Writing with brains in our hearts, writing with brains in our guts

This, I’m guessing, is not news to you: When your heart breaks, you actually feel the pain in your chest. And when you are in love, your heart swells, pounds, aches…to burst—the physical sensation is acute. And when you’re nervous or excited or you just have a ‘feeling’ about something…you actually ‘feel it’ in your gut. And while any of those (and any number of other) scenarios are happening, your head churns—analyzing, dissecting, scrutinizing, breaking it down.

This, however might be news to you: Apparently, the heart has its own independent nervous system with at least forty thousand cells that are the same as the ones found in parts of the brain. (Though I think I’ve met a few people with far less.) And the gut has a brain, known as the enteric nervous system (ENS), that lives in the lining of the esophagus, stomach, small intestine and colon.

Yes, people, we have three brains.

A few years ago, I heard a lecture about this phenomenon. And I have to say, it blew my mind a little. Because, for the most part, I’d been encouraged to think things through logically (follow your head) and not rely so much on my feelings (not your heart). I’d rarely followed that advice, mind you (I think Cancers are incapable)—but now I was I learning that the source of these irresistible, and often overpowering, feelings of the heart and the gut are actually of the brain.

And while my brain was a little taken aback by the competition and the being-put-in-its-place-ness of this information, my heart and my gut sounded off a loud, ‘ah HA!’ They knew they’d been right and worthy and valuable all along. Of course.

Using all three brains

When we write, or create in any way, we access all three points. Though some more than others, right? It’s clear to me when I’m writing primarily with my head as opposed to my heart or as opposed to my gut—I can see pretty clearly how that collaborative scale is tips. Can you?

Because they’re all necessary. In their own ways, the head, heart and gut work together to help us birth ideas and form words. Perhaps our head brain gives us organization, spelling and analysis. Our heart brain coats and stuffs our writing with feeling and consciousness. And our gut brain gives us drive and serves as a compass, pointing us in the direction we need to go.

And so it is that our readers don’t just read our words. But they feel them too. We make them cry and fume and crack up. And we guide them to motivation and change, deep realization and action.

The connector

I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but I’m very aware of how often I use the word ‘and’. I start sentences and paragraphs with it all the time, regardless of whether it’s ‘right’ or not. I pop it in often when I write here on this blog. Sometimes, my head brain wants me to simmer down and chides me for this conjunctive enthusiasm—but my heart brain tells me, passionately, that it feels right to use it and my gut brain tells me, pointedly, to go with it.

It’s how I talk, it’s how I write and, I think, it’s how I connect my three brains: head and heart and gut.

Image credit: helgasm

How we write: The phases of the writer

When I tell someone that I’m a writer, I watch their minds float away behind their eyes. They’re painting a picture – the likes of a Polaroid, after it’s been shaken and blown on.

The writer perches at the edge of her seat. He taps furiously away at his keyboard. There’s a glass of wine or whiskey on the desk. And Billie Holiday, or something otherwise mournful, plays in the background.

It’s all very romantic. But what these people don’t see is our torture. They can’t grasp our capacity for pain. Nor the phases – the bipolar, schizophrenic – phases that we live through. Each month, each week, each day, or when we’re really lucky, each hour.

It feeds us, mind you…because if our minds were still, our fingers would stop.

And that would suck.

Here are some of the writerly phases I’ve been able to nail down:

