The Sound of Paper

by Julia Cameron

  The ego wants to be able to mass-produce excellence, but excellence is handcrafted. The ego wants to remove the elements of risk and daring and leave us with a sanitized version of art that is curiously castrated. A potent artist is a free artist, and a free artist is one who is able to work well or poorly with equal impunity. By being able to work poorly, we are free to innovate and to seek new ways of making our art. Just as modern dance embraces many pre­viously awkward postures to create a new dance language, so, too, does ego-free art contain the freedom to embrace new forms.

  SOLDIERING THROUGH

  Try this: Most artists unconsciously carry an inner perfectionist. This sentinel is often scorn­ful and sarcastic, cutting us down to size when­ever we seek to grow creatively larger. "Who do you think you are?" the perfectionist asks. "Do you really think you could pull that off?" Take pen in hand. Number from 1 to 10. Complete the following phrase as rapidly as possible:

  1. If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  7. If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  8. If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  9. If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  10. If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  As this brief exercise shows, there is often considerable creative territory that we yearn for, from which we allow our perfectionist to turn us aside. Select one risk from your list of ten.

  Take a first step toward executing it.

  6. If my ego would allow it, I'd try

  When It Happens to You

  Pigeons coo from the eaves of my old adobe house. We have done our best—the dogs and I—to convince them that they should nest elsewhere, but they are determined. They are here for the summer's duration, and no amount of pleading, cajoling, shooing, or barking can make them do anything as dramatic as leave. At most, they flap to a nearby telephone line, where they wait for us to calm down. Then, inexorably, they are back.

  Just like the pigeons, a creative drought is a stubborn animal. It knows that it is not welcome, and it stays despite protests and attempts to move on. A creative drought is not budged by force. It does not yield to willpower. As artists, we have hardy wills, and we often use them to stay the course on long projects. But the will is of little use faced with the sheer wall of "I won't." And "I won't" is what the block says over and over again.

  It feels like a boulder at the heart's door. A dark and heavy weight that blocks the sun and traps us in darkness. "Oh," we wail, newly chastened, "this is what they mean by creative block." It is as though all the stories we have ever heard of others' suffering, all the tales that left us sitting smugly—"That never happens to me!"—have now come home to roost.

  "It will never happen to me" is the often unspoken but arro­gant assumption that we make before block strikes us. We are like

  the children of alcoholics who say, "It will never happen to me," only to find themselves drinking as badly as ever their parent did.

  Sometimes a block approaches on tiptoe. It gradually becomes harder and harder to write or to paint, until one day it is simply impossible. Other times a block strikes like a sudden blow, felling us instantly with its ferocity. One day you are sailing along, the next day—wham!—you are blocked. Your block may show itself as sudden fatigue or as a nervous energy that will not settle down to mere working. Your block will wear a mask at first so you do not know that it is your enemy. "It's just a bad day," you bravely mutter, but soon it is more than that. It is bad days strung together.

  Very rapidly, your block becomes your dark and terrible secret. You carry it with you always. It is the dinner guest, the third party in your lover's bed. "What's wrong with you?" a beloved might wonder. We can barely summon the courage to say, "I'm blocked."

  It is like the reverse of the alcoholic's experience. Instead of taking the drink whether we want to or not or even when we truly don't want to, we find we cannot work even when we des­perately want to do it. We are just as powerless over the compul­sion to not work as the alcoholic is over the compulsion to drink. And the solution, like the drunk's solution, must be spiritual. Drink­ing problems and blocks both yield only to a power greater than ourselves.

  Am I saying that blocks dissolve in the light of prayer?

  Yes. Blocks are not so much removed as evaded, and they are evaded by the strategy of letting God—or whatever you choose to call the force—work through us. We must resign as the conscious and self-congratulatory author. We must throw ourselves into work with a spiritual abandon. We must paint as though another hand

  holds the brush. We must surrender our ideas about what art is and where our art is going. We must become willing to be channels. We must allow the force that through the green fuse drives the flower to work through us.

