In the previous post I quoted Lan Samantha Chang who wrote, “Hold onto that part of you that first compelled you to start writing.” It promoted me to think about how I started writing, how I came to recognise the healing power of words as both a writer and workshop facilitator.
Chang goes on to add, “A writing life and a writing career are two separate things, and it’s crucial to keep the first. The single essential survival skill for anybody interested in creating art is to learn to defend this inner life from the world.” I also consider how I used writing as a survival skill and the value and causes of wordlessness, sometimes referred to as writers block, and pauses in our writing process. Resources follow at the end of this post.
In my early 30’s, I left my job as a welfare rights adviser because I felt I could no longer work and bare the crippling and unexplained fatigue that had persisted for over five years. The aim was to “get well” and “do something creative.” I had a plan of sorts, the idea was to study video production but the course fell through.
The result of this abrupt change with no destination or support was a sudden plunge into what I now understand would be diagnosed as anxiety and depression. I simply had no words for the agony I felt, though aspects were describable; insomnia, night sweats, panic attacks, indecision, inexplicable fear, an incredible physical weakness beyond even the fatigue I’d been accustomed to.
I saw a doctor and asked for blood tests he refused, told me to drink more water. Another suggested antidepressants but I was fearful of psychiatric drugs so declined. I spent a whole lot of time in bed. When I could, I read. It’s kind of ironic, as hardly uplifting, but I found myself enthralled with Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, identifying with the mental anguish of the central character Rodion Raskolnikov. This baffled me as I hardly identified with the character yet I recognised the physicality of his symptoms so vividly described by the author.
This led me to attempt to find words for what I was experiencing, to make sense of it or make it more manageable. I was writing for my life. A life I wasn’t even sure I could endure anymore. At the beginning of this descent, as my world collapsed, I’d wake with a cold sweat, devoid of feeling and meaning and repeat my name, age, address out loud in a bid to hang on to some sense of self. It was a kind of hell.
Around this time my cousin committed suicide. I don’t know what kind of hell he was in and only wished I’d known he was in the dark too. Though it’s doubtful I could have helped the state I was in. I couldn’t even get to the funeral I was so weak and full of shame I couldn’t even get dressed. It was perhaps this that led me to cling onto life rather than cause the family even more distress.
I’d heard that folklore urges us not to name the devil lest he appear yet I’d also heard somewhere if you say the name of a demon it is forced to relinquish its power over you. This was what I aimed to do; name every one of the demons that afflicted me.
The words dripped out slowly, slipping past defences. Occasionally I’d write something else and say, that is for the world. Prior to this I’d written a couple of short stories and a smattering of poetry aiming to address issues of inequality and injustice wrapping them in love, beauty and dreams of a better world. Mostly at this time I wrote for myself. When I finally got my own computer I created a folder called My Dark Gods and other Demons and stored all this dark material there.
Words eventually began to flow more freely and I’ve pretty much written ever since. Sporadically at times. Sometimes only in my journal. Though I’ve been hugely inconsistent in submitting work for publication, hounded by my inner critic who says, “it’s not enough… it’s no good… it will never be enough,” occasionally dodging this monster with encouragement from others.
Hence I was surprised to find these words from Louise Glück, particularly as she has been so prolific and recently won, what can only be described as, the most prestigious writers prize; the 2020 Nobel Prize for Literature.
“I go through two, three years writing nothing. Zero. Not a sentence. Not bad poems I discard, not notes toward poems. Nothing. And you don’t know in those periods that the silence will end, that you will ever recover speech. It’s pretty much hell, and the fact that it’s always ended before doesn’t mean that any current silence isn’t the terminal silence beyond which you will not move.”
It would seem this is not an isolated experience. John McCullough, winner of the 2020 Hawthornden prize for Reckless Paper Birds, responded, “I recently had almost a whole year of writing no poems. No one can be constantly at their creative peak. Don’t follow the capitalist logic of productivity equalling self-worth. Sometimes you just have to look after yourself.”
Indeed! Look after yourself! Something that is so hard in modern capitalist societies even though a whole industry of wellbeing and self care has arisen. It is an agony to be without voice. In my experience it was not so much a writers block but a malaise that went much deeper. We call it the black dog, the dark night, despondency. The Romantics called it melancholy.