• Early Morning Syndrome. This hits on those days when you wake up with the sun. You can’t believe you have the entire day before you to write. You fantasize about the number of items you’ll cross off your list. You quiver at the thought of running out of pen ink! And then. You’ve been futzing around for 4 hours, blinded by all the time you have—and though it’s only 11 am, you’re in a total panic because you’ve wasted the entire morning.
• This is too easy. It does happen. When it all just works, one project to the next and you think, someone is paying me for this? But…it’s so simple and so much fun! How is that possible? Someone recently told me that it all comes down to physics…or maybe it was calculus?
• But first I’ll eat the contents of my refrigerator. Which is why my fridge has very little in it. Still, I’ve been known to eat a tahini, ketchup, pickle and carrot sandwich. Because damn it, I will not start writing until that cold, white box in my kitchen is empty.
• The second wind. Usually it’s around 9pm. You haven’t accomplished much all day, you have to get up early the next morning, you’re about to turn off your computer. When suddenly, from out of absolutely nowhere, you are writing your ass off. You can’t stop. You can’t BE stopped. You have more energy than an eight year old boy.
• Where is everybody? Perhaps eased by the abundance of beeps, bings and gongs that my phone and my computer give me on a minute by minute basis, I still get the feeling sometimes that I’m all alone. And that I don’t want to be. I need to see, be seen, touch, connect. I simply can’t sit in this studio, at my desk, by myself for another second.
• I suck. Alisa Bowman did a phenomenal job writing this one up a few days ago. Because we all climb into that cave and think about how terrible we are. It’s not a good place to be. I’m convinced there are soul-sucking leeches in that hole. The antidote, of course, is a batline to people that will tell you unequivocally that you do not suck. Alisa suggests you keep all of the good emails in a special folder for reading at times like this.
• I rock. The world is my McDonald’s. And I am its Happy Meal. This phase is great—we all need ego to write. But it’s also dangerous—lest we think we are too good for our work and just take, take, take until there is simply nothing left for us.
• Dreaming. I’ve been known to get lost in a daydream for a good hour or so. Always shocked by the clock and befuddled that I’m sitting here at my desk. Really was so deep into it that I was convinced I was somewhere else and lost track of time and place.
• Plugged in. Pure creative output. Nothing but net.

I do not claim to capture every phase in this post—the phases of creativity frown on captivity. They’ll sooner morph into something new than be pinned to a page where they can be sussed out, possibly even bottled and sold. For more than just our sweat and tears, that is.

What did I forget? What are your phases?

Addendum: I usually put in a disclosure that this isn’t just for writers, but all creative types. I was just informed by the loverly Traeger di Pietro (painter extraordinaire) that this is indeed applicable to the painterly fellowship.

Image credit: SivamDesigns

Controlled Burning

The other morning when I was rollerblading through the woods, the most horrid smell entered my nose. Like burnt hair or, I don’t even know what, it was just bad. Which was when I realized that a good portion of the woods and brush beside the path had been incinerated. About a mile long, there was a charred patch about 20 feet deep. And then it stopped.

When I turned the corner, so that I had a side view of the burnt patch, I looked for some sort of clue as to how the fire had been contained. I assumed that I’d see a wall of sand…or steel or something.

But there was just the thinnest sandy dirt path. In most places, it was only a few inches wide – grass and brush seconds away on the other side.

And I thought, is that all it took to stop that fire’s burning and raging and all consuming flames?

Huh. Wimpy fire.

Your fire’s bolder and brighter than that, right?

Image credit: Sister72

ESP…and how I forget to use it

Last night, before I went to bed, I was drinking a glass of water, and this little voice said to me, “You should fill up your water bottle now.” I shrugged it away thinking, why would I do that? I never do that. And I went to bed.

When I woke up this morning and turned on the faucet, my water was brown.

Extrasensory perception (ESP), according to Wikipedia, involves reception of information not gained through the recognized physical senses but sensed with the mind. The term was coined by German psychical researcher, Rudolf Tischner, and adopted by Duke University psychologist J. B. Rhine to denote psychic abilities such as telepathy and clairvoyance, and their trans-temporal operation as precognition or retrocognition. ESP is also sometimes casually referred to as a sixth sense, gut instinct or hunch, which are historical English idioms. The term implies acquisition of information by means external to the basic limiting assumptions of science, such as that organisms can only receive information from the past to the present.

I could tell you countless stories like this. About my ESP and how I forget to use it. You would think I would have learned by now, right? Sometimes I imagine this ESP as some sort of cosmic fairy that hangs out around my shoulders so that it can whisper smart somethings into my ear. And when I ignore it, I see this little being air-kicking me (yes, that’s like ‘air guitar’) in my head and threatening to go elsewhere, blowing some steam off at the gym and then coming back to try to make me listen again.

Interestingly, it’s the same voice that tells me I should really ‘write that last thought down’ and the feeling of actually listening to the voice is quite similar to the feeling when my brain, heart, fingers and keyboard become one and the writing flows effortlessly. It’s a deep tuning in. I wonder if it’s connected to my conscience or my ego or my subconscious.

Do I have this ESP because I’m such a staunch Cancerian? Because I’m a woman? Because I’m a writer? Because I’m me? I don’t know, but I’ve always wanted to. When we’re young and we recognize that something cool like this happens to/for us – and we’re able to see that it might be above the norm – we tend to think we might be special. I’m realizing as I write this that I have no idea if that’s true.

