My Writing Process Blog Tour

I've been thinking and writing a lot about the creative process lately, partly in relation to the newest online class that I'll be teaching in a few weeks, and partly because I'm always trying to hone in on my own best process. It's a topic that comes up often with my mentoring clients and students. It comes up equally often with my writer friends and colleagues. And it comes up with well-known published authors. The creative process is endlessly fascinating, and creating a sustainable writing practice is something that interests (or plagues) writers at all levels.

All of this has been on my mind, so it was especially groovy that Jeanne Gassman, a writer colleague of mine, asked me to be part of the My Writing Process Blog Tour. The tour was started by author Diane Lefer on her blog. Diane invited several writers to answer a series of questions about their process, and those writers then invited several more, and so on. (update 3/19: Turns out that Diane isn't the originator of the tour. That was my mistake. But you should still check her out!) I'm glad that Jeanne invited me. I met Jeanne during graduate school at Vermont College of Fine Arts, and she was in my very first workshop there. Jeanne is a wonderful fiction and nonfiction writer who lives in Arizona, and her historical novel, Blood of a Stone, is forthcoming from Tuscany Press in the summer of 2014. She's a dedicated writer and friendly, supportive presence in my extended writing circle. Be sure to check out her Writing Process answers on her blog, Jeanne's Writing Desk, where she regularly posts writing opportunities and calls for submissions.

My answers to the "blog tour" questions are below, and at the end of this post I'll introduce you to two other writers who will be joining the My Writing Process Blog Tour with their answers next week.

1) What are you working on?

A few months ago I realized that I have five books waiting for me to write them. Five! I fear that I sound hoity-toity when I admit this, but please understand that I say it with a dizzying blend of excitement and fear. I've been working on one of these books for the last several years, and it's slow going. Knowing that there are four more waiting for me to get to them makes me feel frantic. This book that I've been working on is a collection of meditative and lyric essays called For All We Learned, The Sea. The collection explores spirituality, landscape, and the longing for home in all its many (internal and external) forms.

I'm also toying with two book-length narrative memoirs, including one about the year I spent living and working in a London YMCA. Several years ago, a novel idea came to me just as I'd started my graduate program for nonfiction. What timing! I sat that book on a mental shelf and promised I'd be back for it. Every so often I look at it and wink. It's been patient, but lately it's been eyeing me up, and I know that the time to pay attention to it is coming soon. In addition to all that, I also have the characters for a story for either kids or young adults banging around in my head. It's getting rather busy in there, but I prefer that racket to the alternative: the chilling silence of having no ideas.

In my "spare" time, I write other random essays, plus the occasional poem that I squirrel away and don't show anyone.

2) How does your work differ from others of its genre?

To answer this question, I'll stick with how I approach writing essays and literary nonfiction.

First off, the subject matter of my essays is different than a lot of what you might find in mainstream essays. A few months ago, I gave a reading from one of the essays in For All We Learned, The Sea. In that essay --  indeed, throughout the whole collection -- I question the nature of God and the nature of belief. After my reading, another writer told me that he enjoyed the piece. And then he said, "You don't find many people writing about God these days." I wasn't sure how to respond, but he had a point. What he didn't say, but what I think he also meant, was that you don't find a lot of people writing about God in a non-judgemental, non-proselytizing, or non-saccharine way. A lot of "God writing" is angry or vague or schlocky or naive. I don't write about God in order to convert anyone to anything. I'm simply trying to make sense of a spiritual worldview that has changed drastically several times throughout my life. It's not that this is never done, but I guess it's less common than some other subject matter.

Second, my writing style is different than a lot of personal writing (essays, memoir, etc.). Most of the essays in my collection are not straight narrative. I joke that I write essays in which nothing happens. These pieces are often non-chronological and non-narrative. I think of them as the written equivalents of Polaroids, snippets or vignettes that capture a moment in time, a mood, a thought, a feeling, a question. I also love to braid together disparate elements, to play with structure and form, and to make unexpected connections.

Third, I think my attention to language is a bit unusual compared to some other literary nonfiction writers. Since I write in a more meditative or lyric style, I'm more concerned with the rhythm and sound of the language than some (though not all) narrative nonfiction writers are. Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually a poet who writes paragraphs. I'm as interested in how words sound and taste as I am in what they mean.

