When you’re a writer Facebook becomes a peculiar problem.
Famous writer Zadie Smith, in her list of 10 rules for writers, says that working on a computer without wi-fi is essential. I guess she was tempted, while writing, to make too many visits to The New York Review of Books and start grazing.
In this post, I’m using the word peculiar to evoke its deeper etymology. Peculiar’s Late Middle English usage was to indicate: “Belonging to one person.” But even more peculiar (and further back in time) is the word’s Latin origin and usage, which is related to cattle and how those cattle belonged to you, were your property.
The Latin etymological tree goes like this:
pecu (cattle) > peculium (property) > peculiaris (of private property) > peculiar (particular, special).
So this is good to note, because you need to guard your stock when you’re working on your own creative stuff; to keep your words in your own writing stockade — rather than let them roam too much within the Facebook dream field. Grazing.
Secrets, Tips and Suggestions
Over the years, as a writer and incessant Facebooker, I’ve found that I can use Facebook for:
1. A well-deserved breather.
2. A maneuver to avoid an impending inner-critic attack. All writers know the inner-critic’s voice and the damage it does: “This is horrid and Dad was right, I’ve no talent. I should have stayed a cashier.” If I stay there grinding away on a paragraph in tandem with my inner-critic’s voice grinding away on me, well, I’m fucked. The abuse is dehumanizing.
The inner-critic’s job is to sabotage whatever creative expression you undertake and insure that you remain identified with the idea that you’ve no skill or talent.
Kids are psychic sponges and retain every judgement aimed in their direction — from the moment of conception forward, those critiques eventually morph into the inner-critic’s voice.
I have a friend whose sister had a baby girl that she’d called an “asshole” so frequently, from babyhood onward, that whenever the toddler met someone outside the family circle she’d announce proudly: “I’m an asshole!”
So strategies must be developed to dodge (or defend) against the inner-critic. Facebook can — if used wisely — act as a respite, unplugging you from your inner-critic and its attack on your present-time creation.
3. An energizing or remedial moment: I’ve often been working on a chapter and then hopped out of Google Docs and into Facebook and bumped into a post from The Guardian about how a trapped starfish can detach its own foot, keep moving, and then grow a new foot later. And for some unknown reason, reading that random bit of weirdness galvanizes my creativity, back into its flow.
Or, conversely, whatever particular post I land on will act as a non sequitur that unravels what I was previously laboring over; revealing that my effort was, indeed, shitty, and that I need to stop writing and start reading about starfish that unhinge their feet.
4. A Dada-like exposure to chance or what I call ‘synchronic serendipity’. Dada or Dadaism was an European avant-garde art movement from the early 20th-century where the Dada artists employed randomness, chance, and synchronic mirroring to create their creations.
Dadaism became very popular with artists willing to enter the realm of the irrational and illogical to achieve their creative inspirations and creations. And like all magical processes it involved rituals of various sorts.
Facebook can be employed in a similar way for a writer. The other day, frustrated with a difficult section I was writing about the planet Mercury, I stopped, logged into Facebook, and the first post I encountered was a post about the actor Brad Pitt‘s alleged bi-sexuality.
This was the perfect ingredient I needed for inspiring a point within the chapter about Mercury’s hermaphroditic nature. Shameless plug: You’ll love this part of the book when you read it. I promise. Read more
In the declaration below, Allen Ginsberg explains why it is vital to write.
I’ll simply add this: Similar to the how the ego is targeted as a pariah within the psyche’s field of awareness, the mind also is often devalued and maligned as a function that sidetracks us — prevents focused attention.
Ginsberg reminds us that the mind is a mirror. And when we remember this I think we’re aligned in the right way with our apparatus.
“Proclamation of the actual mind, manifesting your mind, writing the mind, which goes back to Kerouac but also goes back to Milarepa, goes back to his original instructions: Don’t you trust your own mind? Why do you need a piece of paper?
So writing could be seen as “writing your mind”, observing your own mind, or observe what’s vivid coming to mind. For the purpose of relieving your own paranoia, and others’, revealing yourself and communicating to others. It is a blessing for other people if you can communicate and relieve their sense of isolation, confusion, bewilderment, and suffering by offering your own mind as a sample of what’s palpable, visible, and whatever little you’ve learned. Read more
Your wife just gave birth to a baby boy. You’re sanctioned a father now. And all of the experiences that accompany fatherhood await you.
You are a woman who just turned 68, and with this new chronological phase arrives an array of feelings and sensations. Your wisdom continues to develop but you pause now, to consider your options: To share your knowledge with others or live a quieter life of solitude.
Viewed from the archetypal realm, the new dad will soon be channeling the archetype of The Father. And the older woman is now ready to embody the archetype of The Crone or The Wise Old Woman.
But what does any of this mean?
As I’m typing this right now, I don’t feel the archetype of The Writer possessing my mind and my fingers on the keyboard. It’s just me, enjoying the process of sleuthing syntax and feeling a dull ache in the low of my back.
Can’t the two individuals mentioned above have their own unique life experiences without the depersonalizing intervention of an archetype?
Yes, they can. And they do. And archetypes need not be involved.
Archetypes are not literal structures that, once evoked, descend and encapsulate us within Platonic bell jars. But this is the conjecture that spurs everything that’s been written about, expounded upon and woven into the world of modern astrology.
Why are we hypnotized by archetypes?
My theory goes like this: In an attempt to explain the human predicament — the big questions about ‘who we are’, ‘what we are about’, ‘where we are going’ — we’ve cut ourselves in two and crawled up into our heads: The conceptual realm of the archetypes.
By abandoning a full-bodied experience of reality, we feel safer from life’s unpredictable and impermanent nature. Human bodies (and lives) have a short run. Archetypes are forever.
Many Annoying Questions
What do those archetypal dimensions have to do with the you that is sitting here, right now, reading this sentence? The you that is a unique phenomenon, the you that there is only one of, and will only ever be one of within this particular moment within the time/space continuum — and future moments too.
If you abandon the archetypal scaffolding (and as astrologers many of us have been cornered into this conceptual framework for decades), you’re left to fend for yourself. The rawness and freshness of your being becomes the ‘lens’ that life is viewed through.
What if your style of being a father is completely revolutionary to the category of ‘being a father? What if you bring to the ‘father-child’ relationship a way of being that has never been documented? Is an inspiration to other fathers in-the-making?
Why must we be cut off from our ‘is-ness’ and have our lives circulated through something that is essentially an imaginary, lifeless concept? This makes no sense. Worse, for astrologers, it generates a force field of nonsense that hovers around the sensitive relationship between the astrologer and her client.
If, as an astrologer, I can not communicate with my client without employing archetypes, then I have cut us both off from the human experience of engaging in an inquiry that is present-based, vital and alive.
Here’s an example of what I’m talking about:
The planet Mars’ bio-field does not filter through an archetype before registering within the flow of a client’s life experience. Mars exists, the planet is real, it is a life form unto itself. |
So when I am working with a client and we are discussing the themes related to the planet Mars, I want to know how she experiences this particular aspect of her nature. What is her relationship to the qualities that, heretofore, astrologers have assigned to the planet Mars? Not the Mars archetype, but the planet — the being, the angel or cosmic entity — that is Mars as the planetary body exists in real time within the living field of present-time reality.
Planets are living beings, not chunks of dead rock floating around the Sun. If I’ve no living relationship to Mars within my own life experience how can I possibly discuss the Martian experience with my client? Read more