JUST PUT YOUR BUTT ON THE CHAIR<\/p>\n
Three times a week, when I was\u00a0eleven and twelve, my mother picked me up from school and took me to the Greyhound\u00a0Bus terminal where I boarded a bus for Boston. It was an hour and a half drive\u00a0from Worcester where I lived and I made sure to stay awake so I wouldn’t miss\u00a0my stop. I was headed to the Boston Ballet school where I was training to become\u00a0a professional ballet dancer.<\/p>\n
I wanted it more than anything and\u00a0I was dedicated to the necessary practice to achieve my goal. But I can’t say\u00a0that I was always enthusiastic. Quite the opposite. During those long bus\u00a0drives, I usually felt dread about how much energy I would need to take two
classes in a row, but I never considered not going. And once I started, I put\u00a0my focus on what I was doing and I was completely on board.<\/p>\n
I don’t practice ballet any more\u00a0but twice a week, I work out for an hour with an online trainer who puts me\u00a0through my paces. Often, I feel dread when the time is approaching, I feel\u00a0stagnant and I\u2019d rather lie around. I can\u2019t imagine the energy I\u2019m about to expend,
but once again, I don’t cancel my sessions and when I get started, I really\u00a0like doing it.<\/p>\n
Similarly, I don’t always feel like\u00a0writing. I get into that same kind of dread, but every day, I put my butt on\u00a0the chair and I write. I\u2019ve been doing it for such a long time, I wonder what on\u00a0earth I have to say. I consider getting up and doing just about anything else,\u00a0but I don\u2019t. I sit there. I fiddle around with this topic and that. I try out a\u00a0number of opening lines and then suddenly, I know what I want to write and my
muse takes over.<\/p>\n
When you\u2019re facing a writing\u00a0session, it doesn’t matter if you feel like doing it or not. Inevitably, your\u00a0inner critic will meet you at the door and you better believe that he (or she) has\u00a0done their homework. He knows your weaknesses. He knows exactly what to say to\u00a0convince you that writing is waste of time. You\u2019re no good at it, he reminds
you, so why fill up the air waves with your useless prattle?<\/p>\n
There is a way to get beyond this,\u00a0but you have to put your butt on the chair and stay there. When my students ask\u00a0me how to get started, I tell them to schedule a writing session like they
would a doctor\u2019s appointment. If you don’t cancel with your doctor at least 24\u00a0hours before, you get charged. If you cancel a writing appointment, you feel\u00a0guilty. So sit down, pick up your pen or place your hands on the keyboard and\u00a0have at it.<\/p>\n
Your words don\u2019t need to make\u00a0sense. If you’re doing it right and you\u2019re allowing the ideas to flow out in a\u00a0stream of consciousness, they\u2019ll be all over the place at first, but they\u2019ll\u00a0straighten out eventually. Just keep in mind that if you want to write, you\u00a0have to be able to live in chaos. You have to find a way to ignore your inner
critic and believe that you\u2019re more powerful than he or she is. You have to commit\u00a0to writing without filters and putting the truth on the page. You have to do\u00a0your work without editing. That will come later. For now, just put your butt on\u00a0the chair and write.<\/p>\n
Over the years, I\u2019ve learned that after\u00a0you do it long enough, discipline, a hard and demanding concept, turns into\u00a0consistency, a gentler version of the same thing. For me, after decades of\u00a0writing, the debate about \u201cshould I or shouldn’t I\u201d has disappeared. I don’t
make up excuses or disclaimers. I don’t coddle myself. It\u2019s simply \u201cwhat I do\u201d\u00a0and I would be lost without it.<\/p>\n
One of the most commonly asked questions\u00a0from my students is, \u201cWho\u2019s going to want to read this? Why would anyone care?\u201d
My answer is always the same. \u201cIt doesn’t matter.\u201d No one can predict what will\u00a0go viral and what will fall flat. You have to write for yourself and no one\u00a0else, because we don’t know what we\u2019re about to write, where we are going or how\u00a0long it\u2019s going to take us to get there.<\/p>\n
I like to compare this kind of work\u00a0with what author Joseph Campbell calls \u201cThe Hero\u2019s Journey.\u201d In simple terms,\u00a0this myth describes a hero who goes on an adventure. That\u2019s what he calls \u201cThe
Departure.\u201d He confronts powerful resistance and fear and wins a decisive\u00a0victory. That\u2019s what he calls \u201cThe Initiation.\u201d When he gets back home,\u00a0transformed with the power to help his fellow man, that\u2019s what he calls \u201cThe\u00a0Return.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n
In keeping with that mythical\u00a0story, when you write, you set out to say something that means a great deal to\u00a0you. That\u2019s \u201cThe Departure.\u201d When you face your inner critic and get a case of
writer\u2019s block, that\u2019s \u201cThe Initiation.\u201d When your muse arrives and you drop\u00a0into a world of writing with no time or destination, that\u2019s \u201cThe Return.\u201d<\/p>\n
Writing may not be as challenging\u00a0as facing an illness, an enemy or a great loss, but the concept of\u00a0confrontation and resistance are the same. When I feel resistance and I want to\u00a0run away, I breathe and remind myself that I have no idea where my work is going
or where I\u2019ll end up. But I know from experience that what I write can free me\u00a0from my fears, uplift me and unburden my heart. That\u2019s enough to inspire me to put\u00a0my butt on the chair and go for it.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
JUST PUT YOUR BUTT ON THE CHAIR Three times a week, when I was\u00a0eleven and twelve, my mother picked me up from school and took me to the Greyhound\u00a0Bus terminal where I boarded a bus for Boston. It was an hour and a half drive\u00a0from Worcester where I lived and I made sure to stay […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":2222,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2223","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blog"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2223","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2223"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2223\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2224,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2223\/revisions\/2224"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2222"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2223"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2223"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.andreacagan.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2223"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}