1.1 Just this one thing
If you care deeply about writing, if it’s your gift, if it’s how you express yourself, if it’s a core part of your identity…
Don’t you deserve to have a happy relationship with it?
And if you love writing…
Don’t you want it to love you back?
So what’s with the famous authors who tell us writing is difficult, always difficult, even torture. And it doesn’t ever get better.
I call this…
Catastrophizing.
And I understand where it comes from because…
I know what it’s like to struggle with my writing. I did that for years, wanting so badly to write beautifully but turning out lifeless paragraphs.
I know what it’s like to rush to the computer first thing in the morning to revel in what I’d written the day before only to discover it was crap.
I know what it’s like to spend years in a relationship of despair with my writing.
I know what it’s like to have my writing break my heart.
But I figured this was just how it had to be. After all there were those literary stars preaching the gospel of struggle…
You’ve got your starving artist and you’ve got your suffering writer.
At the same time, there are writers and writing teachers who tell us how special we writers are. We’re good at observing, we take in every detail, we feel deeply, we understand human psychology in a way other people don’t.
I call this…
Romanticizing.
But why this self–praise? Where does it come from? I’m thinking it might be compensation…
If I have to suffer, at least I get to feel I’m special.
In fact, just because I’m a writer, I’m one of the most special people in the world. All I have to do is jot down sentences on a page and I get to be a member of this elite tribe of creatives who, because many of us are good with words, can lavish ourselves with self–congratulations.
But of course the problem with idealizing writers in this generic and global way is that there are millions of people who call themselves writers. Some of them are not good observers, and some don’t understand the inner workings of people, and what some of them write is just plain evil. Remember, Adolf Hitler considered himself a writer.
It gets worse, though, like when writers start…
Romanticizing their catastrophizing.
As in…
I’m special because I’m suffering.
And if that’s the case, why would you ever want to let go of your suffering? Why wouldn’t you want to suffer even more so you can be even more special?
Fortunately, at the same time I was imbibing these sad perspectives about writing, I noticed some contrary things…
I had a friend who loved writing. She started first thing every morning and wrote for hours. Her stories were deep and engaging. She was having the time of her life.
And…
I had some moments myself when I got lost in my writing, just for a short time, but still, it happened.
Three examples…
Writing fundraising letters at work was always a struggle. But then I wrote a short one for a kindergarten where a friend worked, and it came easily. I played my way through the letter and it produced triple the donations I expected. Shocking.
I started writing dialogues for my book on activism. I thought it was going to be a struggle because I’d never attempted dialogues before but from the first one I got swept up and played my way through them. Surprising.
When I was working on my first book, every once in a while I had a day when some stupidness I saw out in the world would make me so mad I’d tear loose, ranting I suppose. I called it rush writing. I was typing as fast as I could and could hardly keep up with myself. Sweet.
I loved these moments. There weren’t many of them, but there were enough to finally…
Break the spell of catastrophizing.
And I asked myself what if I could have more of these moments? What if I could really…
Love writing?
Instead of paying too big a price for every essay and every chapter. What if my writing could nurture me?
I found a book by Mason Currey called Daily Rituals: How Artists Work. It’s a collection of short descriptions about the daily habits of 161 writers and artists. I noticed that the great majority of the writers struggled with their writing. So, okay, I was in the majority. That was comforting, I guess.
But then there were those who sailed through their days thrilled with writing. I called them…
The blessed few.
I wanted to be one of them.
So I bought a couple dozen books about writing and read them and re–read them. And I watched a ridiculous number of videos on YouTube. All of which helped me with craft, and hooray for that.
But I had a deeper problem…
My relationship with my writing was not good.
Because I was still predominantly in struggle mode.
I decided to make a shift. Instead of focusing exclusively on the result of my writing, I began to focus on the process.
And slowly but surely this worked. I started becoming happier in my writing hours.
But then unexpectedly, what really made the difference was…
Reading stories about kids in play therapy.
I love these stories. I just love them.
I’m not talking about casual, easygoing therapy that stays on the surface. What inspires me is the deep kind where therapists use play to help kids deal with the trauma of abuse and neglect and the daily struggles of living in a seriously dysfunctional family.
Because it goes deep, because it takes on the toughest issues, I call this…
Primal-play therapy.
Once I got hooked, primal play started showing up in my writing, like a puppy who wouldn’t leave me alone, “Come on, let’s have some fun.”
So then…
I got serious about play.
And I got strategic. I started bringing specific play therapy techniques over into my writing. I ran experiments to see what helped and what didn’t. Actually all of it helped. And soon I was calling this…
Primal-play writing.
And I loved it. And here’s why…
If you’ve looked at my Asking book, you know that I’m on a mission to upgrade love, which I believe is as big a challenge as humans could ever take on.
As part of this mission, I do deep dives into the human psyche. I go down to the bottom of the human operating system which is where you confront the source of human evil and come face to face with the death of hope.
So the issues I focus on couldn’t be more serious. But primal–play writing works for me.
And I’m thinking, if it works for the intense writing I do, it could work for all kinds of writing.
I can’t tell you that primal play will increase the sales of what you write. My personal strategy is to do what I need to do to create a loving relationship with my writing, that first, and then figure out what I want to do about marketing.
And please know this short book is not comprehensive. It’s not, as some authors claim, “everything you need to know about writing in one volume.”
I’m only telling you about primal play, just this one thing.
Which I’m crazy about. And that’s why I want to share it with you. I want to give you a chance to check it out. If it works for you, if it’s fun for you, you’re welcome to take it and run with it.
