The Sound of Paper Read online

  Sophie, a newer writer, tends to lapse into terrifying silences between books. "I am not writing, not writing anything!" she will wail. I have tried urging her to write Morning Pages, remind­ing her that a little trickle of writing keeps the flow from closing down completely, but this is a lesson she doesn't want to learn and so she endures a repeated drama: "I will never write again. I am really not a writer after all." This, despite five books to the contrary.

  Artists have active imaginations, and we must learn to turn them toward the positive. Left to their own devices, our imagina­tions predict horrifying creative downfalls, dry spells, droughts, permanent blocks. This is why creative visualization is such a valid tool for artists—it points our imagination down more halcyon

  paths. "Imagine an ideal day" or "Picture yourself working at the height of your powers." It can feel foreign and threatening to try to foresee not creative catastrophe but the successful culmination of our dreams. A daydream of collecting a Tony award or an Oscar can seem like grandiosity. Meanwhile, we seldom curtail our day­dreaming of bad reviews. We call that "realism," but is it?

  Someone needs to succeed in the arts. Why not you? Some­one's novel will be published. Why not yours? Someone's screen­play will be produced. Why not yours? Indeed, it could be argued that we must conceive success to be possible in order to have it.

  I would suggest that the action of positive imagination is the first action that we should take. Think of it as a kind of magnetic grid, a form that invites success to come and fill it. In spiritual terms this can be phrased: Ask, believe, receive. When we imagine ourselves to be successful in our art, we are asking for success. Not all prayers need to be uttered aloud. When we allow our imagina­tions to inhabit the positive, we are believing and calling success to our sides. When we open our minds to our success, we become able to receive it. Without such open-mindedness, we turn our gifts away.

  Let us allow our gifts to ripen instead. Let us plan to harvest our successes like the autumn apples, so ripe they fall to the touch. Let us believe in abundance and appreciate it even as it comes to our side. The prayer of "thank you" for blessings received and blessings anticipated is a very powerful prayer. "Oh, grazie, oh, thank you," we can say to the Great Creator, and let that anthem lift our hearts and minds to the many miracles possible.

  SEASONALITY

  Try this: When we refuse to honor the season-ality of our creative lives, we are often frus­trated. We push too hard and too fast, and we torment ourselves over our lack of continuous productivity. Take pen in hand. Number from 1 to 5. List five projects you are involved in, and the season you are at in each. For example:

  Learning to play the piano (spring: I'm just

  starting out)

  Weight loss (summer: I've made good pro­

  gress, my diet is going well)

  Writing a new musical (spring: I'm just

  gathering ideas)

  Finishing a musical (fall: I'm in the final

  draft/rewrite phase)

  Starting another novel (winter: This area of

  my creativity feels dormant right now)

  Scanning your list, allow yourself to realize the type and amount of creative effort appropri­ate to the season of your projects.

  Allowing Gu i dance

  As I write, the soft and downy fluff from cottonwood trees floats past my writing room window, dancing above the peak of the rusted tin roof that crowns my old adobe home. Wafting in on a breeze so slight it seems nonexistent, the tiny puffs are like the thoughts we have about how our life could be better. The thoughts, like the cottonwood fluff, float in from nowhere and dance on the edge of our consciousness. "I would love to . . ." they might begin, or, "Wouldn't it be run to try .. ."

  Most of us are adroit at ignoring such gentle thoughts. We swat them out of our consciousness, saying, "Not now. I'm too busy" or "Not now. I don't see how it can be done."

  A great deal of the time we dismiss our longings on the grounds that they aren't reasonable—and often they aren't. Where did we get the idea that life was intended to be reasonable? And where would we be if Columbus, for example, had listened to reason?

  We have very little evidence that sensible and frugal are actually qualities cherished by the Great Creator. A quick glance at cre­ation is enough to show us that flowers number in the thousands, that butterflies do the same, and that something had a great deal of glee creating things that weren't, strictly speaking, necessary. Per­haps we need to believe a little more in this generous and prodigal

  God. Perhaps we need to think about whether this Great Creator might not back some of our crazy schemes before we dismiss them out of hand as impossible or unreasonable.

