Just as Cap’n J and I outfit the Nerka with emergency equipment – radio, bilge pumps, fire extinguishers – I reach for particular survival gear as a writer. Lately, the one I’ve been keeping closest is Dani Shapiro’s Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life. This book is a rare gift, one I flip open to a random page and find myself face to face with the truth I most need to hear. Today’s section, “The Cave,” is no exception:
One of the strangest aspects of a writing life is what I think of as going in and out of the cave. When we are in the middle of a piece of work, the cave is the only place we belong. Yes, there are practical considerations. Eating, for instance. Or helping a child with homework. Or taking out the trash. Whatever. But a writer in the midst of a story needs to find a way to keep her head there. She can’t just pop out of the cave, have some fun, go dancing, and then pop back in. The work demands our full attention, our deepest concentration, our best selves. If we’re in the middle – in the boat we’re building – we cannot let ourselves be distracted by the bright and shiny. The bright and shiny is a mirage, an illusion. It is of no use to us.
If there is a time for that brightness, it is at the end: when the book is finished and the revisions have been turned in, when you’ve given everything inside of you and then some. When the cave is empty. Every rock turned over. The walls covered with hieroglyphics that only you understand – notes you’ve written to yourself in the darkness…
Life over the past month has indeed been bright and shiny. I’d like to share all that goodness with you, posting photos and videos and news of friends’ upcoming events. I’d like to tell you how my residency concluded, with thoughtful reflections on the experience and gratitude for your letters and encouragement along the way. I’d like to respond to those of you who’ve asked about this year’s FisherPoets Gathering, sharing stories of Cap’n J’s debut performances (which, all nepotism aside, were amazing), his sister Ashley’s win of the On-Site Poetry Contest, and the pure joy this annual reunion brings. I’d like to tell you what a tremendous success last weekend’s She Tells Sea Tales was, as an inaugural fundraiser for Port Townsend’s Girls’ Boat Project and a powerful celebration of women in maritime trades.
What I really don’t want to tell you is that, in the midst of this inspirational lovefest, I’ve been having a hard time. A hard time: even in admission, I am less than authentic, reaching for a euphemism designed to maintain my “I’m fine” wall. I don’t want to tell you that in venturing so far from the cave, I’ve gotten lost in a different darkness. I don’t want to tell you about spontaneous weeping and sleeping too much. About the unnamed grief of watching day after day vanish without my participation. About being terribly aware that I am fucking up, yet feeling paralyzed to behave any differently.
Depression and anxiety are not usual states of being for me. My grimmest hours, having occurred in childhood and adolescence, have long been packed in memory’s basement – until now. Now should come as no surprise. I marched down those stairs, blew cobwebs aside, and flung the cardboard gate wide open. How can I be caught unaware by what I have invoked?
As a beloved mentor pointed out, “The guilt, shame – even when ‘just’ writing about it, you’re reliving those moments all over again as you recall them on the page.” Fun as that sounds, I bolted from the cave as soon as my residency ended. In person and online, I’ve been binge-socializing ever since, carefully positioning one delightful distraction after another between me and my writing. My job.
Yet as actively as I resist, every day that I don’t return to the cave leaves me feeling more lost than the day before. Distance sprawls between me and my work, vast acreage for self-doubt and fear to set up camp. Again I turn to Dani Shapiro, this time her reminder that a writer’s work is what will save her, even as she acknowledges the return won’t be easy.
The page is indifferent to us – no, worse. The page turns from us like a wounded lover. We will have to win it over, coax it out of hiding. Promise to do better next time. Apologize for our disregard. And then, we settle into the pattern that we know. Three pages. Two hours. A thousand words. We have wandered and now we are back. There is comfort in the familiar. We can do this. Breathe in, breathe out. Once again, just as we’ve been doing all along.
So this will remain a quiet place, friends, as I step away from the internets. Know that the radio silence isn’t you; it’s me. I’m endlessly grateful for your kindness, yet it’s obvious that as much as I admire the many people who succeed in writing their books while fully engaging with the bright and shiny outer world, I am not one of those people. I know only one way out of this, and that’s back to the cave.
Hugs.
