this time, there was a difference. I've been doing enough yoga and meditation and prayer work that I was able to see what my mind was up to. And I knew that there was one doorway that would provide my clearest, safest escape.

A session of yoga. Kundalini yoga, to be exact. Forty five minutes of it. Mantra, breath work, postures, all of it.

When I was finished, I felt clear, and I got up, got out my typewriter, and set to work. I got four pages finished -- a good start for this project that will take much piecing together.

But it's been a couple of days now and I can feel the anxiety building again. I am doubting the work I did do and doubting my capacity to get back to it.

How do you deal with this demon of resistance?