Any Way Will Do

Discipline as freedom from overthinking

It’s true what they say: the hardest thing about writing is sitting down to write. 

The act of writing has become contained in my studio, the detached garage in back of our home that Mando and I each have a side of. Mine has some paintings of mine on the walls, a handmade misshapen ashtray, mugwort I was drying months ago and never got around to putting into jars, an old burnt pew offering a seat to whoever visits. 

This is where I do my work. So this is where I avoid coming. I keep my eyes down when I pass it with my trash can in hand, or bag of laundry. I insist that those are the tasks that require my attention. And there is always another task to do. Always another dish to wash, a trash can to empty, a basket of clothes that need to be folded. I tell the room, if the to-do list has finally been reduced to an empty page, then I will sit down and do my work.

This past fall, I spent most of my time outside of my part-time job applying to MFA programs. The studio was my office, where I wrote and rewrote personal statements, and packaged my life for others’ consideration. The spring before that was hard. I had saved money to allow myself to be unemployed after graduating with undergrad. This was, I thought, a gift to myself. I had given myself the freedom of space. With that space, I visited family, friends, performed, released a book of poems, and created paintings, sculptures, a collaborative poetry book, installations, and a video piece for a duo art show. It’s not like I didn’t do anything. But still, anxiety set in. “Why don’t you be a ____?,” my mom suggested. Rather than feeling inspired by potential paths, I felt dizzy. 

As I chewed on the possibility of law school, getting a library science degree, or becoming a therapist, my tether to reality frayed. My life so far hadn’t happened in a straight line. It had been a series of decisions that required me to figure it out as I went. I don’t want to pretend I have clarity in each moment. Or that some of my past decisions were survival mechanisms. It is a gift (and confusing) to choose what to do next rather than being guided by crisis.

I had given myself the gift of emptiness, but it does not mean it was an easy one to receive. An empty room can bring clarity. Perhaps this comes mainly through the awareness that the present moment is what we have. Will emptiness provide a clear path? Maybe. But this basic principle also rings true: Do something, anything, and it will lead to something else. 

A Rumi quote I screen printed reminds me: “As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.”

Which way should I go? Any way at all. Who should I be (professionally)? Anyone at all.

Now I work part-time as a paralegal in a law office. I’m a notary public too (need one?). The work can be heavy (the office handles cases entirely in wrongful death at the hands of the police or in jails.) But I have not equated my worth with how good of a job I do there. I go there and do my tasks. It is a container. Three days a week, I focus on my job, exercise after, and make my lunch for the next day. The other days of the week are mine.

Still, even now I am faced with having enough space to get lost in. I recognize this is a huge gift, and one others dream of. I am not saying this to complain, but to remind myself that no matter what my schedule is, my work benefits from a container. Discipline is another way of saying “container.” 

I used to believe the myth that there two ways of engaging with creativity: you either wait for inspiration to come, or you have a disciplined process. I, I assumed, was the type of writer that relied on inspiration. What I see now, with the sort of hindsight that makes me laugh, is that my practice at 20 years old of sitting down with a cup of coffee and writing until my blood sugar crashed was a routine. A routine does not have to be rigid. It does not need to be four hours and sweat pouring down the brow. It can be a little at a time. Twenty minutes. It is a container, and a container offers the freedom to not overthink. It reminds you: Sit down and do the work. 

When I was working on grad applications, Pedro reminded me that twenty five minute sessions were enough time to get the work done. They instructed me to set a goal for that time and only work on that. Do a few sessions. Don’t think about all the work that needs to be done. Just do a little at a time. Work on a set goal. Keep going. 

I’ve been accepted to an MFA program that I am excited about. While I am still waiting to hear back from a few schools, the reality has hit. I will be a grad student in the fall. I will be writing and teaching.  I will be moving cities. The work of writing is not magically going to get easier then. My fear of beginning will not go away when I begin an MFA. Nothing will reduce fear but slowly creating a habit of doing the work.

The obvious hard truth is that the work is not going to get done unless you do it. I know! Annoying!!!  But how humbling. It’s up to me. As I said to Pedro while high and walking around Piedmont last week: I’m realizing things that feel real obvious.

Discipline offers freedom from thinking so much about whether or not what I am doing is good. It offers me the space to create without needing to obsess over what I am making.

You could say this is all recovery for being a perfectionist. Which at its core means being afraid. I am afraid and so I hide things away in the shadows of perfection. There, I don’t have to touch it. All work is perfect if it is never done.

I don’t want to be too precious here. I am not trying to write award winning essays via my free newsletter. I don’t need to write the next great American novel (my goal at 15, which I thought would get me into college and away from my household.) I don’t need to write the book that will heal my family (my goal at 24.) I want to get the words out, and to connect with others. This begins with sitting myself in a chair and doing the work.

I’ll see you on the mountain which we’re all climbing. Today my goal is to take one single step. 

Poem written about the dilemma of wondering “WHAT SHOULD I DO FOR MONEY?” and thinking that question is the same as “HOW / WHO SHOULD I BE?”

Sister Corita Kent’s 10 Rules