Years ago I stopped reading books that gave writing advice. Too often, instead of helping, they confused or even discouraged me. So last Christmas someone who knew I shunned books on writing decided that maybe I would enjoy a book on the more general topic of creativity.
The book was Big Magic by best-selling author Elizabeth Gilbert, who wrote the phenomenal hit Eat, Pray, Love. However, I did not think I needed the book. I have written my own book on creativity that chronicles my journey through a severe case of block. When I got over my block, I really got over it. Inspiration is not hard for me anymore. Creativity is something I practice every day, like putting on shoes.
That is why the book Big Magic stayed on my book shelf for months until someone suggested to me that I ought to at least open it up and look through it. With a sigh, I relented. I am interested in the creative process after all; I thought that maybe the author could add something to what I already know, so I picked it up and leafed through it.
At first I was charmed by the playful, humorous, and informal writing style. I surprised myself by actually liking the book – until Gilbert began describing how creativity “works.” Suddenly I found myself tumbling down a rabbit hole and through a kaleidoscopic looking glass.
Gilbert claims that creative ideas originate from outside their creators. According to her, divinely inspired ideas float around seeking human hosts who will nurture them and transmit them to others; discovering these pre-existing ideas requires “receptivity.” When one of these ideas visits you, she says, you undergo physical symptoms like sweating palms, euphoria, and even nausea, a response resembling that of falling and love.
Once you agree to accept responsibility for the idea you have fallen in love with, you enter a “contract” with the idea, in which you promise it that you will do everything possible to bring it to fruition. If you neglect your duty, the idea will consider the contract breached. It will lose interest in you and move on to someone else.
Gilbert writes, “I believe inspiration will always try its best to work with you – but if you are not ready or available, it may indeed choose to leave you and to search for a different human collaborator. This happens to people a lot actually.”
At first I thought Gilbert was joking, but to erase any doubt, she frankly states, “When I refer to magic here, I mean it literally. Like in the Hogwarts sense. I am referring to the supernatural, the mystical, the inexplicable, the surreal, the divine, the transcendent, the otherworldly. Because the truth is, I believe that creativity is a force of enchantment – not entirely human in its origins.”
It is not uncommon for writers to describe the creative process in mystical terms, but I usually assume they are speaking metaphorically, not literally, about how writing feels. Fascinated, I continued to read.
Gilbert tries to prove her claims with an anecdote about a novel she began long ago. She was writing it with enormous enthusiasm until a personal crisis forced her to set the project aside for awhile. When much later she returned to the novel, the “spirit” of the idea had abandoned her; she was unable to capture the thrill that had been present in the beginning; it was understandable, she says, because she had violated her contract with the idea.
Years later she met and befriended a famous writer. One day, as they were talking, the famous writer revealed she was working on a novel that was strikingly similar to the idea Gilbert had been forced to abandon. Gilbert takes this as unmistakable evidence of what she calls “big magic.” There were far too many similarities, Gilbert claims, for them to have been a coincidence. Gilbert concludes that her great idea must have “moved on” to her writer friend, and Gilbert believes the idea must have been transmitted through a kiss she had given her friend at one time. She concludes the anecdote with the words, “And that, my friends, is Big Magic.”
Never before have I encountered such a bizarre interpretation of the creative process as being “magical.” Julia Cameron, author of The Artist\’s Way, also embraces magical ideas, such as the idea of “synchronicity,” meaning that when you begin to create art, the mystical forces of “the universe” will go out of their way to assist you. However, compared to Gilbert, Julia Cameron seems like a poster child for rationalism; Cameron does not make magic her central thesis, and she got the idea of synchronicity from Carl Jung; she did not just make up random things and believe them.
Gilbert has many beliefs. Aside from believing that creative ideas originate from a divine source, she believes that whenever you take on a big idea and promise it that you will see it through, spirits will labor alongside you to help you reach completion.
Gilbert argues that viewing creative ideas as originating from an external reservoir is good for writers because it helps them stay humble; that is, an artist has no business taking credit for his work if it turns out great, but on the flip side, he can blame his failures not on himself, but on the universe.
To reinforce this viewpoint, she discusses how artists of ancient Greece, when their work was going amazingly well, would give credit to a spirit guardian they called a “genius.” In other words, artist did not see themselves as geniuses, but gave credit to invisible helpers they called “geniuses.” Gilbert laments that in modern language the word “genius” now describes a human and not an invisible helper that breathes inspiration into the artist. She says that, as a result of people being geniuses rather than having them, all the weight of creative responsibility now falls onto the poor artist, creating stress and unhappiness.