So, I’m asking you…do you have ESP? How does it manifest for you? Is it connected to your writing or creative pursuits? Do you forget to listen to it? And has it not given up on you despite your ignorance?

Also, and most importantly, tell me if you just knew I was going to write about this today. How freakin’ cool would that be…

Image credit: gruntzooki

Magic bullets are still bullets

My good Twitter friend, Joe Cascio tweeted me a link the other day – asking me if I’d heard of OmmWriter or if I was using it. I’m not going to lie to you, but I had an instantly bitchy reaction before I even opened up the site.

This program promises a zen writing experience. With pretty backgrounds and cool fonts (all of which I can get from Pages which I use for word processing on my Mac). They say: “Ommwriter is a humble attempt to recapture what technology has snatched away from us today: our capacity to concentrate.”

Interesting. Does this site miraculously turn off my email, Twitter, Facebook, phone, family and clients? ‘Cause if it doesn’t, then I don’t get it.

Many of you know that I’m in love with WordPress. After years of searching through typewriters, journals, Word docs and more, it was the day that I logged into this blog that my writing finally happened the way I’d always dreamed it would.

BUT and this is a HUGE but - none of this, and I mean none of this, means a thing if my mind and heart and creative juices are not aligned. All the fancy tools and tricks in the world can only take you so far. There is something indescribable (we – writers – have been trying to define it for years) that has to be turned on in order for the writing to work.

And there’s something that has to be turned OFF – the mind chatter, the self-doubt, the shoulds, coulds and woulds, the what ifs, the desire to eat or clean the toilet or make a phone call – or however you’re choosing to self-sabotage or procrastinate.

Once upon 10 years ago, I thought that if I got a laptop, I would be Carrie Bradshaw. Cut to today. I’m still not her – and know that I’m better off being myself. And it was the getting to know myself and practicing writing and making mistakes and getting things right and trying and failing and continuing to sit down here at my computer – that’s what gets my writing done everyday.

Can OmmWriter turn off the switches I need turned off and turn on the ones I need turned on? Nope. No software or equipment can do that. We’re the only ones that can do that.

I’m not trying to take OmmWriter down (apparently some people just love it), but I can’t just sit quietly while I watch writers get excited about finding the magic bullet. A bullet’s a bullet – they explode and destroy (good things and bad things, granted) – but they’re made to kill. Call me a cynic, but I think I’m being a realist.

Just don’t say anything bad about WordPress – it’s my unwashed uniform, my lucky bat, the 5 bowls of Wheaties I always eat on game day…and I’m keen not to break this writing streak.

Image credit: RazZziel

Butter versus Margarine

Ham versus SPAM (the ‘food’, not the unwanted emails). Cheddar versus Velveeta. Labradors versus Dachshunds. Mac versus Dell. (sorry, that one just slipped out)

Do you see where I’m going with this?

I just got an email from my good friend, Andi (who writes a great blog about French things and other awesome stuff). Long story short, she’d done something pretty amazing for me and I’d thanked her. And her response began with 4 words:

Friends help friends. Period.

It’s true. They do. But only the real ones. The ones that fall under the category of margarine, SPAM, Velveta and Dachshunds? Not so much. Those ‘friends’ flee in times of trouble. They’re not quite there for you. You can see them standing there, but it’s through a veil of fog. There’s something missing, there’s not much to hold on to.

So, how do you tell the difference?

It can be tricky. Because (besides the Lab/Dachshund example up there) looks can be deceiving. But once you get in there and get the feeling for what you’re holding in your hands, putting in your mouth or talking to, there’s really no contest. The real and the fake show themselves readily. It’s hard to hide the plasticy taste of Velveta. To tell the difference, you sense it. You see, hear, smell, taste and touch. And feel it in your gut.

I think our writing follows the same map.

As a writing coach, people talk to me a lot about trying to be genuine in their communications. Should they be serious or funny? Should they try to use words they would never say out loud in conversation? Should they follow the step by step ebook they found that says you should use ‘these 10 words in every post you write and it will make you millions’? (Um, eww)

My answer is this: how does it feel? When you’re writing? When you’re reading it back to yourself out loud? When you’re reading it to someone else? Does it fill you up or collapse in your mouth? Does it sound like you or does it sound like someone else? Are you proud of it? Is your very essence oozing out of it? Does it make you tingle?

