Ritual for risk-taking…
In the library at Foundation House in Greenwich, CT.
It can be difficult to transition from a space like an artist residency or retreat back to day jobs, familial responsibilities, and the news (if we’ve been unplugged). A retreat, a workshop, a residency—all these spaces provide a comfy barrier between us and the world, even between us and rejection.
The day before I left my residency at Foundation House in Greenwich, Connecticut, I went to the Tarot with the question: “Who’s looking out for us when we leave the extraordinary space for the ordinary life?” And I pulled Justice.
Justice is all about finding your own kind of balance—and I would argue that for writers and artists, our balance requires the occasional risk.
We often make things that could easily be rejected or misunderstood, that make no money or get no likes. We put it out there in the world because we must.
Despite the risk of rejection, don’t we feel more balanced when we occasionally step outside of what we’re supposed to be doing and experiment with something that feels either 1) less productive because it’s unpaid, or 2) less productive because it might never be seen or shared? These are the processes that help us evolve. Stepping off into the abyss can be a kind of homecoming, because isn’t that why we make things?
When I work with writing clients, I’m always asking them, How is your character reaching out and cracking the glass? As writers, as artists, we are always interested in cracking the glass. We’re interested in disruption, aren’t we? That can be hard to do in the everyday life outside the nourishing and supportive container of an artist community. We can feel alone in that work of risk-taking. So let’s dream up some everyday actions that could helps us dabble in the riskier aspects of creation. And let’s do this together.
Quick suggestion: Invite a writing partner/creative peer to do this with you at an agreed upon time—or in each other’s presence, if you like—and share your words (and/or your commands) with each other.
Guided Writing: A ritual for risk-taking
Have three sheets of scrap paper handy or split a single page into three sections.
On the first page or section, jot down something that feels like a creative risk. It could be something you’ve tried before and want to do more often, or it could be something you’ve never done before. A few examples: Share my work with [trusted friend/peer] because I trust them and their feedback; Write a weekly poem to have more fun experimenting with language; Work with a new material/medium; Submit to a contest/program that feels out of reach. Take 3-4 minutes to write down this creative risk; you can elaborate on the risk itself and write down why it’s important to you.
In the second section or on a second scrap of paper, take your idea and rephrase it as a gentle command to yourself: Claire, carve out ten minutes each week to write a poem while you listen to music. You deserve that time and space, and you’ll have fun experimenting with language. Take 2-3 minutes to rephrase the risk into a gentle command.
Now lift a single word from your lines that feels the most potent, the most important and write that on your 3rd scrap of paper, or within your third section. Take half a minute to pick this word.
Burn the scrap of paper that contains your one word and let the smoke rise up to the sky. If you’re in a drier climate, please be mindful. We did this together at Foundation House, and I encourage you to do this in a writer’s group or with a writing partner. You can burn your word in a fire pit, a clay pot, or—as we did in the cold spring air of Greenwich—on stones surrounded by dewy grass.
Finally, one last breath. Sit for a moment with the echoes of your word. Thank yourself again for taking this time. Thank yourself for taking risks, for weaving the extraordinary into the everyday. Thank your mind and all its storytelling layers.
Want weekly writing prompts? Follow @bluestonewriters on Instagram for regular Writing Pauses, dropped each week to invite you to pause…write…breathe.