How to Sit Down: Navigating Creative Resistance—Kate Gaston

by Kate Gaston

After I sat down to write, but before I wrote this sentence, I got up four times.

It all started with tea.

There’s something about tea, isn’t there? How many great minds have been soothed and inspired by a timely cup of tea? By nature, I’m a coffee drinker, but for years I’ve been trying to convince myself to drink tea. Today proved no different.

I tossed a bag of Earl Grey into my mug, added hot water, and sat down to write. I opened my laptop and pulled up the article I’d been futzing with. I stared at all those not-quite-right words. I picked up my mug of tea and took a sip.

Instantly, I was aware of two undeniable truths.

First truth: the tea was magma, destroying the epithelial layer of my tongue as it scalded its way down my gullet.

Second truth: tea is for the birds.

I got up, dumped my mug of tea into the kitchen sink, and brewed myself a pot of coffee like the good Lord intended.

I sat down.

I took a sip of my coffee. I’m sure it tasted delicious, but I couldn’t taste anything thanks to the thermal damage inflicted by the tea. I opened my laptop again.

After a few moments of pensive gazing out the window, I recalled the load of laundry I’d started earlier that morning, now blithely mildewing away in the washer. I closed my laptop, trudged to the laundry room, and lumped the wet clothes into the dryer.

I sat down again.

I opened my laptop and stared intently at the words.

Should it be a comma? No, a semi-colon, I think.

While I was making this critical punctuation decision, our dog, Ozymandias, began pacing the floor with that mild urgency which signifies a full bladder. At first, I ignored her. But her pacing didn’t stop. Her little claws on the hardwood floor clicked back and forth, like tiny pickaxes, like dwarves delving too deep into Khazad-Dum.

I rose from the couch and marched her out the back door.

Again, I sat down.

I took another sip of my coffee, now lukewarm. I opened my laptop.

No, I decided, the sentence definitely calls for a comma.

*Backspace, backspace, delete, comma.*

By this point, the window of time I’d allotted for writing—previously a buxom, full-bodied hour—was now a wizened, shrunken thing. Closing my laptop, I gave a sigh.

Somedays, this is what progress looks like.

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Not too long ago, I watched live footage of astronauts on the International Space Station. There, hurtling through space, a gaggle of astronauts appeared to be busy with many of the same humdrum tasks that fill my time here on planet Earth.

One astronaut—with only a carabiner or two between her and infinite, suffocating doom—worked at tightening some sort of bolt on the exterior of the station. The job wasn’t hard, it was a simple righty-tighty-lefty-loosie situation. But with her tools floating weightless from her toolbelt, and the clumsy bulkiness of her space gloves, the astronaut labored two hours on the chore.

Creative work can often feel like it’s occurring in a zero-gravity environment, too. My resolve, my time, my energy, and my words are all floating around my head, bumping and spinning away from my grasp. If I could just get my hands on them, all would proceed smoothly.

Much has been written on that wily devil, Resistance. If you haven’t yet read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, go ahead and do it right now. I’ll wait.

Resistance, he writes, is the equal-but-opposite counterforce lying in wait for you at the beginning of every constructive endeavor you begin. It’s also waiting in the middle of your endeavor. And it’s waiting at literally every step of the way until you finish the project or call it quits.

For me, resistance often masquerades as any number of perfectly legitimate uses of my time. It can be lurking behind the sudden, irresistible urge to clear my inbox. Or it can be hiding under the mountain of laundry that wants folding. Resistance can smell delicious, like chocolate chip cookies that I didn’t have to bake right this minute but I did anyway. Resistance can look and sound like scruffy British people baking biscuits and cakes and bread in a tent. Resistance is the itch in my fingertips as I scroll. Resistance is camouflaged as eighteen uninterrupted minutes of cat videos.

It’s hard to create things. Any new creative work is like bushwhacking a trail to God knows where in search of God knows what. You certainly won’t. Not until you get there. And though the process of making is amazing, it’s fraught with the highest highs and the lowest lows.

Story time: Since I was a kid, I’ve loved painting. I was among the throng who discovered The Joy of Painting alongside Bob Ross when his show aired on PBS a thousand years ago. I continued painting right up until I went away to college. Then, inexplicably, I didn’t pick up a brush for twenty years.

Decades passed.

But then, on a bleak February morning at my local library, a book caught my eye from its perch on a display shelf. It was Betty Frieden’s The Feminine Mystique. Sure, I’d heard of the book—it’s credited with kicking off second-wave feminism, encouraging women to ditch the high heels, pearls, and housewifery. I’d never read it, though. I was the godly, church lady type. Not the type who casually reads feminist literature. I was feeling saucy that day, however, so I picked up the book and added it to the top of my stack for check-out.

There’s certainly been some cultural shake-rattle-and-roll in the sixty years since Betty published her book, so I took her blanket summation that homemakers exist in a “comfortable concentration camp” with a grain of salt. But something else she wrote hit me square between the eyes. Stop dabbling, she said, and take your creative work seriously.

