When I interviewed a renowned Italian architect at his studio in Rome in an old quarter of the city, he said he had moved from Paris back to his city of origin because he needed conflict to create.  In Paris he’d won recognition, fame, commissions for major buildings, but he’d fallen into the trap of comfort and ease.  “In Rome, it’s chaotic.  There’s confusion everywhere.”  He swung his arms in the air to illustrate.  “People go on strike.   They yell at you.  I can’t get a taxi when I want.  All of this makes me more creative,” he insisted. 

Mad man, I thought.  Give me peace and quiet and a mountain peak to write from.  But after a month and a half in the mountains away from urban chaos, I feel the lack of material for stories.  In bucolic splendor, amid tinkling cow bells and the rushing flow of the glacier blue river, my life evolves in harmony with the nature of the Swiss Alps.  But historical writer, Barbara Tuchman says that while everyday life may be uneventful and happy, disasters and conflict pervade the news and stories of the past and present.  It’s the catastrophes that capture our attention and we want to know what happens next.  How did they resolve the problem?  How did the story move out of conflict and back to a bucolic equilibrium? 

On a picnic yesterday in a field of rock, tall grass and alpine flowers I ate lunch peacefully.  This is not a story.  A story begins if ants invade the picnic; other hikers on the trail chase me down and take my Swiss cheese, and I fall in a 30 foot chasm trying to valiantly hold on to my meal.  If all goes well nobody really cares.  It’s expected.  On the other hand if it turns bad, the story begins.

The architect, after his move to Rome, has designed some of his most prolific and exciting buildings yet, including the mile long expanse of twisting and rising volcanoes of glass at the Milan World Trade Fair.  In the end, perhaps the most success comes with a balance of both conflict and stability or serenity, especially in the writer’s creative life.      

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008    www.debramoffitt.com

In periods where the writing flows onto the page, it’s easy to continue for weeks on end with no real breaks.  Then, it seems, my well runs dry.  After about six weeks and 35,000 words on a rough draft, I felt empty.  So I stopped, puttered, worked on articles, did research, read about medieval history, cooked and hiked.  My mind drifted occasionally to the book writing, but for the most part remained quiet and empty – especially on the six hour hike up and down Val Osola at the foot of Monte Zucchero.  With the waterfalls crashing, chamois lilting through the forest and the wild pink azaleas in full bloom, each step of the way filled with brilliant, clear light and the resolution to continue until we reached the refuge at 1480 meters (about 4,500 feet).   Patches of snow and wild strawberries intermingled in this Alpine paradise.  The mountain peaks perched majestically above and lured me to come back to conquer them soon. 

 In hiking, especially when the trail is long and rocky, each step requires concentration and focus.  A misstep might mean a slip down a sheer cliff into the river.  With the focus on one step at a time, little by little I arrived at the destination.  This is the way of writing too.  Planning to write a 70,000 word book may seem daunting at first, but by concentrating on the present and doing one step at a time, the pieces fit together into a whole work.  But it demands regular practice, patience, solid structure combined with free flowing creativity, and good breaks that refill the well.   Yesterday evening I printed out my work from last week and primed the pump for morning writing on the non-fiction book again.  After a light breakfast of fruit, a cup of café d’orzo and some stretching, the stage is set and it’s time to write the final half of this draft – one keystroke at a time.   

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008   www.debramoffitt.com

In an interview with Mario Botta, renowned architect of sacred spaces and museums, we discussed the creative process.  He outlined five steps that he applies to creating a building.  The same steps can apply to writing and life as well:  1) Use reason to identify a problem; let intuition find the answer.  2) use your work to elevate society; 3) search for the new equilibrium, 4) build on your experience, and 5) foster the growing need for the sacred.

1)  The first step is common though not always conscious – use reason to pinpoint a problem and intuition to solve it.  Often as writers we do this whether we’re fully aware of it or not.  We find ourselves faced with a creative dilemma in a story or non-fiction piece and then in a moment of letting go, the answer comes in a flash while cooking or cleaning or thinking of something else. 

2)  Botta thinks of his work in a social, historical and cultural context.  He loves his work and realizes that what he creates may impact a place and its people for generations to come.  He consciously works to bring a sense of protection and harmony into the constructed space, especially in his sacred spaces, but also at the five star Tschuggen Hotel Bergoase spa and in his office buildings like the Banca Gottardo in Lugano.  By helping people to feel good in a space, he may contribute to their wellbeing, sense of repose and also elevate society.  As writers, our tools are words and concepts that contain the power to uplift and elevate others.  Do we leave people with a good feeling about the interior space we create in their minds with our images and ideas?    

3)  Losing equilibrium marks the start of a good story.  Something shifts and the character falls out of the usual world into a period of struggle and imbalance.  She strives through to the end to regain a sense of equilibrium.  This movement, from one equilibrium to a new one, explains the arc of a normal story in fiction and non-fiction.  It also applies to the creative process of our lives as well, as we fall into periods of imbalance and strive to find the new place that brings us back to an inner and outer equilibrium.

4) Build on experience.  Each step, each new story and article lays the foundation stones for the next work we do.  Through steady, regular work and discipline, our knowledge of writing, structuring and building story grows.  We become more adept at shaping characters and using words to sculpt images on the page.  Each experience may help us to expand as writers.