3) Why do you write what you do?

The existential answer:

I write what I write because that's what comes to me. What else can I do?

The practical answer:

I write what I write because that's what comes to me. What else can I do?

4) What is your writing process?

I have terrible writing habits. There, I've said it. I'm not nearly as consistent as I'd like to be, so this is something that I'm working on. Always. Even though I know that I'm not going to produce a masterpiece every time I sit down to write, my fear of writing badly (a.k.a. perfectionism, a.k.a. caring deeply about the work) too often intimidates me and keeps me from writing. I've written before about how I've had to learn to write badly. In other words, I have to practice staying committed to the writing even when it's going poorly.

While I was away at a month-long writing retreat this winter, I had some pretty major epiphanies about how I write the kinds of essays in my book manuscript. It's a slow and languorous process that requires a lot of time and white space to let the essays' elements coalesce. This realization has helped me to see that I need to be working on several things in any given month, be that multiple essays or essays and something else entirely (like the novel). I don't know what will happen if (when?) I start to seriously write either a novel or narrative memoir. I wonder if the narrative nature of those works will become all-consuming in a different way than the meditative/lyric essays do. Perhaps more driving and more immediate with less downtime needed in-between chapters. We'll see.

Although I need a lot of mental white space and time to think (consciously or subconsciously) about the essays I write, I also tend to need to write a lot before I figure out where I'm going, what I'm trying to say, and how it all works together. I'm more of an associative than a linear thinker, which is probably why I so often tend toward non-chronological and non-narrative writing. This mode shows up in my writing process, too. I often have to go a long way out of my way to find the thing I'm trying to write. I've blogged about this before, about how writing is a process of discovery for me. Some writers figure out the whole story in their heads before they start to put words together on the page. For a long time I thought this was how "real writers" operated, and I was worried that I seemed to be much messier than that. I eventually realized that there's no "right" way to go about writing, and that I happen to be a "horizontal" or "extraverted" writer in that I have to put a lot out there on the page in order to find my way. (The opposite is the "vertical" or "introverted" writer who figures it out in her head first and then starts to physically write.)

When I'm stuck in the writing process, I tend to try free-writing about the topic, to make lists or associative mindmaps of ideas, or to put ideas on index cards so I can physically move them around. I'll also switch from the keyboard to pen and paper if I'm feeling stuck. Sometimes changing something about the physical act of writing helps to unlock things in my head.

Oh, and I revise a lot. I like revising and rewriting. That part of the process is often much more enjoyable (and less terrifying) to me than the blank page or the confusion of writing a first draft.

I tend to write best after dark. Sometimes way after dark. (It's 3:30 a.m. as I write this.) I like the quiet, darkness, and solitude of night time writing. The thought of getting up at dawn (to write or to do anything else for that matter) makes me whimper and cry. One big problem with this kind of writing schedule is that it pushes writing to be the last thing of the day, which often means that it's the thing that I skip when I'm too busy, too distracted, or too tired. While I was away in Vermont for my writing residency in January, my most productive time of day turned out to be late afternoon, which was unexpected. Since I've been back, I haven't kept much of a consistent schedule, so I'm not sure what time of day will end up working best for me when I settle into some sort of regular rhythm.

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Next up on the My Writing Process Blog Tour:

Next week, please check out the following writers on their blogs as they discuss their creative process.

Karen Dietrich is the author of a memoir, The Girl Factory (Globe Pequot, 2013), as well as three chapbooks: Understory (dancing girl press, 2013), Girl Years (Matter Press, 2012), and Anchor Glass (Finishing Line Press, 2011). Her writing has appeared in Specter, Bellingham Review, PANK, and elsewhere. You can read her blog here.

I met Karen a few years ago and am delighted to know another writer who lives in my town. She's been featured on this site before, as a guest contributor for the Loquacious series. I recommend her book The Girl Factory to just about everyone. It's a memoir written by a poet, which means it's subtle and beautiful and kind of kick-ass. Seriously, you should read it.

Ross McMeekin's fiction appears in Shenandoah, Passages North, Folio, PANK, Hobart, Tin House Flash Fiction Fridays, and elsewhere. He edits the literary journal Spartan. He’' the recipient of a 2013-14 Made at Hugo House Fellowship and lives in Seattle. You can find his blog at www.rossmcmeekin.com.

