I’ve been stuck in the perfect pressure cooker for any writer. Soaring high on the wings of publishing Tara McMullins’ piece to launch The Spectrum Spotlight, I Icarus’d myself into melting some of my feathers off. Or so it has seemed.
I don't know if I have a general rule for what to write when my life is in transition. I've been through so many, and I've responded in various ways. I've been in a really hard transition for the past six months. I'm in a place where I've lost the ability to adjust to my surroundings. I feel disoriented. My hard drive isn't short circuiting (to use your metaphor). It's more like I went into a sudden defrag because I ran out of space.
I've been unsure about how to write about it. I want to record every challenge I've faced in the past six months, but I don't want to get too stuck in the details, either. Some of it would make me feel too bare and vulnerable. I feel a sense of urgency to move forward as a writer, but I don't feel capable of doing that, right now. I'm frustrated to the point of panic, but tired to the point of collapse.
How do I cope with the unknowns of writing? I beg it to be predictable and scientific and it says, "No dice. I'm going to be unpredictable, crazy, and weird. You may as well enjoy the ride." So, I close my eyes and clutch my seat and question all the choices I've made before that have led me to this point in my life.
I feel this so much. There is a very real cognitive slog that shows up, and personally I find it frightening because usually my brain is where I’m the sharpest and fastest—at least in drawing connections, processing information, etc.
I know what it’s like to feel so stuck that all I can concentrate on is hyper-analyzing what I did badly to feel so poorly. (A somewhat unproductive blame game if it’s your animal body that is tired at a cellular level. There’s usually myriad inputs and not just me goofing up.)
I lived in essential isolation for three years (not even social media for connection) and I can look back now and know that my inner mess wasn’t as unreachable by others as I might have assumed. Was I writing anything The New Yorker would want to publish? Probably not. But I do wish I had let the cognitive fog be a conduit for messy expression (with safe people). Obviously only each person can know what is beneficial in a given season of life. But if I could open a door to you, it would be to the world of poetry and sitting. The poem could be a vehicle to help you find some semblance of workability with life, writing and self.
Yes! Apparently, loss of skills a symptom of autistic burnout, and it's often frightening and depressing for the person experiencing it. Lately, I have been wondering, "will I ever be normal/capable again?"
Thanks, I'm interested in poetry, but I've never written any. I've had very little exposure to it. I bought A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver, but I've not yet cracked it open.
My first experiment with poetry was actually pretending to write music lyrics. Over time and thanks to a few classes in college I got a little more exposure to the world of poetry. But until last year (when I bought that exact Mary Oliver book!), I hadn’t tried to polish or take my poems seriously.
Jul 6, 2023·edited Jul 6, 2023Liked by Amanda B. Hinton
Every time I plan my writing, I remind myself of why I try not to do that. If I promise a part two, there isn't one. If I write " a drama in three acts ", a fourth shows up. And if I plan a story, the plot unravels.
And so it seems I'm constantly in transition, even though I'm not moving. Following the maxim "the way out is through", I write until I figure out what I'm thinking today, some in a journal and some here in comments and notes. Occasionally, an idea for a post emerges. Then it's a question of writing that rainbow down before it disappears!
Best laid plans help me very little! That’s why I don’t even call it a content calendar anymore because it’s really all about energy and stuff getting tied together at the right time.
Similar to some of your other commenters, I try to give myself grace to not be productive, creative, inspired, and trust that it will at some point return. I have been learning how to practice writing in more descriptive, observational ways, so beyond just dumping in my journal, I try to observe what’s around me - at home, in nature, within the chaos of whatever transition or stress I’m in, and write to describe as simply as I can. It doesn’t always give me content I can share...but sometimes it does, in ways I could never “plan.”
Robin, I love this shift in writing practice that you're describing.
I used to write from a very "out there" sort of place—I think maybe I was trying to be a journalist and philosopher, but all I really was doing was avoiding my own conclusions.
Your practice of trying to bring more description, more observation, this takes a lot of the inclination/energy to "force a conclusion" out of what we write. At least, that's what I've seen. In some of your work I've read, it felt like a seamstress sewing together what she sees. I think you're onto something...
