Writing as perpetual re-commitment

Writing as a practice for slow and steady self development

These days my desk is located behind a magnificently large window. As I sit for my morning writing, I am met with the curiosities of nature’s changing face. Today, large water drops slide languorously down the yellow-green leaves of a lemon tree as the latest summer storm rolls through the countryside. Two proud cockerels strut by with a brood of hens in tow as they hurriedly make their way out of the rain.

Summer storms this year have been frequent, creating unpleasant bouts of humidity in thirty degree heat that are then cooled by a downpour. It feels tropical. My writing has felt just as temperamental, if not downright elusive, much like our typical French summer. But I’m not complaining - these periods are par for the course.

The cornerstone of my writing practice, much like any serious practice, is commitment. And re-commitment. I have stopped and started my morning writing more times than I can count. And instead of interpreting each drop of the ball as a failure, I’ve learnt to see it as a natural part of my larger goal. As temperamental weather reveals deeper imbalances in nature, so my stop-and-start practice uncovers imbalances inherent in me. And that’s the point.

Writing, then, can be reframed as a tool with which to know myself. Why do I stop writing ? As my body and psyche go through cycles of healing, my connection to creative source is periodically muddied. Fighting this gets me nowhere, but inviting these cycles into how I frame my writing practice gets me more ease.

To clear the mud, why not write a few pages in stream of consciousness to get it ‘out’ ? Or focus on describing, as deliciously as I can, the sadness blocking my forward motion ? If I use my writing as a tool to explore the muck, I come back to the flow of my creative stream a little faster. And crucially, I keep writing. Perhaps my highest form of expression on one day is an exquisite essay on sadness, and not the writing I’d planned to ‘get done’.

But why do we write, if not to achieve something ? I’ve found that my best writing always gets blocked by the pressure of achievement - even as a journalist, far more joyful motivations were needed for me to produce quality work week in, week out. Every chapter of my life has imbued my writing with its own reason, and the need to achieve was only ever an impediment.

Writing in my teens was about exploring my ability, creativity and practicing structure. In my early twenties, writing fulfilled a deep need to be seen, to exist outside the confines of a traumatising relationship. In my mid to late late twenties, writing was about the joy of mastering my chosen craft of journalism, with all its different forms and requirements.

These days, I’m enjoying a calmer, less urgent motivation. Being held back by Long-Covid has had the wonderful effect of taking my writing back to basics, and I’m exploring my drive to write from the ground up. I’ve been free to explore writing courses (this one by Greta Solomon is my favourite) and write for the pure pleasure of it.

As my words fill the page, I feel plugged into a rich source of creative expression that completely feeds me. Integrating this into all my work is now my motivation. Creative writing, like singing and performing, is my direct line to a source of pure flow and experience - practicing it is to know my essence and feel it through my body.

At least for now, there is no greater goal.