Writer’s at bat
Getting back into writing is a bit like hitting a baseball. When you hit the ball, you’re not really sure why you hit it; you just know it felt really good. The next time you’re up, you try to do everything exactly the same - tap the plate on the right corner, shift weight from left to right, tug the cap, shrug the shoulders, two practice swings, and think exactly the same thoughts you had last time. Swing and a miss.
Trying to recreate that hit never works. The harder you try, the more you miss, and the more frustrated you become. If you let that frustration get to you, you won’t hit a thing. Swing and a miss, strike two.
But: if you blow off the feeling and just keep swinging - not even caring if you hit the ball - you’ll start hitting the ball again. Your body automatically starts getting better. Eventually, you’re hitting it fairly often and you start thinking about how to place your hit where you want. You still miss occasionally, but you accept that - nobody hits the ball perfectly, nobody. The best batting averages in history are still less than 50%, after all.
I’m sure there’s something zen about it. It’s amazing that I haven’t seen any smiling, saffron-clad monks at the plate lately. Shaolin Baseball, anyone?
It’s the same with writing. The last story I wrote flowed so easily, it felt more like recording than writing. Then, I took too long of a break and got a little rusty. Returning to the keyboard, I kept missing the ball. I let it get to me and couldn’t write anything. Then, I stopped worrying, and just started writing - emails to friends, little scene sketches that popped into mind, anything. Ideas began to pop up faster than I could write about them. After a while, I noticed, “Hey, I’m writing again!”.
As everyone in baseball knows: when you’re 0 and 2, swing away.
Why is this? If you think about it, it’s completely strange: the more you try, the more you fail; the less you try, the more you succeed. It’s the usual suspects: over-thinking, fear, and that eternal nemesis of creativity: the word “no”.
I’m convinced that the brain is not the origin of creative work, at least not the left side. My work is best when I’m not thinking at all. When I start thinking, I start analyzing, critiquing, dissecting. This puts my brain in control with the implicit assumption that through rigor & will, my brain will instruct me on how to perform the creative act. It’s like working for an overbearing, micro-managing boss. Creativity comes from thinking sideways, taking alternative paths. It depends on a lack of control.
Missing the ball makes you wonder why you missed. You start thinking & analyzing. Self-consciousness and rigidity arrive, muscling creativity out. Soon fear joins in throwing punches - fear that you’ll never hit the ball or make anything cool again. I know that fear is the primary fuel for my frustration. Then you start getting critical of you work and methodology. You start saying no. The word “no” kills creativity. It imposes limits on a process that desires no limits. You try and you fail.
When you stop worrying & learn to love your slump, you don’t ask why you missed. Over-thinking isn’t initiated. Because you’re expecting to miss, fear has no foothold. Because misses & hits are equally accepted, the word “no” isn’t even at the game. Home run, baby.
So, whether my little league coaches were wise or just lucky, their words are true: “just swing away.”
