Inside the Box: A Creative Practice

Every now and then I set up a challenge for myself to draw every day in a datebook (like in this 2013 post) or to write the story of the day for a month, or some such thing, and I almost always fail. I like the anticipation of the challenge; so much potential! But I seem to create more when I'm not watching myself do it. Kind of like dieting. Not always sustainable. Even the limited forward motion can lead to other successes, though and as a way to work out new habits. The key is in the actual practice itself.

The only successful practice challenge I gave myself was a during a college summer when my friends were away, and I decided to typewrite a full sheet of paper every day with whatever came into my head. No pauses, no editing. I did this for a month, and the result was thirty sheets of a so-called manuscript I believe I titled, Burn this Book, which is no longer an original title, if it ever was. I haven't looked at it since I typed it. I'm tempted now to see if there is anything in it I can use, but I tend to prefer looking forward rather than to the past for inspiration. Rather, I am compelled to keep going, as if my muse were a few lengths ahead of me on a moving sidewalk. Hey, wait up!

What is my practice now, today? After six months of new opportunities, I'm back to my familiar semester of teaching one Bookworks class, and completely out of a creative rhythm. The only challenge I've sustained over time has been my magazine (the latest issue: Star 82 Review 4.4), maybe this blog, and a (mostly) daily walk.

Recently, I was inspired by two practices. As I noted in a recent blog post, Amos Paul Kennedy, when asked what he's going to make, draws a rectangle and says, "I'm going to put ink there." This suggests a commitment so deep it's like asking what someone is going to eat. It almost doesn't matter because you know it will be food. It's just what he does every day. Built in.

The second inspiration is the current practice of my colleague Hugh Behm-Steinberg. Every day he is writing a poem. For a year. He does this every decade. He showed me his screen, how he creates a document with wide margins side to side and head to tail. "I fill up the box," he said. "I type until it's full."

Since I prefer doing my creative practice on the physical page, pen to paper, I wondered what a box-based practice would look like for me. Postcard size seemed about right. So I drew around a four-by-six-inch postcard in my journal. Then I took a breath and began to write. I filled up the box, trying not to think too hard. Just let it flow, I told myself.

Something interesting happened as I got closer to the bottom border: my ideas crystalized. I could see the end, the wrap up, conclusion, the point of the piece. Like when you are swimming, enjoying the water, the buoyancy, maybe getting tired, but knowing you are getting closer to the edge of the pool. You are prepared to get out, but also a little disoriented, not sure exactly at which side of the pool you will end up.

It could work with visual art: fill the box. Or make a postcard every day.

I am not deluding myself into thinking I will be able to continue this practice for a year. I know myself better than that. I tend to create in sprinter's spurts, which is possibly the reason I make small books and write short works. But I like the exercise for now, and I'm curious how long it will interest me, writing inside the box.