There are few words that really describe the ravaging pain of depression and anxiety wherein thought, feeling and words are blocked, a sense of self lost, all the while held hostage and tormented by a raging inner critic. A kind of uber stuckness, a numbness, now recognised as a symptom of personal trauma.
John McCullough goes on to add, “In addition the pressure on professional artists, musicians and writers, especially if self employed, to produce works to the timetable of galleries, record labels and agents only serves to inhibit this space to use writing to play, heal, learn and grow.” It would seem to me if we focus too much on a writing career we risk abandoning our writing life and the wellbeing it can promote.
When students ask me what to do about writers block I say; “Don’t think, just write, write anything, it doesn’t even have to make sense, just follow the words and enjoy it. Write just for yourself.” If someone feels blocked the suggestion “just write!” might seem counterintuitive or even perverse and yet it works. This is well documented here and here.
Writing, or arguably any creative act, can lead to a release of the stored unfelt feelings; ego fears, rational fears, anger, sorrow, shame and guilt. Our heart needs to heal and our soul needs to breathe. It doesn’t even have to be good art or good writing. The expression becomes part of the self care we need in a world of historical, collective and generational trauma.
Writing alone is rarely enough if the “stuckness”is great, the body heavy. Besides writing I pulled myself out of those dark depths in my early 30’s by practicing Chi Gung at an NHS clinic in Clapham run by Jon Tindall, the first of its kind in the U.K. It was pretty hard core, standing meditation in an class that lasted a hour and a half. Yet there was a committed and supportive community around it which helped. I dragged myself there three times a week for six months in my numbness before I felt anything.
One day towards the end of one of the strenuous sessions I dropped to the floor weeping. All I remember is, as the session ended coming back to ordinary consciousness, I felt an acute sense of embarrassment, maybe even shame. Then half a dozen people came over, helping me to my feet saying things like, “Well done… this is a breakthrough… now you are on your way… now you’re on the path.” Of course despite their comments at the time I figured that was it. Job done. I’m healed. You have to laugh at that. Little was I to know I’d inadvertently fallen onto the path less travelled.
I wonder if creatives go through these “barren patches” because we have an acute sensitivity. Arguably without sensitivity there would be no works of art. Perhaps the lived experience of being in the world just becomes too painful. The world can seem too much and hence we close down. Or are closed down by others who are behave with insensitivity towards us with anything on a continuum from tactlessness or spite to abuse and cruelty.
Therefore breaks could be seen as akin to a field laying fallow, a kind of gentle healing, which is fine for a while. If, however, the body feels heavy it is likely the paralysis is as a result of deep wounds, buried difficult feelings that need to be released.
Ten years ago I was co-facillitating a ten week creative writing workshop called Freeing The Writer Within. It was part of The Word is Out Project in Lambeth, a coproduction between mental health service workers and service users. We held workshops in the community, at SHARP, the Social Hope and Recovery Project and on psychiatric wards at the Lambeth Hospital.
This workshop took place at a ward for people under 35 who had experienced early onset of symptoms. The participants were in recovery from acute mental distress. It was a very diverse group; at different stages of their recovery, with different backgrounds and educational experience.
It wasn’t clear at first if it would gel. Yet the participants became enthusiastic and engaged, though intermittently, supportive of each other, despite sometimes being restless or clouded by medication. As the weeks went on they were keen attend and to write and share their work. It was proof to me, if it were needed, of the healing power of words.
I would suggest if you find yourself “stuck” in the process of producing some writing choose a random phrase from a book, any book and use that as your first line and just write what comes. The Way of Words workshops, which I founded in 2000, had a strong emphasis on free writing, using images, sound, objects and phrases as prompts and participants produced strong work. Bear in mind free writing of any kind can release painful feelings. If you want to go deeper I strongly suggest you find a course.
Writing as healing enables blocked energy to flow again. It can be a key to unlock your heart and find a way back to your soul. Be prepared to cry, with joy or sorrow, write yourself free. This is best done in a group setting or with formal support from a therapist or counsellor. In addition to writing to truly heal, we have to move too. The body is built to move. It doesn’t have to be Chi gung. Yoga, walking, swimming, dancing or running any of these will serve you well.
Find a course here
Heal Yourself with Writing
https://www.dailyom.com/cgi-bin/courses/courseoverview.cgi?cid=83
Writing As A Way Of Healing
Writing for Healing Trauma – Workshops and Coaching
Free Fall: Writing as Creative Therapy
A blog post by Anne Enith Cooper
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