We generally think that precocity and genius go together. In fact–or so we think–genius appears at a very young age. The old saw that states “if you don’t ‘make it’ by age thirty-five that you never will” is almost universally accepted. But it’s not always true.

Thank God for that.

I find it even more interesting younger people and older people approach the creative process differently: The young favor a conceptual approach whereas older creatives favor an experimental approach.

For those of us advancing in years, this is good news. But it comes at a price. Gladwell quotes University of Chicago economist David Galenson in the middle of a discussion about Picasso and Cézanne:

The imprecision of their goals [by using an experimental approach] means that these artists rarely feel they have succeeded, and their careers are consequently often dominated by the pursuit of a single objective. These artists repeat themselves, painting the same subject many times, and gradually changing its treatment in an experimental process of trial and error. Each work leads to the next, and none is generally privileged over others, so experimental painters rarely make specific preparatory sketches or plans for a painting. They consider the production of a painting as a process of searching, in which they aim to discover the image in the course of making it; they typically believe that learning is a more important goal than making finished paintings. Experimental artists build their skills gradually over the course of their careers, improving their work slowly over long periods. These artists are perfectionists and are typically plagued by frustration at their inability to achieve their goal.

Key takeaway? You gotta love the process if you’re over thirty-five. And you’ve gotta have someone (or a couple of someones) who love you.

I don’t want to make too much of this idea. What we do in public is only a portion of the whole. What we do in private is also important, maybe foundational.

In private is where intimacy occurs. In private is where promises are made. In private is where forgiveness is confirmed, where learning occurs, mistakes are corrected, decisions are made, courage is fostered, faces are set, spirits are strengthened and hope takes root.

“I don’t come from the book or media world; I’m trained as a computational physicist,” Anderson says. “We in the software world wrote our code in public. That’s what beta testing is all about. Doing things in public is the norm. I took the habits that were most conventional, just like getting peer reviews in science, and applied it to my books.”

Anderson’s quote reminds me of something I read about Bob Dylan:

Dylan said he needed to practice in front of people. He could not sit in a room by himself and play. For all intents and purposes, Dylan practiced in public. He said that what he was practicing was what he was becoming.

I like that. Blogging is like practicing in public. So is Christianity. What we are is what we will become.

Whether we are writers or musicians or Christians, when the thing is done in public, something special happens.

What is writing? Is it paper or process?

Most people would probably say paper. I’m not so sure. I’m becoming more and more aware of writing as process, though I’m willing to concede this is somewhat a false choice.

How can I say that writing is process? Writing must be the end result, right? In other words writing is most definitely paper. I’m using the idea of words on paper as a representation of the end result. (I could use “screen” rather than paper to keep current with the idea of writing as it appears in the blogosphere. However, the idea of writing as “screen or process” was not quite as alliterative as “paper or process”.)

One writer using tools to aid the writing process may write more and better than if that same writer paid no attention to tools. Tools may enhance creativity. Tools that hinder creativity should be avoided.

Tools fall under the category of “process and format.”

Process and format may aid the writer with completion of his or her work.

Although I’m suspect of reducing creative activities to process and format, I’m wondering-long-term-if creativity is to be sustained as a life-long pursuit, process and format should be defined, refined and articulated.

Ritual is an important part of the writing process. What I mean by ritual can vary from person-to-person. For example, I cannot any longer write using a number 2 pencil. I can however write using a smooth gliding gel pen or fountain pen. I don’t any longer write in a spiral bound notebook. I currently write in a hard-back notebook with a sewn binding, or maybe, on a legal pad or into a computer.

This may sound foreign to someone unacquainted with how the creative mind works, though we find examples everywhere. For writers it might be the kind of pen used, for mechanics the kind of wrench.

Even with something as fickle and spontaneous as creativity, paying attention to format and process may contribute to what goes into the final product. This kind of idea gives writers that reputation for weirdness. What I am saying-and what I know for sure-some things the reader never, ever sees are as important as the final product because they move the writer towards writing in the first place.

Yesterday, before work, I saw this guy out our kitchen window. I scrambled into the bedroom to grab the camera and, when I went back to the kitchen, he was still there. I needed to hurry the shot because he was trying to decide whether or not he should be watching me through the window or running from the neighbor’s beagle. A few seconds later, he was gone. Life in the suburbs!

 Atchity says that a process precedes even “the decision.”

It’s somewhat dangerous to determine the workflow of the creative mind. That is, of course, if the creative mind only works when inspired. On the other hand, for writers who need their creative mind to work while uninspired, a knowledge of process (or at least a view of the process) is quite helpful.

