Writing (and living) into the dark - my (un)plans for 2025

on trust and perfect timing

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Stop the words now.

Open the window in the center of your chest,

and let the spirits fly in and out

~ Rumi

Where to begin? I’m writing this as I write most things, which is to say, into the dark¹. Sometimes I start with an idea of where I’m going, though even if I do, it’s apt to change at a moments notice, mostly I just start typing and wait for the point to reveal itself. Then I just follow the words…the pen…the cursor…across the page (screen).

This is a fine way to work, most of the time. I think I may have mentioned before now that I write my novels this way. It’s definitely not efficient and is occasionally frustrating. I don’t mind, though. It’s part of the adventure. As I said to a friend last week, if I already knew where it was going, why bother writing it? So yes, most of the time I can praise my process as the glorious adventure that it is. But not always.

Last week (or maybe two weeks ago?), I was sitting in meditation. I had achieved a modicum of silence when, all of a sudden, a thought drifted past which suggested that my current manuscript-in-progress is not, in fact, the second book in the Winkle series (begun with The House in the Hedge) but is actually the third and that, in order for it to all to end in a sensible and satisfying way, I’d need to write the book in between.

It should be noted that I’m 90,000+ words along into formerly-known-as-book-2 and have already turned the corner for home.

I’m choosing to trust that thought because it’s quite right and the part of me that’s actually driving this writing bus, knows that. Despite the fact I basically have to start a whole other book that I hadn’t thought I’d be writing, the more I think about it, the better both of them will be for the other existing.

Which brings me to trust and perfect timing.

There’s nothing in the capitalist handbook that allows for either of these. That handbook is all about planning and sticking to the plan; creating deadlines and following them. If something comes up, ignore it or work around it.

Time is of the essence and you’re running out of it - the competition is already five books ahead of you…

Pffft.

Oh, there was a time, not so long ago, when I’d bought into that. All it got me was burnout and a nagging feeling I didn’t want to write books anymore. And I didn’t want to write books anymore - at least, not like that.

Photo by Viggo Danielsen on Unsplash

I recently finished up an amazing course of study with Matt Cardin, who also writes here on Substack. He presented a class called Writing at the Wellspring which was about, among other things, engaging with our daemon — our muse, our unconscious mind, the quiet partner, that which guides our creative impulses — in order to create our truest, most authentic work. It was an invitation to:

come into "alignment and living relationship with the creative current of the cosmos through the intermediary of [the] daemon muse.

(course summary, Writing at the Wellspring)

There’s a whole lot more to the concept of the daemon than what I’m touching on here, and I will write more on that topic in the future - for now, though, if you would just humour me…

I was no stranger to the concept of the daemon going into this class, but I was fascinated to see it so wholly embraced and expanded upon in ways that I hadn’t expected. The class had a profound effect on me and has fundamentally changed the way I view my work in the world. I reconnected with the part of myself that simply knows, the part that I had effectively ignored or silenced completely in my efforts to achieve specific outcomes, and I was reminded of a time when I truly did create from that infinite source to which we are all connected.

As a result of that transformative experience, I’m not making any definitive plans for my work in 2025. I’m taking the idea of writing into the dark as a way of tackling individual projects, and expanding it to encompass my creative work as a whole.

Plans and goals can be wonderful things. I’ve accomplished many things by setting a goal and working my way towards it…having such systems are invaluable when you have large projects that need breaking down into manageable pieces. But even the most flexible plan presupposes a final outcome and now, at least where it concerns my creative work, I don’t want to make those assumptions anymore.

Note: this is me, with a far better understanding of how my brain works than I did even a year ago. I know that if I make a plan, my brain will want me to stick to it, and not sticking to it will create all manner of stress and anguish. There’s no life-hacking around it - that’s just my sparkly brain, doing it’s sparkly thing. If I want to stay truly flexible, I need to leave myself plenty of room to do so. I still have ideas and projects I hope to work on, but I’m not putting them into any boxes.

I’ve already loosened the reins a bit and am seeing some encouraging results, enough for me to take the idea of creating into the dark, and applying it to living into the dark. As an experiment, I’m going to play with that very radical notion of simply taking life as it unfolds.²

In this dystopian era in which we’re living (and which is bound to be even more dystopian as we move into 2025), having every moment accounted for and optimized has been the order of the day for quite some time - but the rise of productivity culture and the hustle-bros has a distinctly patriarchal flavour that I’m not willing to swallow anymore.

Un-planning feels like resistance.

Being present to each moment feels like resistance.

Rest is always resistance.

I’m going to trust that what I need to know, will come to my awareness; that what I need to do will always be the next thing I do, and that everything will arise at exactly the right moment.

Trust and perfect timing.

Radical, I know.

But in this holy season of Advent, it only seems fitting to be reminded of the gift of waiting…that in the pause, in the silence between breaths, all is known and all is held.

Trust and perfect timing.

I wanted to write poetry again --
why write 1000 words when 10 will do?
Anyway, it's not hard:
stand still,
breathe,
listen.
                                  ~me, 2024 (one dark morning in december)

I’ll leave you here, dear Reader - having stumbled my way through the dark by lamp-light to find myself having said what needed to be said. I’ll be going quiet for this next while…until mid-January or so. Silence is beckoning (again) and I won’t argue this time - any ideas I may have had for this space will wait until then. And if they don’t, then I’m happy to bless them and send them on their way.

I hope this holiday season - howsoever you celebrate it (or not) - is full of love and the delights of your heart. Hold your loved ones close and send some love out to those who need it most. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading my words this year…it has meant, and continues to mean the world to me.

until next we meet,

~m. xo

1. The term ‘writing into the dark’ was coined (and is the title of a book) by Dean Wesley Smith and is about how to write a novel without an outline.

2. one exception to this will be making a rough plan of what I’m going to do in the garden this summer…because seed order, obvs.