A compassionate guide to the writing process: Sue Monk Kidd

If you’re seeking a craft book to help you probe the mystery of writing, you might take a look at Sue Monk Kidd’s Writing Creativity and Soul, a book that combines the author’s deep understanding of the craft of writing fiction and memoir with many of her insights into the creative process and how writing can help heal your soul. 

Kidd, the award-winning author of The Secret Life of Bees, The Book of Longings, The Invention of Wings, and more, shares the story of her longing to write and describes the journey she made to establish a room of her own. 

In chapter after chapter, she serves as a knowledgeable guide, showing how she conceives of stories, and leads us step-by-step through the various challenges of creating characters and plots, not to mention delving into the deeper meaning one hopes to imbue in one’s stories

Here’s a sampling of the wisdom that she shares:

A story (of the sort that composes a novel, a short story, a play, and to some extent, a memoir) is not a series of reflections in a character’s head, or a series of random events that happen, or even those two things woven cleverly together. A story is something far more subtle and complex.

Here’s the best definition I can come up with. A story is made-up of (1) a character with a significant want, motive, or problem, (2) who sets out to achieve her or his goal and resolve the problem, (3) and along the way is met by mounting obstacles and antagonistic forces from within and without as she or he chooses, acts, and is acted upon, (4) ultimately leading to a resolution, (5) and to the character substantially changed in the process. 

That is pretty much the structure of a classical story. Or at least my version of it. Of course, you can deviate from this to your heart’s content. No rules, remember. I’m one of those readers, however, who loves classic storytelling. 

She’ll offer quotes along the way as inspiration for writers to keep writing, just like the quotes that she’s taped to the wall on the stairs leading to her writing room to give her the courage and strength to return to her desk each day so she can keep working on a story. 

“You become a writer by writing. There is no other way.” - Margaret Atwood

She shares thoughts on how writing has brought meaning into her life:

The creative act of writing has brought meaning into my life in myriad ways, but it made itself known initially in the experience of flow. I’m referring to the sense of personal fulfillment that comes from giving yourself over to something you feel you can belong to, setting a worthwhile and challenging goal, and then giving that goal your full attention, commitment, and energy. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi identified this process as “optimal experience” or “flow.” It’s “the state in which people are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter,” he wrote. “The experience itself is so enjoyable that people will do it… for the sheer shake of doing it.” 

Often when I’m writing, I lose all track of time. I look up and two hours have gone by and it feels like twenty minutes…. The immersion and concentration seem to bring my thoughts, feelings, senses, and intentions together into one unified stream that I experience as deep pleasure, fulfillment, and meaning.

And she shares the challenge of writing on days when “There are times when I’m writing and the words leak out slowly. It’s like wringing water out of a damp washcloth. Other times the words slip into my fingers, raw and unkempt, but alive, and I try to trust them, sensing they’re coming from a deeper place…” 

When her husband was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, Kidd found “clarity, resilience, hope, and peace by pouring my thoughts and emotions into a story, poem, essay, book chapter, vignette, letter, or journal passage.”

Giving shape and expression to the narrative that was unfolding sent me into dark masses inside to find the core of what I was really feeling and thinking, to grapple with it, and to return almost always altered. It seems if we can write it, we can understand it. If we can understand it, we can accept it. If we can accept it, we can transform it.”

Isak Dinesen framed it like this: “All sorrows can be born if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.” I sometimes wonder how many of our sufferings are stories aching to be told. 

I doubt you’ll find a more compassionate guide to the writing process than Sue Monk Kidd or a more valuable book on the craft of writing than Writing Creativity and Soul, the book she has written to help other writers in their search for meaning and wonder.

If you’d like to read an excerpt from Writing Creativity and Soul, visit Sue Monk Kidd’s website: https://suemonkkidd.com/books/writing-creativity-and-soul/

Coming to the end of another journal

I'm coming to the end of another journal

and the pages feel like leaves tossed by the wind

filled with the hopes of spring

the longings of summer

the despair of autumn, 

the silence of winter.

Each page reveals the passage of time, 

days gone that will never return, 

memories of a life lived, 

dreams of all those I love 

who are gone forever.