I met Ross during grad school, and in addition to being an amazing fiction writer, he's a jovial guy with a big heart. His flash fiction piece, "What Fills a Balloon" (published on Storyglossia), is one of my favorite short stories ever.

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Now you. Want to share anything about your writing process? Tell us in the comments.

And if you're interested in exploring your creative process, please consider joining me for The Writing Life: Rituals, Rhythms, & Practices, March 31 - April 27.

In this online class you'll unravel the misconceptions and myths of what being a "Real Writer" looks like. You'll tap into your creative energy and unleash it in a sustainable way. You'll learn techniques for transforming your perceived weaknesses into the strengths of your writing life. You'll figure out what it will take for you to write more. And you'll probably start to have a lot more fun while writing!

Full details and registration are available here.

Recalibrate & Create

my studio space at vsc

There's a frozen river outside my window, but inside I'm toasty warm and aglow with possibility. Today was the first full day of a month-long writing residency at Vermont Studio Center. I allowed myself to ease in. This morning I wrote a few email messages, some social media updates, and several journal pages. After lunch I dozed off in the faded hunter green wingback chair next to the floor to ceiling window that overlooks the river. I thought maybe the day was a lost cause for writing, but after my mini-nap I felt a blessed clarity and animation of the mind, and I wrote 1,052 words of something new. They might be the start of a short series, or they might just have been some warm-up exercises. Either way is fine by me. I haven't been writing much for many months, and this time is an amazing opportunity to sink into stillness, to listen for the stories that want me to tell them, to tend to nothing but my own personal needs and my work. I am not taking this gift lightly, no-siree-bob.

Last night, during the welcome dinner, one of VSC's founders gently prodded us all to abandon the struggling artist motif, should it arise while we're here. He said (and I paraphrase): There are 7 billion people on this planet, and the vast majority of them don't care about what you're doing here. And given that half of them are struggling to have enough food and water and to stay safe from all manner of war and dangers, having three meals a day and a studio space to work in a safe place is a pretty good deal. So if you start to judge yourself or your work harshly, take a step back and recalibrate.

I think this whole experience is going to recalibrate me.

Creativity & Quiet (In The Word Cellar)

A few weeks ago I wrote about creativity and time, about such inconvenient facts as these: 

Ideas don't come down the conveyor belt in perfect succession, spaced apart just so. 

. . .

Creative work needs time and space to breathe.

This week I've been pondering the silence that our creative spirits need.

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Creativity craves a chapel.

"A chapel," writes Pico Iyer, "is where you can hear something beating below your heart."

This is why I need to write in silence: no music, no background chatter, not even a clock ticking too loudly. I need to be able to hear the words trying to come through me. I need the quiet so I can hear the melody of the language.

This isn't to say that one can only write in literal silence. I could, if given the chance, write to the sound of the ocean surf. I know writers who do some of their best work while sitting in a café listening to music through their headphones. For each of us, there are sounds that allow us to tap into the chapels of our creativity, sounds that enable us to hear the rhythm of our hearts and something beating below that. We need whatever version of sound or silence permits us entrance to the stories waiting for us to tell them.

Eudora Welty said it beautifully. She wrote that she hears a literal voice when she reads and when she writes.

It is the voice of the story or the poem itself. The cadence, whatever it is that asks you to believe, the feeling that resides in the printed word, reaches me through the reader-voice. I have supposed, but never found out, that this is the case with all readers ― to read as listeners ― and with all writers, to write as listeners. It may be part of the desire to write. The sound of what falls on the page begins the process of testing it for truth, for me. Whether I am right to trust so far I don’t know. By now I don’t know whether I could do either one, reading or writing, without the other.

My own words, when I am at work on a story, I hear too as they go, in the same voice that I hear when I read in books. When I write and the sound of it comes back to my ears, then I act to make my changes. I have always trusted this voice.

Welty is also known for saying that she listened for stories. 

Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it's an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.....

I don't know how Eudora listened for her stories when she was on her own. I don't know if she sat in silence, but I know that she didn't have the same temptations I face when I sit down to write on my laptop. She may have been distracted or tempted away from the page by many things, but she never had to fend off the siren songs of the Internet.

