I write like I garden. The creative processes are virtually identical in my mind. This Summer Series reflects on the ties between these two worlds.
I’m almost done installing a new garden bed. At that almost-done stage, I’m notorious for fizzling out. I have no energy left to finish the edges of the bed and lay gravel for the trails around it. I just don’t want to. I have no idea why!
Boy is this feeling familiar. I hate finishing individual scenes and chapters. I hate writing transitions, the glue between scenes, and stage-setting in a new chapter.
Wait, it’s not entirely true to say I hate the task. Once I’m doing it, it’s satisfying work.
Guild planting that has already begun to feed the roots of a mature apple tree. Finally in process of edging it out with timbers and a walkable trail.
It’s just not the same kind of raw creativity involved when I’m in the flow writing first and second-draft scenes… or planting an assortment of new plants, seeing the mature arrangement in my mind’s eye.
Finish work, finishing the edges of a garden bed or a scene in a novel, that’s not necessarily “raw creativity” work. It’s a little more mechanical. The not-so-creative manual labor of gardening and writing alike.
But it’s peaceful, and when it’s done, the section is truly done! When all the edging is done for a larger project, the project is truly done. Presentable.
Edging and trail installation done! There, that wasn’t so bad was it?
Others can approach it. With the garden, there might be a physical trail with helpful stepping stones. With writing, there are smooth transitions and well-set scenes that guide the reader through the story. The reader knows where she is in the timeline. Edging is a framework that guides the outsider in.
Maybe that’s what I really fear—letting other people in to see the garden or the manuscript. Once the edges are finished, that’s the whole point. Presentation. Accessibility.
Oh my. Maybe it’s not the edging task itself that I resent. Maybe it’s the end result. Maybe I’d really rather be on an island by myself with no one looking at my garden or my writing… Hmm. Now that might be worth some more wrestling.
Like every creative block, the only answer is to do the task that I fear. It is its own solution. Usually I have to start small—ten minutes of that dreaded task, every morning for two weeks. That’s usually enough to prime the pump, and then I’m on my way.
How about you?
Which creative tasks do you block on? What small step could you take today to try that task? Try it, then… What happened in the act of trying? What did you learn?