Creative Doubt

My friend is a fine art photographer of the natural world, leading classes, publishing, writing about photography, and whatever the hell else photographers do. I'm a words guy and my photos on this blog show I've not developed much skill in composition or technique. He's the images person, but I like when he goes into words and talks about being. Today, he posted about doubt:

Much is written about how for the artist the creative process is more important than the product. Specifically, for the landscape photographer the experience of being in the natural world and exploring one’s relationship with nature matters more than the resulting images. I agree with this. However, as someone seeking to further establish myself as a full-time nature/landscape photographer I have always found it difficult not to feel that results are the priority. I feel a pressure (imaginary or otherwise) to produce a consistent stream of high quality images. To that end I admit to willingly enduring less than Zen-like experiences to “get the shot” at times. And if an outing results in no images I often feel frustrated, regardless of how beautiful the morning or location may have been.

That I experience such feelings despite knowing better leads me to wonder, do the acknowledged preeminent photographers really have it all figured out? Are they able to always live their creative lives according to these ideals? Do they not have moments where they succumb to their self-doubts and insecurities? Do they not sometimes sacrifice their ideals to get the shot? I am left to ponder such things because personal self-doubt and questioning are topics about which they rarely seem to write. Why is that? Are they afraid admitting such vulnerabilities would weaken their standing as master instructors and mentors? I for one would find it refreshing and encouraging to know that they suffer similar doubts and frustrations from time to time. It would make them seem more relatable and honest. 

I've written about the process of writing and where it can take us, but I haven't talked as much about product because I make my daily bread from teaching rather than writing. Also, I've been known to fear my product. This site meant to push me to create and publish more product, but weeks of regular production are followed by weeks of writing almost nothing. Such as this week. Each time I write, it's all drivel. Chris feels frustrated after an outing with no good images; I tear up pages and wonder where my talent has gone.  

Chris knows that preeminent photographers don't have it all figured out. He wants them to talk about their doubts. When I write about writing, I can come off as a know it all. I'm tearing up pages this week and haven't published anything. I'd feel worse, but J.K. Rowling, who is better at writing thing than I ever hope to be, tweeted the following today: 

If she struggles, then I bet all my money the rest of us do too and anyone who says otherwise is lying more than the president. 

What do I do when it's going nowhere, when doubt overwhelms, when I feel too vulnerable to put down the next word? That's easy; write the next word and the next until the pages get better. While acknowledging that I'm producing steaming piles, I tell myself I know how to do this and it will come back to me. Chris, I'm sure, shoots more photos until he finds himself again. 

Creativity is tough because there are so many incentives to stop. It's good to enjoy this work we do while acknowledging that it often leaves us feeling like a sixth-grader sitting alone at lunch looking down at the Spam on white bread with Miracle Whip that we've just noticed has a touch of mold.

This week has been Spam and mold sandwiches on my computer screen, coming out of my typewriter, and somehow worming out the end of my pen. I've felt lousy and hungry for something good which just won't come. Still, I keep going. I mean, what the hell else am I going to do? What else could be this good? 

Tidy Up

Austin Kleon keeps a sign on his wall that says, "When In Doubt, Tidy Up,"  a quote from Brian Eno. I've read of writers who use tidying as a way to get out of writing, but they might be fooling themselves. Tidying up generates ideas. It might even be writing, as in this scene from The West Wing. Who am I to argue with Austin Kleon, Brian Eno, Toby Ziegler, or Aaron Sorkin?

Saturday mornings I tidy the kitchen and pick up around the house. If I dusted or swept, my wife would think me the sexiest man alive. This morning, I folded some laundry, did a few dishes, and cleared some of my desk, all the while thinking that maybe I should be writing. I haven't written much again this week and have barely posted to the blog. That has me feeling anxious. Tidying up calms me down. 

It also has me thinking about writing. I have six ideas in my head and listed on paper. It's too nice a day to spend it all indoors on the computer, but tidying provides a model for the day. 

See, I don't concentrate on tidying. I do a bit in the kitchen and when I carry something to the living room, I tidy there. Passing through the dining room to the kitchen, I clear a few things off the table. I would be more efficient and productive if I stayed with one room, but on Saturday mornings I couldn't care less about efficiency or production. There's laundry left to fold, my desk isn't quite clear, and the dining room table is still piled high. But the kitchen is tidy and things are better than when I woke. 

I won't compose a novel or long-form nonfiction today. That's not in my plans. I want to get a couple thoughts written down and maybe posted, just to tidy my mind. 

This kind of tidying and writing doesn't take long and it feels good. I go at it for a few minutes, moving from room to room, idea to idea, enjoying the process and the progress. I tidy, write, and then maybe run. This is the day I'm after: a little of this and a little of that, with my world feeling a bit tidier as I go. 

Process Story

Sometimes it's good to hear how someone creates. I like pieces about process: I did this, I did that, then I did this, and then this came of it. I would love to have Mark Rothko show his process, but he's dead and was too secretive while alive. Stephen King's On Writing is a good insight into his writing. Decades ago The New Yorker profiled Don DeLillo about his work. I love that stuff. 

When I'm composing well, I begin with an idea, most often a good one. I'm not much surprised by that. Of course I have an idea. I almost always have ideas. It's usually a beginning or a question I want to answer. I open my laptop and log into Writer, grab my fountain pen and notebook, or lift one of my typewriters onto the desk and roll in paper. I start writing without planning much. 

