Maybe it’s the season – it’s still winter here in Western Australia, and an unusually chilly one. Maybe it’s the sequence of truly horrifying events that have played out internationally in recent times. Perhaps it’s the disquiet that comes from a society that increasingly seems to place populist sentiment above logic or morality. Most likely all of the above have contributed to a phenomenon I’ve noticed over the last few months – writers feeling sad and unproductive.
Writing is a roller-coaster ride, like any other creative occupation; the highs can be stunning, thrilling, euphoric, and the lows can be crippling. On one end there’s the new contract, the fabulous review, the royalty cheque, the feeling of having made a difference. On the other there are the rejections, the opportunities that come to nothing, the one star reviews, the falling sales figures. The unfinished manuscript you just can’t see your way to working on.
I’m seldom subject to depression. My self-belief is generally healthy and my approach to my work is pragmatic. (To put this in context, I earn my living as a novelist.) This winter has been different. I’m not the only writer to find herself despondent and lacking in energy, thanks to the factors mentioned above plus some personal issues. Within my circle of writers, a remarkably high proportion of friends are feeling low in spirits – anything from mild general malaise to full-blown clinical depression. To a greater or lesser extent, that is impacting on people’s ability to get good words down on the page.
I wish I had a magic charm to make writers happy and productive, politicians humane, and human beings wiser. In place of that, I suggest we focus on something far smaller. Here’s an exercise that might help us both as writers and as individuals feeling overwhelmed, whether by the volume of our personal workload, our domestic issues or the tide of world events. Sit down, or lie down, somewhere comfortable. Close your eyes. Breathe deeply and feel yourself relax. Now let’s do an exercise with our five senses.
Lying still, breathing slowly, not moving, consider the sense of touch. Think of five different touch sensations that are related but subtly contrasting – choose something familiar to you. Imagine your fingers moving against each in turn. For this exercise, I thought of the hair of each of my five dogs, whom I touch a lot. Pip: short and straight, with a little whorl on the head. Bodhi: long and wiry, high in natural oils. Fergal: sparse, dry and wispy, the skin exposed. Zen: soft, fine and silky. Reggie: warm, dense and curly, almost like a sheep’s fleece. You might think of five cooking ingredients; five types of fabric; five kinds of foliage in your garden; five tools in your workshop. Take your time over each. Imagine the sensation before you let words come to describe it.
Breathe for a while, then repeat the exercise with another of the senses. I’m imagining five breakfast smells or five garden smells. Take plenty of time to relax and breathe as this exercise goes on. The sense of sound would be wonderful to play with – how about five different bells ringing, from a wind chime to the deep voice of Big Ben? Or five contrasting bird calls. Or, of course, five distinctive ways of barking!
Take time for each of the senses, with an allowance for simply breathing a while before you go on to the next. When you’re finished, lie there a little longer, then slowly bring your body back to wakefulness by wriggling fingers and toes, flexing feet and hands, eventually rolling onto your side and, when you are ready, sitting up. Take time over this. The exercise will not only help you feel better, it should remind you of the many small wonders that still exist around us, gifts that deserve to be valued.
Writers are keen observers, good at storing things away. Those sensory memories are grist to the writer’s mill. They’ll provide vital ingredients for your next creative project.They can help make your writing convincingly real even when it is entirely fictional.
Don’t rest on your laurels, though. Every time you write, you’re using what those past years of being observant have given you. And every day you should be replenishing that creative well, using your senses to experience, to learn, to build up new material for your future writing. So, undertake your daily life, whatever it may hold, in an awareness of sensory experience. See, hear, smell, touch, taste. Store away what is memorable; if it helps, jot down words for what is striking, lovely, scary, powerful. That practice will make you a better writer. And, who knows? It may make you a wiser human being.
How about a little exercise now? Choose one of the senses, and post in the comments below a set of five personal observations from today, related to that sense. Or if you prefer, post one observation from today on each of the five senses.
Photo of Fergal: copyright Glenn Ware
About Juliet Marillier
Juliet Marillier has written twenty-one novels for adults and young adults as well as a collection of short fiction. Her works of historical fantasy have been published around the world, and have won numerous awards. Juliet is currently working on a new fantasy trilogy for adult readers, Warrior Bards, of which the first book, The Harp of Kings, will be published in September 2019. Her short novel Beautiful, based on the fairy tale East of the Sun and West of the Moon, was released as an Audible Original in May 2019. When not writing, Juliet is kept busy by her small tribe of elderly rescue dogs.
Juliet – I’ve noticed the same malaise among my writerly circle. In fact, I’ve also written an upcoming post about it. I have a morning routine that tends to keep me skimming along on a fairly even keel. It’s midsummer here (sorry, not to rub it in). In order to avoid the heat and to have it to ourselves, we (my wife and our black lab, Gidget, and I) get up and head straight to the beach before breakfast.
