Valuable Stillness

I read a novel many years ago about a young woman who played the piano. At the beginning of the story, the protagonist found herself living without an instrument, and she reflected on how much she craved playing. She missed the feel of her hands on the keys, as well as the piano’s rich sound, but she also missed the silence between the notes. She thought about how that silence was more important to a piece of music than what was played, that it was what gave the chords and arpeggios their actual shape and resonance. Without the silence, what we call music, this lovely noise, would have no real value.

The same is true of writing. On a craft level, what we don’t write is often more important than what we do. I can spend a lot of time deciding what not to include, what I hope the reader will understand for themselves without me saying it. I see my job as creating a fertile open space where the reader’s imagination can flourish. My awareness of that open space is the most constant connection I feel with the reader as I’m writing, what I hope they will fill in when I’m done with a story.

Yet even before I write one word, another kind of emptiness is necessary. I talk a lot about how important it is to get into Flow, the state of mind where our best work occurs. The flow is an effortless movement of thought, a movement that can feel both soothing and electric. Getting into Flow is why I and most everyone I know writes. It’s the best part. But I don’t think I could find that flow without first finding stillness, an empty state of mind wherein I can choose – or I should say, know the story I most want to tell.

Sometimes we tell stories we believe we’re supposed to tell. This is a reaction to what we think the world likes and doesn’t like. It’s not a true, authentic, creative decision, one that grows exclusively from our unique desires. My true creativity reacts to nothing, but is an expansion of an idea already in motion. Sometimes it’s easy to find the thread of that idea and move with it, but often I must be still for a time to perceive it. That stillness is me also, not just the idea. The stillness is the soil in which a seed is planted, the source for all it needs to grow into something I can share with someone else.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

William KenowerWriting, William Kenower, Stillness, MusicComment