Under the “genius partner” view of creativity, not only does the artist avoid the crime of “narcissism”; if the art goes awry, the artist can simply say, “Hey, don\’t look at me – my genius didn\’t show up today!” (Her words)
As for me, I would much rather take responsibility for both my successes and my failures than to give credit for my hard work to fairies.
But back to Gilbert; other than her anecdote about her conversation with the famous writer, Gilbert makes no effort to offer any evidence for her outlandish claims or to explain the strange contradictions that arise from them.
While she writes that ideas emerge from a divine external reservoir, she also states that “hidden gems” lie buried within each and every writer, and it is the job of every writer to dig them up and share them with the world. Gilbert never explains how to tell the difference between an idea that comes from within versus the kind that come from without.
Neither does she address the full implications of her claims. Do creative ideas that contradict each other come from the same divine source? Does her book and my blog post criticizing her book originate from the same place? Did The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe emerge from the same spiritual reservoir as Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler?
Gilbert does answer one question, which is, what do you do if the spirits fail to show? She says the only option is “unglamorous disciplined labor.” But for me writing does not feel laborious because I love writing enough that discipline is not required. Gilbert is describing kind of self-coercion that used to make my writing far more miserable than it had to be.
On a side note, I wonder why spirits would abandon an artist in the first place if they are so committed to seeing creative ideas realized. Do they get tired? Do they need to go grocery shopping? Gilbert says she does not know why on some days she and other writers have trouble writing anything and on other days they are creatively stoked. She says she is content to view the problem as one of the great enigmas of the universe which defy her comprehension.
While Gilbert has no problem with claiming certainty about spirit helpers and ideas that make “contracts,” she does not mind confessing uncertainty about the writing process.
The irony is that questions about the writing process have discoverable answers. The question “Why do I have slow writing days?” is not on the same level as asking “What happened before the Big Bang?” When I was suffering from a severe case of block, I finally discovered that whenever I had lethargic or painful writing days, it was usually due to punishing self-criticism, self-coercion, under-confidence, and flaws in my process.
When I learned to stop expecting the rough draft to be “good” and divided the process into distinct stages, I stopped getting “stuck” because I always knew what the next step was. Learning to suspend my self-criticism during my rough drafts freed me to concentrate fully on what I was doing. The answers of other writers might not be the same as my answers, but the question of why individual writers have “dry” writing days is hardly a great enigma of the universe. It is answerable.
Turning answerable questions into cosmic mysteries is no better for writers than claiming to have spirit companions that do their work for them. But is there any real harm of calling writing magic? Aside from it being untrue, focusing on magic helpers diverts attention away from the practical and truly effective ways of approaching creative projects.
There are many non-magical ways to reignite inspiration and get the words moving again. What helps me more than anything is a mind-mapping technique called clustering, described by Gabriele Rico in the book Writing the Natural Way. Whenever I feel stuck, I stop writing and create a mind map. It works every time.
Contrary to what Gilbert believes, postulating magical entities that make art for us is not helpful but disempowering. It makes writers dependent on mysterious and uncontrollable forces, when everything we need to create is within us.
While I do not believe spirits dictate my novels to me, I do concede that at times, writing feels magical. Creativity inspires feelings of awe and wonder; transforms the flotsam of daily life into meaningful patterns; weaves beauty from pain; lets me create something for no other reason than I want to see it exist. The exhilaration that comes with all that feels magical.
But writing is not magic. Creativity does not require the physical laws of the universe to be overturned. It does not require spirit laborers to cheer me along or dictate divine messages. But even without invoking magic, creativity it is still beautiful, powerful, awesome, and often euphoric.
However, my creativity comes from within me. Brains are adequate for explaining ideas. And if I ever write a masterpiece, I am damn well going to take credit for it, no matter what the ancient Greeks believed. Unless of course, I see a Minotaur, a satyr, or a wood nymph frolicking outside my window. No, scratch that. Even if Zeus himself shows up at my front door bearing a goblet of ambrosia from Mount Olympus, his visit will change nothing; I am still signing my name to my novels, not the name of my “spirit guardian.”
I am narcissistic, that way.
If you enjoyed this post you might like my other writing. Take a moment and sign up for my free starter library. Click here. Also my new novel \”The Ghosts of Chimera\” will soon be published by the folks over at Rooster and Pig Publishing.