  Magellan was obsessed with finding a strait through the Amer­icas that might lead to the isles of spice. He sought help from the king of Portugal, who turned a deaf ear. Finally, owing more alle­giance to his dream than to his nation, he agreed to sail for Spain. Setting out to sea with five boats and a mission that was deemed foolhardy and impossible, the great navigator did circumnavigate the globe, proving once and for all that the world was round and that you could reach the east by sailing to the west.

  Not all of us are Magellan, obsessed with some great enterprise, but most of us have a dream that we could set sail if only we dared. We would like to write a novel. We dream of sculpting. We want to build a darkroom in our garage. We want to tackle a certain con­certo that eludes our hungry fingers. Rather than act on these dreams, we often shoo them from our consciousness, saying, "I need to be sensible. I would never be able to manage that."

  But perhaps we can manage much more than we think. Perhaps there really is an unseen force that swings into action when we dare to pursue a dream. The phrase "a wing and a prayer" describes the uncanny sense pilots have that God is their copilot. For those of us who are earthbound, the phrasing might run "God is my cocreator."

  When we commit to a dream, some great gate swings open and people and events surge forward to us in the form of supplies. As we hold steady to our dream, the materials needed to build that dream come to hand for us, and this is true whether our dream is writing musical comedy or building a new church.

  Eight years ago I began writing music. I had no training musi­cally. All I had were the vast swaths of melody and lyrics that swept through my head. I wanted to write a musical, but the odds of suc­ceeding seemed as remote as Africa, and just as dark and forbidding. Nonetheless, I went to work, writing my music as an alphabetical code that could later be translated into notes. Whenever the work seemed the most impossible, some new bolt of music would announce itself—glorious and imperious, demanding "Write me." Feeling I was truly crazy, I obeyed, filling notebook after notebook with lyrics and "code."

  Fortunately, I am friends with a wonderful psychic named Sonia Choquette, the author of five books on the power of belief in the unseen.

  "You're not crazy," Sonia told me. "You're musical. And if you keep at it, I see a woman coming into your life to help and teach you—if you allow it. Why don't you try to allow it?"

  And so I kept working at the music and the music kept working at me, and eventually I was able to stage a small workshop produc­tion of musical number one, Avalon. The production was held on a tiny auditorium stage in Taos, New Mexico—if not the middle of nowhere, certainly the middle of nowhere very likely. To the opening-night performance came a visiting New Yorker, a woman named Emma Lively, the very woman Sonia had foreseen my meet­ing and working with. Deftly as a hand slips into a glove, Emma slipped into my life. My alphabetic code did not baffle her. She quickly transcribed it and unfurled it into music. For four years now, we have worked together, and some three hundred songs, including two full-scale musicals and two children's albums, are the result. And even as I write this essay, I hear music pouring from

  Emma's piano, music that I wrote and despaired of ever hearing realized.

  So it is from my own experience that I know that dreams can come into being that a
re far larger and grander than we dare to hope. Help can come to hand that is far more accurate and deft than we dared to ask for. Guidance can unfold a step at a time so that the cottonwood fluff of our fancies becomes the reality we hold in our lives. "Thy will be done" is the prayer that allows us to allow this greater unfolding. Our eventual size is perhaps none of our business. We may all be far larger and more beautiful than we ever dare imagine. Like the cottonwood fluff, we can be lifted on high by invisible breezes that float us to our dreams.

  ALLOWING GUIDANCE

  Try this: We are all directly connected to an inner and higher source of wisdom. We ac­cess this wisdom through Morning Pages and through the use of what might be called "guided writing." Consider this task an exercise in open-mindedness. Take pen in hand. Pose a question in an area where you need guidance. Listen quietly and write down the advice that you hear. This form of inner dialogue is very useful, and most people find they can easily access a wisdom that appears greater than their own.