  "But, Julia, I don't believe in God," you may be saying. I was not certain that I believed in a God either until I got sober and had my first experience with being squarely blocked. Only in des­peration did I become willing to try letting "it" work through me, and out of my desperation a certain ease was born. I simply wrote what was to be written and left the judgment of it to others. I worked at my craft:—I worked daily—but I did it now not as the master but as the apprentice. I showed up at the page and listened rather than spoke. "Work through me" was my prayer. "Let me be a channel, a conduit, a pipe through which you flow, Great Creator."

  I didn't know it then, but I later learned that I was praying as many artists before me had prayed. "Straightaway the ideas came in on me. Straight from God," Puccini recounted his writing of Madame Butterfly. And Beethoven, near suicide from the lack of re­ception for his work, vowed to live and write music for God alone to appreciate.

  We have all appreciated these artists' prayers.

  Ours is a secular time. We do not talk easily of God or of higher powers, the forces of inspiration that move through us as we work. And yet, the Great Creator is there, and so are benevo­lent helping forces, waiting only to be asked to step forward.

  WHEN IT HAPPENS TO YOU

  Try this: Remember, the way out of a creative block is through surrender, not conquest. We must first admit we are blocked, and then take appropriate actions. Admitting we are blocked is often difficult. It makes us feel too vulnerable for comfort. At root, a block is fear, and fear causes procrastination. Take pen in hand and list five areas in which you are procrastinating. For example:

  I haven't read my play since it got back from

  the typist

  I haven't returned phone calls related to a job

  opening

  I haven't written those letters of recommendation

  I need to get my printer fixed

  I haven't called my friend back about her book

  Take pen in hand again. Moving one at a time, write down your resentments, angers, and fears connected to each area in which you pro­crastinate. This tool is called Blasting Through Blocks, and it is quite powerful.

  On a Dry Day

  A relentless, prying wind blows in from the west. It carries clouds of smoke and ash, hazing over the far mountains. The drought is with us still, and the breeze provides only a temporary relief. The locals say that this is the 'wind that ages you, its feathery touch robs the cheek of moisture, it leaves the complexion fur­rowed and old. The Hispanic women wear hats and stay indoors, focused on housework. Their gardening gets done only at twi­light, after the heat of the day. This is one stratagem they have adopted against the drought.

  In times of creative drought, stratagems serve us. It is not a time for forcing growth. It simply doesn't work. Like the garden burned up from being watered at midday, when the water itself turns hot, we, too, can be burned up by forcing ourselves at an un­natural pace.

  When we are unable to work, we can work at the work of get­ting ready to work. Writers can lay in supplies of paper and ent
ic­ing pens, notepads that plead "Please write on me." Painters can prepare their canvases, clean their brushes, neaten their studio space. Potters can acquire a new lump of cool clay and clear the table space where they will knead and shape it. Gentle things can be done.

  A creative doubt is at the root of all creative droughts. We have done as much as we can, we think, and we lack the heart to go further. We doubt our staying power and our genuine gift as an

  artist. Our faith in ourselves and often our faith in God has evap­orated before the dry breeze of skepticism. We are worn out and we doubt that a "real artist" would be. And yet, all artists, "real artists" among them, suffer from droughts.

  Often, though, a drought comes on the heels of a success. Sec­ond novels are notoriously hard to make, and second films too. We have met the jump once, and we do not think we have it in us to meet the jump again. And now the bar has been raised. There is the matter of expectations. This one "had better be good." We are wary of reviews and we review ourselves harshly and prematurely: "Not up to snuff."

  Creative droughts come upon us just when we are "getting seri­ous" about our art. Arguably, they come sweeping in on us because we are "getting serious" about our art. The fun has gone out of our process. We are focused on product, on "how am I doing?" The answer is, "not well," and the drought is the reason.

