No, really. It is. And I’m not the only one who finds this news utterly delightful. I mean, come on. Of course the Earth is singing as she twirls through space, like a four-year-old in the backyard with a Goodwill prom dress and a magic wand. Twirling in circles, and singing that tuneless sort of song kids half-hum when they’re having a helluva good time, completely absorbed in what they’re doing.

As the Selkie might say, “That kid has magic.” By which she means, a lucky child whose parents understand that sometimes kids just need to goof off and hum.

But maybe the Earth is humming like an adult in the kitchen, fully absorbed in the making of something. Or at the laptop, or just messing around with a piano. Have you ever done that? Not played the piano, mind you, but just listened to the sounds it makes when you plonk it, humming while you do so?

I think Gaia wants us to sing back.

That was always one of my favorite Sesame Street songs. I don’t know about the “sing just about the happy stuff”, but the “don’t worry if it’s not good enough for anyone to hear”?

Oh, yeah, I believe in that. I really think that’s part of the point of writing. Or creating anything. (You knew this would come around to writing, didn’t you?)

One of the best things that ever happened to me was reading The Artist’s Way–the part where Julia Cameron says to give yourself permission to create bad art. To me, that was incredibly freeing. Permission to write the worst dreck in the world, as long as I wrote and kept writing. As long as I was happy, and doing what I was made to do.

Heady stuff. Because before there is discipline and doing this professionally, there was just me trying to get up the courage to write without feeling like I was a failure every time I set pen to paper. Trying not to remember everyone who ever told me I was worthless and that I couldn’t create anything worth looking at. Even, yes, my mother’s voice saying, “You’re so smart, why didn’t you do this right the first time around?”

I had a writing class once were I started explaining this. “If you need permission,” I said, “you’ve got it. You’ve got a working writer’s permission to write however badly you want. It’s not important for the first million words. That’s why they call it practice–”

I turned back to the room and two women were crying. Turns out they had really just needed to hear some variant of it’s okay to try this, to be bad at this. So much of our culture is bound up in the idea of teachers or authority figures giving us “permission”.

We ended up writing out certificates that stated so-and-so was a Writer, goddammit (the “goddammit” was my personal hiccup, uttered mentally every time), and had the right to write. It was silly, right? Nobody should need anyone’s signature to attempt to write, or to create. (I’m not saying everyone needs someone’s permission or even my permission, so don’t get all het up about that red herring.)

What I’m saying is, if you need to hear from someone that it’s okay to do this, and it’s okay to screw up and make mistakes while doing this, consider it said. Consider it heard. For what it’s worth, I am telling you this: you have permission to write the worst dreck in the world, sing off-key, dance without being Baryshnikov, knit without worrying about dropped stitches. The world is messy and wonderful, and how do we ever expect to learn how to write better, dance better, sing better, knit better without practice? And practice means making mistakes. It means f!cking up and going back and figuring it out and messing around with the joy of making something. That’s the important part. The finished work is important too, of course it is–but don’t let the fact that you’re going to make mistakes stop you from trying. Please don’t do that. Make all the mistakes you need to.

Each mistake is a chance for joy. Each dropped stitch could be a fork in the road, one that can take you somewhere you’ve never been. Each clumsy word will strengthen you, each comma you go back and remove will cheer you, each time you stumble while dancing you can consider it an invitation to a new movement, maybe one that’s never been done before.

Earth has been singing for a billion years or so. You think she didn’t have a few dropped notes? And still, look at what she made.

Ain’t it grand?

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 23rd, 2008 at 10:13 am and is filed under Real Life, Writing, Cool Stuff, Deep Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.