  Keeping On

  The air in Taos Valle y is silvery with smoke. To the south, in the Sangre de Cristos, a fresh fire rages near Truchas. Firefight-ing is made far harder by the noisome winds pushing the flames along with ember-laden gusts. The miracle shrine, Santuario de Chimayo, lies not far from the blaze. So far, prayers for a respite seem to be going unanswered. My friend Elberta, with her horse farm in nearby Espaiiola, stands ready to receive evacuated horses. How bad the blaze will be is still unknown, but the high mountain pastures, baked by the sun and raked by the wind, are quick tinder.

  We haven't had a drought like this in a hundred years, or in thirteen, depending on who you believe. A long time either way. The elders cluck and advise precautions. No smoking out-of-doors, no watering of lawns and gardens, no lengthy showers, no wasting the precious little water we have left. To the elders, such a gentle discipline comes naturally. They know that our actions mat­ter, and that our cooperation with the Fates wins us a more mer­ciful passage through difficult times.

  During periods of creative drought, the same gentle husband­ing of resources yields results. The careful daily turning to the page, recording there our frustrations and angers, yields us a way to carry on without setting a match to our dissatisfaction.

  David, a young writer in between short stories, writes his Morning Pages daily, saying, "I wish I had another story idea." His

  wish is a written prayer, and its answer comes to him in the im­pulse to work on a new idea, to write down a scrap of dialogue he overhears, to send a long, meandering letter to a friend. All writ­ing primes the pump.

  Casey, a veteran writer, writes daily despite feelings of hopeless­ness and despair. "I am not sure I have another book in me," Casey tells his intimates. Writing for the sake of writing, he improves his odds. "I am a writer, and writers write," Casey sums up his credo. At sixty, Casey has endured green years and lean years, years of publishing and years of quiet. "I'm stubborn," Casey says, making light of the long years of daily writing practice.

  If we examine any lengthy artistic career, we will discover the stubborn thread of perseverance. Oscar Hammerstein endured a ten-year drought in between his early success with Jerome Kern and his later success with Richard Rodgers. Throughout the decade of public failure, he hewed to a private practice of writing, working at his craft even when his career appeared to be in ashes.

  Where and how do we find the resources to keep on keeping on? We look for them within our hearts. Just as the earth con­tains great underground rivers, we, too, contain unsuspected inner resources. In easy times, swept along by shared enthusiasms and outward success, we often work lightly, without knowing the depth of our own nature. It takes hard times to bring out our inner hardiness.

  At eighty-two, director John Newland directed my play Four Roses, a six-woman piece set in an alcoholic treatment center. When we wrapped the production, Newland scheduled an imme­diate lunch to discuss what we might do next. He broached plans for an acting class, eager, as always, to keep working. Newland was

  thirty years my senior, and greeted my fears of aging with laugh­ter and a challenge. "Why, I did my best work after fifty," he told me. "You're just a kid."

  At eighty-two, Max Showalter traveled from Connecticut to Taos, where I was teaching a creativity camp. "You have to be positive," he explained. "You just have to be." Seated at the piano, performing for an audience of campers, he tinkled the keys and regaled the crowd with his tales of just keeping on.

  It takes courage to be persistent, courage to try one more time—and then once again. What Casey calls his "stubbornness" is actually his courage. Courage is from the French word coeur, "heart." When John Newland told me to "take heart," it was a direction, not a bromide. We take heart when we commit to our­selves. To make art one more day.

  The fire near Truchas fills the air with great plumes of smoke. Some pale as powder, some dark as ash. At Elberta's horse farm, business runs as usual. Some horses rotated to pasture, other horses put through their paces, still other horses on a day's sabbatical. The result of all the careful care is a string of glossy show horses ready to take championships. All of the training boils down to a gentle discipline, a daily doing and redoing. For us as artists, the regime must be the same.