  When we are "in the flow"—even the word speaks of water— ideas come to us naturally and we collect them like so many beau­tiful marbles, not even bothering in their abundance to hold them to the light. In a drought, ideas balk like stubborn horses. They refuse to come forward, or if they do, they come with ears flat­tened, tails lashing, teeth bared against our even thinking of mak­ing them serviceable mounts. A drought is a rebellion. We have pushed our inner creator too far and it is refusing to be pushed any further. "Back off," it is snarling, "leave me the hell alone."

  In a drought, we have wounds to lick, and they are not always logical. A good review that leaves us stranded on the high rock of notoriety may be just as damaging as a foul review that has us slinking to the cave. Too much attention, good or bad, can tip us

  into drought. So can dragging home the invisible bone, doing a large and worthy piece of work only to have it go unreceived and unnoticed. "What's the use?" our inner creator asks then, and digs its heels in rather than risks making something more.

  In a creative drought, we must approach ourselves indirectly. We must sidle up and coax, offer the wild horse an apple slice, if we are ever again to get a bridle on its head. We must prove ourselves safe and worthy if we are ever to regain the trust that ends a drought.

  The road from Espafiola to Taos coils through steep canyon. The Rio Grande, low this year from drought, flows alongside the road. Its tributary, the Embudo, is reduced to a nearly dry, rock-ribbed riverbed. A fine film of dust hangs in the air over the mountain passes. The wind from the west, insolent and harsh, parches the cottonwoods along the riverbank. Drivers drive errat­ically, half crazy from the sun and the glare. Travelers need caution.

  When we are in a creative drought, we, too, need caution. We are dangerous to ourselves and others, time bombs looking for the opportunity to explode. Our nerves are hair-trigger. Small things annoy us. Small issues loom large as we blow things out of propor­tion. The big drama is that we are not working, but that drama is so painful that a thousand little dramas take its place. Suddenly, our perfect horse isn't perfect anymore. Our longtime friend is annoy­ing. We seriously doubt everyone's loyalty. We are surrounded by fools, and we're foolish ourselves.

  On the road through the canyon, an ancient truck is pulled to one shoulder, and down in the river its occupants can be seen cavorting in the shallow water. We can take a cue from them. The shallows can be enjoyed, not just endured. If we are too depressed for "serious" work, we can indulge in some serious play. We can

  rent a dumb movie. We can laugh to "Drew Carey" reruns. We can curl up with Bridget Jones's Diary.

  Children's books are an excellent way to cajole a drought into ending. The Harry Potter series has probably launched a thousand novels by now. It is that high-spirited. And high spirits, high jinks, and laughter are the antidotes we are after. Remember, it was get­ting too serious that invited the drought in the first place. Getting unserious is part of what invites the healing rain.

  We get "unserious" by getting little instead of big. I once ended an awful creative drought by writing a tiny song each day about animals. Every morning, after my Morning Pages, I would march myself to the piano. I would sit down and write: "Don't look now or you'll see an owl / The foulest fowl of the night / I am the one with the talons sharp / Who can see quite well in the dark. . . ." Progressing from owl through "a moose on the loose," I made myself and my inner creator laugh. By the time I was finished I had forty-five children's songs, a goodly album's worth, and my faith was restored in writing as a joyous art form.

  In short, we can lean into our shallow selves. It's a good time for self-care. We book a masseuse, paint our toenails, go to the salon for a trim. Often, it is surprisingly hard to take it easy. Yet, taking it easy is what the situation calls for. With our temper frayed, it's difficult to be loving—to others and ourselves. It's easier to take out the sharp lash of judgment and whip ourselves into a frenzy over all we're not doing.