I can hear the silence of days when 

words refused to come 

and can feel that sense of dread

that always comes when I reach

the last page and it feels 

like I'm standing on

the edge of a cliff.

And I know what's next:

I must take a leap if I want to keep writing.

It's time to start a new journal. 

And, suddenly, there's a blank page

in front of me that gives hope.

The snow will melt,

the leaves will bud again, 

spring will return, 

and with it the longing for summer 

and for life in all its mystery and glory.

 

And so I'll begin once more 

and try to fill each page 

with words of love, 

grateful for the gift of words, 

for the gift of a voice, 

for all the memories

each page contains

when I come to the end

of another journal.

How trust works

How trust works:

you take a deep breath

pick a pen

open your journal

and begin writing

not knowing what

you'll discover

before you put

your pen to paper

trusting words 

will appear

trusting the process 

of how one word 

will lead you 

to the next

trusting you'll find

what you're looking for

before you reach

the end of

the page 

How do you go deep?

How do you go deep

and dive into places

that might hurt or

feel uncomfortable?

How do you feel

your way past pain

to a new understanding

of what's causing you

to shy away?

How do you listen

for words you can't

yet hear?

How do you write

despite uncertainty 

and doubt?

How do you admit

what you don't know

and keep writing day after

day to push past ignorance?

How do you learn

what you need to learn?

How do you keep going?

This pen in my hand

There's something about grasping this pen, holding it in my hand, 

that calms my mind, something about waking each morning 

and opening the box that holds my pens 

and selecting one and removing the cap 

and wrapping my fingers around the barrel 

that softens my heart, lets me feel connected to the world, 

as if the pen is a secure ring that I can hold onto 

while spinning on the merry-go-ground of life, 

or like the string of a kite that lets me imagine myself 

soaring into the sky, floating in the clouds. 

It's like I'm holding my mother's hand again, 

feeling safe, protected, as she leads me into the world, 

even though she's been gone for more than forty years. 

It's like a memory machine that lets me hear my grandfather's voice again 

as he sits at our kitchen table on Sunday mornings

sipping his coffee and retelling stories about growing up 

in a Polish shtetl and coming to America 

and making a life for himself. 

It's like holding a magic wand that silences the negative voices in my head, 

and all I need to do is wave it over the blank pages of this journal 

and words will appear, like these words, which came out of the blue, 

out of thin air, out of nowhere, part of the mystery of the way writing works, 

and this pen in my hand is the key to entering into this mystery, 

to opening the door to my imagination, 

to feeling connected to the secret universe hidden inside my heart. 

Where do the words come from?

After all these years

it’s still a mystery

how words flow from

some invisible source

through my arm 

to the pen in my hand

the ink flowing onto the page

letter by letter, word by word.

It feels like I inhale air

and exhale the alphabet.

My pen keeps forming phrases,

sentences, out of the blue

insists on amorphous thoughts

taking shape, becoming

stanzas, paragraphs, pages

that I turn in wonder

awed by the mystery

still trusting the process

curious how words appear

day after day out of nowhere.

Where do the words

come from?

After all these years

it's still a mystery. 

—

 

What do you do when you run out of words?

What do you do

when you run 

out of words 

and all your ideas 

have dried up?

I keep writing anyway, 

afraid to stop on the

chance I may find more

words hidden where

I can't see them.

I don't want to lose 

any time, don't want to 

miss a single word, 

keep hoping I'll find 

some meaning 

in it all.

In life, I mean, and 

maybe in writing, too, 

some idea that gives 

it all a shape that

I can understand.

At the edge of a cliff

Every time you 

sit down to write 

it's like standing 

at the edge of a cliff

and you never know 

how you'll make it across 

the abyss without falling 

there's no net 

to catch you, 

no rope to swing from

and each time 

you pick up a pen, 

it's like closing your eyes 

and jumping into the unknown,

never sure you'll make it 

to the other side,

but it's something 

you need to do 

without knowing why

(you can ask yourself 

why for years without

getting an answer),  and

it won't change anything,

every day you still

have to sit down to write, 

and it will feel the same:

standing at the edge of the cliff

waiting for a breeze

a voice

something

to compel you 

to take that step 

into the unknown

to spread your arms 

as if they're wings

and imagine yourself flying

high above the earth

no longer afraid

no longer hesitant

gliding through the air

your pen gliding across the page

no longer tethered to earth

or to fear

free

defying gravity

finding new ways

to be yourself.

