By BookBaby author Andre Calilhanna
Writing does not need to be about productivity, results, recognition, or word counts. But are you ready to try writing without purpose?
It has been a long while since I’ve been able to get away and take time off for myself. I’m sure most of you can relate. Between commitments and COVID, homebound was pretty much the rule of the day for two years-plus. Which is why, when the opportunity presented itself, I committed in advance to booking a long weekend in Santa Fe to attend a writing retreat last week.
“Commit” came up twice in that paragraph. That’s telling.
While this is not a testimonial for the specific retreat I attended (though it would be warranted), it is an invitation to nurture your soul and your writing by giving yourself permission to indulge and immerse yourself in your writing.
Book a group writing retreat. Lock yourself in a cabin by a lake with a fire and lots of coffee and tequila. Find the most comfortable chair in your house and give yourself the gift of focused time to write and reflect. Put down the phone and computer and email and social media and laundry and explore your words. It’ll do you good.
Maybe you’ll even lose your purpose
That, for me at least, was one of the takeaways from my five days away, and as I write it, I can hear that it sounds counterintuitive. It’s not what everyone needs, it may even be the opposite of what you need. But before you write if off, let’s explore what it means.
I am a writer. I can say that now. I am an editor. I am a host of other things that keep me tethered to a computer or a task — not necessarily of my choosing — that needs to get done. Just about everything I do has a purpose, is a step toward completing a goal. For all the writing I do, my highest word counts these days may well be the daily to-do lists I craft to keep me on track with what needs to be accomplished.
That might be the polar opposite of what writing without purpose is. Which is fine. There’s a place for it.
What is “writing without purpose?”
Well, it ain’t this. There’s already a byline at the top of this page. I know this is going to appear on the BookBaby Blog. This is destined to be published and hopefully read by hundreds — thousands — of people, so it had better deliver something.
It had better read like I have a clue. It had better have some sort of payoff. It had better attract attention and drive people to the BookBaby website. Will it convert any sales?
By the way, that’s not how I assess the value of a post when considering it for the blog. I really do try to curate and deliver content that has intrinsic value to our readership. But “intrinsic value” is not what we talk about in the monthly meetings about traffic and trends.
My golf game
I love playing golf. But just like it took me a long while to identify myself as a writer, I don’t identify myself as a “golfer,” even though I’ve been playing semi-regularly (at least once a month when it’s warm enough) for the past 20 years. But I didn’t enjoy the game nearly as much when I was taking it seriously.
It’s pretty ridiculous. I’m a decent athlete, but not some sort of prodigy or wunderkind. I didn’t even start playing golf until my 30s. But for the first few years, as my game improved and I started to understand some of the nuances of the sport, I had delusions that I was going to be good at this. Hell, who knew where the ceiling was?
Then came the day I launched a three-iron over a tree line into a parking lot because of a lousy drive. Fortunately, no BMWs or innocent bystanders were hurt (I don’t typically play BMW sorts of courses, anyway). But something washed over me. Not just the shame and ridiculousness of doing something so irrational. It was the realization that if I am going to spend my time and money on this activity, I had better damned well enjoy it because the PGA is not in my future.
That was a watershed moment for me, and from that shot on, I’ve enjoyed the sport more. I still get frustrated, I’m still in pursuit of the “perfect round” — whatever that means — but I’m really just out there to enjoy the day and revel in the fact that I’m engaging in an activity that is without purpose, beyond spending time with friends and pretending it doesn’t matter who comes out with the low score of the day.
Dance like no one’s watching
I am not one for platitudes and motivational posters, but since I’m writing with a purpose this morning, I’ll allow myself to indulge since it does illustrate a point. Of course, I’m not talking about dancing. I’m telling you — I’m telling myself — to write like no one’s reading.
Writing does not need to be about productivity and results. It should not be about recognition and word counts. It doesn’t have to advance a theory or prove you are an expert in anything. It can be those things, and needs to be, sometimes. But just because you’re putting pen to paper (really, you should try that sometimes), doesn’t mean this has to mean something. It doesn’t have to be good. In fact, allow yourself the luxury of writing things that exist beyond judgment.
Pull out a journal, pick a prompt, and write. Let the words flow. Don’t worry about structure. Maybe it comes out in some form of lyrical poetry. Maybe it’s one unpunctuated string of words in stream-of-conscious reverie. Maybe it conforms to all the standards of writing as we know them. It doesn’t matter.
Exercise your writing muscles
Express a thought, build your writing muscles. Write a letter that will never get sent. Tell your sister exactly why she pissed you off. Try to remember every detail of your dream from last night. Write an ode to that cute hostess in the diner. Describe the ray of sun that is reflecting off the mirror in your living room. Read a poem and respond to it. Write a scene of dialogue for imaginary characters, or people you know, or between Jean-Luc Picard and Robin Hood.
Write for the experience of writing and let your mind and your words roam free. There’s plenty of time for everything else, including the writing you need to do, the writing that has a purpose.
Because maybe you need to do this to rediscover the joy of writing with a purpose. Allow more freedom. Establish your voice without trying to. If you’re trying, you’re constraining yourself, and that’s not freedom.
Work in progress
By the way, I’m just getting around to this myself. And that’s already a revelation. I don’t need to know everything and pretend I have all the answers — or any answers. I can still be a writer, and I can still impart advice and guidance to other writers.
After writing a book, I hit a wall. Now there are expectations. The next book needs to be better than the last. Needs to advance my writing. Needs to prove there’s more than one book in me. Needs to… needs to.
That’s bullshit.
I know that intellectually, but tell that to my fingers.
Maybe this is obvious after all. Writing without purpose is like playing frisbee with your dog. It’s fun, and it’s good for both of you. Still, sometimes the simple things need to be reiterated because we forget. We let expectations and crashing computers get the better of us. So thanks for working through this with me. I hope you find purpose in no purpose.
Or something like that.
For the record, I attended the Land of Enchantment writing retreat, after connecting with Janna Lopez through this blog. Ours was a three-day intensive, attended by four writers in very different places in our writing journeys. I can safely say we all got an immense boost from the experience — we were talking about a reunion before the weekend was over and are starting an accountability group to keep us on track with our goals. I suppose there’s an inherent contradiction in being “accountable” for shedding my purpose in writing, but I’m happy to live in these distinctions. Not every question needs an answer. Just ask David Lynch.
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Writing Retreats: A Gift Of Creative Magic
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