Thank you, it is still very much a practice for me. I tend to get analytical, trying to figure out what it all “means” - but when I remember to give myself the freedom to just observe and let the images or experiences speak without commentary, it can be nice - for me as the writer and (if I’m sharing), I hope for the reader too
“I am longing to move through the world as a scientist, collecting objective facts and writing out my next steps in a rigid action plan that can never fail me...” This resonates with me so much - the feeling of control and predictability is like a color I glimpse in splashes and long to paint my whole life with. And yet, learning to take it as it comes and dance with the magic is the only way to “get through life in one piece,” as you said.
Predictability as an elusive color... I really like thinking of that. Appreciate you chiming in!
Also, I saw a private message come through with your new subscription (thanks so much! hope to see you tomorrow in Ask an Editor) — but Substack isn't super clear about how I can reply to that message. They sent me a nice picture of it, though! 🫠
I'm nodding at your note about the "niggling questions for an editor," and that's exactly what I'm here for. Right now I'll be hosting themed discussion threads, but I'm always noodling creative ways for paid subscribers to toss those specific questions that rise to the top, so to speak, in the process of writing. 🫶
When I wrote my first book, Kissed by a Fox, I didn’t know what I was doing. So I took cues from the universe. I had a framing story for each chapter but no idea what belonged in the middle. So I just paid attention to anything that caught my eye. If it crossed my desk, it wanted to go in the book, so I wove it in. The process was magical, full of synchronicities. When I wrote my second book, Tamed by a Bear, I thought I was only writing the introductory chapter of what would be a different book, but this story had to come first so the reader would understand the rest. And then it became THE story and THE book. In other words, I again didn’t know what I was doing. Now I’m working on the third book. A dozen years have passed since I was writing the first one, and so much has changed. I now understand what I’m writing about. I know my writing mission in the world. I see where my story fits in the bigger picture. In other words, I know what I’m doing. It’s a fortunate position, really—enviable—to rest in the ease of that bigger picture. But it’s NOT so fortunate for the writing. It’s a disaster, in fact. BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. I’ve gotten too smart for the writing. Because writing something that’s fresh, and fresh from the heart, needs that childlike heart. Needs to be brought up short by every new thing, ready to spend the next eternity of moments staring at a flower or a bug, transfixed. And instead I’m clomping around in these huge heavy shoes too big for my writerly feet. It’s time to kick off the shoes of knowing and go toddle in the grass. I need to just be ready for the next magical something to appear. I’m changing course. I hope. I promise.
Priscilllllaaaaaa ... you're dancing your writer dance in the comments section of one of my posts and I feel so gosh darn honored. "I know my writing mission in the world"—this is a post all its own! I hear so much wisdom in how you're exploring: that sometimes KNOWING can cut us off from the freshness, but I think it also can bring some sort of worthy container. Having read some of your work, I feel I can extend confidence that the container of knowing isn't here to only bog you down. Kick off the shoes of knowing, yes! Bring the grass to the knowingness and let them play. If anyone can do this, it is you. 🫶
I'd had several conversations about writing in the past week and was reflecting a lot on my own style, so thanks for asking the questions that brought it all together here! About a post on my writing mission—that would be fun to develop. I have a lot to say. But I need some questions from an interested party (you?) to get it focused. If you'd like a post on this for your Stack, wanna email me about it? And all best wishes in this transition time! Moving is SO HARD. Especially for autistic people. All the decisions, the sorting, the micro-decisions—and then tearing self and family up from one place to put down in another—replanting a life-pot is hard. I'm all too well acquainted with it! May it go as smoothly as possible for you.
Oh goodness, that moving thing is all-fraught. I feel your disorientation. My own substack came out of my move last year and I finally remembered to start writing to process all my thoughts. Most of what I was journalling didn't make it into the world (thankfully), but I am one of those people that needs to write in order to process and understand my own thinking. I've moved a lot and it doesn't ever get easier, at least for me. I still forget the intensity of each stage and the disruption across all parts of my life, every.single.time. But at some point I DO remember that I've done this before, and it eventually does work itself out. Eventually a new equilibrium is reached. But sheesh, it is hard. Moving from Colorado to Texas is quite a leap, with all the repercussions you mention. Very best wishes to you!