Start with you. Ask yourself these questions – and answer honestly. If you do and you act on the answers, you will find your voice, you’ll hit your stride. Then think about your reader. Because, they’re asking these questions too. They’re looking for real writers, real messages, real connections.

I don’t know about you, but I spread my butter high and thick on my bread. I’m drawn to it like hotdogs to a BBQ. And when I see margarine on the page? Click. I close the tab.

Image credit: nanio

That feeling…when you just KNOW.

Last spring, just before my mom joined us to be SuperNana for the summer, she told me she was ready for a new dog. We’ve always been a big dog family, and it had been way too long since my parents had one messing up in their house.

So, like any good daughter, I dragged myself, kicking and screaming to visit a litter of 5 week-old chocolate and black lab puppies. I know, it was a hardship.

I picked out the most perfect little girl. My mom arrived, we got to have a puppy all summer and then they left, heading back to St. Louis…until a few weeks ago – when a much bigger puppy came back for a long visit. Knowing how mothers and daughters love each other so, my mom really wanted to take Annie (the pup) back to see Katie (her mom).

The first 20 minutes was mayhem. There were a few other dogs there and everyone was just running and playing and barking and being all dog like.

And then, it happened. Something clicked for Katie. She grabbed Annie by the back of the neck, rolled her down on the ground and proceeded to sniff every single thread of fur on her body. Annie, who – I swear to God never stops moving – remained motionless on the ground for the duration if this sniffestigation.

I’m with you Katie. When you know you know. It grabs hold of you. It’s the sweet spot on the tennis racket. It’s fresh baked sourdough bread with a inch-high gob of deep-yellow butter on top. It’s meeting someone that feels like home.

It’s how I feel when I’m writing something really good. It’s like the idea grabs my mind and my fingertips and pulls me down a pipeline of bliss. Heart pounding, mind thrumming, I literally can’t get the words out the door fast enough. But still, I manage to sniff every single one of them before I let them go.

Write it and it will come.

Rule #1: Always follow your instincts.

I knew when I added that p.s. the other day that I should have deleted it and made it its own post. But did I listen? No. But now I am! And I’m listening to the many of you that have responded favorably about my write it and it will come project. In case you missed it, I’ve decided to start every day at my computer by writing a short story about what I want to happen next – that day, week, month, year, lifetime. And, YES! I’d love for you to join me in this pursuit.

There are no rules – except that you may NOT under any circumstances edit yourself. Because that would be shooting yourself in the foot (and rather stupid). No one else will read this! So lay it all on the line (page, screen, whatever). If I hear that you started to write: I want a personal assistant that guesses exactly what I want from Starbucks each morning and brings it to me or I want Random House to call me tomorrow and beg to publish the manuscript that I’ve sent them 7 times in as many years and then ERASED it mumbling to yourself, that will NEVER happen – then you better believe I’m going to show up at your house and give you what for.

This exercise is not the time to play small.

And, I thought of another rule – though it’s really more of a request. Keep track of this – make a spreadsheet (if you’re so inclined) where you can enter all of the wants that actually come to you. I’d love it if you’d share them here. Unless they’re really private – in which case you could just use code.

One more rule (yes, I know this is an awful lot of rulage for something that has no rules): You can’t take too long with your story writing every morning. Set a reasonable time and stick to it – like 10 minutes. Some mornings you might only have a 30 second story. But, my point is: don’t let it interfere with you work because then it’ll become a drag and then you’ll be yelling at me for missing deadlines and…wait…unless it takes on a life of its own and becomes the next New York Times bestseller. (If that happens, please mention me and this blog on the book dedication page and during all of your press events – especially if you get to talk to Jon Stewart or Ellen. Thank you in advance.)

Okay…go. And have fun. This would be a good time to engage your suck, by the way.

Image credit: koalazymonkey

Compass Shmompass

I grew up in St. Louis – a city boundaried by the great Mississippi, the river that divides our country into east and west; a city with a monstrous steel arch marking the gateway to the west. As soon as I was conscious, I knew where the river was, I knew where the arch was, and so I knew where east and west were, north and south. It was a kind of knowing – this where I was in relation to space, where I stood on the compass – that was as natural and ingrained as knowing where my feet were – even with my eyes closed. I could feel it.

My next place was Vermont. Middlebury College stood in a valley with the Green Mountains to the east and the Adirondacks to the west. Finding my bearings here was almost too easy – I just had to look up and find the peaks. Et voila! I knew where I was. And I didn’t have to look for any alternative landmarks – you know, inside – to tell me where to go. The mountains did it for me, I didn’t have to. (And, I must say, my Julie ‘light’ was dull as all get out.)