Thanks to your post, I’m more fully aware of what a sensory delight it is. Take this morning. The surface of the lake was like glass (it’s a Great Lake, so this is rare). The glow of the rising sun made the water into an impressionist’s painting, casting a dazzling range of hues. (Yesterday’s was similar, and I posted a picture, if anyone would like a peek: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1196491310382180&set=a.212884865409501.59665.100000639685069&type=3&theater )
When we reach the crest of the dune, we take off our sandals. Today the soft sand was colder than the air, and felt delightful to my toes. When we reached the shore, the water was warm, but by that point it was a respite to the chill of the sand. The air was still, and we caught the whiff of woodsmoke from a lingering bonfire someone hadn’t quite put out last night. When Gidget returns the ball from a water fetch, she has a habit of flinging water from her tail, spraying us on her excited arrival, so we always end up fairly wet by the end of the walk (which is much more annoying in colder weather, but fairly pleasant this time of year).
I don’t recall a taste, but the coffee, brewed while we walked and waiting for us, tastes particularly mellow, and a bit smoky as I type this.
The daily trip puts me in touch with what matters. It’s time with my wife and our dog. It’s a place we consider not just fondly, but as the foundation of our home here. So paying homage to it daily, with no one else around, is an important reminder of who we are and why we’re here (there’s a longer story to that, but it’s the makings of a whole other post). And I can now see how all of its myriad and seasonal details make it something that never gets old.
My routine helps to keep me from falling prey to the externals, and reminds me what matters to me. All of the little things, and even the big ones, that are out of my control become less likely to rent space in my head through the day. I am reminded why I came here, and central to that is writing, and living a more meaningful life. So I’m lucky to have such a vivid reminder. Makes it easy to get out of bed at dawn most days.
Thanks for enlivening the senses in regards to my routine, Juliet! Sending warm thoughts your way.
Beautiful picture, Vaughn, and evocative words to go with it. I feel better already!
Juliet,
Great article. I’m right there in those blahs from all the turmoil in the world. It’s been overwhelming. I’m too damn empathic.
Vaughn, that was excellent. I haven’t had enough coffee today for any of the senses to really kick in.
My computer screen is a little blurry through half-lidded eyes.
The keyboard is a little sticky from god-knows-what.
I smell my dogs. They need a bath.
The omnipresent ringing in my ears almost supersedes the blare of the TV, which was left on the Game Show Network after my dad went to the Senior Center.
This coffee is so delicious, it must be Orgasmically Grown. Life blood.
A few more pots of life blood and I’ll be ready to face the world. :)
Thanks, Juliet!
Just as well the coffee is wonderful, Mike, or I’d be really worried by your gritty realism … Now you’ve got me wondering whether each of my dogs has a distinctive smell as well as distinctive-feeling hair. Not sure I want to put that to the test.
What a beautiful, beautiful post, Juliet. Mike mentioned empathy, which is a double-edged sword for many of us. That ability to feel deeply makes us better writers, but it also makes us vulnerable. I read a beautiful thing somewhere back in the haze of time about a warrior living with a broken heart. Casteneda, probably. It sounds like something Don Juan Matus would say. I never forget it because it implies that to observe and be open to the world requires stamina and courage. While I don’t have a Great Lake, which Vaughn evokes with such beauty, I do have my pond, with its shimmering insects and jumping fish. I have the smell of fox grape rising in the heat, and the occasional sight of a heron, with whom I’ve begun to imagine a friendship. For me this is sanity. Nature is elegant and fierce. The rules are pretty straightforward, and no one seems to take things too personally. Again, thanks. I’m grateful for this community, which always makes me feel less adrift.
That’s beautiful and wise, Susan. I think we all gain strength from being part of this community.
I walk, Juliet. Almost every day in the hills of the Santa Monica mountains. I pray for a while and then I almost always find myself thinking about my novel. Sometimes I get a new insight and sometimes there is nothing there–but the birds and the trees and the flowers. Which can be enough. I know I am a fortunate person, but the world is always out there with sadness and problems. Maybe that affects writers, who tend to be aware and sensitive people, more than others. But once I’m at the keyboard, I usually feel better. I can chalk that up to a life-long work ethic. With all that you have published, that must be you also. Happy writing.
I guess there’s a balance to be found – enough time for contemplation and stillness, and enough sitting at the keyboard doing the work. I agree, walking is wonderful. My dogs take me out a lot, and it’s usually a great opportunity to think my way out of plot snarls while also benefiting body and mind.