I might guess at how long the piece will be. It depends on how much time I have and how interesting the idea feels. This piece will be about 700 words, but others are going longer lately, and I bet I'll tend toward longer still. I may be growing. Who'd have thought? 

I write until I feel an ending coming. I've answered the question, come back to the beginning, or am arriving at a good place to get off that particular train and call it a day. When I feel it coming, I start listening for the sound of an ending. It has to feel final. 

After that I don't do what most writers suggest: stick it in a drawer for a week. When I do, the piece molders and dies. Instead of waiting, I go right back and begin cutting words. 1,200 words becomes 900 before I build it back up to 1,000. I do some of this on the screen, but it feels and works better on paper with a blue felt-tip. Feel matters.

When I'm disciplined, I read the cut draft aloud and hear what's left to be done. I catch typos. If mistakes remain, it's because I didn't read it out loud or fatigue got the better of me. There's always a point at which I tire of the piece and doubt it's worthy of publishing. That's when I give it a last scan and send it out. 

Occasionally, something draws me back to reshape an old piece and fit it to how I feel now. This is especially true with my prose poetry which I only come to understand after a very long time.

Mostly though, pieces are done and I move on. I can't imagine being a musician who revisits "Hotel California," "American Pie," and "Stairway To Heaven" ad nauseum. Going back requires a whole new vision and sympathy for the writer I was. I prefer to move on. 

I drafted this at the kitchen table and went to get my daughter from swim club. After dinner I cut 900 words to 700, then pasted it into the blog editor. There I read it again, amazed at all I'd left undone, correcting problems. I went to sleep and, a day later, read it again, made more changes, and am ready now to hit "Save & Publish." 

Now I'm off to the next one. I want always to be on my way to the next one. 

Roots Of Procrastination

Leo Babauta's recent piece Four Antidotes To Procrastination caught my eye but, oh the irony, I put off reading it. Having read it now, I like how he admits to "procrastinating a bit more than normal, and of course it doesn't feel great." He gives good reasons why he procrastinates: fatigue, overload, uncertainty. He wants "an antidote (or two) to our procrastination, because it usually means we're not doing the meaningful work we want to do in the world. It's worth figuring out." 

In the margin, I wrote "procrastination is a sign of unhappiness. I want to investigate it so as to address what is really wrong." Babauta's piece suggests solutions to procrastination, but I'm pulled to try understanding the underlying problem of which procrastination is merely a symptom. 

Last week I very little good writing. I watched a lot of television and felt myself slipping toward depression. I wanted to work on my daily blog posts and a big writing project to which I've recently returned, but instead flipped channels, scrolled through social media, and skimmed the news. I procrastinated going to my desk to write, but procrastination, while a problem, wasn't the root problem keeping me from "doing the meaningful work." It was a symptom of something deeper. 

My issues began with getting too little sleep. I get up mornings at 4:45 but was up after ten most nights. Some people can get by on that little sleep, but not me. Lacking sleep I begin thinking of whole lists of things I have to do and spiral into anxiety. I procrastinate because I feel  I can't do the things I want to do. And all of that stems from feeling unworthy, my fundamental issue. 

Dealing with that feeling of unworthiness seems impossible, so I end up in front of television, phone, or computer. But when the wind changes, I do a few things that make a difference: I get rest, stop making lists, do one small thing, clear space, and remember the difference between work and a job. 

Rest comes first. I'm tired and wanted to go for a run, but my job drained me and it's about all I can do to sit here and type this. I'll be in bed reading by eight and asleep before nine. I'll be more ready to go tomorrow. 

Ditching the list is good. I worry that I'll forget something, but if it's important, it will get done. There are always a couple dozen things that feel like priorities, but I can do only one and I do better without the anxiety the list gives me. I'm typing this and that's enough. I don't know what's next. That can wait. Right now there's just this one thing. 

Clearing space on the desk mirrors clearing it in my mind. Imagine a desk covered with laptop, three folders, two stapled articles, a dozen pages of notes and writings, a letter from a friend, an empty coffee cup, the stapler, two library books, phone, wallet, keys, a pen, and a writer's notebook. On the shelf next are the contents of a couple more folders, some bills, and more books. That's my brain sometimes and it leaves me anxious and distracted. Clearing means picking something up and finding the right place for it until I have just the tools for one job: a notebook, laptop, and one article while in my head there is just one task on which to focus. Distractions creep in, but I'm getting better at gently clearing them away. The clear desk and mind help settle and center me. 

Then it's a matter of differentiating between work and a job. Work is choice, jobs are obligations, but it's mostly up to how I choose to approach the task. If I'm doing it because I ought to, it's a job and I'm likely to procrastinate. If I choose to do it as work, even scooping the cat litter can be rewarding and worthy of my focus though I'm not sure I can explain how. It's easier to see it with choosing to write this. There's no money or fame in it, but it's good work. My job tired me terribly today. This work is energizing. 

Procrastination isn't the enemy. Procrastination is a symptom of me fighting something, most likely the feeling I'm unworthy. Right now I'm not sure I'm worthy of publishing this. Who am I to say much of anything? Well, if nothing else, I'm someone with a clear mind (and desk) and a focus on understanding that procrastination comes from a deeper place. That might be worth sharing. 

Now, I'm ready to clear the desk and my mind of this and find more work I want to be doing. There's always the cat litter.