The Artist’s Way Week 6: Recovering a Sense of Abundance

This artist’s week is ruled and ruined by anxiety. Change is in the air outside, with briefings from the highest levels of government suggesting that the lockdown is about to be eased. In a normal world, liberty would have been my rallying cry, but all I feel is fear that we’ve not yet done enough to halt the spread of Covid-19. I hide in my office and leave the window blind down all day. This is not conducive to free flowing prose and my work deteriorates as anxiety increases. I might as well turn to the Artist’s Way: it pulled me back from the brink all those weeks ago.

Your views on abundance change when your world shrinks to your home, immediate environment and one weekly trip out for supplies. Abundance is now spare toilet roll, plenty of tea bags and a backup jar of coffee. More than a handful of apples feels profligate and I’m ashamed to admit we have four types of dried pasta in the cupboards. I suspect Julia would tell me to chill out, even though this week’s ‘major creative block [is] money.’ For the emerging writer, money isn’t so much a block as a pipe dream. In theory I have had two paid commissions, but the first one I took as copies of the anthology in which I was published and I’ve not heard anything since I signed the contract and the second piece appeared in print. We don’t do this for money and if we want to stay sane we don’t read reports from the Society of Authors about writers’ average annual earnings. In my case, which I suspect applies widely, I have an extremely supportive partner. My attitude to money comprises shame and guilt and I don’t expect Julia will have anything to say which will change that.

What I think she’s saying is that I shouldn’t assume that God does not want me to be an artist; I should ditch the thoughts that compel me to earn money doing mundane or unwanted jobs when I could be creating. I think I’m supposed to understand there is no virtue in dismissing writing as frivolous; and perhaps the God she is talking about is the voice in my head which suggests making a living by doing any job has more value than living off my partner while I try to be a writer. I need to open up to a generous God (voice/attitude) that encourages me to create; to be frivolous and to play in order to expand my artistic potential. This makes sense: I have been watching Grayson Perry’s Art Club and marvelling at the delight in play and discovery that unites all of the artists – professional and amateur – featured in this weekly hour of joy. But how can a writer be playful? Well, for me, that can be an indulgent piece where I give sentences and characters free rein; where I try out a ludicrous plot for a story which fizzles then pops, but which leaves something behind that I can use elsewhere. I recall a short story I wrote about a man obsessed with putting on a show in which he sings the backing vocals and harmonies to his favourite album. I had abandoned it, but having read it back I can see a longer piece – a novel or a film – emerging from its ashes. I’d love to accept the other thrust of Julia’s argument – that money will flow from committing to play and creativity – but that feels further away than the vaccine that could end our collective nightmare.

The chapter moves on, unlike the week, to luxury. As if guilt and shame over money weren’t enough to counter, I am instructed to open the gates to luxury. It’s another way of saying be kind to yourself – a Covid mantra, no less – and I have no problem with that. As my world has diminished, so too has my idea of what would be a treat: hugging Mum and Dad; a meal out or a pint; seeing friends; a music festival; a camping trip. The list takes me down a rabbit hole which threatens despair, but I escape with the thought of a fresh notebook, a frame for the portrait I’m planning, and the greatest luxury of all: time. I resolve to take a day off from trying to write and to spend that day reading and starting an online lecture series I purchased before Christmas. I hope Julia is right when she predicts ‘as we acknowledge and invite what feels luxurious to us, we may indeed trigger an increased flow’. I love how she ends the chapter – ‘serious art is born from serious play’ – but it’s going to be a challenge to let myself believe that.

Anxiety is winning most daily battles and I’m less committed to the exercises this week; but I press on in the hope that they will inspire my artist. Nothing enlightening comes of a task called Money Madness, and there’s no point recording every penny I spend, since I won’t be visiting any shops. I like the idea of finding ‘five pretty or interesting rocks’, but that’s kind of off the cards unless you count the gravel in our garden. Then again, I already have rocks and shells and fossils dotted about my shelves. I don’t press any flowers, but I do some baking (quite a lot of baking) and I promise to send five postcards to friends, which feels like an urgent task rather than a whimsical activity. I re-read the Basic Principles as instructed, but they seem kind of quaint and from another time. It’s not that I don’t need them so much as I have moved on and I require something less airy-fairy. I decide to write some of my own.

POST-SCRIPT: One week on from reading deprivation and I have yet to engage with a novel or short story collection. I have read some interesting articles and essays, but this aversion to fiction is becoming a problem. I’m going to revisit to some favourites and see if the company of a stellar writer or two will put me back on track. I have added some old stories and new poems to my new website and I have a readership. Why didn’t I do this sooner? I started writing a series of five monologues – a widow in lockdown stares out of her window – and managed two and a half before anxiety got the better of me. Even the morning pages are a slog. I won’t be beaten, but this is going to take time.

Click here to read about Week 7.