The Precarious State of Creativity
(Or 22 ways to jump back into a creative mindset.)
Growing up, every summer, we used to spend a few precious weeks in Folly Beach, South Carolina. There were many delights: hours of boogie boarding, unlimited Pop-Tarts, movies with my cousins and sister. We would lie across towels on our sugar-filled bellies. Sun-kissed, laughing, conspiring, we wished the whole day would start again. And, of course, the next day, it did.
Those humid weeks didn't only host human visitors. Occasionally, hordes of ghost carbs flooded the beaches. These little guys only came out at night and—thanks to their pale shells—glowed beneath the moon. We kids would go out on the beach in our PJs and bare feet. We would try to spot them now that they (the invisible) were miraculously visible. We chased them with flashlights until it was time for bed.
In the morning, they were gone—once again disappeared into their caverns beneath the sand.
I've observed a similar “ghost crab” phenomenon in my writing practice. My mind is open in the mornings after I've just woken up. Magnetic to language and story. Primed for writing. In other words, the ghost crabs are out, and they’re out in droves. I can sit on the beach of my mind and co-exist with them for a while. (Picture me writing in a notebook beneath the light of the moon. Flashlight in one hand, strawberry Pop-Tart in the other.)
Here’s the problem: This mindset is precarious. The subtlest movement can scare my writing brain away. Back into its metaphorical sandhole. Jump scare! It’s an urgent email! The banal stimulation of social media! The afternoon light!
Once the crabs (as in my writing mindset, not the STI) leave, I have to wait to be inspired again. I must coax them out, which often involves—big sigh here—falling asleep and waiting for a new day.
For a long time, I've relied on the forced reset of morning. I’ve used it as an excuse. I think, Well, my best brain is gone. Might as well wait until tomorrow. I pack up my beach bag and head back inside. I clean the house. I cook dinner. I slip back into my non-writing life. In other words, I give up. In doing so, I do myself (and my writing) a great disservice.
I'm determined to rewire this neural pathway. What if I found creativity in many moments throughout the day? What if I sat quietly in the dark and waited for the ghost crabs to come crawling out?
Coincidentally, I recently revisited the book A Gift From the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, which I was required to read in middle school. The book’s feminist principles feel somewhat dated now, but one line jumped out at me. “[The] answer is not in the feverish pursuit of centrifugal activities which only lead in the end to fragmentation. Woman’s life today is tending more and more toward the state William James describes so well in the German word, ‘Zerrissenheit—torn to pieces-hood.’ She will be shattered into a thousand pieces.”
That word, “Zerrissenheit,” nearly knocked me off my chair. What a perfect way of describing the feeling of my creative self being fragmented each day by all the ~nonsense~ (or, in Lindbergh’s words, “centrifugal forces”) I invite into my life. Even the idea that I’m “only creative first thing in the morning”—as I’ve said so many times before—is a force drawing me away from my writing.
Me trying to pronounce “Zerrissenheit.”
Of course, it takes work (and presence) to avoid “Zerrissenheit,” to infuse creativity into life at every opportunity. There are many methods for doing this, but I've been craving a toolkit that I could print out and staple to my desk as a reminder. Maybe you have, too. I’m calling this my “Ghost Crab List.” A list designed to help you recollect the pieces of yourself. A list to help you see the glow-in-the-dark crabs. Here it is.
The Ghost Crab List
(Or 22 ways to jump back into a creative mindset.)
Lock yourself in a room with only pen and paper.
Listen to a writing meditation.
Keep a journal of your favorite sentences and read them until you want to write again.
Perform a creativity ritual/draw a tarot card.
Tell yourself you only have to write for one minute.
Smell an orange. Eat the orange, wedge by wedge. Don’t do anything else.
Go on YouTube and watch your favorite movie scene.
Put your feet in the dirt.
Write outside.
Talk into transcription software. Laugh at how silly the transcript is.
Read some poetry.
Buy yourself a cute drink and make writing your date.
Take a nap with music that reminds you of your story.
Give yourself a pep talk in the mirror. It's silly; it works.
Let yourself write a bunch of nonsense before you actually start.
Think of someone you love. Write in their spirit.
Smell your cat.
Go outside and find a fallen leaf. Fold it in half, then quarters, then eights. Think of all your doubts and then crumble the leaf in your hand and let it fall to the earth.
Put your favorite sweater on. Make this your writing sweater.
Put your favorite music on. Make this your writing music.
Forward fold. Envision the non-writing day pouring out of your head.
Listen to an old voicemail from someone you love.
If you enjoyed this post, please like it, leave a comment, or forward it to someone. It helps me sustain my writing practice and feel less alone. I’d also love to know: What’s on your “Ghost Crab List.” Spill!
Reading: A Gift From the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Writing: Editing my novel
Watching: The last of the Oscar noms: Anatomy of a Fall and The Holdovers
Eating: Fancy LA bagels
Life Lives is written and edited by me, so please excuse the occasional grammatical error or spelling gaffe. My Very Talented Mother, Caitilin McPhillips, designed my logo for me. Thanks, Mom.
Zerrissenheit!! Thank you, and Anne Morrow Lindbergh and William James and the entire German language for this 🍬
I had forgotten how amazing those little crab beings are. Thanks for the reminder.