revelatory, expressive writing
If you haven’t heard of the social psychologist James Pennebaker, I strongly recommend that you check out his research into Expressive Writing. The basics are this: Write about your emotional and somatic experience as related to difficult and/or traumatic experiences from your past for 15 minutes. Uninterrupted. Keep the pen moving (or your fingers typing).
His studies (which have been replicated numerous times) had participants doing this for four consecutive days. That’s it.
They followed the participants for six months after and found they benefited in many measurable ways both physical and psychological (less visits to the doctor, lower blood pressure, improved memory etc.), and also reported less emotional distress and depression.
The point, in case it isn’t clear, is: write.
Get out some paper and a pen that flows smoothly across the page, set a timer, and let it rip. Regularly.
This isn’t about writing something beautiful, although you might be surprised by what flows from your pen – most of my writing starts in this manner. It’s not about describing every little detail with perfect accuracy. It’s about giving yourself space to explore.
There’s an amazing moment that happens sometimes in writing. I imagine it happens in other modalities, too. It looks like this: I’m going along, letting the pen move, mundane, sometimes unintelligible, mostly boring thoughts emerging from the point where my pen meets the paper. When, all of a sudden, it feels as if my hand is moving of its own accord. I don’t actually know the words until they are on the page, I’m reading while I’m writing, some part of me revealing something to the rest of me.
Revelatory.
It doesn’t happen every time, or even most times I sit down to write. But, the more space I make for this by showing up to the page regularly, the more frequent its occurrence. It isn’t magic, though it feels magical, the result of practice, patience, discipline, and devotion.
The best part, to me at least, is that this magic does not stay on the page. It permeates my life. The availability of a different kind of impulse arises in other creative endeavors, in my love making, in the meals I cook, in the reflections I offer to clients. I’m learning to listen, with more and more subtlety, for the still small voice that is mine and also bigger, deeper, different.