She had me there. I was a master dabbler. I’d write a poem, and tuck it away in my secret notebook. I’d crochet a hideous scarf, and give it to my long-suffering husband for Christmas. I dabbled, and dared to dream nothing more for my work, because I believed my creativity to be of no value. I was artsy, sure, but I dared not consider myself an artist.

Granted, my crochet skills were truly abominable. But my painting, my poetry? It hadn’t crossed my mind that it might be of value until Betty’s stalwart words told me to take my work seriously.

I plunked the book down on the couch next to me, and blinked myself awake like one waking from a long creative slumber. Before allowing myself time to truly consider what I was doing, I dialed the number for a local art gallery. It was a mom-and-pop gallery, nothing fancy, but when the owner answered—Lord, help me—I asked her what I needed to do to display paintings in her gallery.

She told me to send some samples of my work, she’d take a look, and get back to me. I hung up the phone and immediately called my parents who had all the paintings I’d ever done hanging on their walls, bless their hearts. They snapped some pictures of my meager work, and I forwarded them on to the gallery. Then I waited.

The gallery owner called back a couple weeks later, and to my amazement, she said she’d be willing to give me a showcase. It was scheduled for the following spring. Hanging up the phone, I realized with thunderbolt clarity that I had just agreed to fill a gallery with paintings that didn’t yet exist.

My heart was galloping with excitement, my brain abuzz with ideas. I’d better get myself to the art supply store, I thought, there’s so much painting to be done!

But did I go to the art store? No, I did not.

Rather than grabbing my keys and walking out the front door to buy paint and canvas, I went into the kitchen, pulled out a cook book, and baked French patisserie instead. Then I folded some clothes. Then I cleaned the bathroom, organized my sock drawer, wiped the dust from all the ceiling fan blades, and learned how to solve a Rubik’s cube.

For a full week, resistance kicked my tail from one end of the house to the other.

At long last, I made it to the art store to buy supplies. And then, just about every afternoon for the next ten months, I painted. Occasionally, when the painting would get hard—which was often—I’d power walk the streets of my neighborhood, mumbling to myself like a woman unhinged. Prayers, expletives, negative self-talk, positive self-talk, crazy talk, all of it vented, voiced, and left in my wake.

In the months leading up to my show, I set this solitary goal: if I could sell one painting, the whole experience would have been worth it. This is, perhaps, my first piece of useful advice: Set goals so low you can meet them by simply breathing, and you’ll be sure to succeed.

I know, I know. I can hear you saying, “But, Kate, what about the power of positive thinking? What about shooting for the moon and landing among the stars?”

My response: The stars are vastly, unimaginably farther away from us than the moon, so that idea is, well, bologna. Instead, may I recommend setting for yourself tiny, pint-sized victories? Just like a bite-sized candy bar leaves our lizard brains ravenous for more sugar, tiny victories give our delicate egos a micro-dose sense of accomplishment. This, in turn, gives us courage and confidence to try again. Baby steps, y’all.

The night of the gallery opening, I girded my loins, steeling myself for what my inner critic assured me would be the general disdain of friends and strangers alike. Who was I to attempt such a thing? What gave me the right to foist my paintings on innocent bystanders? When I walked in the gallery, however, I was flabbergasted to discover that one of my paintings—one of the big, bold, audacious ones—had already sold to some guy who had spotted the painting from the street, liked it, and bought it.

Friends and strangers didn’t disdain my work as I’d feared. Rather, they paid money for my work. This was a pivotal moment for me. It wasn’t just about selling my paintings, though that was pretty cool. The transformative potential was in the reality that strangers believed I was a painter before I really believed it myself.

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The creative process will look drastically different from one person to the next, so I offer the following words not as a prescription, but as a mere suggestion. If these ideas serve your needs, great. If they don’t serve you, toss ‘em in the compost bin along with other mediocre advice, useless trivia, and hare-brained schemes and carry on with your day.

During my year of focused creative work, I established creative liturgies that served to beckon, woo, and sometimes lure me onward, ever onward. These actions also served as the bumpers that kept my creativity, like a metaphysical bowling bowl, meandering down the lane in the general direction of those pins.

First, I identified when my creative energy was at its zenith during the twenty four hours allotted to me each day. For me, it turned out to be late afternoon, after school hours, but before my mind turned toward that age-old question of what to make for dinner.

Next, within that energetic high water mark, I looked for parcels of free time. Here, then, was the rub: I didn’t have any free time during that window. This became my first act of creation. Broadsword in hand, I set to work liberating Time—that helpless damsel who seems to be in constant distress—from the slavering maw of a margin-less schedule.

Time is a precious resource, and everybody wants some of yours. Don’t be surprised at finding yourself fighting this battle again and again. Your enemy? Literally anything you are not vocationally called by God to participate in. This will require the lifelong practice of discernment as you determine which vocational hat you are called to wear at any given moment. Suffice it to say, many lovely opportunities will need to be graciously but intentionally whack-a-moled in order to preserve space for the creative work which you, and only you, are called to pursue.