Dreaming

Most writers say their first exposure to the compulsion to write comes in the form of an image. Atchity calls this “dreaming.” It doesn’t matter whether or not the dreamer is awake or asleep, the dream is the first step in the creative process. A faun carrying an umbrella was what C. S. Lewis “saw” before starting the first book in The Chronicles of Narnia series. I might even stretch the idea of image to include the sound words make when they bump into each other. Loud visions, I call them.

Atchity says, then, the “image coaleces and is spoken aloud.” This is the official beginning of “inspiration.” We can talk more about the “speaking aloud” part and whether or not he meant it literally or figuratively. The importance of this stage should not be understated. I’ve felt the power and satisfaction of a previously unknown and unthought thought as it trips off the tongue as though it had been there forever and rehearsed in meticulous detail. It is most times the ear, rather than the eye, that determines the viability of an idea.

After breathing in the dream and breathing out the idea, the writer must “enlist the will” in some plan to complete that which was started. The writer gets nothing written without the will.

Then comes the “decision to act.”

Doodling

A writer can know they’ve made a decision to act when they begin “doodling.” This stage consists of an “assembly of the elements.” As the elements come together, the piece takes on shape. The shape may not be clear, but the contours can be indentified.

Some elements are scratched during the period of “contraction.” We think to ourselves, “This doesn’t belong here, but over there.” or “That doesn’t belong at all.”

Contraction comes to a natural end. But it’s not the real end. The writer goes on “vacation” and the material percolates during a period of “gestation.”

The process begins again during “revision.”

This is, of course, Atchity’s view of the creative writing process. I’ve seen where two or three steps of the process become combined past recognition. Armed with the knowledge there is a process, however, is great ammunition in the argument with yourself and can keep you sane while enlisting the will to act.

From a letter C. S. Lewis sent to Arthur Greeves, 15 June, 1930:

“Another fine thing in The Princess and Curdie [by George MacDonald] is where Curdie, in a dream, keeps on dreaming that he has waked up and then finding that he is still in bed. This means the same as the passage where Adam says to Lilith ‘Unless you unclose your hand you will never die and therefore never wake. You may think you have died and even that you have risen again: but both will be a dream.’

“This has a terrible meaning, specially for imaginitive people. We read of spiritual efforts, and imagination makes us believe that, because we enjoy the idea of doing them, we have done them. I am apalled to see how much of the change which I thought I had undergone lately was only imaginary. The real work seems still to be done. It is so fatally easy to confuse an aesthetic appreciation with the spiritual life with the life itself–to dream that you have waked, washed, and dressed, and then to find yourself still in bed.”

My posts on Mondays will focus on the seemingly mundane things related to how I approach work. Today’s post will concentrate on determining VALUES.

I conducted seminars and a question and answer session in western Michigan this past Friday. My audience was to a group of public school educators. After one of the sessions, a lady approached to thank me for my presentation. She said that she wrote in the evaluation that I was “well prepared, knowledgeable, a fine educator.”

I think it ironic that the only people who see me as an “educator” are other educators. This is similar to the idea that the only people who see me as a writer are other writers.

I work hard at my job and my hobby. It’s good, every once in a while, to be recognized for those efforts.

There’s plenty of work that goes on behind the scenes. Some time ago, I engaged in an exercise to identify what were to be my priorities or values in teaching or presenting. This is what I decided:

1. Truth or Accuracy. This didn’t take much thought to put this first on the list. Although I’ve not told anyone anything wrong on purpose, I have unwittingly stumbled and made an inaccurate statement. Placing it first on the list caused me to formulate a working plan that would enable me to communicate with my audience after the session to communicate any errors or to correct misunderstandings.
2. Clarity In all of the good teachers/presenters I’ve seen or heard over the years, the ability to translate complex ideas into easy-to-understand language is what set them head and shoulders above their peers. Work on the language ahead of time for sure. But it’s also important to monitor–in real time–how your message is being received. The best way to do this is to look at the faces of the audience. If they’re confused, you should be able to tell and recalibrate on the fly.
3. Passion for the people being taught. This, again, is a no-brainer. Why do this at all if I don’t like my audience. This isn’t to say that I’ll never be placed in front of a hostile audience. Placing this on my list of values keeps me accountable and keeps me from writing them off because they don’t like me.
4. Passion for the subject matter. This is more difficult. How many times have I presented material I’d never consider teaching unless I was assigned to teach it? This happens frequently. I try to find something interesting or fascinating in any subject.
5. Interesting, entertaining or creative arrangement of the material. It’s surprising how easy this can be if I like my audience, think my subject is interesting and attempt to be as clear as possible.
6. Identifiable ways for students/attendees to find more information away from the classroom or presentation hall. In a two-hour session, chances are very good that people will not remember everything. Archiving a recording of the presentation or pointing to resources on a website makes sense to help people answer the questions they thought about while driving home.
7. Engagement between me and the other people in the room. I guess my credo here is to talk to them, not at them.
8. Transparency. Sometimes I have bad days. It’s good to be up front with the audience about little things that might be happening that they might need to know. Once I had a bad headache during my presentation. I started the session by telling my audience what was happening and that they should disregard any facial contortions I might make. This got a laugh and some sympathy. The ibuprofen kicked in about twenty minutes into the session and went well from there. If I didn’t say something right away, my behavior may have been misinterpreted.

