lighting a candle and listening in winter
In case you haven’t heard (from me, who talks about it constantly), I’ve been busy revising a novel.
Each morning of my last major revision push—throughout December and early January—I indulged in a brief ritual: candle-lighting, quick Tarot pull, lovely tea brew, etc. All simple acts that helped me ease into process and embrace magic.
More on that ritual + solstice + magic here.
A couple days before that revision push was scheduled to conclude, both because of a self-imposed deadline and also because I was simply running out of steam, my special holiday candle refused to stay lit. It had melted down to the bitter end and breathed its final gasp.
The moment the candle ceased burning, I thought:
Message received. It’s time to be done. The magic is OVER.
The Thymes Frasier Fir candle available from Central Market (not a sponsor). A votive costs $15.99. I always buy one at the start of the holiday season and hope it will last me till the new year. I went ham on this one—it sputtered out. Maybe I’ll get the bigger one next year.
Later that afternoon I shared this moment in therapy, referring to the next two days as a 48-hour “slog” in which I would finally finish my revisions and return the manuscript to my agent, and it would not be a fun, magic, inventive, or energizing process.
My therapist’s response was: “Oh, no. That sounds really awful. I’m not sure it’s supposed to feel that way.”
(She is a relational therapist)
I thought: That’s cute. She’s not a writer and therefore doesn’t get it. Sometimes we are just wrapping it the f*ck up. Sometimes it’s more like doing taxes than telling a story. Sometimes it’s a slog.
But the more I reflected on her aversion to my use of the word slog, the more I realized something—in that moment the candle died, I wasn’t listening. I was deciding and declaring. I said, “Oh, whelp, that’s it!” when I could have paused and listened and been a bit more curious about why I felt the way I did in the depths of a creative phase that is decidedly winter. I was close to the end of a season and feeling all the grief, relief, and confusion that comes with that. It was both the end to what feels like a more dynamic phase—drafting, dreaming, generating new ideas—and also the beginning of uncertainty: waiting for feedback, not knowing what comes next.
Do I believe that writing is occasionally kind of like doing your taxes? Sure. Is it sometimes a slog? Yes. But there is also potent magic in creative endings…
There is magic in creative endings because they invite us back to beginnings, like that wild child who went on this quest in the first place with her brand new, overpriced candle. She was crazy, and I love her.
There is magic in creative endings because they invite us to take care—what are the treats that make the last 48 hours possible?
There is magic in creative endings because they invite us to be curious about the deadlines we place on ourselves and others. Where is there room to take a break? Where is there room to take more time? Where is there room to slow down?
Why deny yourself the magic, even in a winter-phase? Maybe there’s some possibility there for a bit more spark. Maybe you can buy another candle.
Someone left this piece of quartz in the woods—a small, sparkly gift for whoever passes by. I might not have noticed were I moving at my typical anxiety-hike pace.
Whatever is available on sale at Central Market, I think this is really more about listening than it is doing, but in order to listen, we have to do.
Your way to listen will look different than mine, but here is what I do:
I stop and say out loud I am here, I am listening and wait a few minutes. Some of you are thinking “that sounds like meditation”, and yes, that is another name for this. You can call it whatever you like.
I take a very slow walk to notice small (and big) things along the way, like this little piece of quartz left sparkling on a tree branch (see pic).
I sign up for something where someone else is in charge—a workshop, a protest, a meditation circle—and arrive ready to listen.
I share my complicated feelings on creativity with a trusted friend and listen to what they have to say, knowing a fresh perspective is a kind of flame.
I add another volunteer shift to my schedule (again, someone else is in charge) because it helps me deal with my anger/overwhelm that is often at the root of difficulty in listening, right? Yep.
In lieu of guided writing, here are a few ways to listen that feel like winter magic to me, either because they are about endings, or careful observation, or simply slowing down the way we should in January.
Engaging with one of the below counts as your daily writing time IMHO:
Listen to the “Exit Interview” episode of Las Culturistas where Bowen Yang talks about leaving SNL.
Play some atmospheric music by sound artist iu takahashi; write if you wish.
Browse a local stationery store and write a hand-written letter.
Listen to/watch Amy Poehler’s interview with Ryan Coogler where he talks about cycling back to what you first consumed and honoring those early loves.
There is still time to join the Winter Creative Commitment and embrace the magic of this rich creative season. Reach out if you have questions. I can’t wait to keep the candle burning.