Boston wasn’t quite as easy. Instead of the Mighty Mississip, I had the Atlantic Ocean. Though I couldn’t see it, I had a clue of where it was, but I started to lose that sense of always being able to locate my directions, my place without the physical guidepost. And, so, I started to tune into my own internal GPS. Slowly starting to trust my instincts to move in the right direction, simply because it felt, well, right.

Something about it felt good – terrifying – but good. And I stopped wearing a watch during this time- which seems somehow related. Do we eat because it’s noon or because we’re hungry? I mean, really. How freeing is that?

Fast forward to today. I live on a small island, one side of it is called South Beach. Two main roads that line the island are called South Road and North Road…everyone knows that we are a few miles out in the ocean east of the continental U.S. But, if you put me down anywhere on the island and told me to open my eyes and point north, I couldn’t do it. And I wouldn’t actually care. My internal mapping system muscles are stronger, and I don’t worry that I don’t know my directions. In fact, I’ve been known to my shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes at that fact.

Last week, I was in NYC and I started to think that this lost sense of ‘where the hell am I?’ now has little or nothing to do with the landmarks of where I actually am. A friend was giving me directions and said, ‘just head south two blocks.’ My eyes glazed over, my brain started to hum. South? I thought. Is she speaking Russian? Me no comprendo. I don’t capiche. Seriously, Manhattan is a grid, most of the streets are numbered – it couldn’t be easier to locate your own dot on its map.

I wonder if I’m now officially eschewing grids and lines and maps. I seem to be feeling my way around instead now all the time. The landmarks and guideposts have changed as I’ve gotten older – no, as I’ve become more myself. Instead of heading due ‘north’, I’m heading due ‘what feels right’. It influences my writing dramatically – instead of following a copywriting map, I’m following the things that turn me on. Bound for projects that inspire me, working with really wonderful people and, of course, creating my own way with my own words.

Still, though – sometimes I do get lost, turned around, confused. Unable to locate the place I want to go. Occasionally, I do need to know where north is. Those tangible points on the map in my hands become integral to the path I’m following on the intangible map in my head.

Thank god I don’t have a problem asking for directions. And then letting myself follow some kind stranger’s words…out of their mouth and off their pointed fingertip to the place I’m ready to go.

Image credit: Sarah G…’s

Go where you want to write.

The most critical piece of advice that I give to anyone who wants to write – whether I’m officially coaching them or not – is that they have to find their voice. And to do this, I highly recommend that they write like they’re talking to their best friend, mate, cohort – the person who makes them feel like their greatest self, the person who doesn’t judge, who wants the world for them, who loves and encourages their bright light to shine, shine, shine.

By the way, it’s not your mother or anyone that holds an emotionally charged lightening rod to you.

When you write like you’re writing to or talking to this person, your readers get a pure hit of the connection that sizzles between you. They feel like the circuit includes them as well, they find themselves on the inside. Because it oozes out of every word. And they are included because we’re really writing to all of our readers, yes? If you want to read more about my philosophy on this and fancy a shot of Clooney, go here.

But, today, I’m adding something to this manifesto. Location. I’ve come to realize that it’s not optimal to write when you don’t feel good about where you are. Unless you subscribe to the ‘tortured artist’ train of thought, of course. And I don’t. I think that the more magnificently your light shines, the better your writing results will be. And I mean ‘high beams’. No candles, no 40 watt bulbs.

Your writing will radiate brilliance. And your readers will want more, like crack. Or at least like a really good blog (or book or column) that they love reading and can’t get enough of.

In my mind, location is about place and so it includes physical location, but also:

• who’s in your space,
• what it smells like (I’m very big on the power of smells and ask you to kindly keep your garlic and patchouli far, far away from me),
• what you can see when your eyes look up from your computer or notebook,
• the charge that buzzes around in the air.

If you’ve been in a bad place, Starbucks in a new city may seem like heaven. If you feel drowned in the city, it may be that the woods do it for you. If you’ve been in prison, then I suppose the sky’s the limit.

And if it feels good – the place where you plant your chair – I just don’t think you can get this one wrong.

Image Credit: antecanis

Check out the latest interview on The Daily Norm: John Grogan, best-selling author of Marley & Me.