 

In addition to John’s own stated reasons for writing his letter, we must note that he wrote to real people in the real world who were navigating through the thick fog of inarticulate rationalization posing as concrete theological thinking. His tone is refreshing; it’s simple and without intellectual adornment. That isn’t to say John is overly simplistic. Like in his gospel and in the book of Revelation, John’s literary structure is intricate. John’s theology is not necessarily difficult to understand; it may be, however, difficult to accept, at least for someone flirting with gnosticism, posing as a “spiritual” leader (who desires some of the recognition which is owed only to Christ) or to followers a so-called leader (who want a convenient way to justify unacceptable behavior).

It is easier to tell people that it’s the body that sins while the spirit remains clean. One may appear smarter to say the whole Jesus story was a metaphor to teach a more profound and hidden truth.

But what may seem easier and smarter may be akin to the employee who spends inordinate time and energy avoiding work when it might be as easy, or easier, to just work.

A consensus of scholars say John wrote this letter around 90 AD, some sixty years after the resurrection. Some scholars make a case for earlier but, for our discussion, I’ll just say that he wrote at a crucial moment in Christianity’s history. The first-hand witnesses were passing away. Second or third generation believers were being influenced by a contrary opinion, one that cast doubt on the story or twisted the story to mean something quite different.

You’ve probably heard it before: Jesus didn’t really rise from the dead. His message was in code. Someone claims to know the code and they’ll tell you, for a price. This message can be yours if you agree to keep the secret.

It happens to this day.

But John, at the beginning of this letter, stands by the story. He was there. He was an eyewitness and participant. Jesus was more than a metaphor; he had flesh and bone. John knew this because proof came in the touching. People you can touch. Metaphors dissolve like airy apparitions when you bid them come out to play.

John the Apostle

Tonight, in our Life Group, we’re beginning a study of the New Testament book of 1st John.

In every study of a book like this, I try to determine just why the author wanted to write the book in the first place. John makes this task easier: He tells us. Twelve times he prefaces a remark with the phrase “I am writing…” These can then be classified into seven distinct reasons for writing:

John is writing the letter to:

• proclaim the Glory of God and what was accomplished through the ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. He is emphatic that it wasn’t just a story or legend, that it was a matter of historical fact. (1:14)
• exhort his readers not to sin. (2:1)
• remind his readers to think “new” about “old.” (2:7)
• maintain continuity through a time of great change. 2:13-14)
• exhort readers to remain faithful to Christ. (2:21)
• warn readers about false teachers. (2:26)
• encourage readers to think eternally. (5:13)

Does this match with why you think John wrote the letter?

I once thought that if I didn’t write something, anything every day, the world as I knew it would end. And it did end. The old world ended and the new world began, with every missed deadline, with every unproductive writing day.

In the new world I was given the chance to view things differently, sideways maybe, or upside-down, but differently. The difference changed the shape of every writing project I ever set my mind and body to
complete. It would become a new project.

I’m not going to get into an explanation of being guided by the hand of God, mostly because I don’t know that much about such a thing and think it might be reading way too much into something ultimately quite simple: With every draft comes change.

“But it doesn’t match what’s in my head,” you say.

That’s the point! That’s exactly the point! That’s the joy of it! That’s the adventure!

“But it’s less than I imagined it to be,” you say again.

Imagined it to be? Yes, yes. That’s it—the imagination. Inside our greatest blessing lives an insidious curse we also call the imagination. The cursed part of the imagination can sometimes be cruel task-master, don’t you think? It can be a royal downer, a party-pooper, a veritable plethora of negativity … on steroids. It doesn’t match what you imagined? Of course it doesn’t—because what you imagined wasn’t really real.
The shaking, tottering mess you have in front of you, however, is real. Learn to love that. Nurture that. Allow your imagination to free that mess and make it better than you imagined.

I’ll say it again: That’s the joy of it! That’s the adventure!