Out of thin air

It's always hard to let go,

to put down your pen,

to take a break.

You don't want to lose

the connection you make

with yourself when you write.

So you debate with yourself--

stop or keep going?

Keep listening or not?

The thing is you never 

know what you'll find

if you keep waiting.

You never know if something 

will fly across the sky and 

you'll catch a glimpse

and suddenly the words

you need to write 

will appear

like magic

out of 

thin air.

But only if you

stay in your chair

and keep waiting

listening to the silence,

staring at the page

in anticipation of

whatever 

might come 

out of nowhere.

Revising, then re-revising

For my current project I’m re-reading the opening lines again and again, and revising, then re-revising.

With each draft I go a little further, adding voices, taking out stanzas, finding words malleable, nothing set in stone.

It’s liberating, this way of revising, but also terrifying. Everything keeps changing. And the implication of such changes (in my mind, at least) is that whatever I wrote to begin with must have been wrong … or not good enough. 

I have to remind myself that each draft is in a state of becoming. 

I have to tell myself it may not be good enough yet, but it will become good enough if I keep revising it.

This doubt (about whether it’s good enough, about whether I’m good enough) only intensifies with each draft and becomes another obstacle that I have to overcome if I want to return to the page each day. 

What’s critical is that I learn to ignore this voice saying I’m not good enough. (Or why bother? Or you’ll never succeed.)

To succeed I need to keep working on the draft. 

I need to keep revising. 

I need to keep alive the curiosity that wants to know what happens next… and what might happen if I add this word or take away this phrase… and how the poem or story might change… and how the reader’s understanding of the story might deepen.

So I keep revising, waiting with hope for the puzzle pieces to fall into place. 

It feels like I’m working without a net.

And on some days I wonder why I do this.

Maybe it’s because I feel such pleasure discovering what might happen, creating something new, something never seen before. 

Maybe it’s because I enjoy carving a path where there never was a path before.

You know the feeling, too, I’m guessing. 

How following your own path leads to moments of discovery that are a source of joy. (Maybe I should call them moments of revelation.) 

Suddenly, the page opens in ways I never could have predicted, and a source of light illuminates the darkness.

This is what I love most about writing.

How the words flow from my pen each morning, how the ink appears on the page, how the lines form into stanzas, paragraphs, poems, stories.

How writing lets me feel as if I’m part of a larger story that I’m trying to tell (and trying to figure out at the same time).

And, most of all, how I can look back after a day or week or month at the pages that have accumulated and feel that I am where I belong, here, with paper and pen in hand, part of an ongoing mystery.

They say if you want to write

They say if you want to write

you need to write about

what hurts the most,

so you ask yourself

what's causing you the most pain,

and then you wait

to see what your heart reveals.

But what if they're wrong

and you don't need to write

about what hurts the most?

What if you need to write about

what you love most? About life?

About what you're most grateful for?

What if you need to write about

what you notice in the world

around you--the beauty

of a cardinal's red feathers

flashing in the morning light,

the sound of the wind riffling

the leaves on a spring day,

the pleasure you feel when

you stretch and open your eyes 

to wake up each morning?

What if you feel pain on some days,

love and gratitude on others, and 

you let your pen take you

wherever you need to go each day,

creating a path as you go?

What if you give your heart a chance

to reveal what it feels,

give yourself a chance to hear

what you need to hear and

write what you need 

to write?

Every morning

Every morning I sit down 

at my desk not knowing 

what I'll write, 

not knowing if 

I'll find the words

to write anything at all.

I can spend hours filled 

with doubt that I have nothing 

to say, no words forming

in the back of my throat

waiting to emerge.

There's only silence 

and doubt, and a kind of

stubborn determination 

that I must write something

if the day--if my life--

is going to mean anything.

I listen for words,

for a sound,

for a whisper,

hoping I'll hear something 

that will prompt a word 

to emerge out of hiding.