At first, you might only manage to carve out a scant amount of time. That’s okay. Like I said, sometimes it’s helpful to start with ridiculously achievable goals. Grab that low-hanging fruit, baby. The ten minutes you set aside for work today will be the kernel from which your productivity grows.

Okay, so you’ve identified and safeguarded your creative window. Nice work. Now, consecrate it with a name. Work time. Writing time. Hour of the Dragon. Any name will do, really.

Here’s a side note for those working with kids in the house: naming your creative work time allows the kids to hear that name spoken with respect every day. If you respect your time, your kids (within developmentally appropriate limits, of course) can learn to do the same.

Here’s a weird tip, but trust me on this one. As soon as the hour strikes Work Time o’clock, set a timer for five minutes. Allow yourself those five minutes to sit down, stand up, make coffee, check your email, move the clothes to the dryer, and sit down again. When the timer dings, you’ll have run the gamut of distractions resistance can throw at you. Pay attention. Notice your patterns. Name the distractions for what they are. Then get to work.

Next, and this is a big one for me, woo yourself to the physical space. Find the right chair, sofa, desk, bed, beanbag, hammock, treehouse, or bench. Make it tidy. Make it peaceful. Light the candle. Buy the fresh flowers, use the vintage vase. Place your coffee mug within easy reach. Keep an extension cord handy for your old laptop prone to running out of juice. Invest in a good lamp and a quality lumbar support pillow because getting old is real. These considerations will lend themselves to the act of sitting down, and are a kindness to your embodied soul.

Find all the things that trigger your brain toward creativity, and then unapologetically do them. Maybe the mood calls for Lofi Girl playing softly in the background. If so, like and subscribe. Perhaps it’s a Rage Against the Machine kind of day. That’s fine, you do you, friend. Maybe you don’t have the first clue what you need yet. If that’s the case, I can’t recommend a crackling fireplace and Lil’ Bub highly enough. If you’re new at creative work, or even if you’ve been in the grind for a long time, get curious about yourself. Whatever those liturgies are that woo you onward, embrace them. Follow their lead as they beckon you to return daily to the creative space.

Creation is an act of great vulnerability. It’s exhilarating, terrifying, full of joy, woe, boredom, and sparkly brilliance. All of these emotional experiences consume (more than) their fair share of creative energy. Be gracious toward yourself as you learn to navigate this new terrain and acquire these skills.

Recognize when you need rest. When your cup inevitably runs dry, give yourself permission to reallocate your scheduled Work Time to an activity that fills your creative tank. Cozy up with that novel you’ve been wanting to read. Visit a museum. Take a long walk to nowhere in particular. Fill your mind with good and beautiful things.

When you are curled up on the sofa reading a novel, can you expect to hear the sound of your internal critic cracking the whip? Yes, you absolutely will hear it. Like the Hebrew slaves, you too will hear the snarls of your internal taskmaster, demanding that you make bricks with no straw. “Be productive,” it will say, “Double down. Redeem the time, Christian, for tomorrow we die.”

I get it. I really do.

But I implore you, dear reader, speak kindly to that creative soul of yours. Remind yourself it’s not wasteful to sit down, to rest. God himself rested, and if it’s good enough for God, I reckon it’s good enough for you. It is not wasteful to allow yourself to dilly-dally, putter, dawdle, loiter, linger, embrace boredom, and play.

Our creative subconscious is a melting pot full of strange and mysterious ingredients. Rest, beauty, and time spent trustfully dwelling in the goodness of God fill us to the brim with the richness and soulfulness which enable us, in turn, to do that deep work we are called to do.

So, go ahead. Brew yourself a pot of coffee. Or tea, if you insist. Take a deep breath, take a seat, and let’s get to work.

For your further reading and viewing pleasure:

• The War of Art by Steven Pressfield

• 18 minutes of cat videos. I’m sorry, but you’re welcome.

• The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross

• The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan

• How to solve a Rubik’s Cube

• For all your background music needs: Lofi Girl

• For the days when nothing else will do: Rage Against the Machine

• Lil’ Bub. Trust me, Lil’ Bub will be the best thing that happens to you today.

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An Alabama native, Kate Gaston was homeschooled before it was even remotely considered normal. She completed her undergraduate degree at Bryan College and went on to graduate school at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. For eight years, Kate worked as a PA in a trauma and burn ICU before ping-ponging across the nation for her husband’s medical training. She and her family are currently putting down roots in Nashville, Tennessee. Today, Kate enjoys homeschooling her daughter. She also finds deep satisfaction in long, meandering conversations at coffee shops, oil painting, writing, and gazing pensively into the middle distance. You can read more of her work at her Substack: That Middle Distance.

Photo by Nicolas Solerieu on Unsplash