Right now, I’m crouched under some wooden stairs, propped on one leg. My foot is numb and I’ve got terrible posture—but this is the only place I can charge my computer. While I could just go for a walk, I’m on a one-night writing retreat and there’s that old, familiar pressure: don’t waste time.
I arrived yesterday at a sweet little cabin on Little Atlin Lake. The lake is still frozen, etched with skidoo tracks. The place smells like propane and old books. Tall thick spruce and snow-capped mountains stand on guard outside. Melting snow drips from the eaves troughs.
The resourceful and artsy owners, Shannon and Carl are generous, humble and handy. They’ve rewired, reroofed and jacked up almost every dwelling. They even made a dance floor in the garage.
It’s a physical and magical place- no wonder I’ve come.
I’ve come to work on a few chapters of my book. I needed a little more spaciousness to focus on writing- so I booked one night and a full day. But as soon as I began driving here, the clock started ticking. I could feel the tension between my ambition and a short window. By the time I parked the car and got my things inside, the pressure to produce was intense.
But I couldn’t get going right away, mind you. The cabin was cool. Given the dwellings are all heated with wood, I grabbed a handful of kindling and an armful of logs started to light a fire.
I mean, I began writing.
*
Not only did I need to light a fire in my cabin but a second fire in the sauna hut across the field. While I love making fires, I could sense a mild annoyance with the work to build them. I needed to get to my computer, dive into the fragments and edits that awaited me. So I hurried down the half melted path in my rubber boots and got the additional fire going, soon satisfied with a swell of grey vapour building from both chimneys.
“Getting down to work” didn’t happen quickly. Cabin living is rigorous. The tea kettle needed boiling. My chickpea salad needed eating. The sauna needed reloading every 45 minutes. And the gray squirrel, who I met between fire tending, needed talking to.
As I entered the physicality of living, my computer and neat bundles of chapters hung alone. I glanced at my watch, worried about the time that had already flown by.
But as I poured my tea, somehow I realized I was already writing.
*
Even though I know better, I still try to stampede toward self-imposed deadlines. But good art isn’t a fast tweet or a furious burst of productivity. It’s what happens before the writing—the quiet, the mundane, the in-between.
Many artists say that the Muse visits most consistenly in relaxed moments, like showers or dreams. For me, the Muse visits when I listen to the living.
A few friends have recently asked me about my art practice. How and when I write. The time it takes me to edit. Where my ideas come from. If you were driving with me enroute to the cabin yesterday, you might assume that it’s my ability to organize and plan that helps me create. You might think that I can hammer for twelve hours in a quiet cabin.
But honestly, art is more about what happens off the page. It begins when I tend to the real. When I reciprocate with the physical world. When I put my hand in the tea leaves and fill the ball carefully. When I stand at the kitchen window as the water boils. When I go for that walk to check how the Yukon melt is getting on.
Writing is less about the typing and more about the living. Writing is simply what happens when I allow the images, stories, memories and textures of life to light a fire in me.
I need to remind myself of this, especially when feeling the pressure to produce. It’s physical this making. Literally, I’m still crouched under the wooden stairs writing to you. My Muse has decided that Jennifer’s here for the ordinary- a life that insists I slow down and be open to awkward shapes.
So if you feel like you’re not doing enough to supercharge your creativity—maybe you already are. Maybe it’s the tea-making. The heated argument with your lover. The cutting of wood. The fixing of an old part of an engine. The challenging silence with your teen. Or, that long drive that promised an escape you didn’t actually need. All of it, all of it is fuel.
Your art is what’s alive before the page.
If this resonates, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. How is your writing (or art or activism) most alive before you get to ‘work’?
From the shores of Little Atlin,
xo Jennifer
How did you know about the heated argument with my lover?! Just kidding. Thanks for this. It rings true as I sit here trying to "pull myself together" and get something done. Susie Anne
Thanks for evoking Little Atlin for me and, yes, my writing happens when I leave my desk and head into the woods. The words come forth as my heart rate rises and my cheeks get rosy, like they had always been right there.