CRAFT: React or Respond: A Writer’s Choose Your Own Adventure by Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew

So you’re at the sink, scrubbing breakfast dishes when — behold! — a writing idea pops into your head. It’s brilliant; it blazes through your bones. Do you:

A) Dismiss it because you can’t do it justice;

B) Disregard it because the world’s on fire and you should take to the streets, protesting;

C) Heed it and head to your writing chair?

Because your writing brings you joy, let’s assume you choose C. You carry a steaming mug to your notebook. You uncap your favorite pen. You gaze out the window. Do you:

A) Panic at the blank page and decide this isn’t worth it;

B) Form words carefully inside before jotting them down;

C) Blather on the page in hopes you’ll find your way?

Let’s pretend it’s a good day. Whether you chose B or C, an hour passes, leaving you with a rough start. Before you head off to paid work or to the store to buy overpriced eggs, you read it over. Do you:

A) Crumple it up and feel miserable because you’ve done your idea a terrible disservice, your vocabulary sounds like a middle-schooler’s, you’re idea is so plastered over with clichés you’re going to need wallpaper remover and really you should give up writing;

B) Inflate with pride because it’s so stunning everyone will now finally recognize your genius;

C) Feel grateful for your quiet hour, acknowledge your writing’s flaws and gifts, and anticipate your next opportunity to be with this project?

You’re a student of Anne Lamott and the blessings of sh*tty first drafts; you choose C. The car breaks down, your kid’s principal wants to talk and you have to call your legislators. But, a few days later, you stumble on a precious window of time. Do you:

A) Stare at your draft like it’s an icy lake, stymied by how to jump in;

B) Recognize that the effort needed to transform this piece into something publishable is Sisyphusian, and push it aside;

C) Cross out some lines, make a few additions, gaze out the window, journal about what the heck you’re doing, then keep plugging away?

I could go on, leading you through revision and releasing, but let’s stop here. Each instant of the creative process kicks up emotions, good or bad, rational or otherwise. Each time we face a choice: Will we react or will we respond?

Reactions are impulsive, fast, egoic, and emotional. Think of chemicals coming into contact; reactions flash in opposition to circumstances. An action causes a reaction, bypassing all contemplative or creative possibilities. If your draft is sh*tty, which it should be, you might react by feeling miserable or quitting or back-biting your writing group member whose first drafts seem pristine. Reactions jerk us around. Despite the illusion of choice, we’re really at their mercy.

The word respond, on the other hand, means to make an answer. Responses are considered and slow. Pure responses emerge from our best self, pass through thoughts and feelings, and become a deliberate choice. While reactions come easily, responses make demands of us. They’re hard. Why? Because responses are creative. They take whatever has arisen and make something of it.

Here’s what I’ve noticed: My writing stalls when I’m reactive and flourishes when I’m responsive. I’d even go so far as to say that reactivity, because it’s controlled by external situations and egoic impulses, is downright harmful to both me and my prose. If I believe a gut reaction that my draft is crap, I not only never reread it to discover the gems, but I put myself in the line of fire: If my draft stinks, likely I do, too. However, when I “make an answer,” I continue swimming in creativity’s stream. I draw from my deepest self, I dialogue with inspiration, I write “a little every day, without hope and without despair,” as Isak Dinesen advised. I emerge with authentic agency, as does my writing.

Challenging as it is, we writers can meet the firehose of reactivity with equanimity. We can choose the responsive way.

I’m fond of a tale about a man who, on his walk from the subway station to work, stopped every morning to buy a newspaper. He greeted the vendor courteously. In return, the merchant called him ugly names and shoved the paper in his face. One time an observer asked the man, “Why don’t you buy your paper elsewhere?” He answered, “If I allow this rude man to determine my attitude or reaction, I lose my freedom.”

When we writers respond rather than react to our creative urges, to the struggles of the writing process, to the integrity of our stories and to our audience, we cultivate creative freedom. We source ourselves beyond the fickle whims of each situation in a more generative, trustworthy energy. In an age where reactivity runs rampant, a measured practice of response, on the page and in life, preserves true liberty.