My first complete immersive creative experience as an adult—one not connected to any professional or financial endeavor—happened in my late 30s, not my more open and (relatively) care free early 20s or some similar time. I was married and had two young kids and was well into my career as a high school teacher. Not the most ideal circumstances for diving into serious writing, certainly. Or was it?
In many ways, my thinking of what constitutes a “perfect time” to begin creative endeavors changed dramatically during that time simply because my own experience countered my earlier impressions. It seemed more time can result in less productivity. Obviously, this is different for all kinds of people and can manifest itself differently throughout anyone’s life, but for me, less time actually created more opportunity. Part of this stemmed from an immersion of creativity based on specific time frames.
The most influential book on writing I have ever read is On Writing by Stephen King. It is simply the most insightful, practical and interesting handbook on writing (disguised as memoirs) I have come across and I return to it periodically after reading it for the first time just over two decades ago. So many writing books are stuffed with somewhat useless, often trite advice that ends up being fairly limited once one begins writing in earnest. Not King’s (Strunk & White’s classic Elements of Style comes in a close second but it’s a much different type of read and more a manual than anything else); his book, plainly stated, got me writing again after a few years of dormancy.
I majored in journalism in college (minor in history), something which would seem archaic by today’s concept of “media” and whatever “journalism” is now but the skills honed through those classes and years are still with me today in some form, especially the editing and shorthand along with the way of actually constructing a piece of writing to appeal to different readers and serve various functions. But earning a degree doesn’t make one a writer, a point King repeats in various ways throughout his now classic book. To begin writing, write. It really is that simple. With some semblance of skill (some talent doesn’t hurt), a huge reservoir of desire and continued practice, one can write well. So years later, out of college and well into adulthood—in the midst of reading King’s book—that’s what I did.
Short stories were first, then some poems (something I never thought I would spend time doing) and then finally, years later, I got an idea for a novel that I actually ended up finishing and publishing independently. In the fall of 2008, the very week Barack Obama was first elected president, I began writing my novel on an old desktop computer in my then-living room for a couple of hours each night. For a month straight. The point of this piece isn’t this novel but rather the process of it and how it became my first true, sustained creative immersive adult experience. But suffice it to say it involved Bob Dylan and George W. Bush (it’s available on Amazon if you want to read it or better yet, you can request my copy and I will send it to you for free) so I consumed large amounts of material on those two people in order to write the story.
For a month straight, I listened to Dylan’s 1997 album Time Out of Mind every night while I wrote American Dreamland (novel’s title). A strange thing happened, one which I have yet to replicate fully since—I started the novel, wrote every day that month and ended up finishing it a few months later. It sounds simple—and in many ways it is—but creativity is harder than people think. As the late Christopher Hitchens used to lament (I am paraphrasing here): One starts the evening with a full glass of gin and an empty page and by the end of the evening one has an empty bottle of gin and still an empty page. Not entirely off. I can’t tell you how many times I stared at the computer screen for minutes on end, sometimes longer, until finally plunking out a few sentences in hopes of getting a literary sweat going enough to crank out a few pages or at least a couple thousand words. The internet wasn’t quite as interesting or distracting in those days thankfully and for many creatives today, the challenge is sitting long enough to actually finish a creative endeavor without picking up one’s phone or checking out some other thing online instead of slugging away at one’s daunting creative task.
I have written two nearly finished novel manuscripts since then (like I said, nearly finished—a sad yet common phrase in any writer’s vocabulary), published two poetry and short fiction anthologies, one travelogue and now put out this newsletter and to this day no writing experience has been as fluid as that first novel. In the months after that one was done (I let it sit for almost two years before finally publishing it on my own) I figured I’d write four or five books like that but have still completed just that one. I used to beat myself up privately for not finishing the other two but now accept that maybe I won’t but probably I will. And that’s fine. But to do so, I know it will take another phase of creative immersion. For me, it’s the only way, and one which doesn’t mean getting some isolated residency at an upscale writer’s workshop or creative colony (which sounds nice nonetheless) but just taking the time, unfettered, to sit down and create. King wrote some of his most classic novels while in a laundromat or intoxicated (he details his battles with alcoholism in On Writing and maintains he created great work in spite of this rather than because of it, dispelling the notion of the “creative addict” to large degree. His take? That kind of thing may help in the beginning but it’s a terrible crutch which not only saps one’s long term creativity but most significantly, one’s life).
In those days, once my kids went to bed (they were both well under ten years old then), I went to work writing, even if just for an hour or two. Sometimes an inspired run would last three or even four hours but not all the time. In fact, I found two hours was about right as long as it was truly two hours of real writing, actual creative effort sustained during that time. Not checking social media or the news for an hour then writing for a half hour then back to the clicking away. That formula doesn’t work, at least not for me. Even without Hitchens’ gin versus page analogy a writer can end up fruitless after “working” for hours.
Years ago I wrote a novella, one I eventually published along with other short fiction and poems years later, simply by taking a core idea I had and getting up each day for a couple of months to write for an hour or so. It worked and the novella was done in draft form during that time. In many ways, I feel it’s the best thing I’ve ever written, both in concept and final form. Creative immersion is a luxury for an artist, something which is required for quality work but often elusive for a variety of reasons. The modern internet doesn’t help; neither do phones in general. The more distractions an artist has, the worse the output.
I once heard the great novelist Andre Dubus III say at a book signing that he gave himself permission to “sit and stare” (screen, page, whatever) as part of the creative process and I agree with him. But he did not mean stare forever, nor did he mean distract oneself with all kinds of other activities when sitting down to write (or create in general). Daydreaming is active imagining in my view, something very necessary for the creative process but not to be confused with other things which distract from the effort at hand.
