solitude, space, and the selfishness of creation

notes from a cabin in the woods

the aforementioned cabin

I love being in a big, sweeping abode that does not belong to me. In this particular case, I am writing from a friend’s uncle’s cottage—a perfect degree of familiarity and anonymity to create this sweet, blissful sense of intrigue. The walls are adorned with sweeping stacks of books. Rugs of bright colours and tribal patterns lay abundantly on the ground. Delicate pieces of china — tea cups, saucers — are stacked gracefully in the cabinets in the kitchen. The style is unique, eclectic and a touch eerie. There is a lack of cohesiveness that intrigues me. Something tells me that this person picked out exactly what he liked, and paid no attention to what others would think of it.

It is his home after all… what else is there to do?

I am comforted somehow by how many books are present here. His book collection is wide-ranging. Mystery fiction. George Orwell. Old poetry. Classical art. Learning Italian. Impressionists. I have always loved getting to know someone through the books on their walls. Books always make me feel safe. Held by knowledge and ideas, I feel at home. I have always thought that maybe I was a librarian in a past life. Books enchant me; I love to index them, to know what they are about, who they could speak to, what is inside them. I like knowing what others like to read, what book to recommend to someone that would tickle them perfectly in the moment they are in. You can learn a lot about someone by knowing what books catch their eye, what they value on those pages that exist between the bindings. Books show us who people are. I’m finally starting to think I could write one of my own.

I read a book this year that “changed my brain chemistry” as they say. I wrote about it here. The gist of that post is that this was the first novel where I felt genuinely seen by an author. I could feel that her mind and mine worked similarly, non-linearly. That she had managed to wrangle unlimited ideas and lines of thinking into a solid story with clear form. A task that, with a mind like mine, I can only imagine how much patience, discipline and devotion the feat might have taken. I was comforted to hear that it took her 7 years to write this book. When I read it, I could feel how deep she had gone into her own inner world to access these stories.

My problem with so many of the books published today is that they feel like they were created as soon as they were conceived. What I loved about Coco Mellors’ Cleopatra and Frankenstein is that she let the story ripen to its juiciest possible point — then she completed it. That kind of patience and commitment takes time! Devotion! Stillness!

As I sit up here, in this cozy cave of a cottage, I can finally see myself being quiet and still enough to write a book. To stay with the process long enough to finish it.

Stowing oneself away to Make The Thing

The other day, deep in my fantasies, I tweeted that I would like to write my book from here:

A few days later, I found myself writing at the table you saw in the header image of this essay, which felt about as close as I could have come to this picture above with no effort at all. It makes me wonder how much you can pull your desires towards you by simply naming and knowing what you want.

When I close my eyes and tune into the vision, I can really see it. This life of thinking and writing about a story beyond the realm of everyday reality. I can see the days roll by: waking up early, gently finding my way towards the coffee maker, the kitchen, the couch for some reading, all before stationing myself on a chair like this, in front of a desk like this, and letting my imagination begin to unfurl on the page.

It is funny because even writing this now feels a lot less “taxing” than sitting down to write in the city normally does. Usually, I’ve got all these different attention hooks snagging my attention, tugging me away from the still, easeful place inside me that allows me to write work I feel genuinely proud of.

seasons of Socializing, seasons of Solitude

I’ve been feeling more than ever, especially as the season changes, that what I need is to be alone — very alone and very undisturbed by my environment. Maybe that is always how I feel by the end of summer, but this time it feels especially ripe.

I can sense that when I let my internal momentum build up and expand into whatever creative expression is trying to poke through, I tap into things I otherwise did not think were possible and did not “know” were coming. That’s the interesting thing about writing; you are often discovering these ideas at the same time as me. I learn what I think by doing this. I am not always sure what will come out; I only “get” to discover if I fully surrender and allow myself to be as truly alone and focused as possible.

Creation isn’t just about “time in” — it’s about where you are during that time

It always amused me when I told people I quit my job to focus on writing, how they would often ask why I couldn’t have just done that on the “evenings and weekends.”

The missing piece in that question, of course, is where good work actually comes from. Creation is not just about time in; it is about being clear and humble enough to be able to write from a true, raw place. It takes more than just time to create something you can be proud of—something that might last years, or even decades… it takes pretty much everything you’ve got.

Writing has never just been about forcing myself to spend hours with pen to paper. That isn’t interesting to me — and it’s certainly not where my best ideas come from.

The kind of thinking I do now required years of scooping out conditioning and thoughts that were not my own, so I could finally think clearly enough to hear my own inner voice.That process took not only time, but SPACE, too. That space was more important than any amount of time I put into the process. And you certainly could do it in ways that are more humble and cautious than clearing out pretty much all the current structures in your life to make the space for your ideas. But that is what worked for me. Making that space is what allowed the ideas that were emerging to fully ripen and be expressed.

No one could have “given” me the answers, or showed me the way, or told me where to look. I needed to make that space and retreat into myself to discover them.

I sense the same sort of “emptying” that I did to begin my process of writing is needed for me to write this book. It again will not just be about “time put into the process” — it will be about space made for it to unfold organically.

It will be about saying no, protecting my space and energy, retreating into places like this cabin, not just physically but energetically, too. I am a strong believer that to create something that has never existed before, something that goes deeper than most creations, something you can feel genuinely proud of, you are going to have to be pretty disagreeable, protective and selective with how you spend your time. You have to become, dare I say it, a little more self-centered to live in complete alignment with your own inner compass, to honour what you need above what others want from you. Otherwise, those ideas stay buried inside of you, unseen and unknown to the world—but more importantly: eternally invisible to you. Unless you make the space for them to come through.

Part 2 of this essay ‘becoming more self-centered’ is coming soon — subscribe to get it when it is live:

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related essays: growing pains, comfort, you vs. you, just show up, unblock your mind

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