  Outside my writing room window stands a graceful, stately willow. The willow has flourished by sending deep roots into the earth under the acequia, a small water ditch. In this year's drought, the acequia stands empty, but moisture is still locked deep in the earth below its dry bed, and the willow, fresh and green, stands tes­tament to this.

  In making a life in the arts, we need roots like the willow, far-reaching enough to compensate us for a season's dry time. Our friendships form such a system, grounded in goodwill that reaches beyond each season's success or failure. When we seek those friendly to our art, we seek those compassionate to its process. When they ask, "How is it going?" the answer can be more than a litany of recent wins.

  I have a friend, Bernice, who is friendly toward my music. When we talk, she inquires about my music the way one might inquire of a child's health. "And how is your music, Julia?" Bernice will say. "I feel like it comes from some high, fine place. Are you writing any music of the Southwest?" The very question sets me humming.

  KEEPING ON

  Try this: Many of us would love to keep on if we could just figure out how. We forget that Morning Pages, Artist Dates, and Walks are all tools that move us forward. Instead of seeking small and gentle next steps, we look for dramatic breakthroughs. Take pen in hand and list five tiny ways by which you could move forward. For example:

  Morning Pages

  Artist Dates

  Walks

  Straightening my work area

  Subscribing to a magazine in my area

  of interest

  The point of this list is gentle encourage­ment, but embedded in that word is the root word courage. Take heart and execute one tiny step forward.

  Remembering Who We Are

  The wicked wind is less today. The sky is still silvered over with dust, but the world is not as beset. The large fire burning near Truchas appears to be safely contained and, unless there is a sudden switch in the ever-treacherous wind, it may burn itself safely out, sparing the old village. Of course, rain, real rain, would help.

  This morning when I woke up, the mountain was erased. Smoke from the Truchas fire had plumed skyward and then settled down like a still, dense fog. We could have been in the Midwest. All that was visible was flatland. The looming mountains were lost to view. It was an eerie feeling, driving into town. The mountains were simply gone. I caught myself thinking how often we undergo such psychological tricks where the mountains of all we have done, been, and accomplished are invisible to our eyes, when we make ourselves out to be much flatter than we are.

  The soul is beautiful and colorful. It expresses itself in our lives as tenderness and beauty. All of us have friendships that we cher­ish and nurture carefully. All of us have areas i
n our lives where we have brought harmony and beauty—the well-raised daughter or son, the beloved pet, the carefully kept and clean home. No life is empty of some shining spot where grace and concern have brought godliness.

  How much better might our lives feel if we remembered to

  V

  acknowledge these invisible mountains of self-worth? What if we focused a little less on what we "should" do and counted a little more on what we have done? In short, what if we practiced a gen­tle gratitude toward our spirit for having tried so hard and in so many ways to be honorable? Self-appreciation is a discipline, and it is grounded in a sense of self-worth. We must believe that we are worthy of our own approval, and then we must give it to ourselves consciously and concretely.

  We can start with something small. For example, "I am pretty good at staying in touch with my friends." Yes, we can always be "better," but that is not the point here. The point is acknowledg­ing what may already be good enough. Try again: "I keep a pretty house."

  For most of us, these positive affirmations, however modest, will be met with an objection. Good with your friends? "You haven't called Laura lately." A pretty house? "All the geraniums need to be pruned back." Where does this cruelty come from? Why is it so hard to praise ourselves, to love ourselves just as we are?

  A great deal of the difficulty in making art springs from this con­viction that what we are at any given moment is not enough. We want to be better, wiser, more ready to write before we write. We want to be more in the mood, more inspired, more alive be­fore we try to paint. And yet, over long years of work, it is clear that some of the best writing comes through when we are not feeling struck with light. Some of the finest painting gets done on the days when we just show up at the easel because that is our job. In other words, when we practice self-acceptance of where we are and who we are instead of striving, always, to be better.