Refiners of Gold

It is always easier to copy than it is to create. The more I work, the more I feel this tension.

Writing is a difficult craft, and that first sentence is terrifying. It’s oh, so much easier to click over to the browser for ideas and inspiration, to reference what’s been said about the subject at hand, and see how others have gone about starting. Rephrasing, adapting, and editing is much simpler than writing, forming, and mining our own river for gold.

We can reference the heck out of any given topic. The world is full of overnight experts and this is a good thing for us who create worlds and comment on every subject under the sun. Every idea, every quote and misquote, every sentence ever digitized is right at our fingertips. This abundant access helps us stay current and maintain relevancy, but so much access has a downside. Confronted with the work and creativity of so many voices makes it harder to use our own words. In an instant, we can see what’s been said, what wasn’t said, what was missaid—and we lose sight of what it was we were going to say.

And I get it. Most of us don't have a lot of time to ponder mysteries or wait upon the muse. We're often on tight deadlines where success isn't determined so much by the genius of content than it is by meeting the due date. When I’m on assignment, I make the most of my time by first gathering references and citing articles. If my article stalls somewhere between point A and point B, a quick look at how others have handled the topic soon sets me back on course. If I sense that my angle is a little unorthodox, I’ll reference other writers to give permission and affirm my choice. I call my writer sister, “Is this making sense or are all the words terrible?” I don’t want to reinvent the wheel, sound repetitive, or leave my audience confused as I gesture like a madwoman at abstract shapes in the clouds…. (case in point).

But there is something backwards, something reversed when we look to the work of others for permission and direction for our own creativity.

We have to acknowledge that no one creates in a void. Part of the splendor of human art is that it is an ongoing dialogue, a giving and receiving, a playing with and turning over, an evolution of thought and beauty. Of course, we should write from an informed place, and research is often required to complete any worthy work. But when we cease to draw on the work of others with the intention to converse and add to, but merely to regurgitate—that is when we lose our voice. I can think of no worse fate for a writer than that our voice vanishes into tasteless, monotone vapor.

But let’s not just talk about this. Let’s do something different.

Here’s what I’m learning: I’m learning to start differently, to not to squirm so much when I feel the panicky little feeling of not knowing how to begin. I’m learning to be okay with messy starts, to see them as the feeding ground that they are. Instead of searching for what others have said, I open a note page and jot down a few thoughts and ideas. And when (not if) I get stuck, I’m learning to sit with the words a little longer—to let my mind work its way through the problem. I’m learning to witness the world around me and observe my own thoughts. I’m learning to trust my own opinions and palate. I’m learning to take risks. I’m learning to explore my own vast soul, and push the boundaries of my creativity.

Sit a little longer, think a little harder, trust a little more.

We are the writers. People come to our blogs and our books to read our words, not someone else’s. So let’s give them the real thing. Of course, it’s not easy. It’s not fast. Nothing worthwhile is. But we are not merchants of clichés, axioms, or trending topics. We are refiners of meaning, artists of the written word. Let’s go for gold.

“The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.” - Mary Oliver