Hello Reader,
I realized today that not all of the writing mentors I’ve had over the years really taught me how to write. I’m grateful. What they did, each in their own way, was create the conditions for me to see the full range of what writing could be, and what might become possible once I stepped into it.
The other day I had a lovely first call with one of the writers in my bespoke mentorship program. As he shared what he’d been working on that week, I found myself captivated by his description of a book he had just finished reading, Son of Elsewhere: A Memoir in Pieces by Elamin Abdelmahmoud. As he spoke, something in him lit up. It was small, fleeting. But I saw it. I didn’t say anything then, but I took note.
After our call, I immediately ordered the book. I don't really know why. I had already maxed out my book budget for the year. Maybe it was because of the spark of delight it caused in someone else. Maybe it was simply because I noticed the spark. Maybe it was how my curiosity was so quickly piqued based solely on how that book was described. Because if there’s one thing I know about narrative shape (the way a book unfolds), it’s that when you can accurately, and I mean with an exactitude so flawless, explain how a book unfolds, the person listening to this unfolding will surely have felt something. This is causality at work. They will take some kind of action. Motivated action at that.
The book arrived and I did what I always do. I snapped a picture of the new addition to my ever growing To-Be-Read pile. Then I literally put it in said pile. But something told me not to let it sit there. I picked it up, thinking I would just read the first two pages. Before I knew I’d read 30 pages. And in the small amount of time it took to do that, I’d laughed out loud, I’d said “oh that’s me,” and “oh wow, that’s different,” at least a dozen times. I’d underlined at least six passages, wrote notes in the margins, and felt like my own constant entanglement with my own blackness finally seemed to make sense. and the interesting bit: This was a story that looked absolutely nothing like my own.
When I mentor writers, I zoom out. A lot. We look above the project, around it, on top of it. We look at the life that informs the writing. I try hard to get writers to think about the conditions that allow for them to create, and the factors that cause them to stop. What could we change? If we change these small things, what might happen? It’s all trial and error. It’s mess-making. It’s self trust. It’s being frustrated. It’s being pissed off. All of it together in the same room. It’s confidence growing. It's being okay with the outcome. All explored in small bursts.
I ask writers to listen when something feels off, and move swiftly when they feel a charge or a pull. Even if that pull is tugging them outside of what they had originally wanted to focus on. Check it out anyway.
Creating the conditions for writing is just one piece of the massive puzzle that is creation. There is joy inside of each piece, and there are gaping wounds. Wounds that we creatives will forever be trying to suture. We feel so deeply. We notice in ways others cannot. This causes a lot of push and pull in our decision-making. It causes rips and tears.
This morning I did something different, again. Pulled in by the spark I felt from reading a few pages of Elamin’s book the other day, I skipped over my entire morning ritual. No doing things for everyone else. Not this morning. Tomorrow, maybe. But not today. I picked the book up again.
The same thing happened. I couldn’t put it down. I underlined more passages. I saw myself again and again inside the moments on the page that did not mirror my own. I saw myself in the spaces that weren’t there.
This was getting more and more intense. I picked up my phone and texted a friend:
What was the last book you read in a day? A book you could not put down?
Our brief conversation sparked even more ideas. I wrote those down.
How could a morning that typically started with my decision to use my most creative and highest energy reserve for others, suddenly have turned into all of this creative fuel?
And, on top of that: How could I have learned something about myself so booming in just the last two days?
As I continued reading the book, my noticing shifted from what I saw in myself, in my history of identity exploration, to what I see in the craft of writing. I saw the narrative of the book so clearly. I understood what the author was doing. The pieces weren’t really pieces anymore because the author had indeed intricately stitched them together in such a way that we could see before we even peeled back the first page. This is part of the art. The stitching.
I started to notice some of the writing techniques I often talk about with writers, plain as day. “Oh this would make a great example of “writing the absence” or zooming the lens outside of our own story.” I dogeared those pages.
My appreciation for writing in “fragments” or pieces also blossomed. This book had me looking things up, Googling, looking through old notes, going back to my resources … tracing my steps.
There was a section in the book where the author shared a similar “building of inventory” through tracing steps, and it took my breath away because of the synchronicity. In mapping out for us how he’d explored again and again his relationship with his blackness, he says “I wrote down names. Every footnote led to another artefact.”
There was a desire … for more. To let curiosity be the engine…
This is really where I saw myself.
I have always had a deep love for searching for pieces. There’s an oh so sweet indulgence in uncovering new pieces only to be even more curious about where those pieces would lead you. That’s literally been the story of my life. Creative curiosity has been the biggest and most powerful tool in my toolbox. The conditions were made for it.
So you see, I came back to the craft, eventually. The long, winding back-route allowed me to see so much more.
When I mentor writers, I understand the need to expand on craft and show someone how a story can land and how to craft a character in such a way that the reader feels it. I understand the value in learning how to craft sentences that both leave you so full and at the same time take your breath away. I will always leave space for this kind of art-making. But in addition to that, surrounding it is something just as important: creating the conditions to witness it in action, and to understand the kind of impact it can have when you do. To realize that seeing yourself inside a story, and simultaneously nowhere near it, is one of the greatest gifts a writing mentor can offer.
After reading another 50 pages, my inventory was brimming. I needed a break to start doing something with my bounty. One idea? This newsletter. Another, was a helpful possible re-entry into the novel I’d been working on. That’s next. Oh and I also made some fried potatoes for breakfast lol.
I realized today that not all of the writing mentors I’ve had over the years really taught me how to write. What they did, each in their own way, was create the conditions for me to see the full range of what writing could be, and what might become possible once I stepped into it.
Saying no with love to my typical routine was such a tiny thing. Microscopic. But what became possible was because of a series of micro decisions stitched together again and again.
with love, Chelene
Founder, Breathing Space Creative
Reflect + Rewrite
This Week's Reflection Question: What was the last book you could not put down? What kept you reading?
After answering the reflection question, revisit what you wrote.
Is there a single line—just one—that surprised you?
Maybe it stirred something. Maybe it made you pause.
Copy that line out. Sit with it.
As always, if you feel called, I’d love to see it. Hit reply and share it with me.
