I recently told a group of people, attending one of my rule of life workshops, that getting intentional about the habits and practices that sustain my writing life has proven fruitful. I didn’t, of course, give them the background sob story: that I had finished my Master of Fine Arts at the end of 2023 with little more vocational discernment than when I began; that I had been floundering in terms of direction on the next book project; that with the tight margins of the publishing industry (and my moderate sales), I sometimes even despaired I could continue in this work.
Yes, sob story indeed. It’s always easy to imagine that other people out there don’t struggle with the bewilderment and self-doubt that you do. But let me simply say that much of the last ten years of book publishing has been plagued with constant questions of calling and competency. I think I went into the MFA hoping very much to quiet the relentless inner critic, to wave a diploma in her face and tell her to get lost. But here’s the thing: a diploma is not the voice of God.
The orientation of a rule of life is very much “upwards” and “inwards.” It’s a practice of living your life in faithful response to God’s voice, of taking up habits and commitments of obedience in the givens of your life. And here’s what I’m learning about my writing life, that no one is going to tell me how to do it. I need to be tuning my ear to hear God’s voice—and even then, there’s likely a great degree of freedom I enjoy. No one can assure me that I’ve said yes to the right projects. No one can motivate me to do the daily work that is often subterranean, the formative work that makes it possible to keep putting good, true, and beautiful words on a page. “I can be a good soldier,” I told the attendees of my workshop. “Give me marching orders, and I’ll follow them.” But this isn’t the nature of the writing vocation. Terrifyingly, it’s you who decides.
At the beginning of the year, one creative habit I knew I needed to return to was reading other writers who try making sense of this vocational calling. Within a week, two friends reminded me of Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle’s “Reflections on Faith & Art,” and I decided that was sign enough to pull it down off my shelf. (See that? I already owned a copy and didn’t need to break my book-buying moratorium.) The book has been a boon to my work at the start of this year—and what a simple practice, this reading just a few pages each morning after I finish morning prayer. In her discussion of icons in Chapter 2, she gave me words that reminded me of the demands and invitations of my own work: “Icons are painted with firm discipline, much prayer, and anonymity. In this way, the iconogapher is enabled to get out of the way, to listen, to serve the work,” (19).
Another habit that I am trying to form (quite unsuccessfully, though as I always say, the only way to fail at “practice” is to never show up) is the habit of taking smart notes. I’ve written about this before, and I now have a small web of ideas growing on Obsidian. It’s a very difficult discipline for me, as I’m usually under deadline to finish something, and it never feels like I can spare the time for work that is unrelated to a particular assignment. But the idea of maintaining a Zettlekasten is that this web of ideas becomes your external hivemind upon which you draw for future assignments. It’s meant as a daily creative discipline to keep you thinking and engaging critically with your reading.
Why am I sharing any of this? For one, I suppose it’s a good reminder that vocational perseverance, writerly and otherwise, isn’t just achieved by the grand gestures. It’s often about the little things, the daily disciplines, the incremental habits. And for another, it’s to remind you that I’m gathering a small group of writers at the upcoming Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids on April 10. On the eve of the festival, I’ll gather us around an intimate dinner for a discussion about a rule of life practice as it relates to the writing life. I’d love for you to join, especially if you feel hungry for the creative encouragement of such a gathering. I don’t yet have an official sign-up, but if you email me (jen@jenpollockmichel.com), you’ll be the first to hear when it goes live.
Whatever work you’re called to do, it’s good to remember that small habits and practices, individual and communal, will sustain your perseverance. And remember what the godly man or woman does when he or she stumbles seven times in their practice?
They get back up (Prov. 24:16).
One of the reasons that I like to write very early is that my inner critic is not awake yet. Also I have befriended her- she’s actually quite smart, though a bit shallow at times.
I really appreciated this reminder about the value of faithfulness in the small and unseen. And I downloaded Obsidian to my phone to fiddle with. Thanks for the heads up!