Dive into the essence of authentic writing by embracing the unknown.
Lately I’ve been thinking about mystery and the creative act, specifically the act of writing. I like to think of mystery as that ineffable part of ourselves and the world that we're always leaning toward, always seeking to unravel, always aware of.
That deep invisible well.
It becomes important to our writing because if we want to write in a way that feels authentic, truthful, then we need to lean into that mystery. Lean into the unknown.
And this, this feels uncertain, uncomfortable.
So, to counteract that, people like to have a project or a plan in place for their writing. They want to know what they’re doing. They develop goals and measures, like word counts and outlines.
And while there are places in the writing journey for such things, they are not what comes first.
They are not the key to writing that feels true.
Attending to what is there
Instead, writing that feels authentic, alive, happens when you drop the pretense that you really know what you want to write. When you turn to the page, you let the rules, expectations and thoughts fall away.
You tap into your intuition.
Then mystery whispers, calling you deeper, and your imagination and memory start to dance, spilling out on the page.
You find yourself writing about the things you really care about.
Initially, your mind wants to categorize what you’ve written – make it into something. “It’s chapter 1!” “A poem!” or “What a great start to a personal essay.”
But I say, let the words sit a bit on the page.
Let some time pass. Go outside, see what catches your attention. Then when you come back to your desk, you might see what you’ve written more clearly. Or you might decide to dive in again, letting yourself go on the page to see what else comes forth.
What else there is.
Let yourself be awake to miracles
And in between the writing, give your attention to the everyday moments of beauty in your life—to the way the dark has started to quicken at the end of the day, to the lull of the cicadas as the harvest dries in the fields, to the late summer shouts of children in a nearby pool.
To whatever makes you feel most alive.
That way the mystery unfolding all around us, in every moment, enters you afresh.
It becomes part of you, until one day, someday soon or perhaps farther in the future, it finds itself born again through your writing, your words on the page.
What is here for you and your writing this week?