These are such good exercises. When I am stuck, I focus on the concrete. Today I am hyperaware of no rough tongue licking my forehead, no gentle claws upon my cheek, no meows telling me to move so that she can crawl upon my stomach, no motor purring in my neck, no glowing eyes staring at me, no one to share my crumbs of buttery toast, no litter box to clean out, no glossy fur to caress, no muse upon my desk, no cat trying to type a story herself.
Vijaya, I’m so sorry for your loss. They are family.
I’m with Susan, so very sorry for your loss, Vijaya. Keep her in your heart.
Oh, Vijaya…so sorry for your loss.
You’re all so kind. Thank you. It is interesting how acutely you are aware of the particularities that are missing in your life. This was such a good exercise. It came at the purrfect time.
Vijaya, I’m so sorry you’ve lost your feline companion. Love and hugs from this doggy household. I can tell from the lovely way you write about your little one that you have many good memories to hold on to during the period of grieving.
Ten minutes ago I was so focused on my laptop, I was barely aware I have five senses. I spend most of my summer mornings (and sometimes my afternoons and evenings) on my small deck. From this perch that overlooks a large park in the complex where I live–lots of lawn, lots of big trees, and a kiddie park tucked inside a small woodland cove made of pine and aspen–everything is so familiar to my five senses I’m hardly aware of them. Or, was.
I see the sky is pale gray, almost white, like the ashes from a hot wood fire. The clouds are low, muting colors and features, except for the little red flowers in the pot on the table. With their bright yellow centers, the contrast to this gray world is striking. The mountains are a single silhouette, dark and massive. The air is cool and soothing, with only a slight breeze rustling through the tops of the trees. And, it is delicious with the intoxicating smell of pending rain. My coffee is warm, and tastes rich and woodsy, but leaves a touch of bitterness on the tip of my tongue. The small children in the kiddie park have all gone in now, for lunch and naps, I suppose. An abandoned red tricycle is on the lawn. But, down the block I can hear bigger children laughing, shrieking, and calling out to each other, and in the distance, I hear the hum and rumble of highway traffic, ebbing and flowing. One of the groundskeepers is riding an old rusty, black mower back to the shed, its’ engine roar more of a growl than a buzz; no mowing today, thank heaven. There’s a shiny puddle on the deck where I over-watered the flower pot. My feet are bare, and under the table my toes keep playing with a cold nail head a piece of peeling paint has revealed. Some very excitable little birds have nested somewhere in the roof above the deck. Earlier, they were darting about like tiny missiles, but now they, too, are waiting for the rain to come.
Thank you for today, Juliet. Like you and others, I’ve been feeling a bit anxious lately. Not depressed, but sort of sad and worried, and not sure why. But, just knowing that I’m not the only one feeling this way, and writing this post, has made me feel better.
CK, this brought a big smile to my face. What gorgeous, evocative writing!
Thank you. It seems I was inspired.
I didn’t think of the fact others are despondent too about the current politics. Its a big cloud over us all. I had an overload of my senses yesterday at Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum in Florida. Ignoring the added thrill of watching out for three young children with us, I heard boings, squiggles, pings, gasps, laughter, whooshes, cranking gears, roars and constant conversation of visitors, dark twisting hallways with peculiar exhibits, like platypus lipped woman dummy with disco music, and claustrophobic hall passages to meander through. Much wonder and laughter but my senses needed a break!
You describe this so vividly, Patricia!
If your kids are not so minor anymore, guide a vacation inside the likes of Ibiza,
and luxuriate in per day relaxing using a paperback to the
sun lounger subsequently adventure into the town together with the household in tow.
Back in the late 1980s I attended a workplace training course on stress management. The most memorable exercise from that course was related to the exercises you suggest.
As you go about your daily life, choose a colour. Notice everything in that colour. (Eg orange, see the autumn leaves, notice that car, that clothing etc). Also touch: touch contrasting things, like caressing silk, focus, experience, then touch a kitchen scratchie, feel its coarseness.
It was the combination of mindful experience (not called that back then, especially not by the prominent politician’s wife who ran the course) and the focus on contrasts that was supposed to help people de-stress. Instead of (or as well as) meditating, her advice was to incorporate this experiential de-stressing as part of our daily lives.
I like your form of meditation, it’s a more intense, focused form, but incorporating these techniques into activities can be good too.
I agree, Nalini. I like that everyday mindfulness practice, something even the busiest person has time for!
As writers, we not only have empathy but also the innate ability to track cause-and-effect. In a story, the words spoken by a character often foreshadow their future actions. The gun on the mantel will probably get used in the third act. So, when we witness what is happening in the real world, we see the ramifications. Words mean something. Actions have consequences.
Current events are very disheartening and depressing. Prayer helps me. But so does taking action. Individual acts of love and consideration in the face of an increasingly uncaring and unthinking world IS progress. Even if it feels like such a small thing.