Imaginary Attic (Part 2): The Door

Great works of art sprout from wild soil. We are at our most creative when we can freely wander the sprawling fields of imagination, unbridled, unhurried, and unafraid.

Where wild things grow

Growing up, my family began to spend our summers in a small town in Northern Arizona surrounded by juniper and pine and little else. To my parents it was sacred migration away from the sweltering city heat and perhaps an intentionally forced hiatus from city life. No malls, no gyms, no coffee shops, no internet, and very poor cell reception. No outward escape beyond the gas station Dairy Queen that served as the local hangout.

For several weeks each year, books became my sole sanctuary. But as there were only so many you could pack into a single suitcase, I eventually ran out of things to read, and had little choice but to begin writing.

I spent long hours holed up in that two-bedroom cabin, surrounded by plaid and dusty old teddy bears, spinning the straw of my adolescent world into ... certainly not gold, but some semi-precious element that was at least shinier and more interesting to look at than straw.

Within the space of a few months, I'd written my first short stories, dozens of poems, and the drafts for several children's books. The thought of publishing never occurred to me. I wrote because inspiration seemed endless, the words simply wouldn't stop flowing. Creation was intoxicating. And I was hooked.

It wasn't until years later when I began pursuing writing as a career that I ran into my first wall: that solid — at times seemingly impenetrable — barrier that denotes the difference between creating playfully and creating with purpose. No longer able to aimlessly follow inspiration wherever it might lead, I found myself locked out of my own imagination by the sheer pressure of production.

What good is a wall

It took some time to realize that, in my haste to "make something" of myself as a young writer, I was skipping critical steps. Without a true understanding of the creative process, I was essentially uprooting seedlings from my imagination, attempting to transplant them directly onto my desk — then wallowing in self-doubt when those ideas didn't bloom beneath the light of my computer screen.

To this end, Imaginary Attic evolved as a framework to conceptualize the mindset and the behaviors needed to foster (not force) artistic expression. By erecting a structure within our imaginations, rather than trying to pull ideas into a logical structure, we preserve the foundations of creativity. We honor the roots and give ourselves the space to produce and eventually share the fruits of our labors.

Each wall is designed with a distinct function, together comprising a safe haven for frivolity, fantasy, and functional nonsense.

As mentioned in the previous post in this series, these are guidelines which I've developed over the years to support my personal process. While many aspects of this approach are based on general best practices (and the wisdom of far more prolific writers than myself) it is by no means a universal rule book. Instead, this framework is designed to be built upon and customized as needed.

Here is the door

The first wall can indeed serve as the barrier to creativity. It is the boundary between "right brain" and "left brain." Imagination and analytical thinking. In my earliest years, I tried desperately to break down this wall altogether. If only there were no restrictions, if only I could stay in that creative state of mind — or at least step back and forth at will.

The result was a relatively chaotic style of writing and editing (sometimes reading or even cooking) simultaneously. General disorganization with very little cohesive payoff and a growing sense of self-doubt. New concepts never felt "good enough" and eventually stopped rising to the surface altogether.

Admittedly, this freeform style works for some artists (and should absolutely be embraced if it produces the desired results). But for most of us, the separation between the creative and critical mindset is natural and necessary. Both sides have a role. But new ideas grow best in native soil.

It took time and study to realize that the first wall is best thought of, not as an obstacle to overcome, but a bastion for our creativity, safeguarding ideas from premature exposure, influence, and criticism. Our goal, therefore is not to dismantle it, but to create a fixed point of entry.

A door.

Open sesame

So what is this mystical, metaphorical passageway to our imaginations?

In short, it's a ritual. Any routine or visualization that you adhere to at the start of your creative process.

It may sound simple, but as anyone who's attempted to sleep-train a toddler will tell you, routine matters. Not just to children, but to all humans. Our brains build neural connections between behaviors and associated mental states. Each repetition, each use of that neural pathway, strengthens and speeds the connection. Just as pajamas, stories, and songs might help a two-year old's brain wind down for rest, we can use rituals to hardwire an entry to our creative mindsets.

To be clear, this is not an "open sesame" situation. There are no magic words, no five-second visuals that will instantly unlock your writing flow (or if there are, I haven't found them yet.) In my experience, conjuring, opening, and passing through the door requires a solid 10-15 minute ritual from the moment you commit to writing something, to the moment you put pen to paper.

