River/Roland
Recently, I’ve been researching into “flow states”, a phenomenon where people completely lose themselves in their work. Their focus is optimized, time dilates, and whatever they’re doing, whether it’s writing, painting, woodworking, or tweezing random hairs that prop up in the most unfortunate places, nothing else seems to matter. They become grains in an hourglass, or a biting, unrelenting wind, unleashing the full range of their attention and creativity.
The goal is to dive into the flow every time you’re productive. Several things need to happen: You need to know what you’re doing, you can’t be distracted, and you can’t allow your own criticisms or insecurities to snuff out your motivation. Having a “push” from the outside is also great help. Most of the time, this comes in the form of tight deadlines. Some people find it through a ravenous desire to prove themselves, or impress others. Me? I’d prefer to find it by spelunking into the deepest chasms of my imagination, exploring the labyrinth with a flashlight, scanning every corner and crevice for a new character, idea, or theme.
But, to be honest, I’ve had a rough go of it as of late. If you haven’t noticed, my last post was over two months ago. It’s not from a lack of trying; I write for at least three hours a day. But for some odd reason, I’ve noticed that I haven’t been wholly consumed by inspiration like I used to, which is kind of the whole point of the process. So I did what we all should do: I rewound my ‘ole memory bank, and recalled the moments when my flow was at its zenith.
I found it rushing through my darkest places, in a time when I wasn’t in the best headspace. A few years ago, I hated myself, life, and everything else in between. But one night, while sitting at my computer, having just inhaled my third bowl of Cocoa Pebbles, I had an idea of a random character with a curious lisp, and started to write about him. Soon enough, an abundance of personal issues began to flood the screen. Everything from life’s difficult questions, to mundane, embarrassing memories that I continued to cling onto. An interesting thing happened: When I read them back to myself, I recognized that they were, in reality, a tad ridiculous. The gargantuan troubles and harrowing tragedies that plagued me were simply figments of my overactive, unreasonable mind.
Once I arrived at that understanding, writing became my preferred system of self-therapy. I could surrender myself onto the keys and speak without restraint. I started to amuse myself by writing stories. Terrible stories. Characters riddled with clichés, finding themselves in garbage heaps of dumb situations and illogical conflicts, playing tug-o-war with oversaturated, melodramatic dialogue, in settings and backdrops you’ve seen one too many times before.
But oh, was it fun. I wasn’t going to show anyone my writing anyway, so I could dabble and experiment in whatever fictitious worlds I could conjure, dip into their silliness, and enjoy the process.
That’s when I first experienced the flow. It’s like you’re riding a flourishing river of unbound imagination. You’re submerged in sublime waters, drifting in a pristine, crystal-clear torrent, and all the bad weather evaporates. Insecurity is alleviated. Judgment doesn’t exist. You just float on your back and let the river carry you. You’re able to settle in, relax, and listen to the sounds of nature, because all your bitter worries are muted, forgotten on the banks. As long as you keep your head above the water, you can avoid the inevitable showdown with your self-destructive thoughts, and transcribe the pure ones leftover.
Contrasting that experience with my recent history, I realized that over the last couple months, as I dedicated a surplus of hours to a difficult short story, I let the river run dry. Let me tell you, I was committed to this one. I had a flawless image in my head—a narrative that would instigate fits of laughter, in addition to the involuntary bending of tears. But in the pursuit of perfection, nothing got done. I was forcing myself to write at a skill level far beyond my current capacity. I bit off more than I could chew, mixed with a healthy swig of taking myself too seriously; and by doing so, I had constructed dams that inhibited the free-flow of my inspiration. The result was the total investment of my energy into an upstream dog-paddle, when I should have enjoyed a refreshing evening by splashing around in a kiddie pool.
Before I knew it, I found myself strung along by a divergent undertow, which pulled me far away from the main reason why I created this site in the first place: to enjoy my life, conquer my fears, and improve myself. I’m thankful I’m in a better spot to adapt. I was able to recognize it, shift my focus, and the result was this piece—I wrote this whole thing in three days!
That’s the magic of the river: You dive in, let it flow, and savor the current.