5)  Foster the sacred.  Botta believes, “There’s a strong but very personal need for the sacred.”  Each person contains a spark of the sacred and through his work Botta may, if the person is so inclined, connect with and ignite this spark.  Every writer and every creative individual may find enrichment by taking time to foster the sacred in herself and her life.  For me this means taking time out to listen to the inner guiding voice of conscience, walking quietly along the river, paying attention to dreams, creating an altar or sacred space at home and really listening to others.  Through fostering the sacred within ourselves and our work, we offer something – an article, a building, a kind thought – that might touch and inspire a soul.  Designing and crafting things is a way to create beauty and to overcome the tension, anxiety and contradictions of daily life, Botta says.  “It is a way to bear witness to hope.”    

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008    www.debramoffitt.com

In Muralto today, not far from the lake, I walked a path of jasmine.  Little white flowers spread out underfoot for half a block and I moved ahead in a thick cloud of sweet, rich fragrance.  Above my head white cumulus clouds of jasmine billowed over a stone wall.  I breathed in deeply and enjoyed each deep breath.  Walking through heaven must feel like this – light, sweet, uplifting.  Who could be depressed or irritated while encircled by such a beautiful scent?    

Yesterday I interviewed bestselling author and medical intuitive, Caroline Myss.  She said if you choose to live your life from a spiritual perspective that absolutely everything you do, think and say matters.  Our moods, our choices about food, about forgiveness, everything.  Absolutely everything.

For a writer, this is an intimidating prospect.  Not only are words powerful, they also carry with them our deeper motives and sentiments.  The reader will pick up the fragrance of the writer’s spirit and be uplifted, frustrated or irritated, depending on the subtle influence of her state of mind and spirit. 

Several years ago I dreamed that my novel in progress contained poisons – cynical, mean sentiments that would infect others.  I wondered about the possibility of cleaning it up, washing out the subtle low sentiments floating behind the ideas, but found it impossible.  I’d worked on the novel for two years, but gave it an appropriate burial. 

Words contain power, and the emotions and spirit of the writer penning them conveys a broader composition, much like a piece of music might.  Writing transmits a feeling and can have a profound subtle impact on others.  We sense it when we put down a book and its mood follows us throughout the day or night.  Films, which combine words with light images, hold an even more powerful influence over the psyche. 

Copyright: Debra Moffitt, 2008    www.debramoffitt.com

If my state of being is quiet, content and peaceful when I write, then the reader will pick up the subtle scent like a fragrance.  Perhaps she too will be inspired to be more peaceful and content.  Though the feelings are invisible and subtle, they have the power to shape our worlds, both inner and outer.  When news journalists focus on the negative and provoke stress and drama through their portrayals this influences the world at large, making it more stressful, dramatic and negative.  While it may be necessary to reveal the darker side of life and its problems, is it possible to show and tell the truth in a way that does not harm?  Is it possible to draw out the good and focus on solutions?    

Let your words and your state of being communicate in the subtle beauty of flowers that speak in the sweet silence of fragrance.                   

In meditation, I sit in silence not seeking for answers to what comes next in my writing, but the answers appear – unexpected and clear.  And then I write.  One word at a time, and the words take shape in an almost mystical process of creation.  At fifteen I had an ulcer.  To heal it, I threw away the drugs (except for Maalox) and meditated.  In about a month, it had disappeared.  How did I know to go inside to heal my strained nerves and mind?  How did I understand that by calming my mind, my body could heal?  Once the healing came, I lost the meditation practice until years later when I decided to leave business and write.  An initial practice of t’ai chi connected movement with breath and helped me to slow down, become conscious and relax again.

The creative well is within the heart.  It’s like a pure source, a pristine spring ever flowing.  The quiet brings it bubbling to the surface.  In American cities noise rattles our brains.  In Charlotte’s new urban shopping “villages” programmed music shapes mood and experience in attempt to keep us entertained, to keep us from getting bored.  The noise fragments us.  We shut down, block it out and ignore.  It’s necessary for sanity. 

But silence is a necessity too.  In a recent writers workshop I asked participants to spend lunchtime in silence.  It meant a total of about an hour without speaking, reading or writing.  Some sat outside under the trees, walked along the muted paths.  When everyone returned, I invited them to write about their experience with the silence.  The words they read later were profound, inspired, creative – from a stream of consciousness poem to deeply reverential prose about the power of silence to connect us to the world.  I’d expected protests against the silence, but the group (except for two people) embraced it fully and fell in love with it.   Their enthusiasm encourages me to recommend it to you.  Try sitting silently once each day – same time and place.  Schedule it as diligently as a workout at the gym.  It’s actually more important.  In the silence solutions come to seemingly impenetrable problems.  Understanding dawns about why someone acted the way she did or what you should cut out of your diet.  In the silence there is no pretension and no effort.  Take it as an opportunity to get to know your Self – that deeper inner ocean that contains the universe and more.

If you dare, try scheduling a day in total silence – a day when you need not be forced to speak to anyone.  Let the phone take messages.  Shut down the Internet connection.  Turn off the Blackberry.  No cheating by writing notes.  Just listen.  Go without TV, without music droning in the background.  Listen and pay attention.  Something fantastic might happen.  In the silence of the Alps, I’ve spent weeks on end barely speaking a word – a verbal fast.  I kept the TV turned off and the reading at a minimum too.  It made me friends with my Self, made me comfortable with my own companionship. 

In the strength of silence, the subtleties arise.  Become like a sweet jasmine flower that speaks in the silence of its fragrance.