This blog about keeping a creative mind was originally written circa 2015.

The rut looms. My rut is one composed of equal amounts of rage, envy, despair and fear. It is furnished with compelling reasons to waste time, watch endless amounts of reality television, dress up our cats in costumes and play Australian double solitaire. There is chocolate, there is self-pity, there is Oprah convincing me that everything I do is special because I’m middle-aged and female. I can also spend time trying on clothes that fit me for ten minutes when I was childless and anorexic or reading old reviews of my novels when I lived in New York, was a size eight and was invited to parties with important albeit horrible people. I can look up old boyfriends on Facebook and feel better if they’re bald or fat or have a pathetic amount of friends. Surprisingly, none of these activities provides inspiration. Getting out of the rut is absolutely essential.

You have to feed the heart, the spirit, and the brain with something substantial but also surprising. For example, last night I went to listen to a friend of mine who plays medieval music in a Lutheran Church in Glen Ellyn. The music was from the courts of Charles the Bold to Charles V and featured medieval instruments such as the cornetto, shwams, the sackbut, the dulcian and a hurdy gurdy. I am a huge fan of Thomas Hardy and felt as if I could close my eyes and be transported back to The Mayor of Casterbridge with Michael Henchard selling his wife for a bowl of furmity, an alcoholic porridge.

It was inspiring to witness the talent of my musician friend as she played a bagpipe and managed not to faint from oxygen deprivation. The music was beautiful, the instruments unusual and I felt inspired to return to my novel.

Last weekend I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art and was unimpressed by the majority of what I saw but it felt good to look, to take in shape and color and to challenge my palette, a palette that tends toward pretty stuff, impressionists and abstracts that show an appreciation for aesthetics, and black-and white photographs, safe art that I understand. The MCA was full of video installations that seemed if not exactly pointless, vague in their intended effect; a woman droning on about race, a dark room filled with crowd noises, and someone doing a performance piece about ‘fixing things that are broken’ that seemed simply stupid. There was also this Plexiglas egg thing you could lie inside and listen to waves. The piece was soothing and surprisingly comfortable.

In fact, I could easily make that egg into a very cozy rut, adding a television and a bowl of chocolate, and possibly argue that I was part of the installation, “Writer’s Block” or “Artist in a Rut”. Recently, called “Certified Copy” set in Italy that featured a man and a woman bickering about art and marriage, memory and authenticity. It was a fascinating, slightly unsettling film especially since I watched it with my husband and some things about how we start to lose sight of those we claim to love felt close to the bone. But it also reminded me of my work, the marriage in my novel, trying to recreate true intimacy in words, trying to make concrete the abstract push and pull of love. We left the film and immediately argued. I need time to absorb most movies; those that require more effort then watching things blow up. My husband prefers the instant replay, a five-minute recap of the essential themes. It felt like we were a mirror image to the couple in the film, which was fascinating. This discovery sent me back to my novel and the dialogue between the couple was greatly improved.

Finally, there is exercise. On a weekly basis I kick box, take yoga, do cardio and spin. I also disappear for a week of bike riding with a group of people I only see once a year, a trip that requires an average of 60-80 miles of saddle time, little to do besides pedal, talk smack about other riders, consume vast amounts of calories and complain about rain, hills and chafing. After this week I ascend the long ladder that has been lowered into my rut and I slowly ascend towards the writing that has waited patiently asking little except my willingness to remain open to inspiration, pay attention and do my work.

—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach

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