The Creative Rhythm
Image by Zac Ong via Unsplash.
As you may have noticed, I’m a few days behind my normal blogging routine. I’ve spent the last week recovering from illness. Suffice it to say that I’m thrilled to be well enough to write again. Whenever I’m forced to deviate from my routine, I find myself fiercely longing for it.
It’s a funny thing to admit out loud, isn’t it? “Routine” has to be one of the least sexy words on the planet. For me, the word conjures the tedium of daily chores, of the school run, of making lunches and packing backpacks, of appointments and deadlines. However, I also associate my routine with a deep sense of security. The etymology of the word “routine” draws on the French routine, meaning a “usual course of action, beaten path,” and from route as well, meaning “way, path, course.” I love this imagery. I can’t help but envision someone ambling along a well-worn, winding pathway.
What I notice most in this visual is the pedestrian’s steady pace. Because what I miss most when I’m shaken from the scaffolding of my days isn’t my to-do list; instead, I miss the creative rhythm that exists alongside it. For better or worse, rituals have always helped me access my creativity more easily.
But I’m still ironing out the details of my ideal routine. Like everyone else these days, I’d like to “hack” my most productive hours. I’m not sure of my best pathway, though. Within the writing community, I’ve noticed a good-natured conflict between two camps: the early birds and the night owls.
Some swear by the productive churn that occurs before the rest of the world rises. Toni Morrison described the evolution of her early bird experience to The Paris Review: “Writing before dawn began as a necessity - I had small children when I first began to write and I needed to use the time before they said, Mama - and that was always at five in the morning … The habit of getting up early, which I had formed when the children were young, now became my choice. I am not very bright or very witty or very inventive after the sun goes down.”
Other writers find their creative spark after the world goes black. Franz Kafka famously wrote late into the night. Kafka claimed (beautifully) that: “If I can’t pursue the stories through the nights, they break away and disappear.” However, his insomnia depleted him, too. He noted in 1912 that: “The need for sleep rolls around in my head, tensions in the upper part of my skull on both sides.”
The birds and the owls have more in common than they’d ever admit. They’re all inclined to stretch the day toward its quietest valleys, coveting uncrowded time. Maybe every creative needs a sweet stretch of solitude without obligations and notifications.
My own writing routine contains the echoes of earlier years. For instance, I’m astonishingly productive during one particular hour when my children always napped. This urgent stretch of use-it-or-lose-it writing time is imprinted on my muscle memory now. I do my best, every day, to commit that hour. So far, that hour seems to be honoring its commitment back to me.
Maybe I could do better, though?
While I agree that we all have an ideal inner creative rhythm (like a circadian rhythm), my inclinations still meet the needs of my people. During the summer, I joined the early bird tribe. I woke up early most days to write - and I can attest to the quiet beauty of writing while watching the sun rise. (Also, I loved the smug feeling of knocking out a solid word count before coffee). When the school year started, one of my children began catching the bus at an ungodly hour. I pivoted again. I write most often in the evenings now. I love that I look forward to this time all day, that I still have the giddy (teenage) sense of delaying bedtime to write and then to read. I love the power of calling time on the day on my own terms.
Perhaps the point isn’t when we show up but that we commit to showing up at all. I hope to be a Morrison or a Kafka someday - to know myself well enough to strategize my own creative output. I’m not there yet. However, I do trust the creative flow enough to know that it’ll come - as long as I make the time to show up for it. And if I get our meeting time wrong today, whether with the birds or the owls, there’s always tomorrow to try again.