  "I'm too tired," we may feel, and greet this feeling with "You're lazy." A smorgasbord of insults often follows. Lazy, grandiose, delu­sional, and, worst of all, boring—you'd think we would be bored with the litany by now. Navigating out of the canyon takes special

  care, and so does navigating our way free from drought. Others may pass us, horns blaring, but that does not mean our slow and steady pace should alter. Droughts make people crazy. They act in ways counter to their best selves. Coming out of the canyon, a pickup truck tailgates just to be certain you notice its impatience. Some­times our friends tailgate us too. They are eager to have us back on our feet and functioning in ways comfortable to them. "I wish there were a pill you could take," they may volunteer. But no pill cures creative drought. Wise elders give us a wide berth, knowing we are in the briar patch, knowing we will need to work our way free in our own way and in our own time. Time itself is a touchy subject during a drought. Days loom long and empty, or are filled with the drudgery of ordinary tasks. Yet, time flees past as the days of not working mount up. Time feels like the enemy, and yet time is on our side. Time is working to heal us. Time will heal us, but in time.

  ON A DRY DAY

  Try this: Many of us set an impossibly high goal of productivity for ourselves. We want to finish the novel by next week, and if we can't do that, we're a failure. We want the energy to work all night, to burn the candle at both ends, no mat­ter how exhausted and burned-out such behav­iors leave us. When we set our creative jumps too high, we often refuse to jump them. "Not today," we say, and defer our creativity one more day. It is better, and healthier, to set our creative jumps within our creative reach. Take pen in hand. Is there an arena in which you set your goal impossibly high? Write about this. Hav­ing done a thorough inventory of your creative self-sabotage, set a new creative quotient that you will be able to meet with some ease. Take your creative goal and plan it out. What do you want to have done a year from now? Six months from now? One month from now? One week from now? Working "backward" in this way allows you to set realistic creative goals.

  Waiting for Water

  Still, the infernal wind blows. The sky is bleached by heat. Creek beds are empty. The sun glares down on the rock-ribbed beds. Bushes along the bank droop as if they have walked to water s edge and found it missing. The drought is inexorable.

  And yet beneath the earth's parched surface, water courses in great, unchecked streams. The drought does not penetrate so deeply that all water is gone. It is the surface world that suffers. The peonies droop their snowy heads in the heat. The hollyhocks refuse to grow altogether. Hardy wildflowers, Indian paintbrush and the lot, make their way closer to civilization, and
their beauty is a welcome relief. Drought leaches beauty from the land.

  Make no mistake: When we are in a drought, what we are miss­ing is joy. We miss the joy of creativity—our own—and we miss our joy in creation itself. "Oh, look," we think dully, "a beautiful rose. So what?" It is the "so what?" aspect that makes a drought so debilitat­ing. It makes any attempts to cheer us up fall flat. We are depressives when we are blocked. The good, the beautiful, the joyous cannot touch our grief-hardened hearts. Yes, I did say "grief-hardened," because grief is another variable present in all blocks. We are caught by the throat with sorrow over what we are missing in the world and in ourselves. We feel we have let ourselves down—and everyone else along with us. We simply are impostors, fakes in artists' clothing.

  We cannot lift a finger to make art, and we may have trouble lifting a finger to do anything—the laundry or our hair.

  What we need to use our fingers for when we are in drought is to soothe our fevered brow. "There, there," we must whisper to ourselves. "It will be all right. It will be all right." And it will be all right, but not if we ask too much too soon, not if we badger and prod and poke at ourselves. We are invalids—notice that the word says in-valid—and that is how we feel. Any activity that can be broached must be broached gently. "Try just a little," we must offer ourselves, as though we were spooning in hot chicken soup.

  When we are in a creative drought, we feel bereft of comfort, robbed of beauty. We are the unenchanted ones. Even when beauty passes by, it leaves us unmoved. Like the rains that will not come, when we are in a drought, our hearts will not leap up. We are seized by a rebellion against all that would nurture and comfort us. We rotisserie in our misery: blocked. We are blocked.

  What does blocked feel like—other than bad? Blocked feels like nothing else. A blocked artist is a numb artist, a grief-locked animal caught in its own torpor and resistance, the way soldiers return from bloody war, traumatized by what they have seen. We would move, we would be interested, but we cannot—just now— and our fears whisper that we will never be quickened by beauty and passion again.