Embarking on the Artist's Way

I learned about the Artist’s Way the same way many people do: through a friend. After commenting on her upbeat attitude, my friend told me she’d started sewing again — a skill and creative outlet she hadn’t used in years. Her inspiration had come from a book — the Artist’s Way — that had been recommended by her mother.

And I was curious, so I borrowed her copy. I also was given the green-light to write about it for our magazines. In the first chapter, I read about how we often internalize negative stereotypes. I remembered how my concept of being a writer turned negative. It had started in college, when I saw the label of artist as pretentious. Choosing to study journalism was a practical means of writing for a living, since my desire to write creatively didn’t seem like a realistic option.

I didn’t recognize most writers explore different genres, like an athlete enjoys running and swimming to stay in shape. I know several journalists who have a novel tucked away in an office drawer, or enjoy sharing their poetry at Meet Up groups. Reading further, I figured the Artist’s Way could help me plow through the next few chapters of my novel.

Instead, the program reminded me not to worry about what I write. It’s really about savoring the moment, realizing we already have everything we could want. It was also about savoring the creative process as pleasure. When I started morning pages, for example, I initially found it impossible to resist rereading what I’d written so I could--duh--edit it.

But as I stuck with it, I learned it didn’t matter what I wrote; what mattered were the themes that kept coming up. I discovered I was stuck in an emotional rut, often bemoaning the past instead of moving forward. It was time to return to the present. I decided my first artist’s date was going to be watching a sunrise, something I had not consciously done in two years. I usually hate getting up early.

Not last Saturday. On a weekend with nothing planned, I forced myself up at 6:15. After shuffling in a haze through the shower, I threw on some clothes and drove to the beach a mile from my home. There, it was virtually silent; even the seagulls seemed half-asleep. Stars still glistened on the horizon.

As I watched the sky slowly bloom into the first minutes of daylight, I remembered the best way to appreciate the moment was literally forcing myself into it. Changing my routine to witness a common occurrence like a sunrise was a powerful reminder to stay present. Each time I get lost in the (often minor; even nonexistent) worries in my head, I deny my capacity to see the world, and I suppose—myself—in all its fullness.