Knowing a thing or two about depression, I’m struggling to think of the right words to lead you into the light, when the time comes to leave the cave again. For me, the cave is a place of sadness. I crawl into it, sleep too much, cry too easily… and I can’t write. I feel paralyzed. I have to get out of the cave to write. But yours is a cave of safety, where you can assemble your words into a story without fear of consequences. Go back there, and finish your story. Maybe it brings pain to the surface, but after you’ve written it, it’s out of you. You don’t have to carry it anymore. Look forward to the time when you’re free of it. You don’t even have to read those scenes at your signing events if you don’t want to. Xoxo
Dear Tele, so very sorry to hear you are suffering the blues and dark greys of memories hard on your psyche and impossible to ignore, and just as hard to let loose into the world of friends and family. You are so perceptive and appreciative of others, so careful of their feelings, so supportive, and yet so frank, I should think anyone reading your true story would find it easy to forgive if they felt ‘exposed’ by the truth about themselves. That said, I have often wondered myself if it is necessary to tell all in a story of one’s life. I remember reading a book, alas I forget the author, but she told the adventurous story of her life that had endured divorce, yet without once bringing into it her erstwhile husband, and the how andwhy of her failed marriage. But it was still a fine story. I’m writing this on Tommy’s computer, mine having expired. I don’t know it he has read your blog yet..it was getting late tonight when I found yours, so I expect he has not. He will be sad to hear you are sad and struggling. Tele, know we are pulling for you to recover your sunny side up personality we all love so much, and may all be well that ends well!
You have not fucked up, my dear. Sometimes when we are in that basement among the cobwebs and musty cardboard boxes, we need to breathe, we need to pop our heads out of the cave for gulps of fresh air. We won’t be any good to anyone if we choke to death on the dust and bad memories. So yes, suit up and go there, but come up for air once in a while, come up to breathe and to get encouragement.
Love you sweetie!
Ah, love, you seem to be walking through a valley of shadows before reaching that next exquisite peak. It’s hard to see the dawn from down there but, rest assured, after working your way along the path you’ll eventually be bathed in sunlight. Keep walking, Tele, but don’t forget that it’s okay to rest along the camino every now and again. Beaming love your way.
Thank you for sharing this. I’m going back in, too. Be there well. Stay close to your wild soul. Wear that thick rich pelt day and night. Owwooooo-woo-woo-woooo!
Believe. Believe you can with each breath. Breathe. Of course you can do this. Reach out and land this salmon. I once had a mentor remind me to “write your truth.” One line. Just start with that one line of truth, and let it carry you to the next.
Sending you the energy to sustain.
Hugs,
Pat
Dear sweet human,
Oh Tele. I hear you — and so resonate with this aspect of life you are currently experiencing. What powerful vulnerability and courage you exhibit in this post. I commend you on openly acknowledging the shadow. We all work with shadow in its myriad forms, but rare are the people willing to boldly share what is easier to hide. I celebrate your movement toward the cave to create and come out the other side with the completion and productivity you know is necessary right now.
I also encourage gentleness with yourself.
Easier said than done, but just know that everyone has their own process, and if sometimes you go through the dark night and find that self flagellation is your automatic response, put the beating stick down (as my wise mother often needs to tell me), as I’ve learned that it serves no one, most especially you, and remember that this, too, shall pass, and that this, too, will bring only more richness to your stories, more potency and real-ness to your words. Therefore, in the end, it is “all for good” (a phrase I keep hearing in these more ancient cultures of Nepal, India and Bali).
This darkness will only amplify the light. So much love to you, beauty.
You will finish the last miles of this marathon, Tele. You’ll be tired and depleted, but victorious and – most importantly – done. Take walk breaks. Drink lots of fluids. And if you feel you are dragging, take comfort in being at the back of the pack. You’re in good company. Many of us are here with you. Love you.
The process of writing is like this for me. There are moments of emotional overload, which are often followed by breakthroughs, which might be followed by paralyzing doubt.
It might help to consider this as part of your process. I work best when I allow it to be as organic as it is disciplined, but every writer needs to find her own method.
One of my mentors says the act of writing needs access to your inner crazy person, and that really sums up the experience for me. Maybe that’s why my creative process rolls between days of creative intensity and days of creative exhaustion, because I can only let my crazy out a little at a time. I try to eek out a little writing everyday, but it’s my good days that go back and fix everything I wrote on my blah days.
I’ll miss your words here, Tele. Good luck with all.
My heart is heavy knowing you are so real with all of this. All the comments are thoughtful and kind. You know you can call and find a place in the warm “POD” ‚[i call the studio] and you are on the receiving end of all that is offered. I just pulled a whole fish out this week… One more to go ….and I will arrange a p/u or delivery soon.Please know I would love to see you walk down the path…visit the cave in the woods
Thank you for your honesty. There is much wisdom, love and admiration here. Wrap it around you. For me, the touching of wounds that have not been properly grieved means that healing is in the future. Your brain and heart are in control not you. They will do what they need to do and someday soon the pain will be shelved in your library, just a chapter in the book and part of what makes you a unique and compassionate woman. Sometimes we need a break from pain to gather love and energy so we can go back to it a little later. Love and nurture yourself. Sign me, an admirer.
Dear Tele,
It’s strong work, that goes on in that kind of cave. Folks you don’t know – like me – are sending love, and support, for you in the work that you are doing.
With care, and shared strength,
Shemaya