The magic of storytelling resides in the polarity, the precision and abstraction
honoring every word and image as essential in the greater project of creative living
"Every word is a citizen in this collective hope toward clarity and expansion. And like any civic project, every citizen matters. Every word counts." —Ocean Vuong
I grabbed this quote from an old interview. In it, Ocean also speaks about the necessity of writing something to become “bigger” than the limitations of the body.
He speaks about specificity with the same reverence that he speaks about the feeling of being part of something more abstract. Every word, every comma, he says, counts. Similarly, we must not forget the creative expansion possible when we offer this sort of precise attention.
To create means to exist in this polarity. We create our best work with a bit of surrender. Swoop in, and let our conscious attention pan out. Ask questions. Look back. Steady. Prepare. See the step. Explore the journey.
I’m contemplating this as I embark on a week of contemplation and writing.
I just arrived. Tired. I’m staying at a writer’s residency in rural Tennessee, a 7-hour drive from my house. Residencies offer the chronically overworked, like myself, a combination of silence and beauty that generally ignites something unexpected. This particular residency is where I wrote Chaos Magic and revised much of my forthcoming memoir.
In the past, whenever I have gone to any residency, it was with a clear purpose and project. (Usually, you need one of those to get in.) But at the time I’m writing this particular blog post, I just arrived after completing the project I thought I’d work on here.
So what is there to do upon arriving? I have no idea what I’m going to write.
I take a walk and listen. I land half a mile from the residency beneath a gray cloud that releases drops on my bare arms. It’s hot and the perfect amount of rain.
Here in rural Tennessee, south-west of my home, the trees are a deeper green, and the sun seems lower in the sky. When I walk down gravel roads, my footfall is the loudest thing I hear. The few people I see generally wave and seem as much a part of nature as the grass or clouds. Blended.
Late (for me) on night one, I sit. Wait. I feel myself at that familiar creative threshold, still thinking about polarities and how the greatest creative trick is to pay closer attention, and—at the same time—not try to impose or define. Years ago, this stage of writing on the blank page or embarking on something new was uncomfortable. But now, it feels like sacred ground.
I swoop in, ready.
I invite you to do this with me. See if you can tap the polarity. Find a simple object. Get close. Give it words or images. Time. And repeat, until you find expansion.
Inspiration from Joy Williams: “[The writer] writes to serve … something. Somethingness. The somethingness that is sheltered by the wings of nothingness—those exquisite, enveloping, protecting wings.
Let’s see what kind of magic we can create. (This is an early post for me, but I’ll report back next week. If you’d like to read more on residencies, go here. And paid subscribers, if you’d like to hear me ramble on happily about resilience, go here.)
I love both Ocean Vuong and Joy Williams. This is a wonderful post and I hope you have a restful, creatively energizing time on your residency, Jen. I think we put too much pressure on ourselves to produce while in residency but there’s a lot of good work done by simply clearing out heads and hearts. 💙.
Loved this. A year ago a blank page filled me with anxiety, a whole notebook of them was panic inducing, now - that creative threshold you speak of excites me. I find myself standing there, knocking on the door and ready to cross through with enthusiasm instead of fear.
Hope your retreat is soothing and productive.