Harrington House, fabrics, 20x33in?
Hey, Jude,
I'm a little embarrassed that this trivial problem has bothered me for years: I seem to always have a tug-of-war going on between time for my writing and time for housework and errands. If I go ahead and clean and organize first it seems like then most of my precious "free-time" is gone, or at least my best energy is spent. I'm not an obsessive neatnik, but when I try to force myself to write first despite clutter, I feel blocked and distracted. It also hasn't helped to go write somewhere else (I've tried the library and a cafe) mostly because then I don't feel private enough; I'm a real homebody at heart. Any new ideas? --Clean versus Write
Dear Versus.
Your tug-of-war may be a form of procrastination, which is no trivial thing. But I wonder: could this long-time bother really be a tug-of-peace--a genuine need tugging at your sleeve, a friend in disguise? Could cleaning become an ally instead of an adversary of writing?
Entering into creative work requires a surrender of ordinary preoccupations, a dive into uncharted territory. Fear of the blank page may boil down to fear of the Unknown, a fundamentally spiritual hunger. The rituals of many traditions include aspects of clearing and purification. Perhaps cleaning--ordering external mess to invite the internal to clear--is your way of transitioning into open connection with the Source of creativity. And the creative process itself oscillates between chaos and order, formlessness and form. Cleaning could be a good warm-up for that.
Your pre-writing cleanup urge might just be natural to you, like a dog circling before lying down. If it simply offers to make a safe, homey haven for you to write in, then all that's needed is for you to receive your own gift.
I like to use my trusty timer to assist with this kind of thing. Try devoting 10 minutes to cleaning the area you want to write in. Work as quickly and joyfully as you can, being mindful of preparing sacred space. Clean like you had short notice that a cherished guest was arriving, your own true Beloved. If that's too woo-woo for you, just clean to get your blood moving, but not with the goal of getting it Done.
Then, set the timer again for a period of writing. When it rings, if you want to continue, great, you're on your way. If not, alternate timed periods of writing and of housework until you feel satisfied that you've met your self-commitment to writing for that day--and it might help to decide up front what you will let be enough: a certain number of pages, or a cumulative amount of time.
As for errands, you could save them for when/if your writing stalls and you don't know what's next. Before you go out, formulate your stuck place into a question, write it on a strip of paper, and carry it with you. Stay alert for clues from the world, things your attention happens to snag on. Let accomplishing the errands be secondary to looking and listening for what sparks you on the topic of your writing question.
When you get home, before doing anything beyond the most essential follow-through (ice cream in the freezer, fine, but nothing that can wait), write a ramble on what you noticed with all your senses during the outing, waiting for a symbolic or associative answer to your question to emerge. Be as quick and disciplined about this as you would be about a dream journal, capturing the fading impressions first thing. (Want to read a short poem about this practice called The World Oracle ?)
Too many old ideas, a not lack of new ones, might really be the source of the trouble. Do you harbor half-remembered beliefs like, "You should clean your room before you play," that wield the superego stick, crack the inner whip? Then does the Rebel rev up,"You can't make me!" giving you a double bind you can't escape?
As I continue in self inquiry, I realize that clearing my internal mental space is all I need. That's the real room of my own; dynamic peace and all the creative ideas I could wish for flow in and out of there freely, when those old mental wars begin to resolve. Then the externals appear orderly enough for my comfort, and beautiful, even if they look like a tornado came by.