Thank you for the images of a writer as scientist and magician, and also naming how that bounces around during times of transition. There’s something bouncing around in my head about how sometimes science is a form of magic—or reveals it—and maybe if we can blur the line there we’d allow for easier movement between. Maybe that messy middle can even be a generative space, once the cardboard and physically exhausting part of moving wanes. I moved in July 2019 too, and have since moved again—it’s disorienting still, but has offered gifts. I only started writing on Substack after the move. And Substack itself seems both science and magic.
Julie, I love all that's here. I think, if I'm understanding you, is that you're opening the door to not NEED to land at all as scientist only or magician only. That is very spacious to me. Because I always have this pull to land and be "set," if that makes sense. It's a very graspy feeling that generates very little in the way of a life. Thanks so much for this. ☀️
I know I'm late to the party here haha, but I love this. For me, the magic is in the music. Music is such an anchor for me while I write. In moments of transition, when I feel myself moving beyond the 'me' that I want to write about, music can anchor me back into that moment of suffering or triumph or frustration.
Also: "The Void Between Science and Magic" is a great title FWIW!
I feel your moving pain. In 2012 we moved from a suburb into Seattle and downsized by 1,000 square feet. Our move-in date was August, and like you I felt like everyone else had a summer while I was packing and planning.
“I am demanding predictability when life (and writing) is hopelessly, eternally, inevitably only one thing: unpredictable.”
This was so relatable, and I lived in this space for a long time. I feel like with age, this feeling tempers a bit. As we get older, we can either grow bitter and fatalistic, or we can more easily accept that shit happens, and we learn to tuck and roll out of the fall.
It doesn’t make anything better, but my perspective on how bad things are has changed. It’s usually more tolerable than I imagined, and I’m usually stronger than I thought.
And yes, everyone else is getting a summer and I'm getting paper cuts from packing paper. 😬But, you're absolutely right, the cycle of change is always coming for me, and I think that's the gift we overlook a lot. Yes, joy cycles away, but so does pain. They make room for each other, interchangeably.
I give myself time. And allow myself to not know the answers, to be uninspired. This, too, shall pass. Thank you for laying your heart open!
I love the permission to be uninspired. 🫶
I don't know if I have a general rule for what to write when my life is in transition. I've been through so many, and I've responded in various ways. I've been in a really hard transition for the past six months. I'm in a place where I've lost the ability to adjust to my surroundings. I feel disoriented. My hard drive isn't short circuiting (to use your metaphor). It's more like I went into a sudden defrag because I ran out of space.
I've been unsure about how to write about it. I want to record every challenge I've faced in the past six months, but I don't want to get too stuck in the details, either. Some of it would make me feel too bare and vulnerable. I feel a sense of urgency to move forward as a writer, but I don't feel capable of doing that, right now. I'm frustrated to the point of panic, but tired to the point of collapse.
How do I cope with the unknowns of writing? I beg it to be predictable and scientific and it says, "No dice. I'm going to be unpredictable, crazy, and weird. You may as well enjoy the ride." So, I close my eyes and clutch my seat and question all the choices I've made before that have led me to this point in my life.
I feel this so much. There is a very real cognitive slog that shows up, and personally I find it frightening because usually my brain is where I’m the sharpest and fastest—at least in drawing connections, processing information, etc.
I know what it’s like to feel so stuck that all I can concentrate on is hyper-analyzing what I did badly to feel so poorly. (A somewhat unproductive blame game if it’s your animal body that is tired at a cellular level. There’s usually myriad inputs and not just me goofing up.)
I lived in essential isolation for three years (not even social media for connection) and I can look back now and know that my inner mess wasn’t as unreachable by others as I might have assumed. Was I writing anything The New Yorker would want to publish? Probably not. But I do wish I had let the cognitive fog be a conduit for messy expression (with safe people). Obviously only each person can know what is beneficial in a given season of life. But if I could open a door to you, it would be to the world of poetry and sitting. The poem could be a vehicle to help you find some semblance of workability with life, writing and self.
Sending big hugs. 🫶
Yes! Apparently, loss of skills a symptom of autistic burnout, and it's often frightening and depressing for the person experiencing it. Lately, I have been wondering, "will I ever be normal/capable again?"
Thanks, I'm interested in poetry, but I've never written any. I've had very little exposure to it. I bought A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver, but I've not yet cracked it open.
