On Process, Unfolding

The parallels and intersections of writing, activism, mental health, and how the work gets done.

In undergrad, I had the opportunity to write and defend an honors thesis my senior year. I had focused most of my English major on creative writing–poetry, specifically–and planned to put together a thesis that was a collection of poetry and critical essays about the craft. I met with my advisor a couple of months into the year-long process and he asked me to write about my process. How do I do what I do? What routines and rituals do I have around writing? How does the work get done?

I chewed it over for a few days, then I dropped the project. I could not think of my process, what it looked or felt like, and suddenly believed the whole of my writing life had been a lie.

It’s many years later, yet this question repeats in my head every time I sit down to type.*

*

Even this many years into a career in writing and editing, I have no idea what, if any, process I might have. If anything, I’ve developed a lot more questions about what process is than I have about what my own might look like.

Is process a habit? Is it a series of actions necessary to find the mental space to take creative action? Is process goal-oriented or is it an objective to be met on the way to a goal? Is process an outcome?

When I think about the process of writing now, I think about all of the ways I write when I do not have my fingers on a keyboard. Writing involves reading, as much as it involves mindlessly wandering book shelves at libraries or bookstores and online lists of books. Writing is listening to a wide range of podcasts, consuming an array of newsletters, social media accounts, and music. Writing is thinking about the words others have put out there, formally or not, and considering how those words impact me and my own worldview. This might spur me to write something in response, tuck it away for future reference, or simply mull it over in my head, weeks, months, or years at a time, before choosing to do something with it or let it go.

But is this process or is it self-care? Is it drinking from a well or refilling it?

I am not sure these are things that can or should be separated.

Several years ago, my friend Trish commented that she did a lot of “horizontal writing,” suggesting that lying down and taking a nap is sometimes the best thing for a work in progress. I think about this frequently when it comes to my own process in writing: I spend a lot of time lying down, sometimes scrolling TikTok, sometimes scrolling other social media, sometimes reading, and many times simply closing my eyes and breathing.

Horizontal writing is where I do my best work.

But is it process?

*

I have a rampant inner monologue–something that roughly 30-50% of people have–and my inner monologue does a few things for me. This monologue allows me to complete tasks on my to do list and, frankly, is how I function. It is a constant narration of actions I need to take in order to do something. It is likely my inner monologue is also sharpened by my anxiety, as I am able to self-soothe as I tackle the tasks that voice presents.

There was a lengthy and fascinating series of TikToks recently, including from KC Davis, about the notion of “habit” in and of itself. It turns out that what I consider to be my habits aren’t actually habits. A habit is automatic, without conscious thought or action. For me, every action is a dialog and an internal unfolding of the patterns necessary to get it done. I notice this even in waking up in the morning. I set the alarm for 4:30, but hit snooze several times. Often I say to myself and out loud, “one more.” Then when that one more hits, I tell myself it’s time to get up, go use the bathroom, go brush my teeth, shower, and so forth. None of these are automatic. They require the inner voice to tell me what to do and how to do it. I have to consciously do them.

The second major piece of my inner monologue is that it guides my writing.

I do not have a writing routine, nor do I keep any sort of schedule. Writing feels good and it is important, but it is not in and of itself sacred to me. It gives me meaning and it enables me to make meaning, but it is not my identity.**/***

There are times I compose an entire essay while lying on the couch doing nothing or while I take a shower or when I am driving from one place to another. My inner monologue crafts sentences word by word, and when I will the energy or time to put fingers to keyboard, I can put together something that does not need an edit. I can express precisely what I need to in that first draft, whether it’s informative or creative; sometimes the writing happens in an unbelievably short amount of time. Indeed, in thinking about how I wrote poetry back in the day, it was pretty important to me to limit it to that first draft. It felt the truest to what I hoped to do, a sort of automatic writing experience marrying the art with some deep well of intuition and spiritual tapping.

I tend now toward more edits and changes, moving entire paragraphs across the page, weaving together threads in ways that not only express but that make the experience easier on the reader. Sometimes, I spend weeks tweaking or sitting on an essay and other times, just hours. This week, for example, I put my fingers to the keys to write about the potential closure of a public library in Virginia. My inner monologue wrote the piece over the long weekend, giving me exact words and phrases I needed to use. When I got up and made my morning tea on Tuesday, I banged the story out in 15 minutes. As I went to hit publish, there was something nagging at me. A couple of things, in fact. First, there was a link I wanted to include but could not call up in my mind at the time. Then, I realized I really wanted to hammer some of the points my interviewee made and to do so in such a way that readers would want to sit up a little straighter and pay attention.

I put the story aside and went about my morning, inner monologue continuing as I went through the steps to get my daughter up, dressed, fed, and to school (inner monologue reminding me to go to the gas station on the way to her school to fuel up, to remember that the gas tank is on the passenger side, that parking on one side of the station would make leaving a little bit easier–the interplay of anxiety and tasks are sometimes inextricable).

As I dropped my daughter off, my brain remembered the link I wanted to include. I realized where and how to make the story a little stronger and a little easier for the readers. The piece was published minutes after I sat down at my computer again. It was not Pulitzer-worthy writing, but it conveyed exactly what I hoped in the way I hoped.

*

I do not like the mentality I have right now about ongoing censorship attempts across the US and several other countries. Many of my closest allies in the anti-censorship movement and I have been doing this for nearly three years now, two years in a capacity that is very traceable, trackable, and actionable. I keep saying to myself that if people had listened two years ago, had taken those steps two years ago, we would be in a better position now than we are. That it would not feel like lawsuits against new legislation and policies were the only way forward.

