Just before Thanksgiving I showed a movie to my students, a movie that corresponded with our recent unit on Charles Dickens and the Industrial Revolution. The movie, The Man Who Invented Christmas, told the story of the writing of the most famous Christmas story, A Christmas Carol. The movie explored the childhood trauma that informed Dickens’ life and writings along with the creative process itself. I loved the scene where Dickens, played incredibly by Dan Stevens, struggles to come up with a name for the protagonist of his Christmas story. The moment Dickens says the word “Scrooge,” the man appears. This dramatic portrayal of the authorial process grabs my heart.
The story of Dickens and A Christmas Carol does not stand alone in its effect on me. Any story that explores an author’s creative process whether fictional like the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society to biographical like Finding Neverland, awakens that longing within myself. I both identify with those actions like seeing the characters take shape within my mind as well as long to reach a similar position to the author, namely the ability to sit down and write until I can write no more.
On top of cinematic and literary portrayals of the author’s creative process, I feel this longing when I hear someone tell their own story, tell of how writing down their own story unlocked something wonderful within them. I love reading books that spotlight or even include characters who put the pen or pencil to the page or even some other artistic expression.
Here comes the yet… .
After consuming these movies, books, or podcasts, my imagination runs wild with how it might look for me. I clearly fantasize about myself as one of those authors, about myself as a person who always has a notebook and pencil at the ready, who writes so much she has little to no time for anything else. This image stays in my brain and hardly ever emerges into reality.
Too often now, the imaginings of deep dives into writing come with rolled eyes or wagging fingers, also in my head of course. The little doubter in the corner of my mind cheerfully reminds myself of what ends up happening every time the longing strikes. This persistent, long term resident in my brain points out all the ways I have failed. She shows me my journal and how many times I have skipped a day or written a handful of lines just to count as a entry. She gleefully reminds me that I have not written fiction for years. What do I know of character creation any more? She quickly points out how I gravitate towards nearly mindless consumption of both what I longed to create and alos scrolling through random things on the internet that suck out any creative thought in my brain and leave me with no extra time.
As I just described, I know that a lot of this wondering comes from that place of doubt that does nothing to encourage. I know that a huge part of the distraction comes from a lack of faith. I also know that God does not promise creativity but He does promise peace and freedom from doubt.
So where do I go from here? I could live in the doubt and maintain the status quo. That sounds completely unappealing. Instead, I will keep reminding myself of those feelings, indulge in times of daydreaming and carry my writing tools with me everywhere I go. I have also started being completely honest in my journal which frees this self-imposed block of perfection and censorship. By no means has the doubt disappeared or my writing volume increased yet the reminder inspiration and the writing of this entry has prompted a few changes, the most significant of which may prove to be a mindset shift to a potentially more productive setting. In the end, this longing serves a positive purpose. It may not change anything. I may always look longingly on the examples and never quite get there myself but that’s okay.