This experience has taught me that the best way to improve is to dive right in. I waded in the muck for awhile, but it taught me to utilize the river’s power to my advantage. Showing up to write everyday is difficult as is; I’m not doing myself any favors by handicapping the process. It’s provided a clearer window into my capabilities as well, and I believe I’m ready to head farther out into the water. So, I’m committing to releasing a new piece, weekly. No stress necessary—I’ll jump in without a second thought, just like I used to. At the end of the day, it’s all about having fun and enjoying the ride. Maybe that extra “push” will unlock a greater power within me, who knows? But I’m positive that as long as I let it flow, my imagination will run its due course, and my swimming ability will strengthen with time.
You know what? I feel like taking the plunge right now.
* * *
It’s a hot and breezy afternoon at a miniature, dusty ballpark. A young boy, only a few months removed from his fifth birthday, pirouettes in the outfield. He’s absorbed in his fantasies; absent from reality, once again.
Three weeks before, his father, confident he would become a natural athlete, barged into his bedroom with a distasteful announcement—he had been enrolled to play tee-ball. He groaned. He grumbled. He mumbled. He pleaded; but to no avail. He is here, draped in a white and gold uniform, adorned with purple socks and cap, finding more entertainment playing solo-charades than the game at hand.
His father, standing on the sidelines, is beginning to understand that no matter where his offspring may find himself, he will find a way to paint an epic out of the most basic scenes. In his young mind, he is King, commanding his armies on a grand battlefield, thanking a chivalrous warrior for defending his life. In truth, he has plucked something out of the sod: a rather sizable roly-poly, sunbathing on a fully loaded dandelion.
Swallowed by his reverie, he is oblivious to the teething child at home plate, swinging his bat with diamond-cut precision like a prime Tony Gwynn. Cheers erupt. Footsteps quake the infield. As the young boy fraternizes with a pillbug, he fails to notice that for nearly a half-minute, the ball lay only three feet away from his transfixed position, all while gummy boy circumnavigates the bases at sloth-like speed—even tripping twice between second and third on behalf of his unraveled Spider-Man shoelaces.
It’s only when the baserunner rounds third and hobbles toward the plate that the young boy realizes the crowd is howling his name; an irritating interruption. He withdraws from his hallucination, regards the mob of frenzied grown-ups and teammates directing their fingertips to the white-and-red Easter egg nesting nearby, and after a few beats, spots its glimmer in the rays of the golden summer light.
“Oh yeah,” he thinks as he meanders to its resting place, bends over, and harvests it from the Earth. And with a cute little twirl, followed by a half-effort hurl, he chucks it somewhere toward the general direction of his team.
When the ball arrives at the first baseman’s ankles, Toothless crosses the plate, and raises his fists in exhilarating victory. His teammates snatch him up and place him atop their shoulders, where they chant his name and sing songs of praise as they carry him to the cradle of applause and cheers, roaring from the bleachers.
The young boy, in his mind having just waved off an intrusive fly, resumes his most urgent engagement. He opens his glove and studies the armadillo insect laze on its cushy abode. He tallies the multitudes of spindly legs, and measures the light bend on the curve of his body armor; a gleaming patina with a subtle tint of medieval. In that second, a lightbulb poofs atop the crown of his head; and with a proper royal accent, bestows knighthood upon his new friend—the precise and most excellent name of Sir Roland.
He turns his back toward the crowd, opens his palm, then whispers a heartfelt farewell. After a heavy inhale, and with all his might, he blows the flower into the currents of the dry, westerly wind. He waves as the pillbug rises up and up, so high toward the spotted sky; tracing its ascent as it soars across the expansive plains of barbered grass, over the unfathomable peaks of the outfield’s shelled-yellow fencing, then observes it shrink to a lone speck in the distance, where he foresees it floating like a leisurely parachute to wherever the good universe resolves.
Later on, as they’re driving home, the young boy is gazing out toward the landscape, reeling by his window. His father, one hand on the steering wheel, the other massaging his stubble in contemplation, glances at his son through the rearview, grins, then asks:
“So, what were you doing out there today, bud?”
The boy doesn’t hear him. He’s imagining Sir Roland, mounted upon his glorious wind-surfing steed, landing in the clearing of a deep-dark forest, being welcomed by a horde of adoring cartoon animals, quivering with anticipation. He rises in triumph, drums his chest, and with a booming voice, recounts his adventures among the clouds, and how he owes it all to his king—a friendly giant, having shown him more of the world than any of his kind could ever hope to dream.
