The Artist's Way: Simple Wisdom of Writing Morning Pages
by Elizabeth Solar
Platform shoes, baggy jeans and crop tops are making a comeback. So are Raves. (Kids, if you don’t know what that means, ask your parents.) The Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame gave a nod to the post grunge era to induct the Foo Fighters. The Matrix franchise, established in 1999, spawned yet another – a fourth – film last year. Sounds like the return to the 1990’s, which is a hella long time ago, if you’re old enough to remember when MTV’s The Real World was ‘unscripted’ reality television.
As with other ‘90’s pop cultural phenomena, there has been a resurgence of interest in the iconic self-help tome, the Artist’s Way, especially as more of us stayed under lockdown for the better part of the last two years. For some people, the practical magic of Julia Cameron’s anecdotal and instructive work has never gone out of style.
Since its release in 1992, The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity, has sold over four million copies worldwide, and has produced dozens of spinoffs and multitudes of imitators aimed at the blocked artist, specifically the blocked writer. Cameron’s book inspired among others, author Elizabeth Gilbert to write her inspirational book on creativity, Big Magic.
Ah, I see you’re totally buggin’ over the use of the word ‘Spiritual’ in the title.
Cameron employs the use of the word God, but by no means expects everyone who reads her book or follows her prescription for ‘creative recovery’ to be a believer. I mean, as if. Cameron writes:
God is useful shorthand for many of us[…] Do not call it God unless that is comfortable for you. […] If you remain forever an atheist, agnostic—so be it. You will still be able to experience an altered life through working with these principles.
Divided into twelve chapters, The Artist’s Way is set up to model the Alcoholics Anonymous Twelve-Step Program. Each week, a chapter prescribes several short exercises and affirmations toward creative recovery. Now, lest you think this is all a little precious, woo-woo or a bit creepy, don’t even go there. Even the most jaded cynics agree The Artist’s Way contains two bits of brilliance, both practical and actionable.
One is Morning Pages. This requires one to sit down first thing, even before coffee, and write three pages. In longhand. Matters not what you write. For me, it’s generally a bunch of whining directed at writing Morning Pages. ‘I don’t want to.’ or ‘Morning Pages are so stupid.’ Often, it’s planning my day, writing a grocery list or general grievances. Call it a diary.
Write Morning Pages every day and you know you have? A habit. Several times a week, I’m actually writing stories - bonafide literary fiction - with nary a complaint. The goal is to write without your inner editor getting all up in your head. Not cool, nor conducive to the creative process. These pages are about letting go, allowing for process, not perfection.
A few caveats about Morning Pages. Do not share the pages with anyone. Don’t even look back at them if you can help it. The first rule of Morning Pages is don’t talk about Morning Pages.
Afterward, write affirmations about how awesome you are and how you and the universe are excellent at manifesting your collaboration into the world. Hey, sometimes it makes me want to hurl as well. Just roll with it.
The second great thing about this book is the Artist Date. Yes. A date. With an artist. And the artist is you.
The idea behind the Artist Date is take yourself out - or stay in if you want to be Covid-compliant – and be inspired by the creation around you. Or find alternate ways to be creative yourself.
Rules of engagement: You must be solo. No spouse, friend, child or canine companion.
Revel in the scent of hardcover books and lemon-y Pledge furniture polish at your local library. Take a hike at a nearby woods, check out the new exhibit at the art or science museum. Clear out the kitchen and experiment with a recipe for a lusty vegetable torta or finally defrost those blueberries from last summer and make jam. We’re way past sourdough bread, right?
If that bag of yarn is calling to you, finish that sweater. Break out the easel and charcoal or pastels and sketch away. Carry your camera on your walk and document the dappled grandeur new-fallen snow on giant pines and hemlocks. You’ll get those creative impulses stimulated in no time.
There’s a lot of inspiration inside and out your window to light up your muse. So, break out that crop top, binge on Melrose Place and get creative like it’s 1992. If you get the urge to complain to me about getting up early to write, well, Talk to the hand.
A few more places to read and hear about about the resurgence of The Artists Way:
https://www.npr.org/2022/02/21/1082079065/julia-camerons-seeking-wisdom-goes-deeper-than-the-artists-way
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A Death in the Family: Our Stories Live On
Last week, my cousin unexpectedly died. In some ways, the person I had known as a kid and young adult had died at least a decade ago.
Richard was film-star handsome, charismatic, athletic, fun-loving, intrepid. The mountains offered both invitation and challenge: He was an avid climber, environmentalist, social justice advocate and math whiz. For decades he was a senior systems analyst at Raytheon, and in the early 1990’s was granted a patent as the inventor of a process that took data and translated it into visual images and photos.
These stories unfolded during Richard’s memorial service. His oldest son, a millennial doppelganger of his father, told the assembled mourners, and celebrators of his life that his father loved stories, and it would have gratified him to share some.
As a child of the 1960’s and 1970’s Richard was politically active, and as a teen served as a state liaison for George McGovern’s presidential campaign.
He was quick to laugh, sometimes quick to anger, to which his son attested, and passionate about social policy, politics and the Red Sox.
Another fact about Richard: He suffered from a form of Multiple Sclerosis which at first fatigued him, then robbed him of his ability to walk, swim, and hiked. His voice was weakened to the point he had difficulty answering his voice-activated telephone. For years, he lived in a quadriplegic body, yet retained agency in his life. His beautiful intellect continued to explore, solve and create. He argued – er, participated in animated conversations with his siblings and children.
Friends told stories of teenage hijinks, his stubborn refusal to give up on a hike as inclement weather stranded him on a mountain top. The same stubbornness that would define the rest of his life as he weathered a decline of his physical body, while his spirit remained strong. Although steadfast in his ideals and worldview, Richard lovingly accepted and welcomed every kind of people into his family and his world.
Over and over, I heard the words kind, passionate, committed, stubborn.
For me, I’ll remember him as a cool 17-year-old, eyes sparkling with mischief and intelligence. His muscular wrestler’s body. The good-natured way he included his younger cousins in conversations probably way beyond our heads and softball games beyond my paltry athletic skill level.
We tell stories to keep memories alive, share special things we’ve learned from their lives. Our life stories connect with generations and keep the torch of our beliefs and passions burning. Our stories, those of our departed loved one become touchstones that can guide and comfort us during periods of grief and healing.
Sharing stories also a positive, joyful light on a life. Many years ago, when my first husband died, I stood surrounded by family viewing his body. My first husband, never at a loss for words, lay both lifeless and silent. I commented that it wasn’t a party without him telling one of his (bad) jokes. Death affords the opportunity to find the funny in an otherwise tragic time.
In nearly two years of incredible, horrifying and often tragic stories, this is one more. A personal one. Death, like so much in life, is personal and universal. Our stories provide no resolution, but a continuation. I mourn the loss of Richard, yet, I have created my own story about him. In my memory and imagination, he scales the mountain, reaches the summit, and beams with joy and triumph. His body strong and vital. His spirit as bright as the late morning sun.
