Our
deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are
powerful beyond measure.
—A Course in
Miracles, Helen Schucman
If
you’re like me, I have a function in me that says “But what have you done for
us lately?” I might write a song one
day, and then push to write one the next.
Honestly, I have been known to push myself to write not one, but four
poems in a day. Overwhelmed, I then
avoid writing at all for a stretch of time.
I created an excuse to not write—it’s too much.
We
set limits on our writing, because consistency—whether in sports, in writing,
or relationships—is more important than heroics. Without limits, we can be endangered. When I was writing my first major book, The
Flexible Writer, a piece that went over 700 pages in manuscript, I so
overworked that I lost the use of my hands for two years. To finish the
project, I had to hire an assistant to whom I dictated. I couldn’t read a magazine, comb my own hair,
or drive—let alone write or play with my nieces and nephew.
Over
time, I learned to set not only lower limits—to challenge myself and go deeper
than I thought I might; but upper limits, as well. When starting a new project, I assign myself
to write for fifteen minutes a day. Fifteen
minutes? That’s nothing, right? But fifteen minutes without fail. Every. Day.
This stimulates my creative unconscious to work. Or, as I did when I was writing my second
novel, I assign myself to write one typewritten page. If, during my initial commitment I’m tempted
to write more, I resist. Yes, I resist.
I make a couple of notes. Return
to it the next day. If this persists, I
renegotiate my upper limit. And then
write according to my new commitment. Every. Day.
The
mind is a wily thing—it is its nature to be always scanning and looking elsewhere—for
food, sex, entertainment, danger—more, more, more. I don’t give my mind an out. When I make a commitment, I keep it, despite
its lures: You’ve been good. Take off
today. You can make up for it tomorrow. No
thank you. If I make a promise to
myself, I keep it. My creative
unconscious—my muse—comes to trust me. And
it delivers.
Writing
every day means I can’t fudge on the weekends, can’t write double when I miss a
day. I don’t fatigue. My journal becomes a very healthy addiction—I
can’t go without. It is a refuge, a
friend—healing and inspiration.
Instead writing in my journal until I am exhausted and dry—and overwhelm
myself with all the inevitable ideas that emerge—I set a limit. I titrate—which means I start out small, get
into a rhythm, and then renegotiate. In
my Senior Writing Seminar course, I distribute Composition books the first day,
and assign a daily page every day. (I
will not read these journals, unless a writer wants me to see a particular
entry—more on that in another post.)
Just as medicines are titrated—increased dosages over a particular length
of time—we titrate the number of journal pages, until we get to three. That’s 100 lines in a college-ruled comp.
book.
Taking
Julia Cameron’s lead in her book The Right to Write, I titrated my daily
journal to three pages. In other posts,
we will explore the different moods and purposes journaling takes, and what to
do when you hit THE WALL.
Set
yourself an upper limit for daily journaling.
Start out small. And do not do make-up pages for missed days. That's just an invitation to overwhelming, discouraging, and then giving up on yourself. Just write the amount to which you have committed yourself. If you miss a day, start all over the next.
Tell
us about your experiences with being overwhelmed because you committed yourself
to too much—in whatever area of your life.
What happened? Did you give up
all together? Did you rebalance? How?
Remember: When you can’t meet your expectations, lower your
expectations! 
Works Cited
Cover Image: www.carepathways.com
Text
Cameron, Julia. The Right to Write. Tarcher: 1998.
Schucman, Helen. A Course in Miracles. Foundation for
Peace, 1975.
Because I Can Teach:
Journal for Authenticity Series:
