If you want to read it (and it hasn’t been written) then write it

Thoughts on creative process and how all you need to get started is an impulse to get it done

Someone asked me recently what plans I’d had for The Yoga Manifesto when I set out to write it. I hadn’t been asked that before. I’d started the project in such a round-about almost-but-not-quite accidental way that even when I was deep in the throes of writing I was still in denial for a long time about what I was doing. 

People like me don’t write books let alone get published I’d tell myself. I didn’t do an English degree, or an MA in Creative Writing, no one taught me how to write it’s just something I did. “But you’re a journalist” people would say “of course you know how to write”. There’s some truth in that, but when you’ve never written anything longer than 3,000 words there’s no guarantee you’ll make it to the 85,000 ish mark required for the average book.

And nothing prepares you for the siege you find yourself under when you start writing a book. The publishing process is opaque when you exist outside it and I only learned what was involved by going through it, stage by stage, process by process.

So when that person asked me about my plans my first thought was that I hadn’t had one. Of course when you spend a long time creating art; whether it’s words, paining, sculpture, performing or anything else, you hope that people will appreciate it. You want them to see, enjoy, receive and ideally be moved by it in some way. But that wasn’t why I wrote it. I don’t think anyone does. The reason you make art - and I can only talk about writing - has to go deeper than that. And I only discovered what that was for me when I was deep in the trenches of writing my First Draft.

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.”

Toni Morrison

The longer I spent tapping away at the keyboard watching letters spill onto the page, growing into tens of thousands words over the early months of writing I realised I had to turn my back on approval-seeking if I was going to make it to the end. I couldn’t put myself through this much pain (and there really is hella pain which I’ll come to) for other people.

I had to write it for myself first and I had to have a compelling reason to do that. For me, this was simply that the story I wanted to write didn’t already exist. I think that’s the crux of any creative endeavour and all you really need to to get started: a desire and compulsion to do it.

The author Stephen King said as much about this do-it-for-yourself idea with his: “write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open” advice for writers.  I think he means that we must write freely with abandon knowing no one can see us. It’s like putting together an outfit. You try things on for size, you do this privately and when you’re happy with the results you go to the party. The party when it comes to writing is showing what you’ve made to the world. That’s when we open the door.

It took me a minute to get into that groove. Could have had something to do with being a news journalist for so long where you’re job exists to tell stories knowing that they will be read by others. Plus you’re given very little time to do it and where column inches are at a premium every word has to earn its place. With a book it’s different. You’ve got a greater length of time to think, more words to play with and this is when I discovered that I’m not a natural planner.

Book-writing had never been on my radar. After years of writing down what other people told me as a news reporter I didn’t have a story of my own. And even if I did, I wasn’t sure anyone would want to hear it. I definitely didn’t think I knew how to write it. But this is the thing - I don’t think you need a fully-formed story or to know you can do it. You’ve just got to want to do it. And you’ve really gotta want to do it cos creative process is LONG and not always fun.

It’s like going to battle. There’s jump-out-of-your-skin fear to face, the not-good-enoughness and imposter syndrome is real, there’s ongoing terror that it’s not gonna work or you’re not gonna make it to the end, your body will hurt and your head will ache, there’ll be sleepless nights and strange dreams. You won’t see any friends for chunks at a time and you will forget who you are. There’ll be times you’re swept away and lost at sea or crash into a brick wall and land in a crumpled heap. You will cry and not drink enough water. You will want to give up. Those are the times you scrape yourself off the floor, go for a walk, tell yourself you’re a warrior and remember why you started.

And

You

Just

Keep

Going.

Because of that desire and compulsion you identified at the beginning and because you promised yourself you would.

My book started off as a series of run-of-the-mill convos with a friend sometime in 2018. Both ex-journalists doing other things, still v much wordy people who talked about everything, we’d meet in our fave local park and share about the humdrum of our lives.

I’d been teaching yoga at the time, then working as a manager at a yoga studio and would tell him about stuff that was making me unhappy. The commercialisation and bastardisation, the lack of diversity and cultural appropriation, the scandal and exploitation by so-called gurus. Add to that stories about the madcap world of yoga teacher job interviews (known as auditions) and the rest. I was angry and upset and didn’t know what to do.

“This is all you ever talk about - write it down”, my friend told me. All I ever talk about? That felt harsh at first but he was right. When something’s on your mind so much that it’s pushing everything else away - you’ve gotta do something. And if something in the world is pissing you off or going wayward in your view and you don’t know what to do, the advice I have (based on my experience of writing the book) is: do something that you think will make make it better.

My friend was reminding me that writing was that thing for me. Maybe you’ve yet to find your medium, or it’s poss you don’t think you’re creative at all. Not true. Creativity like inspo isn’t something that comes along to any of us, you have to look for it. There is mental and emotional sweat involved. But if you look closely, scrutinise, eavesdrop on the world around you and steal images, words, colours and textures that you vibe with you’ll find it. And it’ll free you from the burden of the same thoughts spinning around your mind and open up your world in massively profound ways. Believe.

This is how it went for me.

After six months of shaking my head every time my friend asked: “Done any writing yet?” I finally put fingers to keyboard on a weekend away in the Welsh countryside if only to entertain myself. I showed my friend what I’d done thinking it might make a feature in a newspaper or mag or maybe I’d start a lo-fi blog which all felt within reach. My mate who’d written a couple of books himself told me I should keep going and do the same.

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”

George Orwell

I wasn’t convinced I could but I trusted him so I gave it a go.