My first experiment with poetry was actually pretending to write music lyrics. Over time and thanks to a few classes in college I got a little more exposure to the world of poetry. But until last year (when I bought that exact Mary Oliver book!), I hadn’t tried to polish or take my poems seriously.
Mary will take such good care. 🫶
Thank you. Good luck with your move, by the way. I hope everything goes smoothly. I can't wait to hear more about it.
So many feels prompted by this piece, so few words to wrap around them (yet). Thank you.
Every time I plan my writing, I remind myself of why I try not to do that. If I promise a part two, there isn't one. If I write " a drama in three acts ", a fourth shows up. And if I plan a story, the plot unravels.
And so it seems I'm constantly in transition, even though I'm not moving. Following the maxim "the way out is through", I write until I figure out what I'm thinking today, some in a journal and some here in comments and notes. Occasionally, an idea for a post emerges. Then it's a question of writing that rainbow down before it disappears!
Best laid plans help me very little! That’s why I don’t even call it a content calendar anymore because it’s really all about energy and stuff getting tied together at the right time.
Yes!
Similar to some of your other commenters, I try to give myself grace to not be productive, creative, inspired, and trust that it will at some point return. I have been learning how to practice writing in more descriptive, observational ways, so beyond just dumping in my journal, I try to observe what’s around me - at home, in nature, within the chaos of whatever transition or stress I’m in, and write to describe as simply as I can. It doesn’t always give me content I can share...but sometimes it does, in ways I could never “plan.”
Robin, I love this shift in writing practice that you're describing.
I used to write from a very "out there" sort of place—I think maybe I was trying to be a journalist and philosopher, but all I really was doing was avoiding my own conclusions.
Your practice of trying to bring more description, more observation, this takes a lot of the inclination/energy to "force a conclusion" out of what we write. At least, that's what I've seen. In some of your work I've read, it felt like a seamstress sewing together what she sees. I think you're onto something...
Thank you, it is still very much a practice for me. I tend to get analytical, trying to figure out what it all “means” - but when I remember to give myself the freedom to just observe and let the images or experiences speak without commentary, it can be nice - for me as the writer and (if I’m sharing), I hope for the reader too
“I am longing to move through the world as a scientist, collecting objective facts and writing out my next steps in a rigid action plan that can never fail me...” This resonates with me so much - the feeling of control and predictability is like a color I glimpse in splashes and long to paint my whole life with. And yet, learning to take it as it comes and dance with the magic is the only way to “get through life in one piece,” as you said.
Predictability as an elusive color... I really like thinking of that. Appreciate you chiming in!
Also, I saw a private message come through with your new subscription (thanks so much! hope to see you tomorrow in Ask an Editor) — but Substack isn't super clear about how I can reply to that message. They sent me a nice picture of it, though! 🫠
I'm nodding at your note about the "niggling questions for an editor," and that's exactly what I'm here for. Right now I'll be hosting themed discussion threads, but I'm always noodling creative ways for paid subscribers to toss those specific questions that rise to the top, so to speak, in the process of writing. 🫶
This is beautiful, and so much resonates. Just wanted to say that while it’s fresh and before I drift off to sleep. I’ll comment more tomorrow.
When I wrote my first book, Kissed by a Fox, I didn’t know what I was doing. So I took cues from the universe. I had a framing story for each chapter but no idea what belonged in the middle. So I just paid attention to anything that caught my eye. If it crossed my desk, it wanted to go in the book, so I wove it in. The process was magical, full of synchronicities. When I wrote my second book, Tamed by a Bear, I thought I was only writing the introductory chapter of what would be a different book, but this story had to come first so the reader would understand the rest. And then it became THE story and THE book. In other words, I again didn’t know what I was doing. Now I’m working on the third book. A dozen years have passed since I was writing the first one, and so much has changed. I now understand what I’m writing about. I know my writing mission in the world. I see where my story fits in the bigger picture. In other words, I know what I’m doing. It’s a fortunate position, really—enviable—to rest in the ease of that bigger picture. But it’s NOT so fortunate for the writing. It’s a disaster, in fact. BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. I’ve gotten too smart for the writing. Because writing something that’s fresh, and fresh from the heart, needs that childlike heart. Needs to be brought up short by every new thing, ready to spend the next eternity of moments staring at a flower or a bug, transfixed. And instead I’m clomping around in these huge heavy shoes too big for my writerly feet. It’s time to kick off the shoes of knowing and go toddle in the grass. I need to just be ready for the next magical something to appear. I’m changing course. I hope. I promise.