We live in an age which often demands constant attention, constant vigilance, constant engagement—to the point where our own private space is compromised, a prison which we essentially allow to be created and maintained by ourselves and carried with us wherever we go. Compounding this is the realistic requirement by most up and coming (even established) creatives to share and regularly update social media platforms, send newsletters, email updates, videos, blogs and anything else which cements and promotes ones’ “brand” (read: creative work). It’s maddening, really, no matter the necessity. It is my belief that an artist was not meant to create something truly magical and significant every single day for public consumption; this, however, is my opinion, and a position I realize is not realistic for many people aspiring to make art a functional part of their financial lives. But in this process (one I have engaged in myself from time to time), the artist loses a bit of spontaneity, a private, potentially immersive space where true art can flourish and great things can come about much more organically and without attention on what this will do publicly when showcased.
In the same view, having some demands to one’s life can actually enhance creative output in a strange way. Most people aren’t that productive with endless amounts of time or little in the way of demands. Sure, idle time can be a wonderful gift, one which can rejuvenate the creative well and refurbish ideas long ago abandoned or shelved. But in small doses. Life is much more vibrant when lived in true form, around people, doing things, seeing other works and influences and things in general. Life creates art and vice versa. Not living a real life may open up time literally but it will not, in most cases, yield fruitful creative endeavors. Having things which demand your time, even things you voluntarily yield to, offers the chance to walk away from something, regroup and come back again the next day. I have found a “normal life” can be much more creatively motivating than a supposed “artist’s life” (whatever that term even means). Maybe the true artist makes his or her life both?
We are fortunate to have any creative immersive time period in our life and it can come in forms (certainly writing is just one example) but it is something everyone should experience at some point in their lives. When I think back to the first major creative work I completed, that semi-long ago novel about Dylan and W. Bush, I don’t so much think about the story. I don’t actually think much at all about the book in a literal sense (I tend to move on pretty quickly from my written work once it’s complete and out there for people to read). I still have yet to read it in its final form, cover to cover, as a reader. People have often expressed amazement—even dismay—at that statement but it’s not that I “haven’t read” it; it’s rather I read the thing thousands of times in small pieces over months. So, yes. I definitely read it. Just not like readers would. So no, it’s not the actual book I think about. It’s the time, the effort and process. Writing, I contend, is hard work. I paint and draw and do visual artistic work, also. The joy I feel from that and the act of completing work in that medium is vastly superior to what I feel in the world of writing. But writing, in the end, is incredibly satisfying, but in the way finishing a long, arduous hike or marathon might be for someone.
As a hiker who has tackled many long trails and mountains, the joy comes in the small moments, the finish and the reflection on the process once it’s done. At the end of every long hike it’s tempting to say “well, never doing that again” but a few days later, maybe weeks, the urge comes back and all the small, aggravating stuff dulls in the mind and the grandeur of the views and satisfaction of “the chase” for completion and the experience takes hold once again. And off we go. For me, this is pretty much what writing is as an endeavor. Producing visual artwork is like brisk, invigorating walks in the woods where I can look around and still get something beneficial but it ends in good time and I can move on and think about the next one.
For American Dreamland, I recall the digging in to find old interviews of Dylan and Bush, newer ones, all the information I could find to create realistic dialogue, settings and plot points. Although a work of fiction, the characters were based on real people, famous people, and had to work. I remember my good friend sending me the artwork for the final book cover and the excitement of seeing it on the cover when it came out. I remember listening to the same album for weeks straight, never even getting sick of it (I still like it today—happy I didn’t wear it out). I recall the quiet satisfaction of knowing I was actually writing a novel (the most cliche statement of all time, really. I mean, who isn’t working on a novel, even if it’s only in their head?) while not saying anything about it (other than a very small group; like three or four people) mainly out of fear of feeling like a failure if I didn’t finish. Some nights were hard to get my “pages” or “word count” while other times the words flowed easily and without hesitation. Those times are, dare I say, kind of enjoyable.
I enjoyed the immersion, the work, the process. The final book was very, very satisfying as a finished product, one which was my first official published book. I recall opening my first order vividly, seeing the cover in the box for the first time (I opened it up right before heading into a parent-teacher conference for my then-elementary school-aged daughter. I was almost late as it was), opening up its pages. It was spectacular. And then it was over. I moved onto to other work, different mediums. I did a few book signings at various local bookstores and venues and most were decently attended (I avoided the dreaded “no audience” moment every author has nightmares about, a truly hideous scene where a single author sits alone, a pile of his or her own books on the table with nobody to claim them. The worst is when the staff at the store offer you coffee and tea mostly out of pure empathy. This situation is best avoided and luckily I did). I put out three more books (one digital and the other two anthologies) but didn’t even do any book signings for the last one, perhaps my best work (my own opinion).
For any creative person, the goal should always be immersion, to be enveloped by the process, the work, the dream of the final result. This in many ways is more appealing than the final book or piece or whatever because it is the part of the process where it’s all your own and totally open to steer wherever you want to go. It’s both a thrilling and isolating feeling, one which any creative person is lucky to have claimed as their own experience. Chase the creative dream, even if just for yourself. The phrase “it’s the journey not the destination” has become somewhat cliche at this point in our cultural history but it isn’t wrong. Post on social media, advertise relentlessly what you’re up to artistically, tell friends your working on a novel, make videos about it, blog it up, whatever. No judgement here whatsoever (I have certainly done all those things and may again. Who knows?). But don’t lose sight of the process and enjoy it while it lasts. In many ways, it’s the only time your creative work is truly your own.