What it's like having a mischief maker living inside me.
What it's like having a mischief maker living inside me.
This isn’t the War of Art.
A brisk meditation on my relationship with my wayward, yet wise AF, inner distraction gremlin.
If you’ve ever wrestled with your creative practice or attempted to coerce yourself into writing when one part of you authentically desires to do the thing, but another (seemingly more audacious and inexhaustible) part would rather you partake in just about anything else…
then you are familiar with what I have affectionately dubbed The Mischief.
Unwinding each layer:
My aim for today was to get to the keyboard. While other seasons of my life have been wildly prolific, this week my ambitions have been very human. Derriere on chair. Coffee in cup. Document open.
It has been a painful few days. Sometimes, I wonder if the pain caused by avoiding my creative purpose (by evading the work) is so strong that it leads me to create chaos in other realms of my life—issues I must tend to—as a further excuse to skip over the writing.
But the thing is: The writing is the thing I must do to unfurl the pain. To move an inch closer to what aches. To see the something I was fashioned to do…and to do it.
The Mischief steps up to the plate:
I have a mischief maker living inside of me. She contorts and maneuvers and permanently wanders away from the page *the instant* I lend permission to rest. Here’s the thing: I trust deep rest. I trust with every inch of my skin and marrow the NECESSITY of letting the work breathe, letting our fingers breathe, letting the channel breathe.
The spokesperson for grand side quests:
So it’s tricky, sometimes, to pinpoint when and where The Mischief begins to lead me astray. The Mischief is not the chairman of deep, nurturing rest; she is the spokesperson for grand side quests, avowing:
“Once I map out a trip to Spain…once I make a run to my favourite café to fetch a gluten-free double chocolate cookie and the perfect americano with a splash of coconut cream…once I do a hefty load of laundry…well then, THEN the writing will flow. Flawlessly.”
On tidying house & the voice of The Mischief:
The twist is: she’s not wrong. These subsidiary pursuits live rent free in my subconscious and, when disregarded for an extended period of time, have a knack for undermining the “good writing”—stopping it in its tracks, deferring what genuinely desires to pour out in favour of filling up the page with, well, nonsense.
Every once in a while, the keeper of this mysterious list that, once addressed, tidies the house of my mind inevitably convinces me that the writing is not meant to happen today. That I am indeed forcing things. The more nuanced detail is this voice sounds acutely similar to the voice of wisdom that whispers these lines when they are genuinely true—when I am, in fact, being beckoned to soften, to step into a phase of integration, inquiry, or exploration in place of creation.
This is to say, The Mischief has acquired the gift of mimicry.
Acknowledging her superpower, remaining in right relationship:
So here I am, hair pulled back in a classic ‘she means business’ bun, fingers gracing keys, 7 minutes into locating the mimicry, and 2.5 minutes into locating a sliver of intimacy with the truth.
Sometimes, this is all it takes. Derriere on chair. Coffee in cup. Document open.
Now that I’ve exposed the ways of The Mischief, I am considerate and intentional about remaining in right relationship with her. In the snippets of space between her various propositions, she is filled with wisdom, with knowing, with superpower, with tact.
She knows I do not write well or true or vulnerably (nor do I come anywhere near locating the truth of a matter) when I am carrying fifty unmet wants and needs and tasks and desires with me. She knows I do not care to write if I am not creatively vital. Amidst her shenanigans, she has an intimate and straight connection with The Creator, and she also knows how I move my body when God says go. She is well aware that I am feverishly uninterested in sticking to a routine if it means betraying my creative compass. If it means pretending and sitting and writing for the sake of moving my body in a particular way. She understands that, while I will not pretend to be “fully cooked,” I have spent my fair share of years adhering to The War of Art, and I refuse to live in a way so violently in opposition to my body’s rhythm.
In light of her wisdom…what comes next?
The Captainess of Play:
I am under the impression that, if I am to foster a deeper relationship with this aspect of me (this is to say, if The Mischief and I are to remain on speaking terms), and if I am to continue developing a companionship with her, then it is time she receives a promotion, of sorts.
I’ve decided to offer her the role of Captain (or rather, Captainess)—Captainess of Play, to be precise.
This feels like a fine offer, and she has accepted. In fact, she says it’s the type of recognition she has desired all along.
For now, we both seem settled. Content with the dynamic. Curious about what this holds for the writing of tomorrow.
🤍Tell us about your personal Mischief Maker. How has it served your writing or the development of your character (and capacity) as a creative?
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Thank you for being here, you beautiful creative force!
—Casey
Love thinking about the mischief maker!