Priscilllllaaaaaa ... you're dancing your writer dance in the comments section of one of my posts and I feel so gosh darn honored. "I know my writing mission in the world"—this is a post all its own! I hear so much wisdom in how you're exploring: that sometimes KNOWING can cut us off from the freshness, but I think it also can bring some sort of worthy container. Having read some of your work, I feel I can extend confidence that the container of knowing isn't here to only bog you down. Kick off the shoes of knowing, yes! Bring the grass to the knowingness and let them play. If anyone can do this, it is you. 🫶
I'd had several conversations about writing in the past week and was reflecting a lot on my own style, so thanks for asking the questions that brought it all together here! About a post on my writing mission—that would be fun to develop. I have a lot to say. But I need some questions from an interested party (you?) to get it focused. If you'd like a post on this for your Stack, wanna email me about it? And all best wishes in this transition time! Moving is SO HARD. Especially for autistic people. All the decisions, the sorting, the micro-decisions—and then tearing self and family up from one place to put down in another—replanting a life-pot is hard. I'm all too well acquainted with it! May it go as smoothly as possible for you.
Oh goodness, that moving thing is all-fraught. I feel your disorientation. My own substack came out of my move last year and I finally remembered to start writing to process all my thoughts. Most of what I was journalling didn't make it into the world (thankfully), but I am one of those people that needs to write in order to process and understand my own thinking. I've moved a lot and it doesn't ever get easier, at least for me. I still forget the intensity of each stage and the disruption across all parts of my life, every.single.time. But at some point I DO remember that I've done this before, and it eventually does work itself out. Eventually a new equilibrium is reached. But sheesh, it is hard. Moving from Colorado to Texas is quite a leap, with all the repercussions you mention. Very best wishes to you!
Thank you for the images of a writer as scientist and magician, and also naming how that bounces around during times of transition. There’s something bouncing around in my head about how sometimes science is a form of magic—or reveals it—and maybe if we can blur the line there we’d allow for easier movement between. Maybe that messy middle can even be a generative space, once the cardboard and physically exhausting part of moving wanes. I moved in July 2019 too, and have since moved again—it’s disorienting still, but has offered gifts. I only started writing on Substack after the move. And Substack itself seems both science and magic.
Julie, I love all that's here. I think, if I'm understanding you, is that you're opening the door to not NEED to land at all as scientist only or magician only. That is very spacious to me. Because I always have this pull to land and be "set," if that makes sense. It's a very graspy feeling that generates very little in the way of a life. Thanks so much for this. ☀️
both science and magic indeed!
Lovely metaphor of the writer as magician. Thank you.
I know I'm late to the party here haha, but I love this. For me, the magic is in the music. Music is such an anchor for me while I write. In moments of transition, when I feel myself moving beyond the 'me' that I want to write about, music can anchor me back into that moment of suffering or triumph or frustration.
Also: "The Void Between Science and Magic" is a great title FWIW!
Thank you for “Icarus’d.”
I feel your moving pain. In 2012 we moved from a suburb into Seattle and downsized by 1,000 square feet. Our move-in date was August, and like you I felt like everyone else had a summer while I was packing and planning.
“I am demanding predictability when life (and writing) is hopelessly, eternally, inevitably only one thing: unpredictable.”
This was so relatable, and I lived in this space for a long time. I feel like with age, this feeling tempers a bit. As we get older, we can either grow bitter and fatalistic, or we can more easily accept that shit happens, and we learn to tuck and roll out of the fall.
It doesn’t make anything better, but my perspective on how bad things are has changed. It’s usually more tolerable than I imagined, and I’m usually stronger than I thought.
I'm here to verb-up everything!
And yes, everyone else is getting a summer and I'm getting paper cuts from packing paper. 😬But, you're absolutely right, the cycle of change is always coming for me, and I think that's the gift we overlook a lot. Yes, joy cycles away, but so does pain. They make room for each other, interchangeably.