It's like playing a game of

hide-and-seek. 

All I need

is one word--

one syllable,

one sigh--

and I can pull it 

like a loose thread

and, with luck,

find more words.

And once the words 

begin to appear,

the worries vanish.

There's only the pen

moving quickly 

over the blank page

trying to catch the words

like butterflies

before they disappear.

Listening for words

Listening for words

waiting for a voice

to whisper in my ear

hoping I'll recognize

it when I hear it--

if I hear it--

not knowing what

to expect

sitting in anticipation

of something

(but what?)

not knowing anything

more than the

blank page

and the pen in

my hand

poised over the page

waiting to hear

what I've never heard before

praying I'll be able to

catch the words

with my pen

and bring them

to the page

like pearls

drawn from

the depths

of the sea.

Where are you going

Where are you going

and how do you know

you're on the right path?

What are the signposts 

you look for?

How can you see a turn

coming in the fog?

Who is walking with you?

Why are you making this

journey anyway?

Whose voice do you hear

encouraging you to keep

going?

Whose voice do you hear

telling you to stop

before you hurt

yourself?

What is worth the risk

of venturing into the unknown?

How do you protect yourself?

How do you reach further

than your ever thought

you could reach? 

Where does the path end?

(And where does it begin?)

And can you rest along the way

or do you have to keep going?

And where does the path lead?

And how much farther do you

have to go?

Is anyone listening or are you

here alone in the fog?

How far does your voice carry?

Can you hear an echo?

A call in response?

What comes next?

Where are you going

and how do you know

you're on the right path?

Gifts from the sea

Some days words come unbidden

sailing onto the page like tiny boats

blown by the wind.

Some days the page remains blank,

empty, like a cloudless sky, like a vast

ocean with a distant horizon past

which you cannot see.

Some days you can only hear waves

washing against the shore, the fog

too thick to see anything.

Some days you look for shells,

hoping to find a word or story or poem

hidden inside, and you put it to your ear

to listen.

Some days you wait and wait

like a fisherman waiting for a tug

on his line wondering what's hidden

beneath the surface, wondering if

anything is there.

Some days rain falls so hard

you can't tell the difference between

sea and sky.

Some days the sun is so strong

the light blinds your eyes.

Some days you open your arms

to heaven and words appear--you don't

know why--and you gather them up, 

as many as you can hold, gifts from the sea 

to share with the world.

Getting Unstuck

This is the morning you hit a wall. 

You don't know the answer. You don't even know the question to ask. And you stop. You come to a halt. With no way to go forward. 

So what do you do?

Give up? Figure out another way to keep going? Where do you find the answer? How do you keep going when you don't know where you're going, or what comes next, or how to go forward?

What do you do if you're unable to move? Feeling stuck?

How do you get unstuck?

You can't stare at the page forever. 

So, maybe, if words and ideas don't come, you put the pen away. 

Close the journal. Tell yourself it's not yet time. The words will come, just not today.

Read instead. Open a book. Lose yourself in someone else's story or poem. Fill yourself with words.

Or watch a movie. Dive into story. Let the images wash over you like a cool, refreshing stream.

Or go outside for a walk. 

Think away from your desk. Or stop thinking. 

Let life unfold minute by minute, and savor the process of unfolding. 

See what's around you, make discoveries as you walk. Or sit by a lake and dream.

Watch clouds floating by. Notice sunlight falling on leaves. Listen to the wind. 

Wait for words to come, to reveal the answer to the question you couldn't solve a moment ago.

And suddenly a door will open, and there it is waiting for you.

And you are unstuck, Your hand is moving across the page again.

Writing.

Pulled by an invisible undertow

How can I keep writing,

keep exploring the world

with my pen?

How can I keep the process going

with joy, with excitement, with

hope for the discoveries to come,

even when the unknown--

the not knowing what comes next--

feels overwhelming?

What keeps drawing me back 

to the page every morning,

even when my head feels empty,

my brain blank? 

Why do I sit at my desk

even when thought--when thinking--

feels like a twisted rubber-band

that's been tied into knots?

