Drawing the Chicken 7: Creativity as Practice

I don’t write every day. I never have.

I don’t work with clay everyday either. Nor sketch, bake, journal, garden, or any other of my creative practices.

And yet, I am absolutely convinced that creativity is a practice more than an innate gift, a doing rather than a being. These two ideas appear contradictory at first: how can I insist that creativity is a doing and also claim a creative life that isn’t so consistent at that doing? I’ve never quite articulated it, but it has made sense to me despite that contradiction.

This morning, I had an email from someone considering signing up for the Committing to Your Writing Practice community I run (super quick plug: subscriptions close tomorrow, so find your way to that link quickly if it sounds intriguing and you want to learn more!). She told me how much she wants to write a memoir and rework some poetry, but also that she has a very busy few months up ahead, so should she join or wait? I know that some teachers would have jumped at saying “You must join! It’s the only way to get that writing done!” and they wouldn’t be wrong, but for me there is no one correct answer. I smiled: “It depends.”

My own creative life is a jumble of many things I love (and some things I can’t stand!). No matter how many schedules I have drawn up over the years, how many promises to write and make pots everyday, I have never stuck to them. And over the years, I have learned finally not to see this as a failing. Creativity is an important part of my life, but it is not the most important or the only important part of my life.

I always shudder a little at those famous Rilke lines about asking yourself whether you would die if you were forbidden to write — goodness, no, I wouldn’t, and that sounds like a terribly unhealthy relationship to have with anything, including with writing! I wouldn’t die without my writing, and I wouldn’t die without my friendships either, or without my partner, or without the children I’m waiting to adopt, or without the home I have put so much love and energy into building. I love all of things and people dearly, and they all enrich my life terribly, but die without them? No, thank you.

I think there is a way in which chronic illness makes this even clearer to me. I have to take 4-6 weeks off every year for surgery. And I also have many other days, even weeks, when I physically cannot open my eyes, get out of bed. or feel motivated to do more than the bare minimum; there are days when journaling or playing with clay is part of that bare minimum, but there are also days when they are not. I think those bare-minimum days are actually a great space for learning: When my day/ week/ life is stripped down to its most basic, what does it constitute? The answer varies from week to week, but the only absolute constants are sleep, food, safety. Everything else ebbs and flows— cake, audiobooks, sketching, friends, everything.

And even in less dramatic circumstances than post-surgery, there are days when I will prioritise attending a friend’s father’s funeral over hitting my word count for the day. Or when I will choose a walk in beautiful weather over a day in front of screens. Or when I’d rather curl up and read than write. Or when I will forfeit my morning journaling in favour of 20 minutes of throwing a ball around for my kitten to chase. And none of those makes me less of a writer.

And yet.

And yet I do still believe that creating is a practice more than a moment of inspiration. I do still believe that writing a book, for example, means showing up for both the joy and the drudgery. I do believe that butt-in-chair is the biggest prerequisite for a writing life. I built a whole online community around these beliefs, and there is a reason why it’s called “Committing to your Writing Practice” rather than just “Committing to Your Writing”— I want folks to see them selves as practitioners, as folks who show up to do the reps and build the muscles, much as a sportsperson might at a practice. I want people to value their time “practising in the nets” just as much as they value the high of “winning a cricket match”— to know that one isn’t possible without the other.

So, show up. Do the work, the grind, even when it isn’t fun. But don’t do it as if the not doing will kill you— do it simply as if the practice brings you alive.

For more on the writing community I’m building, whether you want to consider joining it or just read more about what I think would constitute as a commitment to one’s writing practice, click here.