December is the dark time, and it's easy to forget how to really be creative.

In Norway, this time of year is called the Mørketid, the dark time, and the Norwegians, who are used to it, light candles at four pm and have dinner early and snuggle into their warm houses. Or, if it’s snowed, they put on their skis and head to the lighted trails that exist all over the country and ski and ski and ski. They cheerfully get up in the dark at dawn and go to work. Their creativity in dealing with more than 12 hours of darkness is impressive.

When we lived in Oslo, I started a new teaching job at a public high school just after New Year’s. I was three months pregnant with L and terribly morning sick, and two days a week I had class at eight. So I rose at six in the pitch black and attempted not to vomit as I navigated the shower, some clothes, a cup of tea, and the Trikk, the streetcar that took me to Majorstuen, where I would hop on the subway for two stops. By the time I arrived at Berg Vidergaendeskole there was a gray light, but the sun didn’t really rise until the end of first period.

We humans can romanticize all kinds of things.

We’re in our own dark time in California, which is never sure how to be winter, but tries, and I’m still setting the alarm for six as many mornings as I can muster. It is a strange sort of push and pull, for I really do loathe getting up early, but ever since I learned that the poet Lucie Brock-Broido calls the morning being “wet from the other side” I’ve been unable to shake the notion that this time, this liminal time between night and day, is when the creativity is awakening and the words best flow—or sputter, or crawl. (And, because life is so busy, sometimes it’s the only time of the day, anyway.) Sure enough, I’ve been getting at least a poem a morning, though which are any good, it’s hard to say.

But creativity is a funny thing. Earlier this fall, I took a poetry class and vowed to just write, to generate work, to make, for as long as it took. And I did, all fall. It was glorious. But now, mere weeks later, I feel a familiar antsyness as I start to worry, to push, to want to force that raw, unfinished work into something meaningful—a book, a record, a testimony to the world that I am not lazy, that I am not, uh, bad, that I EXIST. In September, when I read up in Portland with the poet Stephanie Adams-Santos (who taught me about Lucie Brock-Broido), she said that when she writes she tries to scratch some metaphorical itch, to find something inside herself that needs fulfilling and, well, fulfill it. (She actually said this much more clearly and beautifully than that!) In answer to the same question, I said that I turned to my readers to tell me if something was any good. And then I thought about what she said and wondered, what if I did that, too?

What if instead of seeking external validation, I just trusted in my belief that doing the work is the most important thing? Click To Tweet

So, I guess here I’ve answered my own personal logic puzzle: because I have taken a little break from reading from Little Prayersbecause I don’t have something else to publish NOW, because I always feel the glow from a published essay for about a month before it fades, I have been inhabiting this space, on and off here in the December dark, where I don’t feel like I’m any good. Hence the rush to publish something, to finish something, to frantically get out into the world a thing that isn’t even ready yet, just so I can prove something to—to whom? I don’t even know.

How stupid I am, sometimes.

I’m still learning to be a writer: to chase the joy and to find that balance between playful, creative inquiry and brass tacks. And I feel enormously comforted here at the end of this blog post, because somehow writing all of this down, I feel like I have permission to be in the playful inquiry stage a while longer. Brass tacks, be off with you. Glad we had that little chat.

So! In the meantime, while you (and I) are waiting for my second book of poetry (!), if you need a great little gift, you can buy my first, Little Prayers, and I’ll sign it for you. There are more good gift ideas for writers here and here.

And here’s to the beauty and the difficulty of this season. If you want to share what you love or loathe about December, I’d love to hear from you in the comments below.

Warmly and with my best wishes for happy holidays and a fruitful new year,

Susie


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