Writers, Artists, & Performing Artists

“I've written a total of three chapters; the deadline is the 15th. And every time I think about writing this thing, I feel sick."

"I try not to let it get to me, but ... the rejection is beginning to get to me."

“They loved it … they want it, and they want to see more. So why am I so uncomfortable?! … I feel as if ‘interested parties’ now own a part of me. Like I’ve just sold a part of me … Why am I so scared all of a sudden!?

"This director treats me like I'm a child. And it's beginning to really affect my performance."

Many therapists specialize in their cultures of origin, whether regional, ethnic, or religious. Makes sense: such exposure provides a unique understanding and knowledge base. I grew up in the arts. Surrounding me, as far as the eye could see, creativity on a deadline paid the rent.

This was a flesh and bone introduction to the business, the uncertainties, the delights, the varied terrors, and the bedrock integrity involved in choosing a life in the arts.

I became a writer myself. And, soon enough, a “blocked” writer. Then – after years of struggle with myself – an unblocked “novelist.” And then – an “unpublished novelist.”

I say all this because, in large part, my “helping credentials” here are a native’s knowledge of the terrain.

There’s inner terrain, and outer terrain.

The inner terrain is essentially … one’s self. It’s sometimes experienced as the “space” or “place” we inhabit as we work. Its landscape is shaped by the totality of our lived experience. Like all terrain, it comes with weather – the moods and high thermals that blow in to inspire or to drench us. Day in, day out, we travel this terrain with one objective: to have an encounter with creativity that results in our actually creating something.

But creativity isn’t always waiting for us where we last found it. So we set out in search of it. Sometimes, we connect, and spend hours in a state of creative absorption, producing precious, serious material. Sometimes, the mental weather turns bad. Walls appear where skies had been. Our stomachs remind us it’s time for lunch. Then creativity shows up – but just sits there, blinking.

An artist may develop powerful feelings about this “place” – this process – and find equally powerful ways of defending against these feelings (say, by avoiding the process, getting mired in jealousy of others, ruminating on failure, or drinking).

The way I sometimes see it: It’s a relationship. A relationship with a vital aspect of the self that seems elusive, unreliable, and fecund. (There’s a reason all those poems have been written about the Muse.)

You also have a relationship with the works you produce. For some, the product of the creative process feels like a living thing, with its own destiny – and there are feelings there, too: love, fear, hope, shame, anger, disgust, joy. These feelings toward and about the work are expressed – in protectiveness, attachment, fear of rejection, fear of making changes, flaw-finding irritation, avoidance, stars-in-the- eyes confidence. When you create a work of art, you are then asked to send it out into the world.

Which brings us to the outer terrain.

The outer terrain is where your process – and your work – meet The World. And The World – including the art world – is in a state of accelerated technological, aesthetic, and economic disruption. This complicates the eternal problems of creativity.

Whether you find welcome, or rejection out there the world – this, too, is a kind of relationship. How do you experience the changes in your own “Creative Industrial Complex”? How do you experience and respond to praise and criticism, welcome and rejection? And how do your feelings about these things affect your process as an artist?

Professional artists often come to see me about “blocks,” and anguish about a pattern of struggle in the “inner” or “outer” terrain that hampers the creative process. Some of these may sound familiar to you: a sense of failure to create, or failure to find a niche; the need to adapt to the impact of injury or illness on performance or process; strain and tension between artistic authenticity and “selling out” for survival; a sense of undeserved success. Watching artists find new paths on new terrain is one of the great joys of my practice.

I’ve been discussing how the professional artist is “different” and “special” – there are issues besetting creative folk that are quite specific to them. But it may be reassuring to hear that what helps creative people find the path to a richer, deeper, more resilient creative process is “not so different” from what helps us all find richness, depth, and resiliency in ourselves.

It comes of … approaching, sensing into, and feeling what we really feel about things – and noticing how we have learned to defend against these feelings over time. You might have a look at the My Approach page for a sense of how I work.

But – you have questions about therapy for artists! Fire away! I’m listening.

I’ll admit it – I’m suffering. But I’m afraid that if I feel better, I’ll lose touch with my suffering. If I lose touch with my pain, I won’t be able to create. I’ll become boring, and my work will be boring.

I hear this often. Creative people often see their anxieties, sorrows, and traumas as deep currents that feed the creative process; they fear that exploring these currents in therapy – or, worse, feeling better! – will cause damage to the process. Damage they cannot afford. These fears are worthy of respect, but seem to come of a misunderstanding. The idea is not to anesthetize your pain through “understanding”; the idea is to allow yourself to feel the truth hidden in your pain, and allow it to tell you things you hadn’t known before.

Do you help people with writer’s block? Or other blocks?

What seems to make work with artists and writers effective is the ability to sense with them into their own inner “terrain” … and together sense into why they may “need” to block themselves. For reasons that may seem “illogical”, or “nuts” — but are valid to the emotional-mind. For some reason … a feeling comes up as a writer approaches a piece of work … and in order to avoid this feeling (evoked by the subject matter, the deadline, a buried feeling about family, a feeling towards the publisher, a recent loss or gain), the writer blocks himself and avoids writing. The “crazy wisdom” of blocking is real; actually, we get through the block by respecting this “crazy wisdom,” getting curious about it together. Your mind would not be doing this to you without a reason. And we generally reach the truth of an avoided feeling, which we then process together. Frees a person up!

Wait. But I’ve heard that there is no such thing as “writer’s block” – you just have to DO it, every day, whether you’re “feelin’ it” or not.

There’s truth in that, too – and there are all sorts of “just do it” techniques to work through shallower blocks. I’m a great believer in “creating anyway” … mindfully attending to the feelings (and resistance) that come up (the block).

Sometimes I think that what I really need is some coaching – just to work out strategies for getting things done. Not only creatively, but professionally.

One thing I learned from my parents and their coterie of writers and artists was: the vital art of brainstorming. As an experiential therapist, I’ve found ways to make this process into a fairly sophisticated strategy for solving problems. Brainstorming is energizing and freeing – essentially, free-form, no holds barred, all minds-on-deck thinking through career obstacles, creative snags, and the existential Big Questions that face those who face down creativity itself. Brainstorming enables us to find both hidden opportunities, and opportunities hidden in plain sight.

Look, all this stuff about “inner terrain” and “inner places” doesn’t do it for me. That’s not my process at all. How can I trust you to get me and my process?

Three thumbs up for protest!

You can only trust me if I do get it. And you need to trust your own gut on this. What you’re saying is vital: my little metaphors and images don’t resonate with you. Toss them away. I’m not wedded to them; I am wedded to the process of getting curious about you, with you as my guide. I am dedicated to helping you to understand your own process and your own obstacles.

I provide a full-length, free initial consult by video or phone precisely so that you can gauge for yourself if my approach to therapy for artists is right for you.

Feel free to call me at 917-446-1683, or contact me here.