It’s not that you can’t be a great writer who only writes when inspiration calls, but you’ll never be a happy writer if you only write when inspiration calls. Inspiration is unpredictable. And if writing is the thing that makes you happy and sane—or it’s one of the things that makes you happy and sane—but you can only do it when this unpredictable lightning strike happens, then you’re not going to be happy and sane. You’re going to spend a lot of your time moping around, waiting for lightning to hit you. One of the things I’ve noticed about writing every day is that there are days when writing that page feels like flying. Like the hand of God reached down and touched my keyboard, and every word is just pure gold. And then there are days that I feel I’m writing absolute, totally forgettable junk that shouldn’t have been committed to phosphors, let alone saved to disc. The thing is, a month later, you can’t tell the difference. The difference between a day when it feels like you’re writing brilliantly and a day when it feels like you’re writing terribly is entirely in your head, it’s not in the prose.

in conversations.
what have I learned?
what am I wondering?
what strikes me as funny?
what moves me to tears?

what kind of knowledge
can bend the
conversation

in some new direction
–not spinning–
but challenging
thinking
seeing
feeling
newly
differently

And then going back again
for a reassessment

growth is recursive

“I would advise anybody who takes part in a war or any other unusual experience for a long period, to keep a consecutive diary, if it be only a succession of jottings which serve later on to give memory its clues. [...] They force the writer of them to seize upon the essence of his experiences and to get above – if only for a few minutes a day – the familiar surroundings and to put himself in the position of a spectator. The daily experience will appear in a new light, just as a well-known landscape changes as soon as you try to sketch it. [...] It takes more energy than one might think to put a few facts together day by day when it is not a matter of life and death. [...] In any case the effort to observe goes with the habit of making notes, and when a man is in a situation like this that only these few years can offer and that can never recur in the same form, he ought to keep his eyes open and try to seize its unique features.”

I’ve seen and heard comments about the fact that I’m always writing in a notebook: “What, losing your memory for things?” they’d say.

I thought maybe I should quickly develop some talking points for myself:

1. Notetaking (or notemaking) keeps me engaged in a way that keeps me accountable, even if only to myself.
2. The act of ‘noting’ things keeps me as objective as possible, the primary goal being to capture the essence of waht is actually said or thought and not my opinion about what is said or thought. I try to avoid, whenever possible, rendering judgement on whether that thing is either good or bad. A premature judgement on such matters is usually wrong.
3. And, as a jogger of memory, the notebook does play a role. I have a written record to which I can refer. I suppose the criticism that we should remember things is valid enough–but as time passes and things happen, thinking gets replaced by more thinking.

 

In my workspace at the moment, I have:

• A pocket briefcase filled with 3 x 5 index cards

• a reporters notebook

• Three Moleskine Cahier’s notebooks filled with really bad poetry

• Legal Pads (White and Yellow, just in case)

• A standard Blueline journal

• A small sketchbook

• A large newsprint poster-sized sketchbook

• A digital voice recorder

• An inexpensive .mp3 player loaded with podcasts

• A portable CD player loaded with J. S. Bach’s 1^st, 2^nd and 3^rd Brandenburg concertos

• File folders with printouts of .pdf’s I’ve been meaning to read

• A desk lamp

• A table lamp

• A dictionary, thesaurus and Strunk and White’s Elements of Style

• Fowler’s Modern English Usage

• Strong’s Concordance

• Young’s Concordance

• Vine’s Expository Dictionary of Biblical Words

• Five translations of the English Bible

• Thirty-seven different pens

• Twenty-three pencils

• A large coffee mug filled with….something

• Notes from a lecture series

• A two gigabyte flash drive

• A novel by Larry McMurtry

• The Book of Common Prayer

• Various CD ROMs with PowerPoint Presentations going back to 2001

• A cigarette lighter

• Two small binder clips

• A goose call

• An archery glove

• An old hospital wristband

• A Tony the Tiger Baseball signed by Tony the Tiger

• Five smooth stones

• A painted rock

• A replica of the Stanley Cup made out of tin foil and toilet paper rolls

Smeared ink staining my
fingers as the scratching
of the nib makes a lonely
kind of music. 

Writing-pen to paper for
the first draft-maybe
the only draft-of
something left
of some
unread,
untranslated,
barely thought out,
barely digested,
nascent memory.

A certain kind of joy, here.

The feel of music and
wasting time, eyes adjusting to
the eerie light. Fighting off the
pre-dawn delirium.

The half-light of the morning moon makes
the steam rising from the coffee thicker,
somehow.

A certain kind of joy, here.

Remembering
through the scratching
of the pen
something from
long ago
from those first twelve years
from the city
of the cracking
January
ice.

A sip from the cup and
my mind is braced
and the wary glimpse
is gone.

The pen still scratches across the page.

A certain kind of joy, here.

Longing
Desire

but…

camera shots
and angles
and fuzzy-focused
black and white stills
are only snapshots
in freeze-frame.

movement is implied.

There’s some push back on this. Seems we equate the idea of practices with spiritual gymnastics. But, like anything else, we must seek our own level, here.

Reality is that everyone in the group practices a spiritual discipline whether or not they recognize their practice as a discipline.

not much different than:

pencils
crayons and
chalk

Intellectual (?) ideas
presented
using tools
from a Child’s
ART BOX