Oh Lord, this little white box on my lap and its magical, invisible companion, WiFi. Was there ever anything so marvelous and so terrible? I love this white keyboard (and my high school typing teacher) for the gift of being able to capture my thoughts in nearly real-time. I love the connection this device gives me to the world, real connections that break the bounds of anything virtual. It is ease and comfort and connection, all wrapped up in silicone and hard drive. And yet...

I know that when I hop around the Web, watch YouTube videos, surf the TV set, I turn away and feel agitated. I go for a walk, enjoy a real conversation with a friend, turn off the lights and listen to Bach or Leonard Cohen, and I feel palpably richer, deeper, fuller, happier.

Happiness is absorption, being entirely yourself and entirely in one place. That is the chapel that we crave. ~Pico Iyer

I like the chatter. I like tweeting and updating and commenting and posting. I even believe them to be one way I feed my creative spirit. But too easily I can get caught up in the noise of it all, in the twitchy, buzzy, fuzziness that doesn't make me happy, that doesn't deepen my thoughts.

If I want to write more consistently, I know that I have to invite in the quiet that I crave. I could go for a walk, or sit in the dark listening to music, as Iyer describes. I could read. (I constantly have to remind myself that reading is part of my creative process. I think I'm still incredulous that something I love so much could be so good ― even necessary ― for my artform. But really, could it be any other way?)  I could stare out the window and daydream. All of these things restore me to myself, which, in turn, restores my creativity to me. 

It turns out that I need silence not only when I'm writing, but in the spaces in-between the acts of creation. The silence is part of the "time and space" that our ideas need to breathe.

I sense that I have so much more to write about this. But my cat is currently banging a kitchen cupboard door, which is his noisy way of asking for what he craves (the food inside). Also, it is late, and if there's one other thing I need as much a silence, it is sleep. And so I'll stop here, but I'd love to know: What does your creativity need? What is your kind of silence? What is your chapel?

Sources:

"A Chapel Is Where You Can Hear Something Beating Below Your Heart" by Pico Iyer, originally published in Portland, Winter 2012, reprinted in The Best Spiritual Writing 2012, Philip Zaleski, editor

One Writer's Beginnings, by Eudora Welty

{In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.}

Creativity & Time (In The Word Cellar)

The last "In The Word Cellar" post wrapped up the MFA mini-series. That said, I'm happy to add to it if you have questions, so just let me know. This week I'm thinking about creativity and time. I'd like to write a beautiful, meditative essay about this topic, but that's going to take more time than I have right now. So for now here's an off-the-cuff post instead.

Doing stuff takes time. Doing creative stuff can take a lot of time. It can also make time go all wonky, contracting and expanding it, making it refuse to play by the normal hourly rules.

Scenario #1: You sit down to write and the words won't come. You tell yourself, I'll sit here for one hour and do nothing else but focus on writing. Time limps, drags, scrapes by until you're begging for mercy, aching to stand up and do something more pleasurable, like wash dishes. 

Scenario #2: You set out to write (or paint or dance or take photos) and you shimmy into a sweet groove. You are in the zone. You look up and zip! You've "lost" an hour or two or five.

Scenario #3: This is the in-between scenario: You write something, maybe a blog post. You think it will take about an hour to write it, edit it, proofread it, add a photo to it, and hit "publish." Sometimes it takes an hour. Sometimes it takes three. It's not that time zipped or dragged, it's just that the process was more involved and consuming than you thought it would be.

I was talking about creativity and time with a client the other day. She was feeling frustrated because Scenario #3 happens to her a lot. It happens to me a lot, too. Things often take much longer than I think they will. (Except when they don't, of course. Sometimes I put off doing something because I'm sure it will be difficult and a major time-suck. And then it ends up being easy-peasy and taking five minutes, and I feel like a schmuck, albeit a productive schmuck.)

I've been thinking about the nature of creative work, and how it forces us to play by different rules than if we were just making widgets on an assembly line. Creative work isn't so regulated, so orderly, so perfectly timed.

Ideas don't come down the conveyor belt in perfect succession, spaced apart just so. 

Developing an idea doesn't happen in an orderly, assembly line fashion. It's messy. Things do not always proceed in a linear direction. There is much doubling back, doubling up, rearranging, redoing. I have to remember this every time I start writing a new essay or developing curriculum for a new course. Each time I do it I learn something new, but the learning never stops.

