On the Myth of the Perfect Circumstance
Lauren McKinnon

I once had a professor ask his creative writing graduate students to spend the majority of the semester researching creativity. Much of our discussions hedged around the question, is creativity innate, or is it a skill that can be learned and improved? 

We spent several class periods discussing writing rituals. Many students spoke about specific settings or objects that helped inspire flow—from using a specific brand of pen for writing fiction, to only being able to write when sitting fully clothed in the bathtub at midnight. 

The writing rituals were fun to share, but I felt a bit taken aback by how much everyone seemed to wrestle with themselves. Don’t get me wrong. I have started hundreds of bad poems and stories that went nowhere. It just did not feel authentic to my life, or realistic, to prepare ideal circumstances to coax a story out. 

To paint a picture, I am the sole income of my household. I am raising a toddler. The time I have to write is either a means for a paycheck, or completely random. It is stolen late hours in the night amongst a pile of laundry on the couch. It is working long hours earlier in the week so I can take a half day off on Friday to write poetry in a coffee shop before my son gets home from preschool. It’s sitting on the carpet in a Barnes and Noble scrawling in my notebook for as long as possible while my kid plays with the trains.  

But this is life. Running in the garden with my toddler is life, spending the weekend collecting October leaves and naming their colors is life, working late so I can pay for a warm home and full fridge is life. I do not know a world that exists, especially for women, where one can abandon all fancies and live solitarily to write. For instance, Edward Abbey, famous for his book Desert Solitaire and the narrative he touted as an environmentalist living alone in Arches National Park, was only able to write his book because of the unpaid labor of his wife cooking him meals and watching his child while he puttered around the desert. 

Carry what resonates with you, but I do not believe creativity is innate. I believe it to be a skill that can be improved. If the well is dry and the time thin and groceries are expensive and you have nothing left to give, cut yourself some slack.  

I used to feel a lot of fear, that my creativity might dry up without structure, and that writing would always sit on the backburner because of my role as a working mother. Writing is a private activity, one that is pulled forth into the public and validated through academia. As someone aggressively type B, having due dates on writing assignments and professors encouraging me to follow through with readings and publications made writing easier and held accountability for myself.

After graduating and needing to work instead of pursuing an MFA or PHD, my community of writers decreased. There were fewer people pushing me to publish or show an interest in what I was writing. I taught English online for a while, and found myself burnt out. I stood face to face with the fear that my creative writing projects would never have adequate time for full development.

But I think if something is important to you, you make space for it. Personally, for me, this meant quitting my job. I took a hit in my paycheck and became a remote writer and researcher for the University of Utah. The flexibility in the schedule lent itself to being a mother, and allowed me to squirrel time throughout the day to write my poems. The regular due dates on writing assignments for work helped me publish consistently, and having a paycheck to validate my identity as a writer was not obsolete. It gave me a community, again. It brought writing out of the private and into the public, which, as much as most writers hate the limelight, is important. 

Writing does not need to be public to matter, there is value in writing something just for ourselves both in developing skill and for the healing that comes from the writing process. I do not believe you need to publish to be a writer, but having some kind of community in your life to uplift this part of yourself outside of school is important. It breathes life into our stories and helps us continue forward, especially when jobs in academia are a bit of a green Gatsby light, flashing across a lake of degrees, connections and slow-to-retire tenure professors. Outside of education, the United States job market leans towards disvaluing art, so it can feel like an absolute trudge becoming a paid writer, so truly, any way to bring forth from the files on our computer and into the public, regardless of monetary value, is important. Communities keep us accountable, and in my experience, happier. 

I do want to acknowledge that time and attention for our writing is a privilege. 

Aimee Nezhukumatathil, who wrote the book World of Wonders, visited Utah State University weeks before my graduation. I remember sticking up my hand during her reading, and asking: 

“How do you make time for it all?” 

I don’t recall her exact verbiage, but she smiled and expressed that writing should not get in the way of life. That being an artist, a daughter, a mother, a spouse, all of these things are vibrant parts of identity, and staying present for those relationships and moments is the best gift you can give yourself. There will be seasons when these different areas of your life require more from you, and this should not cause guilt, because there is time. The moments you spend present and curious will inform the writing you will do in the future. 

I read everyone’s bios when they submit to our online journal, and I must admit, I always feel a bit giddy when we receive work from the gardeners, scientists, middle-aged divorcees, young folk sick of working at Starbucks who don’t have a publication to their name, people who have lived entire lives outside of academia, but have circled back to writing because it has always called to them. For the folk submitting for the first time after fifty years of a well-worn life, fumbling through heartbreaks, building birdhouses and climbing mountains, it adds to the writing. It is the writing. It keeps the subject matter fresh. I love feeling the respark of joy in a first publication, and peering through a window into lives full of unfamiliar experiences I am honored to witness.

All of this to say, living life does not take away from your writing. It adds texture, color, and is the matter behind the words. Guilt, shame, or fear about never becoming a writer, or not having enough previous time or experience to be a real writer, should not be the deciding force in whether you pick up your pen now, or, in the future. 

A final page from my book–if you do have the privilege of time and energy, do not wait for the circumstances to be perfect to write. Crack open a can of diet coke from the top of your laundry pile and pull out the laptop. Creativity is not an invisible muse bestowed upon people at random. It is a skill. Even if you spend an evening writing absolute garbage that will never see the light of day, the act of pushing past mental blocks is reinforcing a habit. The more you write, the easier it becomes, and the more you will crave it. When you do feel inspired, and you have the time, listen. Sit down and write. Don’t worry about being at the desk or having your favorite pen. Just write.

To continue gardening your confidence, find ways to validate your identity as a writer, whether that be a job, a writers group, publications, or further education. Do not keep this part of you hidden away. Practice saying out loud, ‘I’m a writer’ at dinner parties when asked about what you do, and when people find out you write silly little poems instead of their niche of interest, usually dark fantasy or science fiction in my experience, pay the eyerolls no heed. Continue forward honoring the part of yourself that loves to write, which is often kin to the part of you who once lost track of time during play as a child. 

Writing Exercise 
To help you think through the structure of your writing process, respond to the following prompts:

How do you know where to begin when you sit down to write? Where does the first word come from?

If you have no externally imposed due-dates, do you give yourself one?

In a writing session, how do you know when it’s time to end? Do you give yourself time-limits, or do you write until you’ve finished a task?

Describe the scene around you as you write. What needs to be with you? What can you not have around you at all? If you can write anywhere, describe how you’re able to focus in at any given moment.

Putting words to your process might help you realize, for the first time even, how ritual is already part of you. If any of your responses here felt uncertain, or dishonest, what could you do change this?

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