Why don't I stop, 

put down my pen,

and close my journal

when I feel the tension building

in my shoulders and neck?

But, no, even then 

I still come to the page,

pen in hand,

pulled by some

invisible undertow,

and write.

I write just to see,

perhaps,

what words 

will come today.

I write just to see

what wisdom,

if any,

I will find

inside myself

to inspire my pen

to keep writing.

Knitting Words Together

Take a deep breath
and release it slowly
to clear your mind.

Imagine the blank page
is a field of snow
or a sand beach
waiting for you to
take the first step.

Enjoy the feel of
your hand moving
across the page

the sight of words
appearing beneath
your pen

the sound of the
nib scratching
the paper.

You are knitting words
together, stitch by stitch,
word by word,

creating something out
of nothing to keep you
warm on a winter night,

to keep you company
so you're not alone.

The Ten Truths of Writing

The first truth of writing:
You don't know anything.

The second truth of writing:
You know more than you think.

The third truth of writing:
Your fear of not knowing is an illusion.

The fourth truth of writing:
Unless you learn to push through the illusion,
you'll never write anything.

The fifth truth of writing:
Everything you need to know is already inside you.

The sixth truth of writing:
Touch your pen to the page and begin.

The seventh truth of writing:
Write until there is no more ink left in your heart.

The eighth truth of writing:
Let the well refill itself.

The ninth truth of writing:
Begin again.

The tenth truth of writing:
And again.

Mindful Writing

“Fortune favors the prepared mind.” - Louis Pasteur 

In a world that demands more and more of our time and attention, distracting us from the page and from the inner workings of our mind, a writer has to work even harder these days to carve out the quiet time to think and write. 

But there’s hope that we might find the quietness we need to write thanks to Brenda Miller and Holly J. Hughes. Their book, The Pen and the Bell (Skinner House Books, Boston), is a collection of personal essays, along with helpful writing and contemplation exercises, all designed to inspire writers to find a way of writing mindfully in a busy world.

From the opening pages, Miller and Hughes point writers gently toward a new understanding of the writing process.  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” ask the authors, “to feel that each day we’re granted an ‘honor and a task,’ and each day to know that we can easily do the work—with pleasure, focus, and joy?” 

For those who love to write, suggest the authors, or think they might love to write if they could simply find the time to do it, "this honor and task could be sitting down with our minds wide open, our pens and notebooks and computers at the ready, to articulate our perceptions as accurately and as beautifully as we can.”

On page after page, the authors encourage writers to regain a sense of their inner spirit, and they remind us that “writing serves a purpose greater than the product alone.”

Beginning with the first chapter (“Sitting Down and Waking Up”) and proceeding to the last (“Balancing Contemplation and Action”), you’ll find the wisdom of two writers who will inspire you to sit down and write.

Wisdom like this: 

The word discipline is an extension of the word disciple, and if we consider ourselves disciples of writing, we might find the energy and devotion we need to keep going, even when it feels like the practice is arduous. (p. 44)

or this:

So we don't need to have big ideas in order to start writing. We can start right in with the chores, with the laundry, with the messiness of our lives. We can focus and be fully awake, no matter what we are doing. We need to learn to create room within our lives, not outside of them, in order to expand the space for both spirituality and writing. (p. 56)

Not only are Hughes and Miller wonderful guides sharing parts of their own writing journeys, they are sympathetic and understanding companions who offer encouragement for you to make your own journey and to find the space you need to write.

The Pen and the Bell is a book about becoming “a bell awakened,” which, as the authors note, is about finding a path into our deeper selves, and about being able to share that self—and the authenticity of that self—on the page with others. 

The pen in the title, they explain, refers to the writing process, the bell to those things that can support the writing process. 

If you can get hold of this book and spend time with Miller and Hughes, you’ll find that your writing—your approach to writing, your sense of self as a writer—will deepen and grow in ways that you might not have expected. 

And over time, as you savor each page and mull over the exercises at the end of each chapter, you’re more than likely to find that contemplative state of mind.

That’s because, thanks to Miller and Hughes, you’ll have learned to listen and absorb as much of the world around you as you can.

For more information about The Pen and the Bell and its two authors, visit: http://www.penandbell.com