The most important thing I keep learning about creative work is that it needs time and space to breathe. If I sit down to write, I want to be writing--actively. I want to see words filling up the blank page. Letter after letter, word after word, line after line, punctuation mark after punctuation mark. Progress! I worry that if I'm not typing, I'm not doing anything. And if I'm not doing anything, then I must be lazy or stupid or creatively blocked. But no, this is not so. Idling is a good and necessary part of the creative process. Let your mind wander. Daydream. Doodle. Give yourself -- and your work -- time and space to breathe. I mean this literally (meditation, yoga, deep breathing, taking walks -- all good things), and more metaphorically. Let things steep and simmer for awhile. It adds flavor and depth, like a good soup. (Not everything needs -- or can wait for -- a lot of marinating, of course. This blog post, for example, won't get a lot of breathing room. It's a bit more slapdash than that. But the essay I'm working on this week is getting a lot of breathing room. I've been noodling with it since August. This frustrates me, but I also know that it needed this long to come into being and to come into its own.)

Creative work is like window caulking: It needs time to set-up and cure. Or compare it to wine and men: It needs plenty of time to mature. (My apologies to the men. And the grapes.)

(Those jokes probably won't make it into the meditative essay I want to write about creativity and time, so thanks for indulging me here.)

What about you? How does time fit into your creative process?

{In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.}

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If you'd like to explore your own creative process and give yourself the time, space, and permission to write, I invite you to join me for Alchemy Inspiration: Start Writing. This fun, gentle, and encouraging 4-week ecourse is perfect for anyone who wants to start writing for the first time or the first time in a long time. Alchemy Inspiration runs February 6 - March 2, and registration is open.

Overcoming Your Natural Sticking Points (In The Word Cellar)

This week for "In The Word Cellar" I'm taking a short break from the MFA mini-series. I'll be back next Wednesday with a post about MFA alternatives.

I am neck deep in project-planning over here, swimming around in the alternately murky and luminescent waters of creation. To be honest, I feel like I've been treading water for a few months now, trying to find a current to carry me through 2012. This phase of the process -- the sorting, organizing, and choosing phase -- is where I struggle the most. I have lots of ideas! So many potential directions! So many exclamation points! It's exhausting. I tend to be able to see so many sides to a potential project that I get mired and lost in the details. I can't find a way forward because I'm so worried about choosing the "just right" path.

This is the first time I've tried to map out a year's worth of projects at one time. Over the past few years I've been doing bits and pieces as they came to me, which was a big step forward on my creative path. First, just having one or two ideas that I loved felt like a win. Then, figuring out how to execute one at a time was a milestone. And then I started to juggle a few things together, which made me proud. And now I have a full roster of ideas for the next 12 months, plus the seedlings of other goodies just starting to grow into themselves for the future.

But I'm still struggling during the same phase each time, this purgatorial time in-between idea generation and the beginning of true production. I swim in circles, tiring myself out before I begin the core creative process that requires big bursts of energy. Tonight, as I lamented this recurring "stuckness," I realized that I should be celebrating instead. At least I recognize that this is the hard part for me. And knowing is half the battle, isn't it?

Plus, I realized that each time I find myself stuck here it's actually a new place, no matter how much it looks like the old places of being stuck. It's a new place because of the progression I mention above: planning one project, then a few, and then a year's worth at one time. So tonight I'm celebrating this growth instead of bemoaning the frustration.

As I thought about all of this I remembered a post that I wrote for Magpie Girl back in October 2009 called "Overcoming Your Natural Sticking Points." I re-read it tonight and thought, "Wow, this is really insightful. What good advice!" And then I had a big chuckle because I realized that I was finding kinship and direction with my own words. (That's actually quite lovely, when I think about it.)

In that post I explore our natural tendency to be good at specific phases of the creative process, and I offer a few concrete tips on how to move through the "stuckness." You can hop on over to Rachelle's site to read the original article here, or just keep reading, as I've reposted it below.

Oh, and good things are coming, including downloadable ebooklets, Alchemy writing courses (including a new one!), personal coaching packages, and a brand new intensive, small group workshop. More on those in the days to come....

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Overcoming Your Natural Sticking Points

I can't figure out how to start this blog post, which is absolutely perfect. Perfect because I'm trying to write about overcoming your natural sticking point in a project. And mine just happens to be this exact point: the point between brainstorming/mapping out the idea and refining/finalizing the project. I get stuck at the beginning of production and creation.