Instead, we’re in a far worse position, fighting battles that were predicted 24 months ago. It’s reminiscent of the 2016 election. Folks do not want to heed the warnings because doing so would admit to many things, among them being complacent, not caring, not feeling supported, being overwhelmed, that the system is far more broken than any individual or group of individuals can even hope to bandaid. All of these things are fair and true, just as much as they aren’t.

The process of change is slow. This is especially so in public services, particularly in legacy institutions like libraries or schools. There are so many layers of approval necessary, so many stakeholders to get buy-in from, so many people to attempt to make happy. At the same time, it’s hard to convince people that they are empowered to be leaders when it comes to making this change if they’ve never been given the opportunity or encouragement to do so before. If they’ve bought into the idea that libraries are neutral or that they aren’t political. That they cannot be political for whatever reason.

Yet as much as I am worn out, I am deeply moved by what I do see happening. There are more and more people stepping into that uncomfortable place of building coalitions that oppose censorship, that oppose authoritarianism, and that believe wholeheartedly in the power of public goods like libraries. Like public schools.

They have sucked down their fears to face the things that are difficult to look at. Things that are difficult to do. Things that require asking questions that are uncomfortable. Asking questions which may have no answers but beget more questions.

*

Process requires time. It is not linear, and it is not going to be the same for every person.

Process is an action. It is fumbling, falling, flailing. It is also standing up, wiping off the dust, and looking around to see who is there to lend a hand and whose hand you can offer your own.

My process is an inner dialog. It’s putting the threads down in words, then showing the reader how I have braided them together, inviting the reader to do so, either as I did or in a way they see fit for what it is they need. But in thinking about this process and how much happens behind the scenes and how little is seen, I am reckoning with the reality that I don’t know the whole story of other people, either. That I cannot and will not ever understand why action is difficult to inspire in others, even if I recognize other people do not have the inner experiences I do. Even if I recognize people do not have the outer experiences I do, nor have the luxury or space to think, feel, and be in the way that I do.

Everyone’s process unfolds at its own pace. We can look it straight in the face and not see it, much as we can spend 15 years mulling over what it means only to recognize that it isn’t even the right question. That evolution, that growth, requires flexibility and that sometimes it is okay to mourn for time gone, for opportunities lost.

What matters is recognizing no process ever ends. It uncoils. We make it work for us. We just have to let it.

*

Maybe at the end of the day, giving up that thesis was what was meant to be. That the question my professor asked has been one of the most profoundly guiding thoughts of my 20s and 30s and offered me far more than a diplomatic designation. I could not answer that question because it was not one I cared about then. I just wanted to write and let the words come out as they did, since it came to me so easily. So naturally.

But this isn’t universal. It’s not helpful, either. We can only rely on our strengths for so long before we become complacent. Growth happens when we scrape the edges of the things that scare us.

I let myself live in this question and explore it. I use it as a way to develop empathy for those just beginning the process. Just beginning to see that they, too, are vital and important and make a difference. No matter how tiny a difference, no matter how small a voice–real or perceived–one ripple is enough to create one more, which creates one more, which creates one more. Unfolding again and again and again.

Process is a gift, and it’s one that professor gave me. It was one I did not like, and one I used as a cudgel whenever I talked about being dissuaded from a creative life. I see it different now.

I see it as exactly what it needs to be for me now, a process of unearthing my own process.

It is both the filling of the well and the drinking from it.

It is the objective and the habit.

It is the goal and the outcome.

We find creativity when we give ourselves and others the space to unearth their gifts at their own pace. When we encourage process as both action and destination. Growing together builds a supportive ecosystem eager to thrive, rather than an echo chamber destined to complacency.

Notes:

Over the next month, I will be deep in the thick of a couple major projects outside my work and school life (if you read that as “book proposal?,” the answer is yes). It’s made me think a lot about how I write, and it’s made me continue to see the parallels between writing and activism, as well as their intersections. Writing is not easy for me, despite how I can sit down and knock something out. It is a nonstop, continuous conversation in my head at all hours. I write at 4 AM when I cannot fall back asleep. I write as I put my daughter in pajamas. I write as I am drinking a latte, as I put away laundry, as I read other people’s work.

It is a demanding, needy thing, so much like getting on the front lines and advocating for a better, more inclusive world.

*I believe in quitting things if you recognize you’re not ready for them nor if you’re just not interested in them. I can’t remember what 21/22 year old me was thinking then, but I also did not write much poetry since. I think this was a piece of life I was ready to leave in that era.

**One of the most common questions any writer gets asked, including me, is from people who want to know what one’s personal writing process is. I don’t have an answer, (even if I do) and I make it my mission to tell people–especially teenagers–you’re a writer even if you’re not constantly producing. Even if you’re not “writing” in the sense you think you should be. Even if you don’t develop a routine or habit of it. You are a writer if you write, and how you write looks different in every season of your life. The palpable relief this answer gives young people cannot be understated. I am happy for those writers who have it figured out and have a path, a plan, a routine, a process. But that’s not me, and it’s not for me. I want others to know that it’s okay for them, too, even if it doesn’t feel “right.”

***I can’t help but wonder if people who have inner monologues experience things like meditation differently, but that’s another essay for another day. I also know that it is thanks to this inner monologue that my yoga teaching can be intimidating to new teachers–I don’t use a script nor create a sequence before stepping onto the mat. In part because I keep a teeny set of rules in my head to follow (move the spine in six directions) and because I find my classes are richer as I tune into the vibes of the students right in front of me. We move–we create–together.