The Artist's Way

 A few years ago, I discovered Julia Cameron's book The Artist's Way, and picked up a used copy (published in 1992). My like-minded friend Natalie was all in, and we met every week for twelve weeks doing the program, annotating each chapter and doing all of the exercises. Since then, morning pages are a daily part of my life, and artist dates are a real gift to myself that I treat like food or air - necessary for life.

(Morning pages are just what they sound like: a form of journaling every morning for a half hour that allows me to process my life and all the mundane and important things going on. For 2 1/2 pages, I ramble about nothingness, but then at that mark suddenly a thought comes to me that shifts things and is more important. I've learned to hold on until that moment comes. Artist dates are solo dates where you invite your inner child-artist to join you: they are a chance to see the world through an artist's eyes. It's a long walk in an interesting or beautiful location, listening to live music, trying a new restaurant, doing art or anything else that inspires. It's solo, so you can hear your own thoughts. It's play, and a fresh perspective.)

I do my pages and dates pretty faithfully, and my life is much better as a result. I highly recommend the book, and these habits.

I like it so much that Natalie and I did it again about two years ago, reviewing what we'd done. And then Natalie ran an online group for The Artist's Way and she invited me to join, so of course I said yes. Of course! I talk so much (at least to myself, an endless stream of chatter in my mind) about being a writer, this felt like a true gift to my soul, committing time with like minded people. The others in the group are lovely folks, and I definitely benefit from their wisdom and struggles and shared experiences.

However... why does there have to be a however? ... I found myself getting angry and frustrated.

Why do I bounce around writing, instead of doing it? Why do I talk about writing - with myself or others - and do artist dates and endless journaling, without actually working on my craft and doing the very thing that I most long to do, that I'm called to do, that I say I will do?!

My frustration, I have decided, is a gift.

When I got divorced, I went to a wise woman and asked her how to manage my anger: I felt rage bubbling inside me, and once I acknowledged that the marriage was truly dead with no hope of revival, the rage was released and seemed to burst out of me like hot lava, molten rock that wouldn't allow anything (or anyone) to get in its way. It was exhausting, and didn't match who I wanted to be, and yet there it was, simmering rage that filled my mind and my blood. She said something that has stuck with me all these years: she said, "Your anger was a gift that let you know what you needed to do with your life; it let you know when things weren't right or fair, and gave you the strength to change. Now you've changed; you've made the hard decision to leave, and so you can start working on your life. But what does the anger do for you now? Does it still serve you, or can you thank it for doing its job, and let it go?" Her words were such a gift. I could choose to release the anger, because it's not how I choose to live. I could focus that energy on creating a future that I LOVED. All caps; I want no part in a small love, in scraps of love. I wanted a life worth embracing, full of spontaneous laughter and intentionality and beauty and experiences and connection. I won't pretend that the anger went away (I still feel it sometimes), but that was the moment it stopped being a driving force in my life. Love (mostly, for my daughter and the life I wanted to give her), purpose, and joy became my driving factors; anger could take a back seat, because it had done the hard work necessary to set me up for the next phase.

But back to The Artist's Way. My anger has nothing to do with the book itself - it's good advice! - and more with the fact that I have allowed myself to do work around writing instead of actually writing. I talk about writing, do activities about writing, think about writing, read about writing... but what I need to do is to WRITE.

Here I am, figuring out my brain for the ten millionth time.

I'm writing again. I wrote poetry on the beach today - about sea glass and childhood and literal trash on the high tide line. It's not polished yet, but there's something there there.

I'm here. I think I'm ready to turn this blog (so outdated!) into a Substack, but I'm still organizing my thoughts. I've kept blogs before: first about my cancer journey, and then about divorce, and I had strong readerships, and I even made a dear friend through the latter. My blogs worked because they were around a central purpose and I knew who my audience was, and I'm playing with a few ideas to figure it out for this round. (Middle aged women, witches and witch wannabes, and generally just lefty women who want to suck the marrow from life. Like I said, I'm still working on it!) I'm writing poetry again, and I'm blogging, and I'm still writing morning pages, and I have some essays and short stories. I'm reaching out to artists whose work I love, and writing letters of appreciation. 

I'm still committed to The Artist's Way, but the truth is that the real artist's way is to create art. Good art, bad art, new art, old art... just create. I have a million ideas bottled up inside myself and going moldy from lack of light, and have 60 pages of a book that I truly believe in.

The only way out is through. And I'm certainly not getting any younger, and I might have just run out of excuses.

It's not discipline, it's devotion. I'm tired of my old patterns, over and over and over again, no matter how good my excuses are. (Working 60 hours a week is KICKING MY BUTT.)

See you soon, because I'm out of excuses. I'm back, and I mean it.