I used to wonder why "everyone else" has such great ideas and gets so much done. My husband, ever my cheerleader, pointed out that I do have a lot of potentially great ideas, all floating around in my head or stashed away in notebooks. He regularly reminds me that I do manage to get stuff done, even big things like starting a freelance writing and editing business; researching/applying to/enrolling in graduate school; and navigating the treacherous waters of real estate and mortgages to buy our first house.

So what's the problem, I wondered. Why do I sometimes get so stuck that I jump ship and leave my ideas to languish on the deck?

Then a friend shared the concept of the Wheel of Work with me and the pieces fell into place. The wheel tracks the eight phases of a project and can help us to see where we thrive and where we need support. (Note: I don't know the original source of the Wheel of Work. If you do, please tell us in the comments.)

The Wheel of Work

The four sections along the top half of the wheel (Advise, Innovate, Promote, and Develop) are conceptual skills. The four along the bottom half (Organize, Produce, Inspect, Maintain) are skills of execution. 

 I'm naturally skilled in the conceptual half, particularly Advising, Innovating, and Developing. This means I'm good at brainstorming and connecting ideas, thinking about things in new and unexpected ways, researching, and collecting resources. But when it’s time to Organize and Produce, I seize up. All those possible directions and a desire to "do it right" can stymie my attempts at creating. I dream things up, but then I have trouble Organizing my thoughts and moving into Production.

If you look at the wheel, you'll see that Organize and Produce are opposite of Advise and Innovate. This is usually the case: The pieces of the wheel furthest away from our natural strengths are the pieces we find to be most difficult. 

If you get stuck at the point of creation, here are four tips on getting from idea generation to post-production.

1. Collect your project ideas in one place. I struggle with this and tend to have scraps of paper and journal pages littered with ideas. But I do my best to put them all in one notebook that's segmented for different idea types, like essay and article ideas, resources to consult, and possible collaborative projects. This way, I know where everything is and can keep track of my brain jumble.

2. Consider the path of least resistance. Natural-born innovators often end up with long lists of potential projects and no sense of direction. When you have too many projects to choose from, or even too many possible directions within a single project idea, you can end up quitting before you start because you feel overwhelmed. If you can’t figure out what project to focus on, prioritize your list of ideas. The criteria you use for prioritizing is up to you. Maybe you want to pick the project that you think has the most money-making potential. Maybe one project seems ripe for the picking because your audience is hungry for it. 

When in doubt, I say go for the one that most appeals to you. We tend to think that anything "good" has to be "hard," but I say do what works and feels good. Don't think of it as the easy way out. Rather, think of it was the easy way through. The same thing applies to choosing a direction within one particular project. For example, I just kept on writing this post, going in the direction that seemed easiest as I went along. As I got further down the path, I could more clearly see what needed to come next and where I needed to go back and revamp things.

3. Stop assuming and get the facts. One of the ways that we sabotage ourselves is by making assumptions. We assume that we can’t afford a graphic designer, so why bother to start writing that ebook? We assume we won’t find a vacant room at the bed and breakfast we love, so why bother to plan that getaway? We assume we’ll run out of ideas halfway through the article, so why bother to create an outline? Stop it with the what-ifs! Don't let a lack of information dictate your progress. Worrying about what may-or-may-not-be just keeps you stuck. Get the facts you need to figure out the next steps. And remember that not every step of a project is contingent upon another step. Figure out what you can do concurrently, like writing the ebook content while waiting to hear back from designers. If you stay committed to the project, you’ll find a way to make it work.

4. Enlist help. Chances are you have friends and colleagues who are naturally skilled in other parts of the Wheel of Work. When you’re stuck on how to begin or what to do next, ask for input from someone you trust. Even someone with the same sticking points as you may be able to help. For example, although I struggle to see my way forward at the beginning of my projects, I do it with ease and confidence when working with my clients. We tend to create drama and fear around our natural sticking points when it comes to our own projects because we’re emotionally attached to them. An outsider doesn’t have the same baggage and can point the way forward.

This is how I get past my natural sticking points. What are your sticking points along the Wheel of Work and how do you overcome them?

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{In The Word Cellar normally runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.}