Choose a few intentional steps that prepare you for writing. Maybe you start with a cup of coffee, gather your laptop or notebook, sharpen a pencil, do some stretches, recite a poem, start a playlist (I've always found music to be a particularly effective door to creativity). The options are limitless. What matters is consistency in action and in order.

Find what works for you, honor it as a meditation, follow the routine religiously, and you'll build a reliable entry to your Imaginary Attic.

The skeleton key

Some days, the door opens easily. At our best, we find ourselves literally dropping everything and dashing down the hall to scribble down a few precious words before they slip away. Other times, it may feel like we need a prybar just to get into the creative mindset. 

Many writers find the door is easier to open at certain points in the day (or night). My ideas often come most readily first thing in the morning, preferably before I've spoken a single word out loud. Knowing when our creative mindset is "open for business" allows us to show up during peak operating hours.

For other writers, the Attic door hinges on accountability. It's a lot harder to let yourself off the hook when a mentor or critique group is waiting on your next chapter. Having someone who can provide an encouraging push or even help you pick the lock can make all the difference.

But when struggling with a serious block or feeling overwhelmed by the thought of spending even one more hour in front of that insatiate, blinking cursor, it can take more than routine or a friendly reminder to break through. In those moments when the muse seems to have locked us out and thrown away the key, we may need a little help to get across the threshold.

This is where the concept of your “skeleton key” comes into play.* The fastest, most powerful way to tap into our internal hopes, motivations, or even fears. Something we reserve for the most challenging moments to harnesses these emotions and drive us forward.

Maybe it's a mantra or a visualization of the end goal. It might be an image of the person who most inspires you, a character that you’re determined to bring to life, your favorite book. Whatever it is, it must be strong enough to summon your courage enough to break down the door, if necessary.

For the past few years, my skeleton key has taken the shape of a faded pink sticky note bearing a quote from Theodore Roosevelt (and popularized by the work of Brene Brown). By the time I complete this recitation, I am prepared to enter the arena, the door to my Imaginary Attic creaks open — at least enough for me to push my way through.

*It should be mentioned that the skeleton key is intended to be used sparingly. Like any tool, it will grow dull with daily use, so rely on the other tactics to build up regular writing resilience and keep it in your back pocket for those times when you need it most. And if, over time, you find your key has lost its edge, swap it out for something more effective. 

Keep a tactile representation of your skeleton key in your desk drawer: a coin, a photograph, a book, any source of inspiration you can physically hold in those moments of struggle or self-doubt.

Do not disturb

Creative writing is an act of meditation, and as such it thrives in silence. While the first step in entering your Imaginary Attic is to open the door, the next step is to close it.

This means switching our phones to silent, taking off our smartwatches, and turning off other notifications. It may even mean encouraging pets to find another room to lounge. (Especially if you own a cat who demands the place of honor between you and your keyboard.)

When a physical door is available — use it. While this can feel like a lonely or isolationist act, but taking measures to block out distractions, influences, and critiques which might otherwise hinder the imagination is critical to productivity. 

In lieu of a dedicated space, there are many alternatives to signify to yourself and to others that “the door is closed,” and work is in progress. I've found noise-canceling headphones to be the best substitute for a physical door, but in various workspaces I’ve experimented with everything from a designated coffee mug to a particular sweater as the "do not disturb" sign guarding my writing state of mind.

What matters most is consistency and clear expectations with ourselves and those around us. 

It’s also important to note that physically or metaphorically closing the door is a critical reminder of not only what needs blocking out, but also what needs keeping in. As much as the door serves to minimize distractions, it also serves to protect our ideas and keep them from “overexposure,” especially in their infancy.

In his book, The 90-Day Novel, Allan Watt describes the importance of keeping budding storylines contained. As tempting as it may be to share your latest character breakthrough or plot twist with your best friend or significant other, doing so tends to dissipate the urgency needed to write the scene (or worse, invites feedback that may trample the seed before it’s had a chance to sprout). 

Instead, hold the passion close. Nurture it behind the closed door and let the energy come through on the page.

Under lock and key

When we’ve done what we can for the day, the first wall serves as the ritual exit back to the real world. It allows us to leave our ideas behind in a safe, self-contained space in our subconscious where they can continue to grow and evolve while we nurture other aspects of ourselves. In this way, the Imaginary Attic helps to maintain the balance between our physical, emotional, spiritual, and creative lives.

The next post in this series will introduce the second wall, which includes structures designed to help monitor and measure progress to ensure time spent in the Imaginary Attic yields value.