If you want to write: write

just. fucking. do it.

I am passionate about writing and its ability to transform our perception drastically, so I want to share some insight with you.

First of all, you don’t have to know what you’re going to write to sit down with the page and a pen and write. Actually, you can’t know. Not really. Sure you can have an idea or a theme, but think about this… do you know which thought will appear in your consciousness next? 

I have no idea what’s coming after this sentence… I just sat down and began. That’s what we, as writers, must do. Let it all come. Open to the cosmic drip. Let it ripple through our systems, weaving a new narrative. One we never could have predicted. 

Writing, and art in general, happen when we let go of the need to know.

I’ve talked about this before - writing is a physical process, just like dancing, painting, singing… and any form of movement. Which is, by the way, anything we *do.* And so it is not useful to ruminate over the idea that you “have nothing to write.” That is just a mental game of convincing yourself out of the very act you wish to engage in.

We simultaneously learn the cognitive and mechanical aspects of writing, as in learning how to hold a pencil, form the shapes of letters, spell, comprehend words, and structure sentences with “proper” grammar, etc. This is just the foundation. Once you have solidified the mechanical ability to write and the cognitive ability to comprehend writing… you are free to romance yourself with the exploration of the ART of writing. In fact… that is the way to become a writer. Just as you might become a pianist or a painter or a dancer. You must explore the art. 

You practiced this in school, to a degree, I’m sure, through writing assignments of all sorts. if you had passionate English teachers, you are very lucky. I had several who I am eternally grateful for. 

If you didn’t have any of these teachers, I’m here to fill in the gaps. 

To explore the art of writing (or anything for that matter) is to enter the mystery because, and this may not be obvious, when you are writing (versus sitting and thinking about getting writing “right” or “perfect” or etc..), you are offering yourself to creativity itself. 

The creative force is the connective force. 

The purpose of art, it seems to me, is connection. It is vital to our well being and indeed survival as humans. The artist brain is the creative brain. The one that connects the unconnectable. The mindset of the artist must be such that it continues to look in ways it has never looked, if it is to remain inspired. It looks for something different even in the thing it sees 20 times a day. It looks past definitions to make connections not otherwise available. This is the artist’s training.

Art is a way of connecting the internal fragments. Connecting one person to the other. Connecting seemingly unlike objects. Connecting letters and words and sentences of otherwise unrelated character. Connecting senses with memories to form delicious sentences. Connecting words without grammar’s dogma to communicate a deeper message. Poetry.

The creative force helps you connect by offering you access to your subconscious. It helps you remember, and therefore connect parts of you that were once disparate and perhaps confused about their role in your being. The more of you you are able to integrate through the art of your choosing, the more of yourself you have access to. And therefore, the more you can connect, with both breadth and depth. 

Alan Watts explains the issue of connectivity in these words, which I quite enjoy:

“a scanning process that observes the world bit by bit soon persuades its user that the world is a great collection of bits, and these he calls separate things or events. We often say that you can only think of one thing at a time. The truth is that in looking at the world bit by bit we convince ourselves that it consists of separate things, and so give ourselves the problem of how these things are connected and how they cause and effect each other. The problem would never have arisen if we had been aware that it was just our way of looking at the world which had chopped it up into separate bits, things, events, causes, and effects.”

Why, knowing this, would we want to remain disconnected? Why, knowing there is deep connection to be realized, would we resist?

Safety plays a role here. 

I’ve observed in myself and others that the times we do not write are the times we feel unsafe to know what mysteries we hold and what connections they might give rise to. “What ever am I supposed to do with this information?” “What if someone sees?” “What does this mean?”

All interesting questions. Write them down and see what comes out. That is my suggestion.

When you write, you might see that you are the holder of hidden wisdom. And that wisdom may just be exactly what you are seeking.

If you want to know yourself: Write.

If you want to trust yourself: Write.

If you are bored: Write.

If you want to write: Write. 

You mustn’t let your mind stop you from exploring the information. You must write to build bridges to safety. You must become familiar with the verses of your being. I don’t often say “this is the only way,” but when it comes to writing… writing is the only way. As with anything you wish to integrate into your being… the only way is to become educated sufficiently in the mechanical and cognitive realms, and then to practice your craft. Or as I like to say: contemplate, integrate, create.

Too much focus on highly structured education, too much intellectualizing of the art, is limiting. The discipline you must enact is self discipline. The discipline to offer yourself to creativity. The discipline to show up no matter what your frightened, fragmented mind might be thinking. 

I’ll tell you this: no matter what story your mind is telling you, there is another - infinite others - yet to be written.

So, do this: 

Pause. Breathe. Put the pen to the page. Take the first step. Just do it. Become it. Let the “what if?” take hold of you. Live the questions you hold hostage in your head.