I’ll skip over getting a literary agent (which happened in an unconventional way) towards the end of 2019 and the book deal which arrived the following summer as Covid swept the world (two weeks after a mega heart-busting break up). This is significant timing. It couldn’t have been worse though it was also utterly impeccable. I couldn’t feel excited or proud since I was heartbroken and numb. Yet doing the book saved me. It was the thing that gave me meaning and purpose when my life (and the pandemic ravaged world at the time) felt like it was falling apart.

Creative projects are powerful and can do that. They can also drive you mad, drag you backwards through every gut-wrenching emotion imaginable and make you ask whyyyyyyyyy you signed up to such a maddening process that feels like it might kill you. Depression, mania, anxiety, euphoria (when I was lucky), existential dread - I had them all - and more, and that’s what I really came here to write about. Cos I LOVE talking about the intricacies of creative process and the alchemic things that happen there. So many of us go there, we think we will die, we survive and then for reasons none of us can fathom we’re called to go back for more. It’s like trying to explain why you’re in-love. I never can. But when you know, you know, you know. Sometimes truth is a feeling beyond words.

Jung likened the mixed-bag of feels I experienced as creative madness. Orwell described it (book-writing) as a long bout with a painful illness; and Lady Gaga said song-writing was like undergoing open-heart surgery in Five Foot Four, a Netflix doc I’ve loved and watched many times When you’re writing from the inside of you it can feel like having your heart ripped out of your chest. It happened to me. And like any profound - I’ll go as far as to say spiritual experience - the process revealed parts of myself I’d never known before and changed me in ways I don’t think anything else ever could.

It’s why I’m passionate about other people starting to write or finding other creative projects for themselves to dive into. It’s also why I’m lost without one. Living partly in a private world behind closed doors where no one sees you or the thing you’re making can be the most magical place you’ll ever know. It’s hard work. The hardest, but if you stick at it, dancing on the edge, at that cusp of make-believe and reality, eventually you go beyond it. And nothing’s ever the same ever again. It’s better.

So how do you do it? I’ve only written one book so I’m no expert but speaking from my own experience I’d say the biggest most important thing I learned - and it took a long time to get there - is that there’s no formulaic way of getting the thing done. You have find your own way and once you do, you have to keep the faith that you’re doing it right. This isn’t easy as a first-timer but it’s the best way. As soon as I stopped faffing around trying to do it how I thought I was supposed to be done the process started making sense to me.

I’ll explain.

I’m hardwired as a fast writer. Poss because I was a news writer for so long where speed and accuracy is drummed into you. There’s no time to go back and fix things - you’ve gotta get it right the first time when you’re on deadline. I was given months to write the book but I still moved fast. Writing slowly feels like trying to drag something out of myself that isn’t there. I tried and it didn’t work. Bullet-pointed outlines made me antsy and big sheets of paper and sticky notes (both of which I love using later) scare me when I first start.

My lack of desire for prep could have something to do with fear of failure, not measuring up or fulfilling the intended goal. I don’t like anticipation and always need to get in and crack on. I need to explore a stream-of-consciousness to get going because that’s how I tend to speak. I prefer to put fingers to keys and see what dribbles out. It’s like switching headlights on. I can see a distance before me and when I get there I see the next bit. It becomes an intuitive, instinctive, almost primal process. That’s what I love. The chaos, mystery, all-will-be-revealed-if-you-just-keep-going adventure.

“Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open. Your stuff starts out being just for you, in other words, but then it goes out. Once you know what the story is and get it right — as right as you can, anyway — it belongs to anyone who wants to read it. Or criticise it.”

Stephen King

Then I go back and make it better. That’s my favourite bit and when the actual craft comes into play. Everyone does it differently and this is the most natural albeit long-winded way that suits me. It’s def messier not knowing where you’re going but I’m drawn to that drowning in it splurge. I want it swirling around me, to consume and be consumed by it fully, I want to be possessed by an intense, obsessive, chase for that irresistible dopamine hit I know I’ll find when I nail what I’m looking for. Might sounds unbearable to some but for people like me with a history of destructive behaviour patterns it’s just about right ; )

I know writers for whom this is a terrifying way to live. These pen-smiths are meticulous plotter and planners which makes them feel safe. They can’t understand my throw-everything-in-the-air and see how it falls approach. That’s why it’s important we find out own way.

It took a while but I learned that most of the writing actually happened when I was in the shower, on my yoga mat, in the gym or supermarket - anywhere - away from my laptop. Stories usually come when I’m looking the other way. The chaining oneself to the desk part is simply getting them down on paper. That’s how I wrote the Second Draft.

I’d learnt from the endless days of staring at a blank page when there was nothing there during the First Draft months that I was wasting a lot of time trying to squeeze out words that weren’t there. The muse will arrive in her own sweet time and no amount of forcing will woo her to you. Best to allow her to rest until she is ready.

So I guess the answer to that person’s question as to my big plan for the book is really simple: WRITE THE THING just cos you have to write it then work out everything else later.

Incidentally, What are you most proud of about the book? another person asked me on a podcast last year. That one was easy; that I finished it I said. Is still the case.

When the book finally came out the only hope I had was that it might mean something to people. And what’s been lovely now that it’s been out for just over a year is that it did and still does. I know this because I’ve had the joy of meeting people and received messages from others who’ve told me. But this isn’t why I wrote it and that’s the key message of this whole thing. If you want to make something then make it. You don’t need to know how to do it, you’ve just got to want to do it.

Do

It

For

Yourself.

That’s how you tell the truth and when you do that everything else fall’s into place.