“Signposts” in the Writing Life

One March, driving west for a skiing weekend, my husband and I found ourselves in an interesting situation. It was a cold, cloudy day, snow on the ground but the roads were clear, and we were doing fine. That is, until we crossed the Nebraska border into Wyoming. Then the wind began to blow. Fiercely, hard out of the north, and as it blew, it brought snow with it, scudding across our line of vision. The farther west we drove, the more the wind howled, the blowing snow creating a ground blizzard. Visibility extended only a short distance ahead. Luckily, the highway had roadside reflectors about a hundred yards apart, and we spent the rest of the trip, our hearts in our throats, driving past one reflector and waiting the few anxious seconds before the next one came into view.

Sometimes it can feel that way in our creative lives. We start out pursuing our dreams—committing to creative time, finding ways to deepen our abilities. And now and then putting ourselves and our work “out there” for scrutiny. But though we keep doing our jobs as artists, we’re not sure we’re getting anywhere.

That’s when we need to keep our eyes open for the “reflectors,” those little glimmers that provide hope, that let us know we’re still on the road to where we want to go. What are these reflectors? Signposts that tell us we’re on the right path? They can be something as simple as an appreciative nod from a mentor or fellow artist, or an invitation to display your photographs in a coffee shop. The occasional acceptance of your poem to a literary journal, or an encouraging note in a rejection letter.

Even better than these outward forms of acknowledgment are the times of inner knowing, arriving sometimes mysteriously. When a small voice inside whispers you’re getting better, you’re getting the hang of it. That aha moment when you realize you know what to do to make a particular chapter of your novel come alive. These are small moments in a long artistic life, but each is a sign of progress taking us to the next moment and then the next.

E. L. Doctorow said that “writing is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” That’s how we live our lives, our artistic lives as well. Driving blind, or nearly blind, depending on the occasional guidepost along the way.

For more ideas to help you along the creative path, see our book, The Fire Inside. We think you’ll be inspired!

Writing Exercise:

1. Imagine you are planning to write a memoir.  Don’t panic, this is not the exercise, this is just “playing pretend,” imagining. So in outlining of your imaginary memoir, jot down certain facts of your life that will need to be write about.  I might include:
   –I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere
   –I grew up poor
   –I married Tom (or Mary Ann or whoever)
   –I fell in love with flowers
2. Next, read the poem “Why I’m Here” by Jacqueline Berger.
3. Now, select an item from your list and put the word “why” in front of it.  This will become the working title of the piece you write.  You will be digging deeper. For instance, the title of my poem might be “Why I Grew Up Poor.”
4. Write, using the title as above, and beginning the body of your poem or essay with “Because,” and repeat as needed.